Shipping News, The - E. Annie Proulx [32]
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Quoyle came out of the office. Car wrecks. Stared at the tattered phone books.
“Quoyle!” whispered Nutbeem. “Ahoy, Quoyle, you’re not going to go weepy on us, are you? You’re not going to go running [70] back to the States, are you? We’re counting on you, Quoyle. We’re building a cargo cult around you, Quoyle.”
Jack Buggit stuck his head out the glass door.
“Billy! Elvis have his pups yet?”
“Yar, he did. Last week. Three of ‘em. Every one of ‘em’s black with white feet.”
“Well, I want one of them pups.” The door shut again.
8
A Slippery Hitch
“On shipboard the knot is seldom called for, but in small boats,
especially open boats that are easily capsized, the necessity
frequently arises for instant casting off, and the SLIPPERY
HITCH is found indispensable.”
THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS
“I DON’T think I can handle this job,” said Quoyle. Who had swallowed two beers and eaten a bag of stale popcorn at the Sea Anchor in Killick-Claw wondering if he was strapped into a mistake like a passenger in a plane that briefly rises, then crashes on the runway.
The aunt looked up. She sat on the round bed, knitting a cloud of angora as fast as a machine, Warren slumped at her feet, only the scarlet-rimmed eyes moving. Bunny tear-stained in a chair with a torn cushion. The chair faced a corner of the room. Sunshine ran at Quoyle, bellowing.
“Daddy, she bit me. Bunny bit me on the leg.” She showed Quoyle two semicircular dents on her thigh.
“She started it!” shouted Bunny. Scowling like Beethoven.
[72] “You’re a rotten bitey shit!” bawled Sunshine.
“For God’s sake, pipe down,” said the aunt. “Nephew, we’ve got to do something. These children need a place to go. Out at the house, if we had a lion tamer, we could have them weeding potatoes and sweeping, washing dishes and windows instead of clawing and biting each other. They’re cooped up here. And Warren’s half dead from lack of exercise.”
“Guess what, Dad,” said Sunshine. “Warren threw up under your bed.”
“She’s not herself, that’s certain,” muttered the aunt. “What did you say about your job?” Brittle voice.
“I said I don’t think I can do it. This paper’s not like anything I know. The editor’s kind of crazy. Jack Buggit. I don’t know the area or the people yet and he wants me to cover car wrecks. I can’t cover car wrecks. You know why. I think of what happened. Car wrecks. Ships. I doubt we can move out to the house, either. The station wagon won’t last a week on that road. How will I get back and forth to work? I suppose we could buy a truck with four-wheel drive and heavy-duty shocks, but it means hours of driving. What about renting something here in Killick-Claw?”
The aunt drove her needles furiously. Wool twitched through her fingers.
“Of course you can do the job. We face up to awful things because we can’t go around them, or forget them. The sooner you get it over with, the sooner you say ‘Yes, it happened, and there’s nothing I can do about it,’ the sooner you can get on with your own life. You’ve got children to bring up. So you’ve got to get over it. What we have to get over, somehow we do. Even the worst things.”
Sure, get over it, thought Quoyle. Ten-cent philosophy. She didn’t know what he had been through. Was going through.
“Now, I’ve spent the whole week looking, dragging these kids around Killick-Claw in Tom Rock’s taxicab looking for some, thing—a house, apartment, even a couple of rooms. I’ve got to get my business started up. I’ve mentioned this every night. But your mind is somewhere else.” Wondered how long he would keep [73] wallowing in the dead woman’s grave. “We’ve all got to get a grip here and pull together.”
“You’re right, Aunt. And I’m sorry you’ve had to do all the looking.” He was here and there was nothing to go back to.
“Well, I haven’t found much, either. There is a dark little room with old Mrs. Speck. The government told her to change the sheets and put out a bed-and-breakfast sign. It is worse than this dump, though cheaper. But there