E. Proulx - The Shipping News

“At the ovens?” Jack went to the telephone in a wedge of space under the stairs to call the Coast Guard. Quoyle sat, his ears ringing. Mrs. Buggit was talking to him.

“People with glasses don’t get on with dogs,” she said. “A dog has to see your eyes clear to know your heart. A dog will wait for you to smile, he’ll wait a month if need be.”

“The Newfoundland dog,” said shuddering Quoyle, still weak with the lassitude of drowning.

“The Newfoundland dog! The Newfoundland dog isn’t in it. That’s not the real dog of this place. The real dog, the best dog in the world that ever was, is the water dog. This one here, Batch, is part water dog, but the pure ones all died out. They were all killed generations ago. Ask Jack, he’ll tell you about it. Though Jack’s a cat man. It’s me as likes the dogs. Batch is from Billy Pretty’s Elvis. Jack’s got his cat, you know, Old Tommy, goes out in the boat with him. Just as good a fisherman.”

And at last, Billy Pretty and Tert Card told, the Coast Guard informed of the yellow man, Quoyle’s tea mug emptied. Jack went down to the stage to clean and ice his fish. Had saved, now let the wife restore.

Quoyle followed Mrs. Buggit up to the guest room. She handed him the replenished hot-water bottles.

“You want to go to Alvin Yark for the next one,” she said.

Before he fell asleep he noticed a curious pleated cylinder near the door. It was the last thing he saw.

In the morning, ravenous with hunger, euphoric with life, he saw the cylinder was a doorstop made from a mail-order catalog, a thousand pages folded down and glued, and imagined Mrs. Buggit working at it day after winter day while the wind shaved along the eaves and the snow fell, while the fast ice of the frozen bay groaned and far to the north the frost smoke writhed. And still she patiently folded and pasted, folded and pasted, the kettle steaming on the stove, obscuring the windows. As for Quoyle, the most telling momento of his six-hour swim were his dark blue toenails, dyed by his cheap socks.

And when her house was empty again, Quoyle gone and the teapot scalded and put away on the shelf, the floor mopped, she went outside to hang Quoyle’s damp blanket, to take in yesterday’s forgotten, drenty wash. Although it was still soft September, the bitter storm that took Jesson boiled up around her. Eyes blinked from the glare; stiff fingers pulled at the legs of Jack’s pants, scraped the fur of frost growing out of the blue blouse. Then inside again to fold and iron, but always in earshot the screech of raftering ice beyond the point, the great bergs toppling with the pressure, the pans rearing hundreds of feet high under the white moon and cracking, cracking asunder.

TWO DAYS after Quoyle’s spill, Billy Pretty grinning into the newsroom in the afternoon, an old leather flying helmet on his head, the straps swinging, wearing his wool jacket in grey and black squares, face the color of fog.

“They got your drowned man, Quoyle, Search and Rescue got him out of the cave. But he was a bit of a disappointment.” Taking a scrap of paper from his pocket, unfolding it. “And it’s a page, one story which I’ve worked out in my head on the way over here. Should have been your story, proper thing, but I’ve wrote it up already. That was a survival suit he was floating in. Carried up to the ovens by the currents. There was a fellow from No Name Cove washed up in there years ago.”

“What do you mean, he was a disappointment?”

“They couldn’t tell who he was. At first. Bit of a problem.”

“Well don’t plague us, Billy Pretty. What?” Tert Card roaring away.

“No head.”

“The suitcase?” said Quoyle stupidly. “The head in the suitcase? Mr. Melville?”

“Yes indeed, Mr. Melville of the suitcase. They think. The Mounties and the Coast Guard is howling like wolves at the moon right this minute. Burning up the telephone wires to the States, bulletins and alarms. But probably come to nothing. They said it looks like the body was put in the suit after the head was cut off.

“How do they know?” Tert Card.

“Because the body was inserted in five pieces. Divided up like a pie, he was.”

Billy Pretty at his computer pounding out the sentences.

MISSING BODY OF MAN FOUND

GRUESOME DISCOVERY IN OVENS

“I don’t know why I never get any good stories,” said Nutbeem. “Just the sordid. Just the nastiest stuff for Nutbeem, vile stuff that can’t be described except in winking innuendo and allusion. I really won’t miss this stuff. The nicest bit I’ve got is a list of offenses charged against the mayor of Galliambic. He won a hundred thousand in the Atlantic Lottery two weeks ago and celebrated by molesting fourteen students in one week. He’s charged with indecent assault, gross indecency and buggery. Here’s a depraved lad of twenty-nine went around to the Goldenvale Rest Home and persuaded a seventy-one-year-old lady to come along in his truck for a visit to the shopping mall in Misky Bay. Drove straightaway to the shrubbery and raped her so badly she needed surgery. They took him to the lockup and on court appearance day we all know what he did.”

“Tore off all his clothes,” droned Quoyle, Billy Pretty and Tert Card in chorus.

“More priests connected with the orphanage. It’s up to nineteen awaiting trial now. Here’s a doctor at the No Name Medical Clinic charged with sexual assault against fourteen female patients-‘provocative fondling of breasts and genitals’ is how they put it. The choirmaster in Misky Bay pled guilty on Monday to sexual assault and molestation of more than a hundred boys over the past twelve years. Also in Misky Bay an American tourist arrested for fondling young boys at the municipal swimming pool. ‘He kept feeling my bum and my front,’ said a ten-year-old victim. And here in Killick-Claw a loving dad is charged with sexually assaulting two of his sons and his teenage daughter in innumerable incidents between 1962 and the present. Buggery, indecent assault and sexual intercourse. Here’s another family lover, big strapping thirty-five-year-old fisherman spends his hours ashore teaching his little four-year-old daughter to perform oral sex and masturbate him.”

“For Christ’s sake,” said Quoyle, appalled. “This can’t be all in one week.”

“One week?” said Nutbeem. “I’ve got another bloody page of them.

“That’s what sells this paper,” said Tert Card. “Not columns and home hints. Nutbeem’s sex stories with names and dates whenever possible. That was Jack’s genius, to know people wanted this stuff. Of course every Newf paper does it now, but Gammy Bird was first to give names and grisly details.”

“I don’t wonder it depresses you, Nutbeem. Is it worse here than other places? It seems worse.”

Billy in his corner scribbled, chair turned away. That stuff.

“I don’t know if it’s worse, or just more openly publicized. Perhaps the priest thing is worse. A lot of abusive priests in these little outports where they were trusted by naive parents. But I’ve heard it said-cynically-that sexual abuse of children is an old Newf tradition.”

“There’s an ugly thing to say,” said Tert Card. “I’d say a Brit tradition.” Scratching his head until showers of dandruff fell into the computer keys.

“What happens to sex offenders here, then? Some rehab program? Or they just simmer in prison?”

“Don’t know,” said Nutbeem.

“Might make a good story,” said Quoyle.

“Yes,” said Nutbeem in a droning voice as though his mainspring were winding down. “It might. If I could get at it before I go. But I can’t. The Borogove’s almost ready and I’ve got to get out before the ice.” A great cracking yawn. “Burned out on this, anyway.”