The Shipping News:
the lost chapter

Quoyle in his boat, pulling ashore. Wet. Climbed out upon gray rocks, fumbled for the mooring rope. Quoyle tried to remember what Nutbeam had said, the fox chases the rabbit twice around the hole, gives up, goes to meet Mrs. Fox. There. But the knot upon which he'd worked so carefully was a hopeless mess. Quoyle put his hand on his chin. Thoughts of Petal. More thoughts. Finally he blamed himself for her death, felt better, and began his trek inland.

On the rocks, scattered bottles, shells, feathers, medical waste, upholstery scraps, jellyfish, women's shoes, oil spills. Tripped over something, looked down. On the smooth gray stones lay two human legs. Quoyle looked exasperated. Third body he'd found that week.

"Quoyle, you get in here," said Tert Card. "You corpse-magnet you. What the hell kind of knot was that you were tyin' out there? The whole town is talking about it. You just write your column the way you're supposed to and then all's fine, you see? Now get to work."

Two rusty car bumpers hung silently on the bare wooden wall. Quoyle sat behind his desk, lifted one clean white sheet. It reminded him of a seal. Settled it down in the typewriter and began to type:

Everyone in Killick-Claw, from the youngest to the oldest, caught the festive spirit as they watched the Love Boat pull majestically into harbor Thursday. When I climbed aboard, I have to admit that it was exciting and new, and almost as though Captain Steubing and the rest of the crew were expecting me.

A gust of wind from the door and in came Billy Pretty with three other men. "Ar, Quoyle, you should meet my mates from up 'round Moosebrisket Cove. This one is Dink Lace, this here's Yeller Balleryarn, and that old fish," pointing to a grizzled head, "is Squidge Limpet."

Squidge, offering a weathered, cracked hand like an old gooseneck barnacle. "Did I tell you the story of how my brother drowned out in the harbor, like? Ar, was twenty years ago on a day very like today. Out seining for crowhooks with his cranalook. All mishymarshy was the swells that afternoon. Should not ha' been out there on a one-masted schoonscullduglier that way, says I."

"No fair," said Dink, "I was going to tell my story fist, about how my mom died of exposure while sealin' out in her back yard."

"We all have stories to tell about dead relatives," said Yeller, "but we can best tell them over lunch. I hear that there's a diner here where we can get a heapin' plate o' sea anemones on toast." Licked his lips.

A sense of purity, of meaning restored, flooded over Quoyle. He was grateful.

Now Quoyle moors his skiff on his home shore once again. Tries his knot, fails. Bunny is waiting for him at the dock, and laughs at him. She picks dead seagulls from the rocks and throws them into the air. They fall into the sea like big snowflakes.

"Petal says you're a big hairy idiot," the child said. "When is she coming back to play with me?"

"She's sleeping, honey, she won't come back."

"Well, she says you're a goofy big-chin ignoramus. I miss her."

"Me too."

Bunny laughed at him, skipped along. "Doody-head, doody-head," she sang. Slipped on a patch of seaweed, almost fell into the surf. Quoyle imagined his child screaming to her death, head over foot. Thought the better of it, grabbed her hand. "Oh Bunny," he said, cradling her in his big clumsy arms, "Bunny, Bunny, Bunny, Bunny. Bunny." He paused. "Bunny," he added.

"Oh, shut up," the little girl said.

Late that night. Quoyle standing in the doorway, unable to sleep. It had been a long day: Bunny on the roof, Bunny and her bad dreams, Bunny getting into his power tools, Bunny and Sunshine kidnapped by white supremacists. Now in the moonlight, Quoyle listened to the silence, smelled the stars. The waves lapped on and on as the tide rolled in. Quoyle thought of Bunny's seagulls, of the shell on the beach, of the missing hubcap, of his old left shoe in the corner of his bedroom. Everything was connected, everything was in its place. He laughed and wept, he sang to the stars, he put his right foot in, put his right foot out. He was just going to shake it all about when he noticed the three pastey somethings in the water ahead. Legs, human legs that were rocking slowly back and forth in a tidepool ten yards away. They were all left legs.

"Not again," he said. Yawning.

Copyright (C) 1995 John McCoy. All rights reserved.

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