Wavey’s little house was mint green on the ground floor, then a red sash. The boy’s scarlet pajamas on the clothesline, bright as chile peppers. A pile of tapered logs, sawbuck in a litter of chips and bark, split junks of wood ready to be stacked.
Two fishermen beside the road, lean and hard as rifles, mending net in the rain, the wet beading their sweaters. Sharp Irish noses, long Irish necks and hair crimped under billed caps. One looked up, his glance sprang from Wavey to Quoyle, searching his face, knowing him. Netting needle in his hand.
“Uncle Kenny there,” said Wavey to the boy in her low, plangent voice.
“Dawk,” cried the child.
There was a new dog in Archie Sparks’s yard, a blue poodle among the plywood swans.
“Dawk.”
“Yes, a new dog,” said Wavey. A wooden dog with a rope tail and a tin-can necklace. Mounted on a stick. Eye like a boil.
In the rearview mirror he saw Wavey’s brother coming along the road toward them. The other man watched from a distance, held the net, his hands stilled.
Wavey pulled Herry out of the car. He put his face up to the mist, closed his eyes, feeling the droplets touch him like the ends of cold fine hairs. She pulled him toward the door.
Quoyle held out his hand to the advancing man as he might to an unknown dog stalking toward him.
“Quoyle,” he said, and the name sounded like an evasion. The fisherman clamped his hand briefly.
Face like Wavey’s lean face, but rougher. A young man smelling of fish and rain. The scrawn of muscle built to last into the ninth decade.
“Giving Wavey a ride home, then?”
“Yes.” His soft hand embarrassed him. A curtain moved in the window of the house behind the rioting wooden zoo.
“There’s Dad, then, peeping,” said Ken. “You’ll come in and have a cup of tea.”
“No. No,” said Quoyle. “Got to get back to work. Gave Wavey a ride.”
“Walking keeps you smart. You’re the one found the suitcase with the head in it. Would of turned me stomach. You’re on the point across,” jerked his chin. “Dad sees you over there through his glass on fine days. Got a new roof on the old house?”
Quoyle nodded, got back in his car. But his colorless eyes were warm.
“Going back? I’ll take a ride as far as me net,” said Ken, striding around the nose of the car and thumping into Wavey’s seat.
Quoyle backed and turned. Wavey was gone, disappeared into her house.
“You come along any time and see her,” said Ken. “It’s too bad about the boy, but he’s a good little bugger, poor little hangashore.”
“Dear Sirs,” wrote Dawn. “I would like to apply…”
23 Maleficium
“The mysterious power that is supposed to reside in
knots… can be injurious as well as beneficial. “
QUIPUS AND WITCHES’ KNOTS
QUOYLE painted. But no matter what they did to the house, he thought, it kept its gaunt look, never altered from that first looming vision behind the scrim of fog. How had it looked, new and raw on Gaze Island, or sliding over the cracking ice? The idea fixed in him that the journey had twisted the house out of true, wrenched the timbers into a rare geometry. And he was still shuddering over the white-haired man’s stiff eye which had sent its dull glare at him.
The aunt’s interest in fixing up slowed, veered to something private in her own room where she lay on the bed staring at the ceiling for as long as an hour. Or got up with a yawn, a short laugh, said, Well, let’s see now. Coming back from wherever she’d been.
Weekends came to this: the aunt in her room or stirring something or out for a walk. Quoyle hacking his path to the sea, the children squatting in the moss to watch insects toil up stems. Or he split wood against future cold. Thought of Partridge, fired up to cook new dishes and let the children dabble their fingers in mixes and slops, and sometimes let Bunny use the paring knife. While he hovered.
In late August a bowl of cleaned squid stood on the kitchen shelf. Quoyle’s intention: calamari linguine when he was done with the painting. Because he owed Partridge a letter. The aunt declared a salad despite fainting lettuce and pale hothouse tomatoes.
“We could have put in a little garden,” she said. “Raised our own salads at least. The stuff at the markets is not fit to eat. Celery brown with rot, lettuce looks like it’s been boiled.”
“Wavey,” said Quoyle, “Wavey says Alexanders is better than spinach. You can pick it all along the shore here.”
“Never heard of it,” said the aunt. “I’m not one for wild plants.”
“It’s like wild sea parsley,” said Quoyle. “I might put some in the calamari sauce.”
“Yes,” said the aunt. “You try it. Whatever it is.” But went to scout a suitable garden patch among the rocks. Not too late to sow lettuce seed. Thinking a glass house would be a good thing.
The day was warm, wind skittering over the bay, wrinkling the water in cat’s-paws. The aunt getting the melancholy odor of turned soil. Quoyle smelled paint to the point of headache.
“Someone coming,” the aunt said, leaning on the spade. “Walking on the road.”
Quoyle looked, but there was no one.
“Where?”
“Just past the spruce with the broken branch. Broken by the bulldozer, I might add.”
They stared down the driveway in the direction of the glove factory, the road.
“I did see somebody,” said the aunt. “I could see his cap and his shoulders. Some fellow.”
Quoyle went back to his paint pot but the aunt looked and finally drove the shovel into the soil to stand by itself, walked toward the spruce. There was no one. But saw footprints of fishing boots angling away into the tuck-moose path she thought that descended to a wild marsh of tea-colored water and leathery shrubs.
She sucked in her breath, looked for dog tracks along the edge of the road. And was not sure.
“It’s the old man,” said Quoyle. “Got to be.”
“What old man?”
“Billy Pretty says he’s ‘fork kin’ of the Quoyles. Says he’s a rough old boy. Wouldn’t leave Capsize Cove in the resettlement. Stayed on alone. Billy thinks he might have his back up a little because we’re in the house. I told you this.”
“No, you didn’t, Nephew. And who in the world might he be?”
“I remember telling you about it.”
The aunt wondered cautiously what the name was.
“I don’t know. One of the old Quoyles. I can’t remember his name. Something Irish.”
“I don’t believe it. There’s none of ‘ em left. You know, there was Quoyles didn’t have a very good name,” said the aunt. Head turned away.
“Heard that,” said Quoyle. “Heard Omaloor Bay is called after the Quoyles-like Half-Wit Pond or Six Fingers Harbor or Apricot Ear Brook named for certain other unfortunates. Billy told me how they came here from Gaze Island. Supposed to have dragged the house over the ice.”
“So they say. Half those stories are a pack of lies. I imagine the Quoyles was as decent as anybody. And I’m sure I don’t know who that fellow you’re talking about could be.”
Quoyle cleaned his hands of paint, called “Who wants to walk along the shore with me and pick Alexanders?”
Sunshine found two wild strawberries. Bunny threw bigger and bigger stones in the waves; the gouts of water ever closer until a splash doused her.
“All right, all right, let’s go back to the house. Bunny can change her britches and Sunshine can wash the Alexanders and I will sauté the garlic and onions.”
But when the sauce was nearly done, discovered there was no linguine, only a package of egg noodles shaped like bows, soft stuff that mounded under the sauce and sent the squid rings sliding to the rims of the plates.