Free The Shipping News by Annie Proulx Page A

aunt.
    â€œI don’t know any,” Sunshine blubbed.
    â€œThat’s all right,” said Quoyle, sitting in the chair beside the bed.
    â€œLet’s see. This is a story about hammers and wood.”
    â€œNo, Dad! Not hammers and wood! Tell a good story.”
    â€œAbout what?” said Quoyle hopelessly, as though his fountain of invention was dry.
    â€œMoose,” said Bunny. “A moose and some roads. Long roads.”
    â€œAnd a dog. Like Warren.”
    â€œA nice dog, Dad. A grey dog.”
    And so Quoyle began. “Once there was a moose, a very poor, thin, lonely moose who lived on a rocky hill where only bitter leaves grew and bushes with spiky branches. One day a red motor car drove past. In the backseat was a grey gypsy dog wearing a gold earring.”

    In the night Bunny woke in nightmare, sobbed while Quoyle rocked her back and forth and said “It’s only a bad dream, only a bad dream, it’s not real.”
    â€œThe Old Hag’s got her,” muttered the aunt. But Quoyle kept on rocking, for the Old Hag knew where to find him, too. Fragments of Petal embedded in every hour of the night.
    Warren made bursting noises under the bed. A rancorous stench. Dog Farts Fell Family of Four.

    A morning of hurling snow. Stupendous snores beyond the walls. Quoyle dressed and went to the door. Could not find the doorknob. Crept around looking under the bed, in the bathroom,in their luggage, in the jammed drawers of Bibles. One of the kids must have brought it into bed with her, he thought, but when they were up there was no knob. He pounded on the door to attract attention, but got a shout from an adjacent wall to “shut the fuck up or I’ll bash yer.” The aunt jiggled the phone receiver, hoping for life restored. Dead. The phone book was a 1972 Ontario directory. Many pages ripped out.
    â€œMy eyes hurt,” said Bunny. Both children had reddened, matter-filled eyes.
    For an imprisoned hour they watched the fading storm and the snowplows, banged on the door, called “Hello, hello.” Both plastic penguins were broken. Quoyle wanted to break the door down. The aunt wrote a message on a pillowcase and hung it in the window, HELP, LOCKED IN ROOM 999. TELEPHONE DEAD.
    The desk clerk opened the door. Looked at them with eyes like taillights.
    â€œAll you do is push the alarm button. Somebody come right away.” Pointed to a switch near the ceiling. Reached up and flicked it. A clangor filled the motel and set off wall pounding until the motel vibrated. The clerk rubbed his eyes like a television actor seeing a miracle.
    The storm persisted another day, winds shrieking, drifting the main highway.
    â€œI like a storm, but this is more than enough,” said the aunt, her hair down over one ear from collision with the chandelier, “and if I ever get out of this motel I will lead a good life, go to church regularly, bake bread twice a week and never let the dirty dishes stand. I’ll never go out with my legs bare, so help me, just let me get out of here. I forgot what it’s like, but it comes back to me now.”
    In the night it turned to rain, the wind came from the south, warm and with a smell of creamy milk.

7
    The Gammy Bird
    The common eider is called “gammy bird” in Newfoundland for its habit of gathering in flocks for sociable quacking sessions. The name is related to the days of sail, when two ships falling in with each other at sea would back their yards and shout the news. The ship to windward would back her main yards and the one to leeward her foreyards for close maneuvering. This was gamming.
    A WOMAN in a rain slicker, holding the hand of a child, was walking on the verge of the road. As Quoyle’s station wagon came abreast she stared at the wet car. The stranger. He lifted his hand a few inches but she had already dropped her gaze. The child’s flat face. Red boots. And he was past.
    The road to Flour Sack