Read Online The Shipping News by Annie Proulx - Free Book Online Page B

childhood. The needle was stuck.
    “Thanks,” murmured Quoyle to the waitress, swabbing his plate with a bun. Left a two-dollar bill under the saucer.
    The rooms on each side of them raged with crashings, howling children. Snowplows shook the pictures of Jesus over the beds. The wind screamed in the ill-fitted window frames. As Quoyle pulled the door closed, the knob came off in his hand again, and he heard a whang on the other side of the door, the other half of the knob dropping.
    “Oh boy, this is like a war,” said Bunny watching a plywood wall shake. The aunt thought somebody must be kicking with both feet. Turned down the bedcovers, disclosing sheets stitched up from fragments of other, torn, sheets. Warren lapped water out of the toilet.
    “It’s a little better than sleeping in the car,” the aunt said again. “A lot warmer.”
    “Tell a story, Dad,” said Bunny. “You didn’t tell us a story for about a hundred years.”
    [54] Sunshine rushed at Quoyle, grabbed his shirt, hauling herself up into his lap, thumb in her mouth before she even leaned against his chest where she could hear the creaking sounds of his breathing, the thump of his heart, gurglings and squeals from his stomach.
    “Not yet, not yet,” said Quoyle. “Everybody brush their teeth. Everybody wash their face.”
    “And say your prayers,” said the aunt.
    “I don’t know any,” Sunshine blubbed.
    “That’s all right,” said Quoyle, sitting in the chair beside the bed.
    “Let’s see. This is a story about hammers and wood.”
    “No, Dad! Not hammers and wood! Tell a good story.”
    “About what?” said Quoyle hopelessly, as though his fountain of invention was dry.
    “Moose,” said Bunny. “A moose and some roads. Long roads.”
    “And a dog. Like Warren.”
    “A 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.”
    “The 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, [55] 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.
    “My 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.
    “All 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.
    “I like a storm,