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

probably end up paying. Could be expensive. Lot more expensive than a boat.” She stood up, hauled her black coat around and buttoned it to the neck. “It’s getting mighty cold,” she said. “Look.” Held out her arm. Chips of snow landed in the loft of wool. “We better make tracks,” she said. “This is not a good place to get caught in a snowstorm. Well do I know.”
    â€œIn May?” said Quoyle. “Give me a break, Aunt.”
    â€œAny month of the year, my boy. Weather here beyond anything you know.”
    Quoyle looked out. The bay faded, as though he looked through a piece of cheesecloth. Needles of snow in his face.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” he said. But it was what he wanted. Storm and peril. Difficult tasks. Exhaustion.
    On the way out the wind buffeted the car. Darkness seeped from the overcast, snow grains ticking the windshield. On the highway there was already a film of snow on the road surface. He turned in at Ig’s Store again.
    â€œGetting some coffee,” he said to the aunt. “Want some?”

    â€œThere’s a big building in there and a parking lot.”
    â€œOh yar. Glove fact’ry it was. Closed up years back.” The man slid two paper cups with folded ear handles at him.
    Shrieking wind. The bitter coffee trembled.
    â€œWeather,” the man said to Quoyle balanced in the doorway with his damp cups.
    He bent against air. Cracking sky, a mad burst. The sign above the gas pump, a hand-painted circle of sheet metal, tore away, sliced over the store. The man came out, the door jumped from his hand, wrenched. Wind slung Quoyle against the pumps. The aunt’s startled face in the car window. Then the gusts bore out of the east, shooting the blizzard at them.
    Quoyle pried the door open. He’d dropped the coffee. “Look at it! Look at this,” he cried. “We can’t drive to Killick-Claw through twenty miles of this.”
    â€œDidn’t we see a motel on the way up?”
    â€œYes we did. And it’s back in Bloody Banks.” He scraped at the map, his hand spangled with melting snow. “See it? It’s thirty-six miles behind us.” The car trembled.
    â€œLet’s help buddy with his door,” said the aunt. “We’ll ask him. He’ll know some place.”
    Quoyle got the hammer from under the seat, and they stooped beneath wind. Steadied the door while the man pounded spikes.
    He barely looked at them. Things on his mind, Quoyle thought, like whether or not the roof would lift off. But he shouted answers. Tickle Motel. Six miles east. Third time the year the door was off. First time the sign was off. Felt snowly all morning, he bellowed as they pulled onto the highway. Waved them into sideblown snow.
    Slick road; visibility nil beyond the hood ornament. All dissolved in spinning particles. The speedometer needle at fifteen and still they skidded and jerked. The aunt leaned this way and that, hand on the dash, fingers widespread, as though by leaning she kept their balance.
    â€œDad, are we scared?” said Sunshine.
    â€œNo, honey. It’s an adventure.” Didn’t want them to grow up timid. The aunt snorted. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Warren’syellow eyes met his. Quoyle winked at the dog. To cheer her up.

    The motel’s neon sign, TICKLE MOTEL, BAR & RESTAURANT, flickered as he steered into the parking lot, weaving past trucks and cars, long-distance rigs, busted-spring swampers, 4WD pickups, snowplows, snowmobiles. The place was jammed.
    â€œOnly thing left is The Deluxe Room and Bridal Suite,” said the clerk, swabbing at his inflamed eyes. “Storm’s got everybody in here plus it’s darts playoffs night. Brian Mulroney, the prime minister, slept in it last year when he come by here. A big one, two beds and two cots. His bodyguards slept on the cots. A hundred and ten dollars the night.” He had them over a