The Shipping News by Annie Proulx

fishery.
    â€œNow, what I want you to do. I want you cover local car wrecks, write the story, take pictures. We run a front-page photo of a car wreck every week, whether we have a wreck or not. That’s our golden rule. No exceptions. Tert has a big file of wreck pictures. If we don’t have a fresh one, we have to dip into his file. But we usually have a couple of good ones. The Horncup crowd keeps us supplied. Tert will show you where the camera is. You give the film to him. He develops it at home.
    â€œAnd the shipping news. Get the list from the harbormaster. What ships come into Killick-Claw, what ones goes out. There’s more every year. I got a hunch about this. We’re going to play it by ear. See what you can do.”
    â€œLike I said on the phone,” said Quoyle, “I haven’t had much experience with ships.” Car wrecks! Stunned with the probabilities of blood and dying people.
    â€œWell, you can tell your readers that or work like hell to learn something. Boats is in your family blood. You work on it. And fill in where Tert Card tells you.”
    Quoyle smiled stiffly, got up. His hand was on the doorknob when Jack Buggit spoke again.
    â€œOne more thing. I’m not no joke, Quoyle, and I don’t never want to hear jokes about Newfoundland or Newfoundlanders. Keep it in mind. I hates a Newfie joke.”

    Quoyle came out of the office. Car wrecks. Stared at the tattered phone books.
    â€œQuoyle!” whispered Nutbeem. “Ahoy, Quoyle, you’re not going to go weepy on us, are you? You’re not going to go runningback to the States, are you? We’re counting on you, Quoyle. We’re building a cargo cult around you, Quoyle.”
    Jack Buggit stuck his head out the glass door.
    â€œBilly! Elvis have his pups yet?”
    â€œYar, he did. Last week. Three of ‘em. Every one of ‘em’s black with white feet.”
    â€œWell, I want one of them pups.” The door shut again.

8
    A Slippery Hitch
    â€œOn shipboard the knot is seldom called for, but in small boats, especially open boats that are easily capsized, the necessity frequently arises for instant casting off, and the SLIPPERY HITCH is found indispensable.”
    THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS

    â€œI DON’T think I can handle this job,” said Quoyle. Who had swallowed two beers and eaten a bag of stale popcorn at the Sea Anchor in Killick-Claw wondering if he was strapped into a mistake like a passenger in a plane that briefly rises, then crashes on the runway.
    The aunt looked up. She sat on the round bed, knitting a cloud of angora as fast as a machine, Warren slumped at her feet, only the scarlet-rimmed eyes moving. Bunny tear-stained in a chair with a torn cushion. The chair faced a corner of the room. Sunshine ran at Quoyle, bellowing.
    â€œDaddy, she bit me. Bunny bit me on the leg.” She showed Quoyle two semicircular dents on her thigh.
    â€œShe started it!” shouted Bunny. Scowling like Beethoven.
    â€œYou’re a rotten bitey shit!” bawled Sunshine.
    â€œFor God’s sake, pipe down,” said the aunt. “Nephew, we’ve got to do something. These children need a place to go. Out at the house, if we had a lion tamer, we could have them weeding potatoes and sweeping, washing dishes and windows instead of clawing and biting each other. They’re cooped up here. And Warren’s half dead from lack of exercise.”
    â€œGuess what, Dad,” said Sunshine. “Warren threw up under your bed.”
    â€œShe’s not herself, that’s certain,” muttered the aunt. “What did you say about your job?” Brittle voice.
    â€œI said I don’t think I can do it. This paper’s not like anything I know. The editor’s kind of crazy. Jack Buggit. I don’t know the area or the people yet and he wants me to cover car wrecks. I can’t cover car wrecks. You know why. I think of what happened. Car wrecks.