Shipping News, The Script
INT. LAUNDROMAT, MOCKINGBURG, NEW YORK - NIGHT
Glaring fluorescence, trash overflowing with cheap detergent boxes,
empty Coke machine flashing all lights orange. Only two dryers are
humming. It’s very late. Keep PANNING to...
...a wiry, gimlet-eyed WOMAN, furtively removing crumpled
newspapers from a dryer. She flattens and folds them meticulously,
her glance darting angrily everywhere. Top secret mission.
...a natty little black man. PARTRIDGE has spread a late supper on
a neat cloth atop a dryer. Small cold fowl. Brie, baguette,
olives. Bottle of red. An air of competence, of indomitable
upbeatness. He ignores the spy-dressed-as-bag-lady as if she were
normal. More curious about...
...a hulking, rumpled figure scrutinizing Help Wanted ads as if
cramming for life’s midterm exam. Thoughtful. Circles one,
slowly. Set out on QUOYLE’s dryer are one Snickers bar and four
empty snickers wrappers. His version of cold supper. He reaches
for the candy, but seeing it’s the last one, he...
...rises. Goes to the candy machine. Drops in his 65 cents, hits
the button. The Snickers starts to fall, but gets caught in the
mechanism at the last moment. Quoyle blinks dully. One more
retelling of the story of his life. He BANGS the machine half-
heartedly. Nope. Shakes it with his shambling strength. Nada.
POUNDS the coin return button. Hat trick. He empties his pocket.
Studies the results. Not enough. And without so much as a sigh...
...he ambles back to his dryer. Starts to unwrap the last
Snickers. Partridge taking this all in. But Mata Hari of the
Neat Newspapers goes to the candy machine, KICKS it violently. Out
fall the Snickers and the 65 cents. She scoops up both, turns in a
single motion to...
...GLARE death at the enemy. Quoyle opens his mouth to comment.
But. Doesn’t. Resumes unwrapping his supper, as...
...his dryer STOPS. He pops it open. Stares in. Blinks.
Suddenly YANKS a tangle of graying shirts out onto the grimy floor
to reveal they have been...
...STAINED streaky BLUE by a cheap pen, quietly melting amid the
pile. This slips beneath even Quoyle’s expectation level. The
big, soft face is pitifully, yes, even adorably, devastated.
QUOYLE (a murmur)
Ruined.
And to the bystander. This seems a comment on more than shirts.
PARTRIDGE (softly)
Nah. Rub the ink with hot salt and
talcum powder.
Quoyle’s head WHIPS around. As if he thought he was alone.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
If you’re shocked when someone aims
kindness your way. That oughta tell
you somethin’ about yourself.
Watches the little guy’s undemanding smile.
QUOYLE (V.O., just staring)
Then again. If you’re that kinda
guy. It don’t.
PARTRIDGE
And put a cuppa bleach in, next
time through.
As Quoyle gazes at his benefactor, the woman sneaks up, SNATCHES
his Help Wanted ads. Races them over to her dryer. As the boys
watch, she shoves them in, starts the machine with Quoyle’s coins,
and glares fiercely back at us. A mother bear protecting her cubs.
Partridge chuckles. Holds out his hand...
PARTRIDGE
Partridge.
Quoyle glances at the little man’s cold fowl supper.
QUOYLE
Uh. No thanks.
PARTRIDGE
It’s my name.
Oh.
INT. MOCKINGBURG RECORD CITY ROOM - DAY
Shabby one-floor newspaper. Old equipment, listless personnel,
stale you can smell from here. Only guy working is Partridge, who
is laying out the front page, and glances up to see across the
floor...
...Quoyle enter in his best suit. It is also his worst suit.
Partridge points to the only enclosed office, and gives his buddy a
hearty thumbs-up. Quoyle nods, his smile a rictus, his eyes a
glaze of panic. We see now that he is chewing, somehow. On the
way into the office, he snags a doughnut from a paper plate by the
coffee. Enters...
INT. ED PUNCH’S OFFICE - DAY
...ED PUNCH, managing editor, looks up from a reverie with a
startled expression. He wears really thick glasses which MAGNIFY
his eyes, giving him a frightening aspect.
PUNCH
Quoyle? You’re early.
From the rear, we see Quoyle can barely squeeze himself into the
chair.
PUNCH
I don’t like that.
All the change SPILLS out of Quoyle’s pockets, and CLATTERS onto
the wood floor, ROLLING interminably, as Quoyle fidgets.
PUNCH
Partridge says you’re not as
dumb as you look.
REVERSE ANGLE now to see Quoyle’s face. The neat moustache of
powdered sugar.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
How could I be?
And takes a healthy bite from what’s left of the doughnut.
PUNCH
Anyway, that’s why I’m takin’ a chance
on you. Partridge said he’d re-write
whatever of your stuff. Stay late...
Quoyle nods, dumbly. Knows this.
PUNCH
We’re a family paper. Upbeat
stories with a community slant.
Self-help stuff: Are You a Break-
fast Alcoholic?...Guide to Getting
Dumped...like that.
Quoyle nods bigger. Like he gets it. Punch shoves an antique tape
recorder across the table.
PUNCH
City Planning Board meeting at two-
thirty. Three hunnerd words max.
Sink or swim.
HOLD on Quoyle’s eyes. Recalling...
FLASHBACK: EXT. PUBLIC POOL - DAY
...Quoyle as a fat kid in a baggy bathing suit, being savagely
pummeled by his vicious OLDER BROTHER...
QUOYLE (V.O.)
I think my brother said that once.
BROTHER
LARDASS! SNOTFACE! FARTBAG!
Being pulled off the sniveling Quoyle by a rough hairy man with
dead eyes.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
Maybe it was my father.
Quoyle’s FATHER hauls him off the deck, and in a single motion,
FLINGS him INTO the pool!
FATHER
Sink or swim, pig-butt.
Watches the THRASHING with mild contempt. Turns away before Quoyle
simply SINKS beneath the surface.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
I’m not a water person.
INT. CITY ROOM - LATE NIGHT
The empty room a haven of dust motes floating in sickly fluor-
escence. Quoyle sits across the desk, gazing with endearing
fearfulness as Partridge turns page after page...
PARTRIDGE
See, three hunnerd words would be,
like, one page. This is...oh,
fifteen, sixteen.
QUOYLE
So we should cut it.
Partridge does glance up on that.
PARTRIDGE
Gonna have to.
QUOYLE
Or you could tie me in a sack, throw
me in the river. Tell the police you
thought it was oddly-wrapped lard.
PARTRIDGE
Might be quicker.
Nobody smiles. Nobody has to. Quoyle pulls a big glass jar from a
paper sack. Sets it on the desk.
QUOYLE
Does your wife like special pickles?
They’re fine with cold cuts.
Partridge looks at the cornichons. They look expensive.
PARTRIDGE
Come by for supper, tomorrow. We’ll
find out.
DISSOLVE to...
EXT. PARTRIDGE’S BACK YARD - DAY
Sausages on the BBQ, interesting colors and sizes. A huge hand
delicately places cut-up pieces of quail on the grill. It is
Quoyle, trusted, paying attention. MERCALIA, a slim black woman
with fiery eyes and an enticing smile, hands him a glass of white
wine, and...
...goes to slip her arm around Partridge. He watches Quoyle’s
concentration approvingly. Shares a smile with his sexy wife. And
raps a knife on his glass. Announcement.
Quoyle looks up with innocent eyes. Which makes Partridge
hesitate.
PARTRIDGE
We. Got you this.
Mercalia takes out the package. Wrapped in tissue, a neat ribbon.
She hands it to Quoyle, and leans up to kiss his cheek. Quoyle
looks down at it, dumbfounded. A silence.
MERCALIA
It’s...an anniversary present.
Anniversary of our friendship.
Quoyle smiles. Sweet and slightly confused.
QUOYLE
Seven and a half month anniversary?
He starts to unwrap...
PARTRIDGE
Well. Why wait?
...a wristwatch. A nice one. He is overwhelmed, but still
uncomprehending.
MERCALIA
It’s because we’re happy. About
something.
And steals a glance at her husband.
QUOYLE (BIG grin)
You’re havin’ a baby!
That stops Partridge’s face. No more stalling...
PARTRIDGE
Mercalia and me are movin’.
To California. Friday night.
Quoyle so pole-axed he can’t even lose the smile. It just turns
stupid and transparent. His friend swallows.
PARTRIDGE
You know she’s been learnin’ to
drive a rig. She got the Oakland
to New Orleans run. I’m gonna
make her smoked duck sandwiches for
the road. I can edit copy anywhere.
Quoyle nodding slowly, smile still there. Yep. I guess y’can.
Partridge sees that it’s a death blow. Mercalia looks at her feet.
PARTRIDGE
Love’s all that counts. It’s the
engine of life.
As if parting advice. As if Quoyle should file that away. So
Quoyle nods some more. As if he will.
PARTRIDGE
We’ll just. Stay in touch.
On this, Quoyle’s smile deserts him. So Partridge reaches out his
hand. Quoyle paralyzed, then takes it. CLOSE ON their handclasp,
and DISSOLVE to...
INT. DOUBLETREE MEETING ROOM - EVENING
...a slender feminine hand. Buried in Quoyle’s.
PETAL (O.S.)
Petal Bear, Mr. Quoyle.
PAN up to see her. Tiny, twitchy, moist ringlets. A gray-eyed
predator. She looks around at the milling suits and their name
tags. As if they were alternatives.
PETAL
Do you hate this shit, or what?
Quoyle transfixed by her slight form in its loose but clingy
wrapping. The smile that sees him again and flickers...
PETAL
What do you think? You want to
marry me, don’t you?
Don’t you? No answer. She laughs, as if at some off-color
response. Runs hot fingers up his arm, leaning to his face...
PETAL
Buy me a drink somewhere, it’s
seven-thirty. I think I’m going
to fuck you by ten. What do you
think of that?
Quoyle. Blinks. She laughs again. Bright, like whiskey music.
PETAL
You are quite. The raconteur.
INT. QUOYLE’S TRAILER - LATE NIGHT
Petal naked in near-darkness, moves with authority toward the
massive lumpy creature nearly overflowing his bed. Draws the
covers back.
Stares.
PETAL
Christ. I won the lottery.
Climbs on, the lithe move of a leopardess. Feeding time.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
It was pretty much like that for
a month.
Petal RIDING in silhouette, with great, violent swoops. CLOSE on
his face, his eyes. Lovelight.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
Somewhere in there. We got married.
INT. BAR - NIGHT
Horrible place. Smoke and bodies. Quoyle alone, carrying his
sloshing beer, apologies unheard, toward...
QUOYLE (V.O.)
After that, I had to follow her to
see her.
...the back of Petal, talking to a big guy in a shiny suit.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
Which I know was wrong of me.
Closer. Close enough to hear...
PETAL
What do you think? You want to
marry me, don’t you?
HOLD on Quoyle’s face. The lovelight has never left. It shines
through the shock. As if in apology...
QUOYLE (V.O.)
She didn’t know she was pregnant.
DISSOLVE to...
INT. PARLOR - DAY
One-year-old BUNNY is SCREAMING in a rickety crib festooned with
mobiles and bright toys. HEAR Quoyle POUNDING in. He reaches to
lift her...
...WAY UP, starts running around the faded little parlor making
cheerful airplane noises, as he DIVES and SWOOPS the shrieking kid,
until he...
...stops. Sniffs. Oh. Gives her a kiss, which doesn’t put a dent
in the screaming, and flops her down on the diaper table. She is
screaming LOUDER. He is fumbling with the diaper, the Baby Wipes,
getting a wad of ten or so at once. When...
...the phone rings. He runs off. Runs back, lifts Bunny, diaper
dangling from the tape stuck to her skin, and SNATCHES up the
phone, hoping with everything in him that it’s...
PETAL (O.S.)
Hey. How do you make an Alabama
Slammer?
He takes a breath. Can hear the noise of a rowdy spot. Country
juke box.
QUOYLE
Uh. Where are y...
PETAL (O.S.)
Alabama. Hence, the question.
Bunny. Has stopped screaming.
QUOYLE
Come home. I’ll make you one.
PETAL (O.S.)
That’s a swell idea. Now go look on
top of the fridge, where I keep the
Mr. Boston. I’ll wait.
What should he do? He sets Bunny carefully on the floor. She
starts screaming again, and he LIFTS her quick, cuddles her. LOPES
off, leaving the phone on the floor...
...RACES back in with the Mr. Boston, a bag of pork rinds, and
a pacifier. Something for everyone. As he flips the pages, he
murmurs into the phone...
QUOYLE
You okay? Except for being thirsty?
She laughs, almost friendly. He smiles. Ever hopeful.
PETAL (O.S.)
I’m busy, I’ll see y...
QUOYLE (reads)
Ounce Southern Comfort, ounce Sloe
Gin. Ounce Triple Sec. Three ounces
o.j....
PETAL (O.S.)
Got it.
CLICK. The BUZZ of her disconnect. He glances down at Bunny,
working the pacifier. Murmurs to the receiver...
QUOYLE
Me too. I’ll tell Bunny you miss her.
Hang up the phone. Kiss a baby. Eat a pork rind. Slow. As he
gazes down on Bunny, we PUSH INTO her face, and MATCH DISSOLVE
to...
INT. BUNNY’S ROOM - NIGHT, FIVE YEARS LATER
...an ECU of Bunny, now six years old, asleep in the flickering
blue light of a nearly-mute TV. Apparently she was watching
Sportscenter. PAN the darkened shoebox room. Toys everywhere, in
a clutter. A pile of used Barbies, limbs jutting in all
directions, waiting for a mass grave. BACK to Bunny, to see...
...she sleeps in her father’s lap. His chin resting on her head,
an industrial-size bag of cookies handy. Somewhere, a door OPENS..
...SLAMS HARD. Quoyle gently lays Bunny on her bed, and lurches
INTO the hall, to see Petal disappearing into her bedroom, and he
hurries to stop the door before it slams in his face.
When she turns, she is wasted, feral, and somehow as sexy as ever.
Her laser glare. What the fuck do you want?
QUOYLE
There’s. Cold chicken.
Really? She tears off her jacket, revealing that she has left her
shirt somewhere and is down to her bra. She stalks toward him.
Straight to the doorway. He flinches.
PETAL
Find yourself. A girlfriend.
With what you got down there,
you’ll do fine.
Quoyle swallows. Shakes his head.
PETAL
Only thing can work, here. Is
divorce.
No. No. Tears of shock pool in his eyes.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
I knew we had our problems. But
I never thought I’d hear that word.
She shivers with disgust. Walks around in a frustrated circle.
Back to his face. Are you sure? What does a girl have to do? And
now...
...the tears are on his face. She flashes her hardest look. And
yet...
...her slender fingers reach out. Wipe his face, not as roughly as
she might have intended.
PETAL
Your funeral, pussy.
And CLOSES the door, quietly, but firmly. In his face.
He stares at it. His lips part. But no sound comes. Instead, he
walks the few steps to Bunny’s room, to find her...
...wide awake. Sitting on the edge of her bed. No question, she
heard it all.
So Quoyle smiles. He reaches to the top of her battered armoire.
His eyes damp but dancing for his daughter. Pulls down...
...a box of chocolates. Their stash. He sits on the floor. Opens
the lid, like buried treasure.
She comes to cuddle in his lap. He feeds her one. She feeds him
one. They’ve done this before. As they chew...
QUOYLE (V.O.)
I knew if I could take it. In the
end. It would all work out.
INT. CITY ROOM - MIDDAY
Everyone trooping back from lunch, twos and threes. Quoyle last,
alone, still stuffing down a snack cake as he heads for the coffee
pot. There’s one answering machine for everybody here, glowing a
red number 2. Someone hits it, and everybody shuts up a beat, to
see if they got lucky.
MALE VOICE (O.S.)
Lila, it’s Daniel. Ten-thirty.
Bring the. You know.
LILA doesn’t even bother to blush. A shrug is plenty.
FATHER (O.S.)
Quoyle, this is your father. Calling
you. Dicky’s machine is full. Your
home one’s broke. Well. It’s time
for your mother and I to go.
Quoyle listening. Go?
FATHER (O.S.)
Instructions about the undertaker.
The cremation. On the dining room
table.
Oh. Go. Eyes are sneaking over now. Lots of them.
FATHER (O.S.)
You’ll have to make your own way.
I did. Nobody gave me nuthin’.
Other men woulda give up, turned to
bums. I sweated, wheeled barrows of
sand, went without so you and yer
brother could have advantages. Not
that you did much with your chances.
Everybody just openly staring now. Quoyle’s snack cake and coffee
frozen in mid-air.
FATHER (O.S.)
Hasn’t been much of a life. Tell
Dicky and my sister Agnis Hamm.
Her number’s on the dining room ta...
BEEP!
MACHINE (O.S.)
That was your final message.
Quoyle nods. Sounded that way. Despite the hateful coarseness of
this message, Quoyle is deeply moved. Lips pursed inward to stem
tears. In the silence...
FAT GUY (trying)
Were they sick, or something?
Quoyle stares into distance. Somewhere, feet shuffle.
QUOYLE
Brain tumor and liver cancer.
(afterthought)
One apiece.
FAT GAL (sad for him)
That’s rough.
He nods, it is that. Wanders on over to his desk. They’re still
watching, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Turns his ratty Rolodex
with solemn slowness. Not to dishonor the moment. Finds the
number, dials. Winces at the harshness of the voice he hears.
Then...
QUOYLE
Dicky. It’s Mom and Poppa. They.
He can’t say any more. Turns out, he doesn’t need to.
BROTHER (O.S., snorts)
Jeez, they did it? I never
thought he’d find the fucking guts.
Quoyle licks his lips. His eyes puddling now.
QUOYLE
So. For the funeral, I thou...
BROTHER (O.S.)
You think I’d go pay that prick
respects? You got me confused
with you!
Quoyle shakes his head once. That confused he isn’t.
QUOYLE (quietly)
Well. Mom’ll be there, too.
Silence.
BROTHER (O.S.)
Hey, Barfbag. They leave us
anything, y’think?
QUOYLE
Don’t see how. Big mortgage.
Spent their savings on the doctors.
I hadda send some grocery mon...
BROTHER (O.S.)
Well, see, that’s why he did it.
I mean, think how it felt. Taking
from you.
LONG ANGLE...they are watching him replace the receiver in its
cradle. Think. Stumble slightly, as he makes his way toward...
INT. PUNCH’S OFFICE - DAY
Punch looks up, startled at Quoyle’s entrance. His oversized
glasses seem to magnify his eyes more than ever.
QUOYLE
Sorry, Ed. I gotta drive down to my
parents’ place. I’ll be back, Friday.
A full beat.
PUNCH
Take yer time. I gotta let you go.
Quoyle’s eyes sharpen.
QUOYLE
In what sense do you m...
PUNCH
As in canned.
Oh. Once again, life slips beneath even Quoyle’s expectations.
QUOYLE (a little dazed)
Uh. Would next week be better?
PUNCH (sighs)
I got the summer interns comin’ next
week. They’re free and they’re smart.
Gotta do somethin’ to fight this
slump. But don’t worry...
Don’t?
PUNCH
Yer not the only one.
(beat)
Eventually.
A beat.
QUOYLE
Should I finish the sawmill piece?
INT. QUOYLE’S HOUSE - DAY
Quoyle enters carrying a spray of violets. HEAR Springer turned up
loud. He goes to the parlor to find...
...MRS. MOOSUP, the babysitter, smoking and swigging a Pepsi. She
is mean-ugly with flesh hanging beneath her arms. She stares at
him, the flowers.
MRS. MOOSUP (dry)
Mr. Quoyle. You shouldn’t have.
QUOYLE (taking her literally)
They’re for Petal, Mrs. Moosup.
I got something to tell her.
MRS. MOOSUP
Well, that may take awhile.
Uh-oh.
MRS. MOOSUP
She came in at one, packed like
crazy. Said she was movin’ to
Florida with the guy in the red Geo.
You know the one.
He knows the one.
MRS. MOOSUP
She says you gotta pay my wages for
the sittin’. Seven weeks, comes to
80. ’Preciate a check right n...
He is heading toward the hall.
MRS. MOOSUP
Don’t bother. She took Bunny
with her.
That stops him. Cold. He turns...
QUOYLE
That’s the last thing she’d ev...
MRS. MOOSUP
She was real clear about my check.
It’s no fun workin’ if you don’t
get paid.
He TEARS out, DOWN the hall, INTO Bunny’s room...
...closet open. Empty. No more tangled pile of Barbies. He
surveys the wreckage of his life.
QUOYLE (V.O.)
At least she took her toys. Wanted
her to be happy.
He staggers out of the room, down the hall...
MRS. MOOSUP (O.S.)
Mr. Quoyle? I ain’t got all day, here!
...into the kitchen. Lifts the receiver. Thinks. Dials.
QUOYLE (quietly)
Yes. I need to report a kidnapping.
And straightens his spine. Just a little.
QUOYLE
Quoyle. Q-U-O-Y-L-...no, Y, then
L-E. Yeh, it’s my kid.
He’s still holding the violets. He notices this. Sets them down,
almost tenderly, in the sink.
INT. QUOYLE’S HOUSE - LATE NIGHT
Quoyle alone in absolute darkness. Bumping around the house.
There’s a large bag of something in one hand, maybe M & Ms. But
he’s not eating. Just murmuring to himself...
QUOYLE
Who knows? Who knows?
INT. QUOYLE’S PARENTS’ HOME, BROOKLYN - DAY
Quoyle moving in his parents’ cluttered parlor like a man
underwater. A room as drab, as neglected, as Brooklyn through
the window. He stands at a shelf now, staring at a row of framed
photos. Lifts one...
...a BOY of 15, bundled for winter, stands by a frozen pond.
Stocky, sullen, something unpleasant in the narrow eyes. Next
to him, not touching, a GIRL, big for 12. Rawboned, husky. Flat
gaze, like something’s dead or hidden.
Quoyle walks to the table. A cardboard box has been filled with
mementos. A slip of paper: AGNIS HAMM, a telephone number. The
phone is RINGING now. Quoyle staring at the paper. Finally, lifts
the phone, breathes an absent greeting, and...
MALE VOICE (O.S.)
Is this Mr. Guy Quoyle?
QUOYLE (weary)
He’s not here.
MALE VOICE (O.S.)
This is Lt. Amos Figg of the
Mockingburg, New York Police. Could
you have him call me when he ret...
QUOYLE
He’s passed on. He’s dead.
(beat)
You said Mockingb...
FIGG (O.S.)
We’re a small town upstate. I’m
actually trying to reach his son.
He allegedly went down to his
parents’ place two days ago.
Quoyle blinks. Not in the mood.
QUOYLE
Are you a detective, Lieutenant?
FIGG (O.S.)
Yes sir.
QUOYLE
Well, as you’ve probably deduced, I
am his son. Cause I’m at his
place. As alleged.
Silence.
FIGG (O.S.)
There’s no need for that tone,
sir. I’m calling with urgent news.
And says no more. We can feel Quoyle’s heart beating from here.
QUOYLE
Which is...?
FIGG (O.S., hesitant)
You want the good news? Or
the bad news.
Ominous. Would be an understatement.
QUOYLE
The good. Please.
FIGG (O.S.)
Your daughter Bunny was sold by
your wife to a child pornographer.
For 00.
Quoyle’s heart. Has stopped.
FIGG (O.S.)
But she’s fine. We got her. And
the doc says she wasn’t touched.
Yet. If you catch my drift.
INTERCUT...a dingy kitchen, scuzzier than we could even have
guessed. Bunny in her underpants sliding merrily on a floor made
slippery with dish detergent. PAN past the video camera on its
tripod to the PORNOGRAPHER at the window, also in his underpants,
screaming into a cordless phone. And...
BACK to Quoyle. His heart must have started again, because he is
able to say...
QUOYLE
That’s. The good n...
FIGG (O.S.)
Well. Compared.
INTERCUT...a riverbank somewhere high above swiftly-flowing water.
Police and bystanders gathered. A winch reaching its chain into
the depths.
FIGG (O.S.)
Your wife was in a red Geo which
went through a guardrail over the
Chesapeake Bay Bridge.
Here comes part of the Geo. Streaming water and mud.
FIGG (O.S.)
They were doin’ 97 in a fog. The
car was cut in half by the impact
with the rail. Her male companion’s
body floated up downstream.
BACK to the horrified husband. Waiting in silence.
QUOYLE
And Petal...?
FIGG (O.S.)
May never find the body. But she
was mercifully killed on impact,
without a doubt. They found her
shoes under the dash and her...
trousers for some reas...
QUOYLE
That don’t mean for sure she w...
FIGG (O.S.)
...and her purse. With the nine
large.
Oh. Tears finally force their way through the shock. As he
realizes...
QUOYLE (a murmur)
Yeh. If she was alive. Don’t
guess she’d a left that.
INT. COUNTY SOCIAL SERVICES - DAY
Quoyle moving his bulk FAST down a corridor, a uniformed COP almost
skipping alongside to keep up, watching Quoyle like a hawk all the
way to....
...the threadbare common room. Kids playing, arguing, sleeping,
staring at an antique TV. Quoyle goes THROUGH them all, cop
doggedly in his wake, and sinks to his knees beside...
BUNNY
I can’t do this.
Bunny on the ratty sofa, legs dangling, holding out a vintage
Gameboy. She wears clean clothes, freshly-washed hair, and a
comfortable smile.
QUOYLE (very soft)
Me neither.
And kisses her, lightly, on the lips.
QUOYLE (softer still)
Hi.
She kisses him back, much harder, on the mouth. The lopsided grin
of a practicing imp.
BUNNY
Hi, too. That for me?
We hadn’t seen them, hidden beside his leg. A bunch of DAISIES.
He gives them to her. Like her best beau.
BUNNY
Where’s our candy?
QUOYLE
In the store. That way, you’ve
got the whole selection.
And then...
QUOYLE
Give us a minute.
Bunny doesn’t understand.
QUOYLE
I mean him.
PULL BACK to the cop, staring down on them from point-blank range.
He doesn’t move. Quoyle looks up, with an easy smile that says
he’d just as soon tear all the arms and legs off, and sweat the
consequences later. The cop backs well off. He can take a hint.
BUNNY
Petal went to Florida. She’ll be
back soon.
He looks in her eyes. Shakes his head. No.
QUOYLE
She had an accident.
BUNNY
So do you.
He nods, I do. Tenderly pulls a strand of her hair aside.
QUOYLE
There was a car crash, sweetie.
And they found...you know, the
body. Of her friend.
BUNNY
Nestor.
That’s right. His big hand has wrapped around one of hers. She
doesn’t seem to mind. Their faces so close.
QUOYLE
Petal can’t come back, she’s dead.
You know dead. Like the turtle.
She drills his eyes. Calm as a moose.
BUNNY
We found the turtle. And they
found Nestor. Did you find Petal?
He shakes his head.
BUNNY
You never do. But she always
comes back.
And leans her forehead. To rest against his.
BUNNY
Don’t worry.
INT. QUOYLE’S HOUSE - NIGHT
Quoyle stumbling toward the front door, drawing his robe around
him. Squinting through the peephole. OPENING the door, to
reveal...
AGNIS
Nephew, I’m your Aunt. Agnis Hamm.
Tall and rawboned and 60. A rugged, maybe even handsome face, set
with ice-blue eyes. Calm, slightly scary eyes, that drift to his
robe...
AGNIS
You sick? It’s nine o’clock.
He is completely off-balance here.
QUOYLE
Uh. No, Bunny and I like to...
uh, early to bed, earl...
AGNIS
Losin’ your wife, your folks, and
your job’d depress anybody. It’s
a wonder you don’t sleep all day.
Not that she seems to approve. Not at all. His eyes now drift to
the large, well-used SUITCASES dangling from her powerful hands.
AGNIS
Thought I’d stay a day or two.
Give you some relief with th...
And stops. The mouth doesn’t smile. But the eyes crinkle slightly
toward...
...Bunny. Who has crept out in her jammies. Hugging a sack of
Pepperidge Farm cookies like it was a teddy.
AGNIS (to Bunny)
You like blue dogs named Warren?
The little girl nods. As if she certainly does.
AGNIS
I got one in the car.
INT. PARLOR - LATER
In the far corner of the room, Bunny plays with WARREN, a sweet,
ugly dog. Toothless and, undeniably, blue.
QUOYLE (O.S.)
I never knew her, really.
See him now, sipping his tea. Wallowing in the detritus of his
emotions.
QUOYLE
But she was driven by terrible
forces, no one could understand.
She was a locked door. Even to me.
Agnis in the good chair. Teacup on her ample lap. Assessing a
photo on the end table, Petal’s arctic eyes, rigidly seductive
pose. The snapshot enshrined by a neighboring votive rose in its
jelly jar glass.
AGNIS
So she wasn’t just a bitch in
high heels?
Quoyle’s eyes cut instinctively toward his daughter, her innocence
protected by distance and absorption with Warren’s passivity.
AGNIS
Don’t stress. She mighta heard worse
from her momma. I’m only guessin’.
QUOYLE
Some people probably thought Petal
was bad clear through.
AGNIS
People. Are a cynical lot.
QUOYLE
I think she just couldn’t get
enough love.
Agnis’ unblinking eyes.
AGNIS
I think the evidence. Is on
your side.
The eyes study him. Dissect him, even.
AGNIS
I’m headed north, Nephew, to
where our family comes from, in
Newfoundland. Thought I’d never
go back. But the older y’get...
Clucks her tongue.
AGNIS
There’s a pull. Becomes an ache.
As if where your people started
held a purpose for you. Like
you’re a piece in a puzzle...
Not a smile. But something. A softening of timbre, a flicker
behind the eye.
AGNIS
...lookin’ for where y’fit.
Lifts her cup.
AGNIS
You, too.
Takes a sip. His eyes have narrowed in a burlesque of suspicion.
QUOYLE
In what sense do you m...
AGNIS
You need to come, Nephew.
Just like that.
AGNIS
Nothin’ here but hurt. You got
to start fresh, everythin’s gone!
Hmmn?
AGNIS
The trip’ll clear your head.
Be educational for the squirt.
Teach ya the world’s still spinnin’
outside this toxic slice o’Hades.
And who knows...?
Tilts her head. Who knows.
AGNIS
They must have a newspaper up
there. Somebody’s gotta write it.
He just stares. The blankest of the blank.
AGNIS
Tell the truth, I’d appreciate
the company. You two are pretty
much my family.
His face softens. Hadn’t thought of it that way. And seeing
this...
AGNIS
A pot o’coffee would hit the spot.
Drop o’whiskey would fit nice in it.
She waits. He rises. And when he does...
AGNIS
Which one’s my brother?
He blinks. She looks at two URNS on the mantle.
QUOYLE
Uh. There’s Mom. And that’s Poppa.
The name of the funeral home tastefully stenciled. He clears his
throat...
QUOYLE
Those are temporary.
AGNIS
Coffee. And maybe a sweet.
Quoyle nods, glad to serve. Heads off to the kitchen. Agnis looks
at Bunny and Warren.
AGNIS
She needs to go outside.
BUNNY
I know why.
She runs out, the dog trotting after. Alone now...
...Agnis pulls something from her large carpetbag purse. It is an
oversized ZIPLOC BAG. She stands. Crosses to...
...her brother’s urn. She removes the lid. Turns the huge Ziploc
upside down to COVER the urn. Then, in one deft movement...
...UPENDS the urn, a cascade of ash tumbling into the Ziploc.
Seals it. Sets it to one side. Then, from her purse...
...another ziploc already filled with replacement ashes. She pours
just enough into the urn. That should do it. Stashes the rest
back in her purse. Turns now to lift...
...the Ziploc with her brother’s remains. Stares at it. Think
Hamlet with Yorrick’s skull.
AGNIS
What say, Guy? The dumpster?
A beat. Eyes flat and neutral.
AGNIS
Just a thought.
EXT. PHANTOM HIGHWAY - MISTY NIGHT
A world of fog and reflected high beams. Big rig pulls over, and
Petal climbs up and in, her short red dress fluttering about her
thighs.
The truck is roaring heedlessly through dense cloud. The DRIVER is
gross and bald, snot suspended from his nostrils. He lets go of
the wheel to run his hairy hands UNDER Petal’s dress, while through
the shotgun window, we see...
...Quoyle FLYING along outside, like a superhero. Except he is
shocked bug-eyed by the tableau. The disgusting driver buries his
face in Petal’s hair, she throws her head back laughing, and the
driver becomes Quoyle’s FATHER, Quoyle silently SHRIEKING outside
the window, and SMASH cut to...
EXT. DECK, PORT-AUX-BASQUES FERRY - DAY
...Quoyle blinking awake on the deck of a pitching ferry. Fog
and cliff and the raw Atlantic. And SOARING alongside, an amazing
number of MARITIME BIRDS...the gulls and terns seeming to stare
Quoyle in the eye as they glide past. Maybe they prompted his
dream.
AGNIS (O.S.)
They draft off our air currents,
it’s quite premeditated.
She stands at the rail. Smoking, despite the wind.
AGNIS
They actually know the ferry
schedule. Show up on time
better’n the Newfies.
He smiles a seasick smile. Lurches from his bolted-down chair to
join her. She nods back toward...
...Bunny through the glass window, snuggled with Warren, feeding
the dog french fries.
AGNIS
...image of m’sister, Feeny.
She’s married to a falconer in
Arabia, now. Has to wear a black
thing over her face.
QUOYLE
Like the falcon.
She stares in his eyes. Yes, like the falcon. They are growing on
each other in a companionable way.
AGNIS
Nice. To be with family.
He smiles. It is nice.
AGNIS
’Specially big shots. Who can
land a job with one phone call.
His smile changes color. A quiet pride in the modest...
QUOYLE
Well, that was my friend Partridge.
Made the call. And it’s just an
interview.
When Quoyle looks back in at Bunny, he sees she is staring off at
something with full attention. He follows her gaze to...
...a honey-haired MOTHER with her small BOY snuggled in her lap.
She is feeding him an ice cream bar with evident tenderness. And
though the child’s face is blissfully vacant, she murmurs to him
with serious intent.
INT. CAR, GREAT NORTHERN PENINSULA - DAY
Quoyle driving a winding, rutted road, high above the coastline.
Cracked cliffs in volcanic glazes. Long-abandoned settlements
jutting from raw granite. Icebergs on the horizon above the
rumpled, creased fabric of a brilliant blue sea. Beside him...
AGNIS
On the map, here. Quoyle Point.
Named after us. You.
It all seems at once awe-inspiring, frighteningly lonely. And
hostile as hell.
EXT. QUOYLE’S POINT - SUNSET
The car pulls up in a shroud of mist. Our family climbs out,
stares into what seems the center of a dense cloud, until...
...the fog LIFTS. And like a ghost, a GREEN HOUSE appears. Then,
disappears. Then, APPEARS again. This time, to stay.
AGNIS (bottomless pride)
I was born here.
BUNNY
The green makes me hurl.
(Warren whimpers)
Her, too.
The cloud lifts further, and we see the house stands alone on a
rocky point. The bay roils far below. Half the window panes are
gone. Holes in the roof, paint flaking everywhere. Lonely and
scary as any haunted house.
AGNIS
Empty 44 years. And look at that
roofline, straight as a ruler.
Quoyle looks at her. Looks at the house. Looks at her.
QUOYLE
Take it easy. Floor mighta fallen
into the cellar.