Делия Оуэнс - Where the Crawdads Sing

Tate was accustomed to Kya being guarded, but her behavior seemed more distant and stranger than ever. Continuously keeping her head turned at an angle.

“Come on, Kya. Just have a cup of coffee.” He’d already moved into the kitchenette and poured water into a machine that dripped out a strong brew. She stood by the ladder to the deck above, and he handed her a mug, motioning for her to go up. He invited her to sit on the cushioned bench, but she stood at the stern. Catlike, she knew the exit. The brilliant white sandbar curved away from them under sheltering oaks.

“Kya . . .” He started to ask a question, but when she faced him, he saw the fading bruise on her cheek.

“What happened to your face?” He walked toward her, reaching to touch her cheek. She turned away.

“Nothing. I ran into a door in the middle of the night.” He knew that wasn’t true by the way she flung her hand to her face. Someone had hit her. Had it been Chase? Was she still seeing him even though he was married? Tate worked his jaw. Kya moved to put her mug down, as if she were going.

He forced calm. “Have you started a new book?”

“I’m almost finished with the one on mushrooms. My editor’s coming to Greenville sometime at the end of October and wants me to meet him there. But I’m not sure.”

“You should go. It’d be good to meet him. There’s a bus from Barkley every day, one at night, too. It doesn’t take long. An hour and twenty minutes maybe, something like that.”

“I don’t know where to buy a ticket.”

“The driver’ll know everything. Just show up at the bus stop on Main; he’ll tell you what you need to do. I think Jumpin’ has the schedule tacked up in his store.” He almost mentioned that he had ridden the bus many times from Chapel Hill, but thought it better not to remind her of those days, of her waiting on a July beach.

They were quiet for a while, sipping their coffee, listening to a pair of hawks whistling along the walls of a tall cloud.

He hesitated to offer more coffee, knowing she would leave if he did. So he asked about her mushroom book, explained the protozoans he studied. Any bait to keep her.

The afternoon light softened and a cool wind picked up. Putting the mug down again, she said, “I have to go.”

“I was thinking of opening some wine. Would you like some?”

“No, thanks.”

“Wait a second before you go,” Tate said as he went below to the galley and returned with a bag of leftover bread and biscuits. “Please give my regards to the gulls.”

“Thanks.” She climbed down the ladder.

As she walked toward her boat, he called out, “Kya, it’s gotten cooler, don’t you want a jacket or something?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Here, at least take my cap,” and he tossed a red ski cap toward her. She caught it and slung it back to him. He threw it again, farther, and she jogged across the sandbar, leaned low and scooped it up. Laughing, she jumped into her boat, cranked the motor, and, as she boated near him, pitched the hat back into his boat. He grinned and she giggled. Then they stopped laughing and simply looked at each other as they lobbed the cap back and forth until she motored around the bend. She sat down hard on the stern seat and put her hand over her mouth. “No,” she said out loud. “I cannot fall for him again. I will not get hurt all over again.”

Tate stayed at the stern. Clenching his fists at the image of someone hitting her.

She hugged the coastline just beyond the surf, heading south. On this route she would pass her beach before reaching the channel that led through the marsh to her shack. Usually she didn’t stop at her beach, but motored through the maze of waterways to her lagoon, and then walked to the shore.

But as she passed by, the gulls spotted her and swarmed the boat. Big Red landed on the bow, bobbing his head. She laughed. “Okay then, you win.” Breaking through the surf, she beached her boat behind tall sea oats and stood at the shoreline tossing the crumbs Tate had given her.

As the sun spread gold and pink across the water, she sat on the sand while the gulls settled around her. Suddenly she heard a motor and saw Chase’s ski boat racing toward her channel. He could not see her boat behind the sea oats, but she was in plain sight on the open sand. Instantly she lay flat, turning her head to the side, so she could watch him. He stood at the helm, hair blowing back, face in an ugly scowl. But he didn’t look in her direction as he turned into the channel toward her shack.

When he was out of sight, she sat up. If she hadn’t beached here with the gulls, he would have caught her at home. She’d learned over and over from Pa: these men had to have the last punch. Kya had left Chase sprawled on the dirt. The two old fishermen had probably seen her flatten him. As Pa would have it, Kya had to be taught a lesson.

As soon as he discovered she wasn’t at the shack, he’d walk here to her beach. She ran to her boat, throttled up, and headed back toward Tate. But she didn’t want to tell Tate what Chase had done to her; shame overwhelmed reason. She slowed down and drifted on swells as the sun disappeared. She had to hide and wait for Chase to leave. If she didn’t see him go, she wouldn’t know when it was safe to motor home.

She turned into the channel, panicked that he could roar in her direction at any second. Her motor just above idle, so she could hear his boat, she eased into a backwater thicket of overhanging trees and brush. She reversed deeper into the undergrowth, pushing limbs aside until layers of leaves and the falling night hid her.

Breathing hard, she listened. Finally she heard his engine screaming across the soft evening air. She ducked lower as he approached, suddenly worried that the tip of her boat was visible. The sound came very close, and in seconds his boat zoomed by. She sat there for nearly thirty minutes until it was truly dark, then cruised home by starlight.

She took her bedding to the beach and sat with the gulls. They paid her no mind, preening outstretched wings before settling down on the sand like feathered stones. As they chortled softly and tucked their heads for the night, she lay as close to them as she could get. But even among their soft cooing and ruffling, Kya couldn’t sleep. Mostly she tossed from one side to the other, sitting up each time the wind mimicked footfalls.

Dawn surf roared on a slapping wind that stung her cheeks. She sat up among the birds, who wandered nearby, stretching and kick-scratching. Big Red—eyes wide, neck cocked—seemed to have found something most interesting in his underwing, an act that would normally have made Kya laugh. But the birds brought her no cheer.

She walked to the water’s edge. Chase would not let this go. Being isolated was one thing; living in fear, quite another.

She imagined taking one step after the other into the churning sea, sinking into the stillness beneath the waves, strands of her hair suspending like black watercolor into the pale blue sea, her long fingers and arms drifting up toward the backlit blaze of the surface. Dreams of escape—even through death—always lift toward the light. The dangling, shiny prize of peace just out of grasp until finally her body descends to the bottom and settles in murky quiet. Safe.

Who decides the time to die?

44. Cell Mate

1970

Kya stood in the middle of her cell. Here she was in jail. If those she’d loved, including Jodie and Tate, hadn’t left her, she wouldn’t be here. Leaning on someone leaves you on the ground.

Before being arrested, she’d caught glimpses of a path back to Tate: an opening of her heart. Love lingering closer to the surface. But when he’d come to visit her in jail on several occasions, she had refused to see him. She wasn’t sure why jail had closed her heart even tighter. Why she hadn’t embraced the comfort he could give her in this place. It seemed that now, Kya being more vulnerable than ever, was reason to trust others even less. Standing in the most fragile place of her life, she turned to the only net she knew—herself.