Where the Crawdads Sing

The next time they went before dawn, parked way down the road, and found her boat tied to its log. Still no one answered the door.

Joe whispered, “I get this feelin’ she’s right here watchin’ us. Don’t you? She’s squattin’ right here in the damn palmettos. Purt’ near. I just know it.” His head swung, eyes scanning the brambles.

“Well, this isn’t going to work. If we come up with anything else we can get a warrant. Let’s get outta here.”

26. The Boat Ashore

1965

The first week they were together, Chase pulled into Kya’s lagoon almost every day after his work at the Western Auto, and they explored remote oak-lined channels. On Saturday morning, he took her on an expedition far up the coast to a place she’d never been because it was too far for her little boat. Here—instead of the estuaries and enormous sweeps of grass as in her marsh—clear water flowed as far as she could see through a bright and open cypress forest. Brilliant white herons and storks stood among water lilies and floating plants so green they seemed to glow. Hunched up on cypress knees as large as easy chairs, they ate pimento-cheese sandwiches and potato chips, grinning as geese glided just below their toes.

Like most people, Chase knew the marsh as a thing to be used, to boat and fish, or drain for farming, so Kya’s knowledge of its critters, currents, and cattails intrigued him. But he scoffed at her soft touch, cruising at slow speeds, drifting silently past deer, whispering near birds’ nests. He had no interest in learning the shells or feathers himself and questioned her when she scribbled notes in her journal or collected specimens.

“Why’re you painting grass?” he asked one day in her kitchen.

“I’m painting their flowers.”

He laughed. “Grass doesn’t have flowers.”

“Of course they do. See these blossoms. They’re tiny, but beautiful. Each grass species has a different flower or inflorescence.”

“What’re ya gonna do with all this stuff anyway?”

“I’m keeping records so I can learn about the marsh.”

“All ya need to know is when and where the fish bite, and I can tell ya that,” he said.

She laughed for his sake, something she’d never done. Giving away another piece of herself just to have someone else.

•   •   •

THAT AFTERNOON, after Chase left, Kya motored into the marsh alone. But did not feel alone. She accelerated slightly faster than usual, her long hair trailing in the wind, a slight smile brushed on her lips. Just knowing she would see him again soon, be with someone, lifted her to a new place.

Then, rounding a bend of tall grass, up ahead she saw Tate. He was quite far, maybe forty yards, and had not heard her boat. Instantly, she dropped throttle and killed the engine. Grabbed the oar and rowed backward into the grass.

“Home from college, I guess,” she whispered. She’d seen him a few times over the years, but never this close. But now there he was, his untamed hair struggling with another red cap. Tanned face.

Tate wore high-top waders and strode through a lagoon, scooping up water samples in tiny vials. Not old jelly jars as when they were barefoot kids but petite tubes clinking in a special carrying rack. Professorial. Out of her league.

She didn’t row away, but watched him awhile, thinking that every girl probably remembers her first love. She let out a long breath, then rowed back the way she came.

•   •   •

THE NEXT DAY, as Chase and Kya cruised north along the coast, four porpoises moved into their wake and followed them. It was a gray-sky day, and fingers of fog flirted with the waves. Chase switched off the engine, and as the boat drifted, he took out his harmonica and played the old song “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” a yearning and melodic tune sung by slaves in the 1860s as they rowed boats to the mainland from the Sea Islands of South Carolina. Ma used to sing it while scrubbing, and Kya sort of remembered the words. As if inspired by the music, the porpoises swam closer and circled the boat, their keen eyes fixing on Kya’s. Then, two of them eased up against the hull, and she bowed her face only inches from theirs, and sang softly:

“Sister, help to trim dat boat, hallelujah

Brudder lend a helpin’ hand, hallelujah.

Ma fadder gone to unknown land, hallelujah.

Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah.

“Jordan’s river is deep and wide,

Meet my mother on the other side, hallelujah.

Jordan’s river is chilly and cold

Chills the body but not the soul, hallelujah.”

The porpoises stared at Kya for a few more seconds and then slipped backward into the sea.