Where the Crawdads Sing

The day stood clear and hot, so she motored into the marsh. At the end of a narrow estuary, she rounded a grassy bend and saw Tate squatting on a wide sandbar, dipping up water samples in little vials. His cruiser–cum–research vessel was tied to a log and drifted across the channel, blocking it. She heaved on the tiller. Some of the swelling and bruising on her face had diminished, but ugly green and purple splotches still circled her eye. She panicked. She could not let Tate see her battered face and tried to turn her boat around quickly.

But he looked up and waved. “Pull in, Kya. I’ve got a new microscope to show you.”

This had the same effect as the truant officer calling to her about chicken pie. She slowed but didn’t answer.

“Come on. You won’t believe this magnification. You can see the pseudopods on the amoebas.”

She’d never seen an amoeba, certainly not its body parts. And seeing Tate again brought a peace, a calmness. Deciding that she could keep her bruised face turned away from him, she beached her boat and walked through the shallow water toward his. She wore cutoff jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair free. Standing at the top of the stern ladder, he held out his hand and she took it, looking away from him.

The cruiser’s soft beige blended into the marsh, and Kya had never seen anything as fine as the teak deck and brass helm. “Come on down,” he said, stepping below into the cabin. She scanned the captain’s desk, the small kitchen outfitted better than her own, and the living area that had been converted into an onboard laboratory with multiple microscopes and racks of vials. Other instruments hummed and blinked.

Tate fiddled with the largest microscope and adjusted the slide.

“Here, just a minute.” He touched a drop of marsh water onto the slide, covered it with another, and focused the eyepiece. He stood. “Have a look.”

Kya leaned over gently, as if to kiss a baby. The microscope’s light reflected in her dark pupils, and she drew in a breath as a Mardi Gras of costumed players pirouetted and careened into view. Unimaginable headdresses adorned astonishing bodies so eager for more life, they frolicked as though caught in a circus tent, not a single bead of water.

She put her hand on her heart. “I had no idea there were so many and so beautiful,” she said, still looking.

He identified some odd species, then stepped back, watching her. She feels the pulse of life, he thought, because there are no layers between her and her planet.

He showed her more slides.

She whispered, “It’s like never having seen the stars, then suddenly seeing them.”

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked softly.

She raised her head. “No, no, thank you.” Then she backed away from the microscope, moving toward the galley. Awkwardly, keeping her brown-green eye turned away.

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.