Where the Crawdads Sing

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.

Being thrown behind bars with no bail made clear how alone she was. The sheriff’s offer of a phone call starkly reminded her: there was no one to call. The only phone number she knew in the world was Jodie’s, and how could she call her brother and say she was in jail accused of murder? After all those years, how could she bother him with her troubles? And maybe shame played a part.

They had abandoned her to survive and defend herself. So here she was, by herself.

Once more she lifted the wondrous shell book Tom Milton had given her, by far her most treasured volume. Some biology texts were stacked on the floor, which the guard said Tate had brought, but she couldn’t hold the words in place. Sentences wandered off in several directions, circling back to the beginning. Shell pictures were easier.

Footsteps clanked on the cheap tile floor and Jacob, a small black man who served as guard, appeared in front of her door. He held a large brown-paper package. “Sorry to bother ya, Miz Clark, but ya got a viz’tor. Ya gotta come with me.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s yo’ lawya, Mr. Milton.” Metal-to-metal clanks sounded, as Jacob unlocked her door and handed her the package. “An’ this here’s from Jumpin’.” She laid the parcel on the bed and followed Jacob down the hall and into a room—even smaller than her cell. Tom Milton rose from his chair as she entered. Kya nodded at him and then looked out the window, where an enormous cumulus cloud with peach-colored cheeks puffed itself up.

“Good evening, Kya.”

“Mr. Milton.”

“Kya, please call me Tom. And what’s wrong with your arm? Have you hurt yourself?”

She jerked her hand, covering the webs she’d scratched on her arms. “Just mosquito bites, I think.”

“I’ll talk to the sheriff; you shouldn’t have mosquitoes in your— room.”

Head down, she said, “Please, no, it’s okay. I’m not worried about insects.”

“All right, of course, I won’t do anything you don’t want. Kya, I came to talk about your options.”

“What options?”

“I’ll explain. It’s hard to know at this point how the jury is leaning. The prosecution has a good case. It’s not solid by any means, but considering how people in this town are prejudiced, you have to be prepared that it won’t be easy for us to win. But there’s the option of a plea bargain. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

“Not exactly.”

“You have pleaded not guilty to first-degree murder. If we lose, you lose big: life in prison or, as you know, they are seeking the death penalty. Your option is to plead guilty to a lesser charge, say, manslaughter. If you were willing to say, yes, you did go to the tower that night, you did meet Chase there, you had a disagreement, and in a horrible accident he stepped backward through the grate, the trial might end immediately, you wouldn’t have to go through any more of this drama, and we could negotiate with the prosecution over a sentence. Since you’ve never been charged with anything before, they’d probably sentence you to ten years, and you could be out in, say, six years. I know that sounds bad, but it’s better than spending life in prison or the other.”

“No, I won’t say anything that implies guilt. I will not go to prison.”

“Kya, I understand, but please take some time to think about it. You don’t want to live your entire life in jail, nor do you want—the other.”

Kya looked out the window again. “I don’t need to think about it. I won’t stay in jail.”

“Well, we don’t have to decide now. We have some time. Let’s see how it goes. Before I leave, is there anything you want to discuss with me?”

“Please get me out of here. One way or—the other.”