The Best American Short Stories 2015 by T.C. Boyle

native islanders riot? Or worse, attack the house and guests? Maybe. But what weighed most heavily on Georgie was the sense of being complicit in Celia’s suffering.
    Marlene approached, locking eyes with her. She topped off Georgie’s glass with straight rum and lit another cigarette.
    â€œGot ugly in there, didn’t it?” she said, exhaling.
    Georgie nodded.
    â€œBet you don’t see that every day in the mermaid tank,” Marlene said. “But Joe can handle it. Even if you can’t. Those of us that have been to the war—”
    Georgie held up a hand, stopping Marlene. She felt claustrophobic, drunk. She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. Her body was warm from the rum and wine and she felt anxious, as if she needed to move.
    â€œTell Joe I’m off for a walk. To think about things.”
    â€œStay out awhile,” Marlene said, calling after her.
    Georgie left the house through the kitchen and walked away from the group of islanders who had clustered near the dock. She wanted to tell them that they were right, that they should take the boat, but she was too ashamed to look them in the eyes, too afraid to speak against Joe. She wanted to talk to Phillip, so she followed the path of crushed oysters and sand north toward the simple silhouette of the small stone church.
    Georgie recalled the hymn her mother liked to sing—“O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” She was tone-deaf but couldn’t help herself from singing. As the words came, her tongue felt too big for her mouth, but still the sound of her voice filled her with unexpected serenity. She took another drink from the crystal tumbler she’d taken from the house and sang the first verse again, and then again, until she could feel her mother’s nails on her back, calming her down, loving her to sleep.
    She found Phillip passed out on a wooden bench in front of the church.
    â€œPhillip,” she said, gently rocking him with her hands. He was shirtless and his skin was warm. A single silver cross Joe had given him hung around his neck and across his chest.
    â€œPhillip,” she said. He stirred but didn’t open his eyes. She pinched the skin above his hip bone.
    â€œWhat?” he said, opening his eyes into slits.
    â€œTake the boat. Just take it.”
    â€œI’m in no shape to drive a boat.”
    â€œYou have to. Someone has to.”
    â€œI like you, Georgie,” Phillip said. “But you have to leave me the hell alone now.” He waved her off with one hand, the other tucked underneath his head.
    â€œBut you said—”
    â€œI give up. You should too.” He rolled away from her, turning his face toward the back of the bench.
    She took another sip of her drink while waiting for him to roll back over. When he didn’t, she walked to the place where the sandy island broke off into high cliffs and began to walk the rim of the island, staring at the water below.
    Looking down at the waves from the cliffs, she remembered Florida. She remembered sipping on the air hose and drinking Coca-Cola while tourists watched her through thick glass at the aquarium show. Sometimes Georgie had to remind herself that she could not, in fact, breathe underwater.
    â€œWhatever you do,” the aquarium owner had said, “be pretty.”
    And so the girls always pointed their toes and ignored the charley horses in their calves or the way their eyes began to sting in the brackish water. Georgie recalled the feeling of her hands on the arch of another swimmer’s back as they performed an underwater adagio, the fatigue in her body after the back-to-back Fourth of July shows. She remembered a time when she felt good about herself.
    She thought of Joe, and her arm around Marlene’s back. She thought of the stone house, and for a minute, she wanted to leave Whale Cay and return home. But home would never be the same.
    In days the yacht would pull away and Joe would wake her