The Watery Part of the World by Michael Parker Page A

about to be beheaded, that Daniels had come for her, that someone on the island had testified to her sanity.
    Though she knew this was not the time, she could not help herself, for it was this night that Theo first realized how much Whaley had begun to depend on her company.
    â€œHe acted like he knew you,” she said, watching him closely.
    â€œOf course he knows me. Knows everybody on this island.”
    â€œNo, I mean he speaks to you as if he really knows you.”
    Whaley stepped out of the weak light of the fire, back into the shadows of the room.
    â€œYou go to sleep,” he said.
    This made her angry—she did not care to be talked to like a child—until she remembered that it was his house, that she was, essentially, a child. Defenseless, useless, a dependent who contributed next to nothing to the daily toil of surviving on the island. And he was upset, not himself. Still, it was not easy to sleep when someone ordered you to do so, and she lay there listening to him breathe and sip his drink until the light seeped in beneath the door and around the chimney and she could make out his shadow still slumped against the far wall.
    She started the fire, fetched his fishing pole outside, found the leather pouch where he kept his captured crickets, slung it over her shoulder, trudged off to the sound, flat and still in the dawn quiet. She’d heard him say this was one of the best times of day to catch fish, but she’d only been fishing from a boat in the Hudson,and she’d had someone else—an older cousin, a suitor—to bait the hook. It took a full twenty minutes to get the cricket to stay on the crude hook, and another thirty before she managed to pull in two small fish. She worked out the hook with great difficulty and put the fish in the cricket box and turned to go. This was when Whaley let out his low chortle, morning-congested but so sincere and delighted-sounding that she forgot all about the night they’d had.
    He was standing atop the dune, drinking from their lone mug. “You fish like a madwoman,” he said.
    â€œThese fish must be partial to lunacy.”
    â€œRight now they’re partial to my crickets. Pull them out of that pouch before I don’t have one last cricket to show for all my hours of cricket-trapping.”
    â€œBut they’re dead,” she said. She was alongside him now and he reached into the pouch and pulled the fish out and crammed them unceremoniously in his pants pockets.
    â€œNot quite yet,” he said. “Takes them a while.”
    Back in the shack she insisted on cooking. Bemused, he allowed her to take over. She was making herself indispensable. She realized how reliant she was on his mercy.
    Seated with a plate by the fire, Whaley studied his food and said, “You don’t cook much for yourself do you?”
    â€œI had servants,” she admitted.
    â€œI knew your husband was a gentleman,” he said, “but what exactly is his trade?”
    She chewed a bite of crusty fish, swallowed, amused at how bad her manners had become. She said, “He has several rice plantations.”
    Whaley nodded.
    â€œAnd tea as well.”
    Another nod.
    â€œAnd he is the chief commander of the South Carolina Militia.”
    Whaley’s eyes widened. “Military man?”
    â€œBy virtue of his being governor of South Carolina.”
    Whaley’s face showed such confusion—for he thought she was joking, wanted perhaps to believe she was joking, but was led on also by some shocking filament of truthfulness in her voice—that she laughed, rather crazily.
    He laughed too.
    â€œGovernor, you say? That’s good work if you can get it.”
    â€œOh no,” she said. “It’s a dreadful job.”
    â€œI imagine I could get used to it.”
    â€œYou’d be terrible at it,” she said.
    He grinned. “And why is that?”
    â€œYou can’t walk around the