The Watery Part of the World - Michael Parker [23]
“Whose food would that be?”
“With your permission.”
“My permission means nothing to you. It doesn’t matter what Daniels offered that night. He’s not one to remember such and is certainly not one to honor a promise. You seem to have forgot all about how you met the man.”
“I’ve not forgotten,” she said, feigning insult. “But while we’re on the subject of forgetting, you wish me to heed your warning about him and yet you’re omitting what seem to be crucial details about your dealings with the man.”
“For the last time, woman, I don’t owe you anything. Especially not a lengthy accounting of my past.”
She let her voice drop to a pleasant whisper. “I did not mean to suggest I’m owed anything. But how can I take seriously your warnings when you leave out what I suspect is some truly horrible, and likely pertinent, fact?”
For a full minute he seemed to look through her. Then he said, “I will tell you everything when I’m ready to.”
“Fine,” she said. “In the meantime I am going to build my house. With or without your help.”
As if its weight were tremendous, he managed to lift his gaze to hers. There he left it. There was no light in his eyes, but nor did he look away. He seemed to have given up fighting something against which defeat was only halfhearted fantasy. His acquiescence made her think of Joseph, of how she had never felt for him that pure and unquestionable attachment she’d felt for her father. Love should shrink the earth, should do away finally with the soil on which feet are planted. Spirit only should rise and merge with that of the beloved. Whaley was so solidly structure, so skeletal, like the ribs of the shack he’d built, seen from within, shorn of the patchwork thatch that protected them from the elements. She’d never encountered anyone less concerned with the vanities with which it seemed her precious former life, and everyone in it, had been preoccupied. And yet smoke still rose from him, an essence of great mystery. Enough to intrigue her; enough to convince her for the time being that she was not solely manipulating him to regain those papers and set about restoring her father’s rightful place in this world.
“You’ll listen to me now. We’ll settle this in a day if you listen to me.”
He told her a man owed him a favor and this man owned a cart and had tamed one of the wild island ponies to draw this cart. He told her he’d make one trip when he was sure Daniels was off island and that he would fetch only a cartful and that after their return, she had to promise him never to go near the compound again.
An easier vow she’d never taken, as what need would she have of ever returning? If all went as planned, she would soon be reunited with her father.
WHEN THEY REACHED the compound it appeared even more deserted than the first time. No smoke rose from chimneys. A day gray and listless. Only an occasional breeze to rise from the surrounding sea oats a rustle like the dry cough of a croupy child. She sat in the cart while Whaley got out and, armed with a length of board and a thick piece of meat he’d procured from God knows where, searched for the dog. He whistled. He sneaked around the edges of the raised houses, stooping to look beneath the crawl spaces. At one point when he was out of sight, she thought she heard him call out a name.
He was gone a good while. When he came back to the cart, he said, “Locked him in a shed.”
They went to work. When the cart was three-quarters full, she told Whaley she needed to excuse herself. Without a word he pointed to an outhouse on the far perimeter of the compound and returned to loading.
In the outhouse she held her nose and waited a few minutes, in case he was watching. Then she opened the door a sliver, saw that he was hard at work, oblivious. She circled around to Daniels’s house, stole quickly up the back stairs. The house was well designed to catch the breeze, though its features were bizarrely incongruent. Much of it had been reassembled from the staterooms of shipwrecks. The dark paneling