1969
On October 28, 1969, Kya eased up to Jumpin’s dock to tell him good-bye, as promised, then motored to the town wharf,
where fishermen and shrimpers as always stopped their work to watch her. Ignoring them, she tied up and carried a faded cardboard suitcase—pulled from the back of Ma’s old closet—onto Main Street. She had no purse, but toted her knapsack packed with books, some ham and biscuits, and a small amount of cash, after burying most of her royalty money in a tin can near the lagoon. For once, she looked quite normal, dressed in a brown Sears, Roebuck skirt, white blouse, and flats. Shopkeepers busied about, tending customers, sweeping the sidewalk, every one of them staring at her.
She stood on the corner under the Bus Stop sign and waited until the Trailways bus, its air brakes hissing, pulled up, blocking the ocean. Nobody got off or on as Kya stepped forward and bought a ticket to Greenville from the driver. When she asked about the return dates and times, he handed her a printed schedule and then stowed her suitcase. She held tightly to her knapsack and boarded. And before she had time to think much about it, the bus, which seemed as long as the town, drove out of Barkley Cove.
Two days later, at 1:16 in the afternoon, Kya stepped off the Trailways from Greenville. Now even more villagers were about, staring and whispering as she tossed her long hair over her shoulder and took her suitcase from the driver. She crossed the street to the wharf, stepped into her boat, and motored straight
home. She wanted to stop by and tell Jumpin’ that she was back, as she had promised to do, but other boats were lined up waiting for gas at his wharf, so she figured she’d come back the next day. Besides, this way she’d get back to the gulls faster.
So, the next morning, October 31, as she pulled up to Jumpin’s wharf, she called to him, and he stepped out from the small store.
“Hey, Jumpin’, I’m just letting you know I’m home. Got back yesterday.” He said nothing as he walked toward her.
As soon as she stepped onto his wharf, he said, “Miss Kya. I . . .” She cocked her head. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He stood looking at her. “Kya, have ya heard the news ’bout Mr.
Chase?”
“No. What news?”
He shook his head. “Chase Andrews is dead. Died in tha middle of the night while ya were over’n Greenval.”
“What?” Both Kya and Jumpin’ looked deep into the other’s eyes.
“They found ’im yestadee mornin’ at the bottom of the ol’ far towa with a . . . well, they say his neck broke an’ his skull smashed right in. They reckon he fell right off from the top.”
Kya’s lips remained parted.
Jumpin’ went on. “Whole town’s buzzed up. Some folks’re puttin’ it down as a accident, but the word is, the sheriff itn’t so sure. Chase’s mama’s all riled up, says there was foul play. It’s a sho’-nuff mess.”
Kya asked, “Why do they think foul play was . . . ?”
“One a’ them grates on the towa flo’ was left wide open, and he fell plumb through, and they reckoned that was suspicious. Some people’re sayin’ them grates are left open all the time with kids always messin’ ’round up there, and Mr. Chase coulda fell through by accident. But some folks cryin’ murder.”
Kya was silent, so Jumpin’ continued. “One reason was, when Mr. Chase was found, he wan’t wearin’ that shell necklace he wore ever’ day fer years, and his wife says he was wearin’ it that very night when he lef’ the house, ’fore he went to his folks for dinah.
A’ways wore it, she said.”
Her mouth went dry at the mention of the necklace.
“Then, those two young’uns that found Chase, well, they heard the sheriff say thar weren’t no footprints at the scene. Nary a one. Like somebody done rubbed out evidence. Them boys been yappin’ all over town ’bout it.”
Jumpin’ told her when the funeral would be but knew Kya wouldn’t go. What a spectacle that would be for the sewing bees and Bible study groups. For sure, the speculation and gossip would include Kya. Thank tha Lawd she’d been in Greenval at the time ’a his death, or they’d’a put this on ’er, Jumpin’ thought.
Kya nodded at Jumpin’ and churned home. She stood on the mud bank of the lagoon, whispering one of Amanda Hamilton’s verses:
“Never underrate the heart, Capable of deeds
The mind cannot conceive.
The heart dictates as well as feels. How else can you explain
The path I have taken, That you have taken
The long way through this pass?”
