The Weight of Water by Anita Shreve Page B

of the sea,” mutters Thomas.
    Billie snuggles deeper into the cavity of my arm and chest and speaks into my rib cage. “Adaline is beautiful,” she says shyly,
     not quite certain it is all right to say such a thing aloud.
    “I know she is,” I say, looking directly at Adaline, who meets my eyes.
    “I love you, Mommy,” Billie says.
    “I love you, too,” I say.
    Early reports of the murders were hastily written and full of inaccuracies. The first bulletin from the
Boston Post
read as follows: “Two Girls Murdered on Smutty Nose Island, Isles of Shoals. Particulars of the Horrible Butchery — Escape
     of the Assassin and Subsequent Arrest in Boston — The Murderer’s Object for Committing the Deed — Attempt to Kill a Third
     Person — Miraculous Escape of His Intended Victim — Terrible Sufferings from the Cold — Appalling Spectacle at the Home of
     the Murdered Females, Etc., Etc. — [SPECIAL DISPATCH TO THE BOSTON POST] Portsmouth, N.H., March 6. Our citizens were horror-struck
     soon after noon to-day, when a fisherman named Huntress, whose home is at the Isles of Shoals, by landing his boat at Newcastle,
     and taking them thence to this city, hastened to inform our police that murder most foul had been done at the Shoals.”
    According to the same report, a “rough young man named Lewis Wagner” was seen walking down to the wharf the previous night
     with an ax in hand. The next morning at seven o’clock, while Wagner and “Huntress” were “having breakfast together” in Portsmouth,
     Wagner told the unfortunate Huntress (who had not yet returned home and did not know of the murders) that something was going
     to happen to him (Lewis Wagner). Anetta Lawson and Cornelia Christenson were the victims. A third woman, Mrs. Huntress, had
     escaped. Portsmouth City Marshall Johnson was already on his way to Boston to try to apprehend the fugitive murderer, who
     had, earlier in the day, been seen boarding a train for Boston.
    I go below to help Rich in the galley. He has a lobster pot on a burner on the stove, another on a hibachi on the stern. He
     is heating bread in the oven, and he has made a salad.
    I begin to lay out the table. Rich and I move awkwardly about the cramped space, trying not to bump into each other or reach
     for the same utensil simultaneously. Through the companionway, I can see Billie lying faceup on the cushion I have vacated.
     She seems to be studying her fingers with great intensity. Across from her, framed in the rectangle, are Thomas’s legs in
     their trousers, and his hand reaching for the bottle he has set by his right foot. The boat moves rhythmically, and through
     the west-facing portholes, watery reflections flicker on the bulkheads. I am searching for lobster crackers and picks in the
     silverware drawer when I hear three achingly familiar words:
Wainscot, redolent, core-stung.
    Adaline’s voice is deep and melodious, respectful, forming words and vowels — perfect vowels. She knows the poem well. By
     heart.
    I strain so that I can see Thomas’s face. He is looking down at his knees. He doesn’t move.
    I remember the bar, the way Thomas read the poem. I remember standing at a window and reading it in the streetlight while
     Thomas slept.
    “Thomas,” I call. The edge in my voice is audible, even to me.
    Billie sits up and leans on her elbows. She seems slightly puzzled. Adaline stops reciting.
    Adaline’s wrists are lightly crossed at her knee. In one long-fingered hand, she holds a wineglass. I am surprised suddenly
     to realize that this is the first time I have seen her drinking.
    “Thomas, I need you,” I repeat, and turn away.
    I busy myself in the silverware drawer. He puts his head inside the companionway.
    “What is it?” he asks.
    “I can’t find the nutcrackers, and I don’t know what you’ve done with the wine we’re having for dinner.” My annoyance — a
     weaseling, sour note — is unmistakable.
    “I’ve got the wine right