Waiting

I will know, by month’s end, if I am widowed. That’s not so bad.

Men are hard to keep track of. Sailors especially, and if drowned in particular. We might wait years, or decades, for news that does not come. And you do have to wait--at least officially--rather gauche to move on, and then, God with his jokes, your beloved comes back. Hardly unheard for the sea to keep men a time. 10 years, 20 years. I wonder at this: Is even the ocean so vast? Perhaps those men wreck somewhere tropical.

(I am sure some of them simply stay missing. It’s rude to discuss. How to know?)

But, again, we are permitted distraction in the meantime. I stress unofficially.

We have traditions, which do no good. I find them silly. White candles for no news, or for good news, red candles when Waiting on fate. The red candles are more expensive. I find this perverse. But they sell more rarely, at least in gentle seasons, and I suppose even candlemakers eat.

This time, by obligation I need to claim happily, I can budget the candles with a bit of accuracy. Our men will return on a schedule. A fussy little fellow had come with the Wavesplitter, news in hand, which was announced at church the next morning:

“Turnabout lost to weather. Casualties unknown. Survivors follow on Proteus. Beans 12 a pound.”

This last sets the traders humming. A change of nearly $2. Small fortunes at peril, there, though large fortunes of course complain equally. Apart from them, we Waiting. This time we number more than a dozen. Sitting quietly, tending gardens, nodding calmly as if filled with confidence. The Proteus is regular. How fortunate.

I buy a few extra candles. One shouldn’t speculate.

--------------------------------------------------

I love my John very much. I want that said, for I know I sound cold. But this is how I’ve found to be. He is kind, very kind, my John--or I should say only “John”, excuse me--which is rare among sailors. Perhaps not so bright. That is more common a trait. He knits me things. I’ve never learned to knit. I suppose that is a flaw.

So. I wait, and stare west, and want for knitted things.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I believe,” says Emma, “that William must have lived.”

We are sitting in our circle, our traditional circle, next to the tavern fire, the appointed space. Here the Waiting stay occupied. Hands full, always, even if we do nothing but watch the flame. Must keep the hands full. Some of us read, or feign reading, perhaps work on crafts, indulge a ladylike tea. The tavernkeep maintains the flame. We would be scolded to risk it.

“I have prayed for him nightly. From a week before he left. The Lord perceives.”

We nod. The point is to say it, not to believe it What else would be appropriate? “The bastard must have drowned”? Rather gauche.

I try to see him in my mind, William. Jolly and drunk. Strong jawline. I’ve nothing against him. Weak swimmer, though perhaps the debris was favorable.

A few stalwarts, those not among the Waiting, are here to keep us company. This is not required of them--on that schedule they’d get nothing else done. By tradition we bake them treats the next day. Equitable trade?

Brandy knits, as always. She is here often. Dark luck about that woman. (I suppose the husband too.) Tonight I am watching her, sneakily, from the corner of my eye. I should learn how to knit. I am not speculating against John--I miss him, and rather more dearly than knitted goods. But I should have a hat for him, when he gets here, or I should have a new skill, when he doesn’t. So it goes. Best to stay busy.

“The Lord perceives,” repeats Emma, to no one in particular. I must inform you that she cheats. Frequently, and even if unnecessary. William a looker at that. But the children are all his, we believe, so that at least is something.

Shit. Shit, shit. I hate it here.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On boat days we gather at the pier. The provenance of the boat is irrelevant; we are obliged by red candles regardless. Today the Argonaut brings silk. It is for the traders, not for us. I pray they lose money. No one here needs silk.

The shoremen hurtle cargo, forearms bulging. A few of the Waiting steal looks at them. We of course don't admit this.

Brandy knits, Charlotte sketches the sea, Emma pretends at the Bible. I have elected to string beads. For whom? Orphans? I am sure that orphans crave beads. They flick them at each other. I envy orphans.

The Argonaut draws near. I hear creaking rope, fluttering sails, the complaints which all ships make. She is a fine ship.

(The fact that ships are female, I must add, I find bothersome. Who decided that? Hypotheses: We weather storms. We endure the reign of men. We are impassive. The sexual innuendos which might be made are crude and obvious, and, therefore, likely closest to the truth. There may be a maternal implication. We nurture and give life, we guard our sons from the sea, a wooden womb, this sort of thing.

My latest, tentative, theory, is that if ships were male it would emasculate the sailors. I like this theory. It is demeaning to men. The possibility that ships lack gender does not occur to them, of course. They see genitals everywhere. A charming species.)

The longshoremen are laughing about something. Us, perhaps.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today I walk the shore alone. We do not maintain a rotation--gauche--but company is to be settled in advance, and we never intrude if the beach is already occupied. A delicate, unspoken etiquette. Saves unexpected chatter. (Imagine how awkward! What would you talk about?) This is the first time I have availed myself the opportunity, though I've been among the Waiting twice before. I am not sure if this decision forebodes something.

I watch the waves shatter on the rocks, and endure the gulls’ endless barking, in silence. I believe we are to find this all romantic, in the tragic sense. I do not. The ocean is dumb and deaf. It does not speak, it does not listen. It merely persists. That is not admirable. (I am aware, thank you, that I am doing the same--conjecture on my character as you may.) But I need something to do. I refuse to take lovers, though once I Waited more than a year. I fear that may be an infection of sentiment.

Clouds, the benign sort, drag gentle shadows across the water. The sky is quite blue. Quite a different sea then found John. I do not give it credit for that. Again: The ocean is soulless. I pray it burns in Hell, regardless.

I should be going. Brandy, perhaps, could use exercise. I do not wish to be selfish.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another boat day. This one a bit more tense: Proteus would not be impossible, though that would make it early. This, I admit, would spare me candles. The ship floats gently off the horizon.

One of us asks: “Can anyone see the name yet? At least the length of it? My eyes are not well.”

Silence. We do not bring telescopes, ever. Bad luck. Gauche. Such an implement to wield, at a time like this.

Today the sky, and the sea, are more turbulent. Not unreasonably so. Imagine the indignity, chasing hats through the wind, widowhood minutes away. God breaks our hearts politely. The least He could offer. The absolute least, I stress.

I am knitting. Trying. I’ve proven rather shit at it--if he’s aboard, John will have only half a hat. If he is not, I intend to burn this wretched thing. Is that petty? I suppose my lack of progress might ease any necessary resizing.

I prick myself.

“Damn.”

“Rebecca!” Emma, happiest when scandalized. For a moment I root against William. But no one else rebukes me. I suck the blood from my finger.

The boat, the Proteus, the Lyric, the Triple Sank, whichever lady, draws closer. I hope John is there. Or is not there. I hope my hat brings warmth to someone, either way. (I loathe hope.) My hands are shaking, from the prick of the needle, maybe.

Perhaps the boat holds just beans. That would be nice too.