NOVEMBER 22

I have lived now four days in this cruel world without my beloved. He is gone, without a word of farewell, without a grave, swallowed by the sea. I can’t realize it.

Last night I saw him in a dream, walking ahead of me. I woke, reached out for him. Sophy turned toward me in her sleep and said, “Papa.” And I thought, He’s here .

She keeps looking for him, not fearfully – she doesn’t understand that he’s gone – just expectantly, whenever one of the men passes outside the door or overhead on the deck.

It’s a nightmare from which I can’t awaken.

But wake I must. I must cast a line and hold on to life. I have my darling’s darling, the sweetest child I’ve ever known, and his poor, anxious son, waiting at home, bearing up as best he can, and this unknown, unborn child, whose mother is a widow.

I don’t think I have the strength to bear this test. I can’t say, as Mother Briggs never stops saying, God’s will be done. His will will be done.

Is this His will?

Mr. Head is saving his own soul by his great kindness to me. That first day, when I was simply raving – I have no idea what I said or did – he came and took Sophy away to the galley and looked after her, even put her down for a nap in his own berth. She came toddling back in the evening holding his hand. Now she calls him Ed‑ded. That night he slept on the settee in the cabin again, insisting that when Mr. Richardson was on deck, he didn’t think it right that Sophy and I should be alone in the stern. He brought me food I couldn’t touch. He took it away without comment.

The storm went on for twenty‑five hours: we ran before it. Running away from my beloved, leaving him behind. Mr. Richardson came to me as he promised, within an hour. Sophy and I were flat on the carpet, as it was the only location that couldn’t toss us down. I was praying; I actually had some mad hope that they would pull Benjamin out of the sea, though I’d seen that high white wedge of water, and I knew the only boat we had was lashed across the hatch, impossible to launch in such a fury, and even if they had tried, it would have been more men lost, for there could be no rowing about in the towering mountains of water bearing down on this little ship. Mr. Richardson looked like he’d been beaten near to death; he was pouring off water, his face was ashen. The floor pitched up and swatted him down onto the floor with us. When he got to his knees I saw tears streaming from his eyes. “Mrs. Sarah,” he said. “We couldn’t save him. He was gone so fast. The wave picked him up off the poop; it took him straight up. He was high above us. Then he was gone.”

I felt a hard fist of pain gathering in my gut. Sophy was screaming, clinging to my waist. “Leave me,” I managed to say. I have no clear memory of what happened next. Presumably he went out and left me howling on the floor.

This afternoon, as I lay on the settee trying to feel anything but dead, there was a knock at the door. Sophy was on the floor trying to teach her doll to talk. She looked up and said, “Papa.” Tears leaked from my eyes. I turned my face toward the cushion and croaked, “Come in.”

It was Mr. Head. He had a brown Betty in a covered pan warm from the oven. I knew what it was because the mouth‑watering smell of apples and cinnamon preceded him into the cabin. Sophy got to her feet and rushed to him, saying “Ed‑ded, Ed‑ded,” joyfully. I turned to face him. He was bending over Sophy, patting her head and saying “Apples, Miss Sophy. I brought you a nice apple pudding.”

“Are you married, Mr. Head?” I asked through my tears.

He looked up, startled, I think, by both my haggard appearance and my evident lucidity.

“Just these six months, ma’am.”

“Ah,” I said. “Just six months.”

“I’ll leave this here,” he said, lowering the dish to the table. Sophy immediately began climbing onto the chair. I pulled myself up and shoved my feet into the pattens on the floor. Mr. Head’s eyes followed me, full of hope and as kind as a mother’s. He will make a dear father to his children, with his gentleness and his cooking. He just wants to see me eat something, I thought, and he won’t rest until I do. I patted my hair down, it felt moist and flat like a mouse’s nest, and wiped my eyes with my fingertips. “It smells delicious,” I said. “Sophy, say thank you to Mr. Head.” She looked from his face to mine and said “Anka.”

So, to please them both, I got to my feet and joined my daughter at the table, where we took up our spoons and ate brown Betty from a pan.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 562