The widow's war by Sally Gunning

She felt nothing but hard, cool wood. She got up and went to his desk, spreading her hands flat on the burnished surface, but all was coolness there as well. She reached out and touched Edward’s pen, opened the drawer, and found nothing but her own journal. Ofcourse, Nathan would have taken away Edward’s papers, just as, of course, he would leave behind Lyddie’s worthless drivel.
    Lyddie opened the book.
Thursday 1 January. A still, mild weather; so far we are lucky. The fox got two more hens. Edward went out hunting it but got nothing. Have finished his coat and begun the waistcoat. Edward calls it too fine for plain living and would save it for Ned Crowe’s wedding.
    Lyddie remembered the rest of their conversation on that day, the part that hadn’t gotten into her journal. They had discussed Ned Crowe, and Edward’s assertion that it was imperative for all lusty young men to marry as soon as they were able, “in order to save wear and tear on that poor whore at the tavern.”
    “And what of the lusty young women?” Lyddie had asked, and Edward had answered, “You make a fair point. As they offer no such accommodation for the fair sex at the tavern, I shall take it on myself to visit them each in turn,” and Lyddie had said…What had she said? She couldn’t remember. But it had made Edward tip his head back and shout a great laugh at the ceiling.
    Lyddie picked up Edward’s pen, inked it, and wrote:
Friday 2 January. Edward drowned this day.
    She reinked the pen, drew a line across the page, and closed the book. She stood up and tucked it under arm but paused at the stoop. The journal was not a part of her life as it was now; it was part of the life she had lived in this house. She went to the pantry, pulled up the cellar hatch, and backed down the ladder.
    Nathan had been as thorough below as he had been above: the entire winter store of peas and beans was gone, as were the salt meatand fish, the casks of Indian meal, the rounds of cheese and tubs of butter, all barrels of beer and jugs of cider. Some mushy apples and molded potatoes and squash had been left behind. Lyddie picked up the shingle she used to use to scrape the shelves clean, scratched a hole in the dirt floor, laid the book in, and covered it over.

     

    Lyddie walked to the water the next day and the next, without understanding why she did it, unless it was to count each day how the water lay, calm versus stormy, as if in the final tally she might comprehend something of God’s workings. The third day she saw the Indian woman out turning over her garden, and Lyddie forced herself to stop out of penance for her previous discourteous thinking.
    “Good morning!” she called across the field.
    Rebecca Cowett set down her spade and hurried over. “Good morning, Widow Berry.” She appeared about to say more, but didn’t.
    “You’ve set yourself hard work,” Lyddie said.
    “My boy used to help with the turning, until he came old enough to go with his father.”
    “How old is your boy now?” Lyddie asked.
    “I don’t know, Widow Berry. I don’t know if he’s living or dead. He went to Nantucket for a berth twenty-one months ago, and I’ve not heard from him since. Mr. Scotto Chase heard a boy went off the rigging at Hatteras—”
    “There are many boys, Mrs. Cowett.”
    “Not here in our little corner, are there, Widow Berry? I lost one to distemper and one at Annapolis; this boy was my last child, as your d aughter Clarke is yours, but you have grandchildren, which I do not. Of course, you have an added sorrow now, which I do not.” She stopped. “I shouldn’t delay you in your errand.”
    Lyddie was gratified the Indian didn’t ask what the errand was. She said good-bye, moved down the road to the water, and watched the lip run serenely up the beach as her mind churned over the bizarre collection of facts she’d just received. She hadn’t known about the Indian boy; she was surprised the woman knew so much about