The Widower of Herring Cove

Maia Kowalski

Today, before doing anything else, Ernest thinks of his wife. He thinks of her every morning, wonders how she’s doing, how it feels to be dead. This morning in particular, he hopes she doesn’t feel the same chill that he does, the wet cold that’s seeping in through the windowpane. Joanne never liked it when she was alive, and he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it dead, either. 

Ernest shivers and heaves himself out of bed. Outside, past the moisture-prickled glass of the bungalow window, is a cluster of black clouds that have been loitering on the horizon for the last day or so. As he grabs a grey, heavy knit sweater from the open drawer of his dresser, Ernest tries not to think about how unprepared he is for the impending rain, or rather, how unprepared the roof is. The metal shingles have held up since he and Joanne took the place more than 20 years ago, but after every rainstorm, he swears the rain pounds against the slats harder than the last time. He imagines the raindrops prying the shingles apart, one drop at a time, until the roof becomes a gaping, toothless mouth.

Ernest bends down to look for his slippers but only finds one, cold, underneath the bed. He shuffles over to the kitchen counter and turns on the stove to heat the kettle.

Outside, The Mystique bobs in the choppy water. He’s usually not worried about her – they’ve seen worse storms, ones that come into the harbour faster than they can even think to prepare for – but looking at her today makes him nervous. The kettle whistles behind him; Ernest's fingers accidentally touch the burner and he jumps, curses, turns the stove off with his other hand. He walks over to the kitchen tap and runs his fingers under cold water.

Joanne had named the boat. After Ernest's father passed, Ernest was given it in the will, along with its original name, Little Sunshine. He had already planned to fix it up a little: some of the paint was peeling off the starboard and the technology in the cabin needed a desperate update. When he told Joanne, all she said was, "Can we please change the name?”

Joanne chose The Mystique because it was French. She had studied the language a bit in high school, but gave up after she graduated. All the same, she loved the way French sounded, whether she was watching a foreign film and reading the subtitles, or studying the bilingual packaging on a box of cereal, softly pronouncing all the letters under her breath. She helped Ernest repaint the boat a creamy shade of white with navy blue accents. She sketched out the new name about a dozen times on scrap paper before deciding on a curly but not too cursive font, and spent a whole day tracing out the design on the stern before painting it properly the next morning. When the paint was dry, they pushed the boat back into the water and christened it with a bottle of champagne. 

The other fishermen in town said renaming the boat was bad luck. They cited a tale of folklore Ernest had heard before: that every boat’s name was recorded in Poseiden’s Ledger of the Deep. If one wanted to change the name, they’d have to purge it from every written record before doing so. Some went as far as saying you had to perform a name-transferring ritual before it was safe to rename a vessel. Ernest wasn’t too bothered. He was never the superstitious type, Joanne even less so. As they snuggled up on the deck that first night after the christening, Joanne said that this was their ritual, and it should be enough for Poseiden and anyone else who had a bad thing to say about it. 

The Mystique survived 15 years of stormy nights tied up to their little dock, where raindrops slapped the wooden sides so harshly that Ernest was sure she’d topple over by morning. But, time and again, he’d pull back his bedroom curtain to find her bobbing in the water, right side up as ever, white paint gleaming in the morning sun. Even now, as he looks at her through the window, he knows she's waiting for him to take her out. He wishes Joanne could see it. 

Ernest pours coffee grounds into a French press before adding a bit of kettle water. There's a knock at the door; from where he is, Ernest sees nothing but darkening clouds and his black pick-up truck parked out front. He doesn’t turn the door handle until he pulls on his housecoat, hanging on the coat rack.

Henrietta grimaces at Ernest on the other side of the door, clad in a purple raincoat. 

“Hello,” Ernest says, and Henrietta nods. 

“Not too nice of a day, eh?” she says, and Ernest looks back up at the clouds. What was only spitting rain on the window moments ago are now big, fat raindrops that hit the roof of the bungalow in sharp slaps. He gestures for Henrietta to come inside and she does, hurriedly. She takes off her boots and takes the liberty of hanging her raincoat on the coat rack.

“Thanks.” She pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and sits. “Nothing much has changed around here, I see?”

“I like it.” Ernest glances at the kitchen counter and realizes he’s forgotten his coffee.

"I'd love some,” Henrietta says, noticing the glance. “I’ve probably already caught cold from being out in the rain.” 

Ernest brings two mugs over to the table. Henrietta looks out the window at The Mystique. 

“She gonna be alright?”

“She’s been through worse.”

Henrietta visits him every Sunday for reasons she never explains, but then again Ernest never asks. She’s lived in Herring Cove longer than Ernest has, and owns the general store close to the highway. She’s a Chatty Cathy, Ernest once described to Joanne. But he knows it’s not really her fault. She meets strangers on a daily basis, typically tourists just passing through on their way to Halifax, so she’s become an expert at small talk. 

Ernest is not a talker. Joanne was the one who spoke to people in the village, who handled their few phone calls and any correspondence that came in the mail. When they did errands together, Ernest would look away from people in the grocery store aisle while Joanne would burst into hellos and ask whoever they had run into about their child, job, or retirement. Ernest loved that about her because it limited his interaction with everyone, even a community as small as Herring Cove. 

Henrietta and Joanne grew up together. They would chat for what felt like ages to Ernest, who’d check his watch and stare in the other direction, in an effort to tell Joanne that he’d had enough. However, he had found that recently, whenever Henreitta came over, he spoke more than ever.

“What’s going on today?” he asks this morning. He already knows the answer – it’s her day off, her son is running the store, she’s just popping in to say hello before she heads back – but he wants to practice being more talkative. He's never quite sure how to start a conversation. 

“Just popping in,” she says, on cue. She sips her coffee. “This is very good,” she adds.

Joanne described Ernest’s eyes as soft, from the way they were shaped (downturned at the ends) but intense, because he liked to focus on people for longer than socially acceptable. Ernest thinks of this whenever he has a conversation with someone, in an attempt to stop himself from staring, but he can’t help it. Today, he stares at Henrietta as she stares into her coffee, then looks out the window, then back at him, then back into her coffee. The crown of her head is a mixture of grey and dark brown hair, dampened from the rain. Ernest itches his stubble and searches for something to say. Henrietta usually does more of the talking at this point of the visit. The rain on the roof has transitioned into sharp pings; a set of nervous fingers drumming on a table.

“How’s Samuel?” Ernest asks finally. 

 “He’s fine,” Henrietta says. “He likes working at the store, you know, and that makes me happy. But I know it won’t last forever. In three months, he’ll realize he’s tired of it. And Herring Cove.”

“You think so?”

“He’s too old to be hanging around here anymore.”

“He's…how old, again? 21?”

“There are only so many times you can get drunk with the locals and call that a good time.”

“Where would he go?”

“Anywhere. Halifax, probably, but he’s been talking about Montreal. God forbid he moves all the way out west. I’d never see him.”

“I’m sure he’d visit.”

“I don’t know, Ernest.” She takes a big gulp of coffee. “I’m getting old and I’m not that fun anymore.”

Ernest doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. 

“Sorry,” she continues. “I didn't ask. Did you have any plans today?”

“I was going to fix the roof.”

“A bit late, isn’t it?”

Ernest has never kept up with Henrietta’s jabs, or what he perceived as jabs. Sometimes, when he’s searching for something to say, she’s already moved onto the next point. Other times, like now, she lets the silence widen between them. Finally, Ernest says, “I guess I’ll wait it out.”

She laughs. “I should hope so. It’s coming down hard.” 

They listen to the rain, the hard pings still drumming on the roof. Sheets of it have started to slash against the windows.

“Well, thank you for the coffee,” Henrietta says suddenly, pushing back her chair. Her mug is only half empty. 

“You don’t want any more?”

“No, no,” Henrietta says, and smooths down her hair. “I should get going.” She gives Ernest a tight smile as she stands up. 

“In this weather?”

“I need to check on Sam. Make sure he isn’t stuck in the store with a bunch of tourists needing umbrellas.” 

 Ernest doesn’t want her to leave but doesn't know how to say it. Instead, he says, “It was nice seeing you,” the way he always does. 

“You too,” she says. “Oh, wait.” She fishes around in her raincoat pocket and pulls out a small glass sphere. When Ernest leans in, he realizes it’s a snow globe. The snow inside flutters around a pirate ship that’s sailing across a big wave. For The Pirate I Know is written in gold, swirly font on the outer base.

“Samuel and I went into Halifax the other day and got some souvenirs just for fun. I got this for you. Thought it might brighten up the place.” 

Henrietta holds the snow globe out in front of her, but Ernest doesn’t move. 

“That’s kind of you,” he says. “But I can’t take it.”

“Of course you can. I bought it for you.”

“It’s not Christmas,” he tries again.

“Does it have to be Christmas to give someone a snow globe? I wasn’t aware.”

“I don’t have anywhere to put it.”

“In that corner there, on your desk. Or on the kitchen table. Or on the window ledge. I swear, this place could really use a little brightening up.”

The rain is getting heavier, a combined chaos of rat-a-tat-tats and pitter-patters all hitting the roof, the windows, the door. 

“No, thank you.”

“Ernest, please. Don’t be difficult. Take the damn snowglobe.”

“Aren’t pirates just another kind of thief? Seems like it’ll bring more trouble inside than anything.”

“For God’s sake, Ernest, really. I’m trying to do a nice thing here. Every time I try to do a nice thing, you turn it into something else. It’s like pulling teeth.”

Ernest has forgotten that Henrietta likes to argue, likes to get fired up over small things. But he doesn’t mind it.

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. Two weeks ago, I brought you some lemon tarts because you'd told me they’re your favourite. Then you could barely take a bite of one.”

“I said I liked them.”

“And another time, I brought you some tea towels from the store because we got an extra shipment. But I don't see you using them.”

“I’m telling you, I liked the tarts. And the tea towels are in the wash.”

Henrietta snorts. "Sure, Ernest. Whatever you say." She walks towards the door and starts to put on her boots. “God, I don’t know why I even bother.”

“You didn’t have to come. I had things to do. I was going to fix the roof.”

“We both know you weren’t going to do that. You’ve been talking about it for weeks.”

“Yes, well, today I was going to do it. Before the storm.”

“Well, now the storm’s here and it’s too late. So what are you going to do now?”

The rain has started to roar. Ernest feels like Henrietta is screaming at him, but he knows she's just trying to make sure he can hear her above the noise. She's never screamed at him. He can't imagine her screaming at anyone.

“I'll wait until the storm’s over, I suppose.”

“And then you’ll check it out and say that it’s fine, and you won’t fix it until the next storm hits. And then the next storm. And the one after that.”

“Well, maybe this time it won't make it, and I'll drown.”

“Jesus, what a bummer you are! I don’t know why I keep coming over here when you’re so negative. Don’t make it through the storm, then, see if I care.”

"I’ll be fine. It’s letting up now, I can hear it.”

He was mostly lying, but he also thought that maybe the noise had died down a bit. How long had she been here? How long had they been talking?

“It’s not going to let up, Ernest, and you know it.”

“I’ll get started on it right away. Right after you leave.”

“In the rain? No, you won't.”

“I will. I’ll tell you all about it next weekend.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will. Well then, don't let me keep you.”

“Nice seeing you, Henrietta.”

“Always a pleasure, Ernest. Please, do take the snowglobe. It’ll do wonders for this place.” 

“I really don’t need it.”

“It’s not about need, it’s about…well, I don’t know. It’s about beauty and freshening things up. A certain je ne sais quoi, you know? Joanne would’ve loved it.”

“I don’t think you would know what she would’ve loved.”

“She wasn’t just your wife, you know. I knew her too.”

“Yes, well, she didn’t like things like that.”

“How about I leave it for you anyway, in case you change your mind.” Henrietta puts the snow globe on the kitchen table. “If you don’t like it, drop it off at my place tomorrow morning. Or drop by anyway. It’d be nice to see you outside of this shack of yours.” 

“I prefer to call it a bungalow.”

“You're funny when you want to be, Ernest. Well, see you.”

Ernest opens the door for her and expects a wall of rain. Instead, Henrietta's boots walk out into shallow puddles of mud, and only tiny raindrops fall off her raincoat. Ernest watches her walk up to the boardwalk. He only closes the door once she’s out of sight. 

The snow globe sits on the kitchen table. The light catches the glass and, as Ernest turns it upside down, the snow scatters in a mini blizzard. He looks out the window. He was right, in his lie – the rain squeezed itself out only for a few minutes. Or was it more than that? 

The roof is quiet now, and the clouds a light grey. The Mystique bobs on the water, moving slower and deeper as the waves settle. She hasn’t a scratch on her. The paint looks almost brand new, like the day she was refurbished.