The Fisherman’s Wife

By Brianna Simmons

The wind battered the stone cottage resting between two large hills that overlooked the foaming coast of the eastern Atlantic. Rain pelted the already streaked glass of the dining room window.

Diana took the heated pot off the stove and set it aside. The shoulders of her summer dress were still damp from her brief run to get more firewood. Carefully, she took the lid off the small stewpot and inhaled. A smile caressed her face before it was struck through with a flash of lightning. Her scowl formed in the low drum of thunder that followed.

She began to take down two bowls, then sighed as she returned one to the shelf. She carefully used the broken ladle to scoop some food into her bowl, some soup falling through the large crack, but there was enough in the bowl for her liking. Covering up the pot once more, she sat down at the table.

She raised the bowl to her lips in the same moment a yowl was heard, in the split second between lightning and thunder. Stew sloshed onto the table in her haste to get to the door. She fiddled with the multiple locks before yanking it open.

A small, soggy blur whisked into the room, flinging water droplets and making puddles wherever it stepped. Diana gasped then cursed colorfully under her breath. The sodden cat finally came to rest by the stove, the warmest part of the cottage.

Diana retrieved a towel and approached the small being cautiously. But the little beastie simply mewled up at her, big green eyes pleading. She knelt and started to sop up the water soaking her little friend. She dragged the towel back and forth, leaving the thing’s fur stuck up at odd angles. The towel grew heavier with each wipe, but soon the cat was only damp, drying quickly next to the fire.

She tossed the towel on the floor next to the front door with a spare thought to put it out on the line once the rain passed.

Rising to her feet, she grabbed the other bowl, this time just scooping the bowl into the pot to fill it. She set it down in front of the cat. Immediately, the little beastie descended on it.

Diana smiled, laughed, then returned to her own bowl.

Diana turned from the laundry line to spot Mr. Penbrawn through the swaying fabrics.

“Morning, lass,” he called. His usual postman bag slung across his torso, hand already digging around for the delivery. She met him halfway, the calico trying her best to trip Diana.

The only thing he held out to her was the handwritten invoice from the seamstress in town.

“Nothing from my husband?”

“We’ve not heard word from him down on the docks either, miss,” he replied. 

“Someone must know where he is,” she urged.

Mr. Penbrawn huffed, looked away, then looked back to her. “There was a wreck up by O’Brien’s. Every man is too busy unloading Blanc’s cargo to have a look yet, see?”

“A wreck?”

“Heard the ship split in two,” he affirmed. Diana hid her quivering lip behind her hand, the calico cat rubbing up against her leg. Mr. Penbrawn dipped his cap before heading back the way he came.

Her little friend looked up at her then, with a last butt of her head, the cat trotted off.

Diana watched her walk the haphazard stone path before disappearing around the short stone wall. She sighed and continued to hang the sodden laundry.

Diana watched the sea in the afternoon. The sun peeked through the wispy fog and glinted off the horizon like a hanging promise. Even after all these years, the sight of a ship made her heart jump. It was only in recent years that her stomach rolled as well.

A ship crested the horizon. It was much too big to be her husband’s fishing boat. But the sight of it still left a yawning in her chest, a lull in her heart, and a drop in her stomach.

She set her teacup down and began to tap her spoon against the ceramic edge. The ring was a clear cut, the boat gone from her mind. It was always easier to just look away, she found.

She gave one tap for every day he had been gone so far. When she stopped and glanced back up to the window, the boat was gone.

O’Brien’s place was out of the way of town, much like her own home. It wasn’t settled on a hill quite like hers, far above the ocean. Instead, it rested in a mossy nook, a vertical slab of rock acting as a wall to the cottage built around it. The shore rested at the bottom of the sloped earth, supplying a gentle descent.

What was left of the ship jutted from the rocks further out to the west.

Diana pulled her coat tighter around her torso as the ocean breeze chilled through her. It was a clear enough day that she could see the wreck. Its distance out in the water made it hard to inspect without a rowboat. But she could see where the bow crashed into the outcropping, the boat gutted by rocks hidden beneath the waves. It was a small port boat. A vessel unfit for rough storms.

It is much too small to be his boat, she thought. She held her hair away from her face and released a deep breath. It wasn’t her husband’s ship.

The cry of a gull surprised her. She looked up and around to find the seagull perched on a wayward branch stretching from the cliff face. It cawed once more before flying off.

When she arrived home, her husband still was not there to greet her.

She shucked her coat and hung it on the hook by the door. She walked to the kitchen.

She took a moment to take a deep breath before screaming into the empty room. No one would hear her.

She only stopped when she started to cough.

The silence that followed was interrupted by a cackling outside. She found the kitchen window open, a gull standing on the windowsill. Its beady eyes met hers as it let out a shrill, repetitive cry. The gull was laughing at her.

She lunged forward to shoo the bird away. It squawked and leapt into the open air. She slammed the window closed, panting into the space between herself and the glass. For just a moment, she could see the bird resting on the low rock wall that skirted the property. The glass fogged up.

Another week went by and Diana faithfully counted the days. She recorded them in a journal her husband had gotten her as a present: a cover worn but sturdy, the kind of leather that bent easily but did not tear, encased parchment paper, finer than anything sold in town. It was a product of another country she would never see.

A homecoming gift, he had told her. She had loved it, surprised by his sincerity. She had cherished it ever since, keeping it in the nightstand next to her side of the bed.

She usually woke in a blissful, unknowing state. A moment in which she did not remember that he was gone. Then came the realization that the sheets were too cold and the bed only half filled.

Most mornings she could push the feeling away, push down the hurt. Other days, she laid there, afraid to open her eyes. Because maybe, if she held still, he would appear beside her and hold her tight, just like he used to before he started to fancy the sea.

She woke to a warmth at her back. When she turned over, she let out a low chuckle. Her little cat had somehow found her way into the house and curled up behind her under the blanket.

When she rose, settling the cat in her now abandoned warm spot, she saw that the kitchen window was open. She searched the house and found nothing else amiss.

She closed the window, fixed the small chain to keep it closed, and peered through the glass. A gull rested on the wall once more. Surely, it could not be the same one. She shook her head and went about making breakfast for herself and the cat.

The gull returned at afternoon tea when she had the window open to let in the soft sea breeze. The gull cawed at her, loud and obnoxious. She tried to shoo it away once again, but it seemed to have lost any fear of her. She tutted and returned to her seat.

The bird pecked and prodded at the surface at its feet but stayed otherwise quiet. It started up a drumming purr, a lull to put her mind at ease as she sipped her tea.

When she looked back to the window, the bird had disappeared. The purr replayed in her mind, a deep thrumming of a whisper.

When the bird returned, she did not attempt to chase it off. Instead, she placed a small sardine on the sill. Instead of flying off with the offered food, the bird swallowed it quickly and stayed put.

The thrumming started up again and she could hear it.

Seek your freedom, it seemed to say. She shook her head, but the gull squawked to catch her attention. She stared wide-eyed.

The thrumming started again.

He has been gone sixty-three days. She shook her head, but the gull was right. Her ramblings of the days were written down in her journal, the cursive precise and yearning.

The longer you wait, the more disappointment you will face, it whispered.

I love him, she reminded herself. I have and always will.

The gull squawked angrily, its wings flapping to hit the glass panels at its sides.

Foolish!

She went to spring from her seat, but her cat pounced from the floor first. She swiped a paw at the gull’s beak. It squawked in panic before flying off.

Diana picked up the cat and closed the window. She did not look outside for fear of seeing the bird still close.

“I realize I have not named you,” Diana murmured to the calico cat sitting on the table in front of her. She did not usually let the little one up on the table but was grateful for the cat’s help the night before. The cat blinked slowly once before curling up.

I have no right to name her. No idea who she belongs to, Diana mused. Suppose she belongs to no one with all her running around.

She scratched behind the calico’s ears.

Her husband had told her, after his first trip, of the boats he saw on his first trip. He told of the fish markets in countries she had only heard of in books. Some boats had cats to kill rodents that climb aboard. Ship cats, they were called.

She mused that maybe her little beastie was an escaped ship cat.

“The cats protect against misfortune as well,” he had whispered into her ear as they lay in bed. She hadn’t believed him and told him so. He only laughed. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Superstition is a dangerous thing to play with,” she had responded. She did not tell him that she had felt ill the moment he mentioned any thought of misfortune at sea. He pulled her closer.

“Yes, but it also gives hope. I would want someone always looking out for me, or you. Why not a cat?”

The calico purred under her palm.

A storm raged against the coast for the next week. Diana could not open the door for fear of water sweeping into the room. She put buckets down to catch the leaks from the ceiling.

The calico was becoming restless. She jumped on the table and knocked objects over. Diana could not calm her down.

She wrote in her journal about her worries, that maybe her husband was stuck in the storm and he wouldn’t make it home to her. Her heart broke more and more each day.

When the rain passed, she opened the door to take in the cool damp air. The calico took off without a goodbye.

If Diana had been a proud woman, she would not have cried over such a thing. But she was not as proud as she seemed. She patched the holes in the roof on her own and dumped the buckets outside past the rock wall.

She looked out over the green landscape and saw none of it. Instead, she saw beyond it and wondered how much farther she could walk before she reached somewhere else where no one would recognize her.

The buckets clanged together as she made her way back to her home. She set them aside before entering and locking the door.

Perhaps I should think about going away, she thought. It was not the first time she had considered this. The thought came to her every so often when he was gone.

Not for good, she considered, but a few days would not hurt.

But she did not leave. Instead, she went down to the market and bought dried fish and honeyed bananas.

She did not leave the day after that. Or the next.

Soon the thought became a haunted plea at the back of her mind.

Let us go away.

It always sounded like the seagull. She shook it away each time and looked to the future. She waited more often at the door for her calico to return, but perhaps those claustrophobic days had frightened her away for good.

Diana stood staring at the open suitcase on her bed. She had only been able to place a couple books inside before stepping away as her hands started to shake.

She startled when she heard a tapping from the kitchen.

The window showed no signs of anyone being there. She opened it and leaned out to see if maybe her little calico had jumped and hit the glass. But there was nothing.

As soon as she turned away there came a rustling. When she looked back a gull stood there, quiet and solemn.

Just another goddamn gull, she thought vehemently. It pecked at the wood.

Leave with me, Diana.

“Shoo!” She waved her arms to make the bird take flight. But the bird remained steadfast.

Your husband would sooner leave you for the sea. And you cannot even pack a suitcase.

“Shut up, you incessant bird.”

The bird skipped and fluttered about as she tried to wring its neck with her hands.

You would do well to listen to me before you wring your own neck, child.

“Shut up,” she whispered. She fell to her knees, hands gripping the wood of the sill. “Please, he has to come back.” She tried to pay no mind to the tears stinging her eyes. She was no stranger to tears, but nothing stung her more than saltwater.

He sends no letters. No word. Perhaps he has run off with another woman and left you behind?

Diana shook her head. “He would not do that.”

How do you know? The challenge of the bird’s stare was like nothing she had seen before.

“Because he loves me, and I love him.”

The mere thought of him keeps you trapped here.

Diana dropped her head. “No. I’m not trapped here.”

Then why don’t you leave?

“Because I made him a promise,” she replied easily. The ring on her finger should tell the bird that.

A ring that symbolizes love, something intangible, keeps a physical being stuck in time and place. The bird seemed to chuckle. How peculiar.

The bird flew away before she could bring herself to respond.

She went to bed shaken. Surely, she was putting words in the bird’s mouth. All this time alone was putting a strain on her mind.

The sky was dark with storm clouds. Her heart and mind felt the same.

Diana was beginning to think the calico would never return. Her thoughts on her husband’s return were growing dark as well. How she wished she could stay positive of her husband’s return. But thoughts of him going down at sea haunted her nights and bled into her days.

She did not leave. The suitcase was stashed away in its usual place under the bed and the books returned to their spot on the nightstand.

The rain was soft as it rolled in from the sea, unusually so. It caressed the windows like an old friend and whispered consolations for the future.

Diana cooked mindlessly, churning the broth with the ladle.

A single thud came from the door. She startled and the ladle sunk beneath the surface. She cursed and headed for the sound. 

She undid the locks and opened the door; eyes cast downward. Perhaps her calico had run into the door in an attempt to get out of the rain. As expected, the dark spot of wet fur bolted inside as soon as it opened. She chuckled.

The door opened wider. She looked up, startled once again.

The figure was broad and tall. It smelled of fish, sea air, and smoking tobacco. A toothy smile could be seen even in the dim lighting.

“Did you get a cat?” The baritone of the voice washed over Diana like the sweetest tide. She made a choked sound, almost wounded. She wanted to laugh and cry.

He reached for her first, gathering her into the comfort of his space. She breathed him in and could not believe it. Months of waiting. All for him to ask about the cat.

She laughed and hugged tighter than most would think her capable. She pulled him inside, barely able to pull away long enough to close and lock the door.

“I suppose,” was all she could say. He chuckled and leant down to kiss her.

“So, you say,” he replied against her lips.

“I have missed you.” Her voice was starting to shake along with her hands. She cupped his cheeks, afraid she was imagining this moment. His untamed beard scratched against her palms, but she didn’t care. He smiled, teeth and flesh and blood, sturdy and there.

“I felt the same.”

“I was so worried. You were away for longer than before,” she rambled. He gripped her shoulders and she was glad for the steady warmth of them.

“Our boat was damaged; the repairs took longer than expected.”

“Then, why not send a letter?” she asked. His lips straightened; a wrinkle formed in between his eyebrows.

“Are you upset?”

Diana struggled to form a thought.

“I’m sorry. I did not think sending a letter would be beneficial.”

“What are you saying?” Diana choked out.

“I did not think it necessary.”

“Did not think it necessary?” Her hands fell from his face. His hands tightened on her shoulders. “I was so sure you had been lost at sea. I have been so worried.”

“I thought you’d be more optimistic about my return.”

“Three months, you have been gone for three months,” she whispered. Thunder rolled outside as the rain picked up.

“Surely, you are used to me going away by now?”

“This time was so much harder. You have never been away for so long. Surely, you must know that.”

The still sodden calico jumped onto the windowsill. She pawed at the window, chirping into the gloom. Diana turned from her husband, moving to look out the window. Dark clouds obscured any chance of seeing the horizon. So many times, she had willed her husband to come home, had awaited his return faithfully.

Her husband’s deep voice came from behind her. She didn’t hear the words.

The gull was perched on the stone wall, staring.

Brianna Simmons roams museum exhibits like an anthropological cryptid. Looking for inspiration in every corner, cranny, and cranium, she writes about humans through the lens of curiosity. @bns_and_Bris