The Widower
Paul O. Jenkins
Dylan Morgan cherished silence. Gratuitous noise raised his anxiety levels and impelled him to scurry for psychic cover. Over the years, he’d cultivated an air of calm, but this was simply a façade, a veneer easily discerned as such by anyone astute enough to distinguish the natural from the affected. His late wife, Sophie, had recognized him for what he really was: a wallflower who must be coaxed into joining the noisy mainstream of life. It was due to her that he now found himself aboard a raft, about to travel down the Roseau River on the Caribbean island of St. Lucia.
On her deathbed, Sophie had convinced him not to forsake the dream vacation they’d painstakingly planned over eighteen months. It would be good for him, she’d reasoned. She wanted him to be happy and not slip into one of his customary funks. In rejoinder to a famous quote her husband was so fond of, Sophie affirmed that each of us is not, in fact, forever alone and a stranger. So, against his better judgment, Dylan had flown in yesterday, a single man surrounded by couples, every one of whom seemed to wear untroubled expressions and appropriately casual footwear.
Seated in his raft, Dylan wore socks and sneakers. Though perfectly seaworthy, the raft was primitive, and his feet were already wet. He awaited the partner he would be assigned by Germaine, the beaming guide from his all-inclusive resort. Part of Dylan’s discomfort stemmed from the fact that he was accustomed to serving others, not being served so lavishly. Every time he turned around, he was being offered a drink. The gated community reeked of privilege.
Ominous clouds gathered on the horizon, and he wondered at the dozens of variations on gray they represented. Stacked together and rolling into one another, they appeared both random and part of some great design. Dylan had never considered the possibility of rain on his Caribbean vacation and suddenly felt even more foolish than usual. As Germaine approached, accompanied by a woman who looked to be in her early thirties, Dylan shuddered involuntarily.
“And here, sir, is your companion for the voyage,” Germaine said, radiating the kind of bonhomie Dylan hoped came naturally to him. Should he extend his hand to help the young woman aboard? Despite his sixty-two years, Dylan had never mastered such social niceties. But it hardly mattered. His shipmate strode onto the vessel confidently and introduced herself as Angie. She wore flip-flops. Though she was slight, the raft dipped under her weight, and Dylan’s sneakers took on more water.
Dylan sat on his hands and watched as the pilot more gracefully came on board. At a signal from his colleagues on the three other rafts, the tall man unmoored his float and began poling them into the center of the river. “I’m Simon,” he said. “As we go downriver, please let me know if you have any questions.” Dylan wanted to ask him why he was barefoot, but it struck him as impertinent. Instead, he introduced himself, not sure if he was addressing Simon, Angie, or perhaps both. “I’m Dylan,” he said simply.
“Like the singer?” Angie asked.
“No, my parents named me after the Welsh poet who inspired Robert Zimmerman to adopt that sobriquet,” returned Dylan, immediately ashamed of how hopelessly stiff and superior his answer sounded. He tried a different tack as quickly as he could. “Have you been on the island long?” he asked her.
“I flew in a few days ago.” She paused for a moment self-consciously. “My original plans rather fell through. I wasn’t planning on being here by myself.”
Encouraged by that “rather,” Dylan gathered courage. “Same here. My wife and I planned this whole trip, but then she fell ill. I’m a widower.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Angie said. “Puts my little sob story in perspective. My fiancé jilted me about a month ago.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Dylan said, conscious that he had adopted her phrase.
For a few minutes, both were silent. Besides the appreciative murmurs that emanated from the other members of their outing, there was no sound to disturb the idyll. The brown water lapped pleasantly against the raft. Simon began telling them about the river, its shallow depth, and the various species of wildlife they might expect to see on their journey to the bay. Dylan trailed his hand in the water. It was warm to the touch. At this spot, the Roseau was about fifty yards wide and bordered by lush vegetation. Dylan began scanning the trees for the egrets the guide had mentioned.
Angie broke the silence. “I guess one might call him a ‘holy roller,’” she said, permitting herself a brief smile and supplying air quotes. “When we met, he was as big a skeptic as me, but then he saw the light. During his workout one Sunday morning, Paul—that’s the fellow’s name—began feeling chest pains. Claims he blacked out, and when he came to, the veil had been lifted from his eyes.”
Dylan had no idea how to respond appropriately to such immediate and unexpected confidentiality. Sophie would have known the right thing to say. But, conscious of the unfairness of silence, he made an effort. “So, you parted because you couldn’t share his faith?” Dylan asked, hoping to strike the right tone.
“Yes, that was the crux of it,” she replied. And then, suddenly, she appeared eager to change the subject. “I hear we’ll be sampling some rum punch soon, right, Simon?”
“Yes,” the boatman answered. “Twenty-five, thirty minutes, and we stop for refreshments.”
“We were married for seventeen years,” Dylan said a bit abruptly. He began fingering his wedding band. He’d lost fifteen pounds since Sophie died and found he could slide it on and off easily. Recently, it had become a tic. The statement hung in the air for a moment.
“It’s not that I’m opposed to God,” Angie resumed. “There must be some creative spark.” Dylan looked at the wonderful mass of clouds above them again. “Faith is a wonderful thing, don’t you think?”
“In others, yes,” Dylan said carefully. “I’ve never felt the call myself, but yes. It must be a wonderful buttress of support in times of trouble.”
Angie moved closer to Dylan. “If Paul had kept it to himself, that would have been fine. But he got involved with this church, you see.” Her voice trailed off.
“They take a wonderful message and co-opt it, pervert it for their own purposes,” Dylan said, hoping to draw her out further.
“We’re all God’s children,” chimed in Simon. He planted his pole deep into the riverbed, pushing off with another mighty effort. “All we can try to do is be kind, happy, and useful.”
Something about the man’s certainty, clarity of thought, and vision impressed Dylan. As he poled his passengers down the river, Simon’s expression changed little. The work struck Dylan as sheer drudgery, but the boatman seemed content.
“Look, there’s one now!” Angie said, pointing skywards. A large white bird had abandoned a tree and begun flying effortlessly overhead.
“One of your egrets, Simon?” Angie said.
“Yes,” replied the boatman, though he was facing his passengers and thus had no way of seeing the bird she referred to. A moment later, he began guiding them towards a small building on shore. “Ten, fifteen-minute break now,” he announced. Four simple wooden tables graced a small veranda, and each held a large thermos and paper cups. “Time to drink rum punch!” Simon said with a broad grin.
As they gained the shore, Angie took Simon’s hand, disembarked, and headed for one of the tables. Before Simon could make the same offer, Dylan scrambled off the boat and listened to the squelch his wet sneakers made as he walked towards the libations. Aware that his continued presence might strike Angie the wrong way, Dylan poured himself a cup of punch and moved away from the tables to the edge of the veranda.
As he watched the insistent flow of the river, Dylan tried to shut out the conversations going on around him. And then, just as a gentle rain began to fall, he beheld her again. There, on the horizon, just as it had first appeared to him seventeen years ago, Dylan saw the face of his dead wife. Now, as then, the vision beckoned him, enchanted him. Though he was conscious he had conjured the image himself, Dylan found it genuine nonetheless. So singular was her reappearance that a suggestion of belief flickered in the widower. There she was! Her right eye was slightly higher than the left, but some uncanny luminosity emanated from both. The smile that played on her full lips suggested a better world. He began fingering his ring again, sliding it on and off rhythmically until Angie appeared at his side to interrupt his idyll.
“He actually had the nerve to compare himself to that other Paul. Paul of Tarsus,” she began, gathering the threads of their earlier conversation. “The Apostle. His trip to the gym was apparently very much like the road to Damascus.”
“Yet you said he left you and not the other way around,” Dylan said, perturbed that she had spoiled his moment of bliss. He stifled a burp and tasted the rum punch again.
Angie gave him a smile. “I really thought it might be a phase or something.” She ran a hand through her hair for a moment. “We were well matched in other respects.”
At this suggestion of sexual capability, Dylan felt a heat rise to his face. The sexual act had never come naturally to him. He felt Sophie had put up with his efforts as much as she had ever really enjoyed them. With shame, he recalled a particular evening when driven by lust such as he had never felt before, he kissed her repeatedly but remained flaccid. Sophie had consoled him as he placed his head in her lap. Recollecting the shame of that moment, Dylan slid his wedding band off his finger again, but this time so urgently that it took flight. Panicked, he fumbled for the ring and then watched in agony as it broke the surface of the river below.
Without a thought, Dylan leaped over the railings and plunged feet first into the water. He landed with a jolt and remembered Simon’s observation that the Roseau was quite shallow here. He took a deep breath and submerged himself. It was impossible to see anything in the muddy water, so he simply began probing the riverbed with his hands for the tiny object. As he came up for air, he saw that Angie was running down the gangplank to join him and that, somehow, Simon was already by his side. The man’s eyes were closed, and he remained on his feet, taking little steps to the right and left.
Dylan went under again. The bubbles his breath made underwater rang cacophonously. He felt pebbles and grit but nothing more substantial. Realizing the hopelessness of his task, he emerged again with a gasp. At his side, Simon had opened his eyes. “Sir!” he said simply. Then, retaining his balance on one leg, he raised the other, reached down with his hand, and plucked the golden ring from between his toes.
***
Four nights later, on his last evening on the island, Dylan Morgan sat on a remote corner of the beach, his bare toes describing little patterns in the sand. Over the last few days, he’d climbed a mountain, seen whales out at sea, and enjoyed a number of varied cuisines. Tonight, the waves lapped against the shoreline reassuringly. Lost in reflection, Dylan heard nothing but a steady rhythm in his chest and wondered at the electrical miracle that inspired his heart to contract and pump blood at such an unfailing, regular tempo. Whether the cadence might be divine or mundane was of no particular concern at the moment. When Simon had placed the ring back on his finger that day in the river, Dylan knew his memories of Sophie would abide and that he would never be alone again. He recalled what she referred to as the many shared silences they had enjoyed for so many years, treasured chapters in a life he now sensed held more to come.
A new wave gained momentum, completing another endless cycle of the sea, and a pleasant voice returned Dylan to the land of the living. “A drink, sir?” It was Germaine, his grin genuine and sincere as he extended a tray that held a tall glass of rum punch.
Dylan turned to accept the offer and drank deeply.
About the Author
Paul O. Jenkins lives in New Hampshire and increasingly in the past. His poems and short stories have appeared in numerous journals, including The Avalon Literary Review, The Northern New England Review, Straylight, Blue Unicorn, Nebo, BarBar, The Chamber, and The Field Guide. paulowenjenkins@gmail.com.