The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel

by Johanna Moran

  The uncle brightened, sitting up a bit. “Say you won’t pitch the place into ruin. Say you’ll get in solid with the Lord. Say you’ll do right by Portia.”

  “How shall I do right by Portia?”

  “She’s a fine girl. Steadfast, sturdy. Not too hard on the eyes, is she?”

  “No, sir.”

  “She’s a wonder at the stove.”

  Henry agreed. “She is.”

  The uncle said slyly, “She’s smitten by you, Hankie boy.”

  Henry did not hedge the truth. “As I am not by her.”

  The old man frowned, as if Henry had spoiled his happy game. “You might learn.”

  “I won’t.”

  The scowl deepened. “Never mind then. Just forget I spoke. We won’t discuss it again. Blow out the lamp, please. The glare is hurting my eyes.”

  Henry complied, angry at himself for snapping at the dangling chop without looking for sharp bones. Besides, the offer was likely a moot one. The uncle’s color had improved recently. Twice this week he’d held down eggs. He was the sort to outlive them all.

  The old man’s voice quivered in the dark. “A soft, warm woman under your covers is a blessing, Hank, a precious gift from God. He means to compensate us for what we must endure on earth. Think about that.”

  Randy old coot, Henry thought, trying not to mind the disappointment. Everything comes with its cost.

  THE UNCLE kept his word. He never mentioned Portia or the farm again. He rallied a degree around Christmas, and then took another turn for the worse after the New Year. He died in his sleep in February, of a worn-out heart, the doctor said, not consumption.

  The lawyer came out the following week, asking to speak to Henry and Portia both. Henry was shocked to learn that he’d been left the farm free and clear, without contingencies. He was humbled; he felt guiltily elated. Portia had been bequeathed Mrs. Barnhill’s silver comb set, the old man’s coin collection, and five hundred dollars.

  “It would make a nice dowry,” she said to the lawyer.

  Henry pretended not to hear.

  PORTIA WORKED UP her nerve that same evening. Henry was seated at the kitchen table, finishing up delicious roast duck with creamed potatoes and peas. She hadn’t sat with him before; she didn’t now. She moved between table and stove as was her habit, looking serious, rather queenly, with her hair drawn back tight.

  She said in an offhand manner, “Do you remember the day you came?”

  He nodded to his plate. “Yes.”

  “I was mortified. There was no sauce for the cake.”

  He had no memory of cake without sauce. “It was lovely without,” he said.

  “You were every bit the gentleman,” she said. “You didn’t let on it was missing.”

  He smiled.

  “Mr. Oades, I think it’s time we married.”

  His insides clenched. He looked up at her. “I cannot. I’m sorry.”

  Tears flashed in her round eyes. “Just like that? Without a second’s worth of thought?”

  “I’m sorry.” He was sorry, sorry to wound her, humiliate her; but he was glad, too, to be done with the pretense finally.

  “You’re not going to bother to say you’re flattered at least?”

  “I am, of course.” He knew that was not what she wanted to hear.

  “Ha! Sure you are.” She tore off her apron and threw it at him. The skirt went to his lap, the bib into congealed duck grease. “Clean up your own mess, why don’t you?” He folded the apron and stood.

  “I shan’t marry again,” he said.

  Her expression shifted, becoming a mix of longing and regret. “Your poor wife would want that for you? She’d expect you to spend the rest of your days alone?”

  “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

  She took the apron from him, picking at a loose thread, her bottom lip pulsing. “I can’t stay on under the circumstances.”

  Henry nodded. “I understand.”

  Portia turned and went into her room, closing and latching the door.

  Henry quickly washed the supper things and then retreated to the front room, relieved and ashamed. He should have spoken up a long time ago, found a way to act the man. He wasn’t at ease with women anymore, or with himself for that matter, in their presence. It was best to steer clear, to simply leave them be altogether.

  ON MONDAY, Henry went into town to inquire at the employment agency on Portia’s behalf. He was immediately successful. The Charles Middletons were a prominent family with a grand house near the university. Dr. Charles Middleton, the bursar, came on Tuesday to fetch her himself.

  She stood on the porch, clutching her battered brown case. “Good-bye, Mr. Oades.”

  “Good-bye, Portia. Good luck.”

  She held his gaze. He could not very well look away. “I’m a forgiving woman, should you have a change of heart.” He had no proper response. They stood mute for an eternity. Finally she lifted her sturdy chin and made a smart turn. From the back, with those erect shoulders, she reminded him of Meg.

  HE INTERVIEWED five domestics before settling on Dora McGinnis, a plump, uneducated girl of fifteen. She appeared a born workhorse and not bright enough to scheme without him catching first wind of it. “Fine, then,” he said, stern as a dad, as a bloody granddad, no one a girl would take to. “You’ll do.” She turned out to be a rather dull cook, but that was all right. A dry rump roast seemed appropriate somehow. She spoke when addressed, staying out of sight for the most part. Eventually, happily, he began to forget she was even about.

  In April he moved his belongings from the small room to the uncle’s much larger one down the hall. Little else changed otherwise. The farm was thriving. Wright’s on Center Street bragged in print that they used only the best and purest of cream in their ice cream—his. He grew wealthier by the month. He grew leaner as well, losing the soft flesh about the middle. He was lonely at times, but more often not, due to his schedule. A Sunday spent idle was not for him. He worked seven days, starting before dawn, continuing past dark. Only on Saturdays did he finish early. At half past two he cleared the kitchen of Dora and had his bath, then changed into a clean shirt and collar and rode into town. He visited the library, the tobacconist, the hardware shop, and occasionally the pharmacy, in that order. Afterward he treated himself to an oyster dinner at Smith’s Chop House. He was typically home before nine, a dull creature of habit. Not that he craved change; he liked his life. He would say he was content if anyone cared to ask again.

  ON A SATURDAY in late summer of 1898 Henry drove in at his usual hour. Men in town, rooster-proud Americans, were still talking about the destruction of Spain’s navy in Manila Bay. You’d think they’d had a personal hand in it.

  The fire bells began sounding as he was leaving the Shattuck Avenue pharmacy. In the next moment the young assistant pharmacist came flying from his store. He ran past Henry, his white coat billowing behind him. Henry started after him, smelling the smoke, walking fast at first, and then breaking into a clumsy run. All of Berkeley seemed headed in the same direction. They carried buckets and cans, sped by on foot, on wheels, in buggies. Henry followed the pharmacist around one corner, another, a third, dropping library books along the way, a sack of tobacco.

  Fire was already on the roof of the little house. Henry broke through the gabbling crowd, intent on going inside. He came up the walk just as the pharmacist emerged from the black smoke, an expectant woman in his arms. The pharmacist thrust the woman at Henry. “Watch her.” Henry staggered back under the sudden weight. The pharmacist ran back inside. The fire wagon pulled up, horses snorting, bells clanging. Gawking neighbors scattered out of the way, reconvening again. Henry carried the woman across the street and lowered her to the grass. She was dazed, muzzy, mumbling incoherently. He removed his coat and made her warm, thinking of Meg, living her burning death for the ten-thousandth time.

  Nancy

  NANCY FORELAND opened her eyes. “Please, sir.” Her throat felt scalded. Th
e bearded man put a big rough palm to her forehead and stroked back her damp hair.

  “Gently does it now,” he said. “Help’s on the way.”

  The shouting seemed far off. Closer to her ears and nostrils, whispering ladies hovered. Worse than their cloying sweetness was the smell of smoke and horse manure. The baby inside her turned, punching and kicking. Nancy felt on the verge of expelling it onto the wet grass. “Find my husband, will you?” She tapped her front teeth, speaking with difficulty. “He has a gap right here. His name is Francis Foreland. He’ll be wearing a white pharmacy coat. Go now. Tell him the baby is coming.”

  “Mrs. Foreland!” Mrs. Tillman, the reverend’s wife, appeared, shiny with sweat.

  Nancy was relieved to see a familiar face. “I think the baby is coming.”

  Mrs. Tillman stooped at Nancy’s side. “Nonsense. It’s too soon.”

  The bearded man demanded, “Where’s the bloody doctor?”

  Mrs. Tillman fussed with the coat covering Nancy. “Who was called?”

  He exploded. “Christ—”

  Mrs. Tillman clapped her hands to her ears. “Sir!”

  “—Almighty! I don’t know.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep a godly tongue in your head,” said Mrs. Tillman.

  “He was sent for a good ten minutes ago,” said the man.

  Mrs. Tillman stood, glaring down at him. “We’ll take her to Dr. Wheeler.”

  Nancy latched on to his arm. “Francis will take me. Find him, please.”

  “You’ll bring her to our buggy, sir,” Mrs. Tillman said. “The reverend is in no condition.”

  He put his arms beneath Nancy and began a wobbly rise. She grasped his vest with both hands to keep from falling. He shifted her weight. “I have you, madam.”

  Mrs. Tillman pointed. “Over there, over there.”

  Nancy took hold of his neck, ashamed of her enormous self. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he said, clenching his teeth.

  “Will you find my husband, sir? Tell him where I’ve gone?”

  A glimmer of tears rose in his dark eyes. “You have my word.”

  He carried her through the murmuring crowd, across the street to the Tillmans’ buggy, which was tied to a spared poplar in front of what was left of their first home together. Nancy tucked her chin and wept. It was entirely her fault. Clumsy and cramping, she’d tipped a lamp and fallen in the attempt to right it. She remembered seeing the front legs of Francis’s chair catch fire and thinking her chair would be next. And then she found herself outside, looking up at a starless night sky and the soot-faced man. She’d thought he was a colored at first.

  IN THE BEGINNING, the Forelands thought themselves lucky to have found such a convenient place so close to the pharmacy, where Francis had just been entrusted to man the night-bell service by himself. The rent was sixteen dollars a month for a spacious four rooms and pantry; but, as the real-estate man said, what did they have to show for their money but a receipt?

  For five hundred dollars, one third up front, and the balance due within two years, they could own a 50-by-135-foot lot in Berkeley Heights. The real-estate man promised unrivaled views. At an elevation of 350 feet, the outlook opposite the Golden Gate surpassed any scenery on the Pacific coast, he claimed. The persuasive gentleman made a window of his fingers.

  “Just picture the daily majesty! And that’s not all, young people!”

  They’d hardly want to leave such a wonderful place, he said, though when the need arose they’d find the Berryman station just two short blocks away. The Oakland Electric railroad had extended its line to serve Berkeley Heights. And, as if that weren’t incentive enough, they’d have complete sewer and water systems, macadamized streets, and curbs, gutters, and sidewalks of concrete.

  “You can’t afford not to afford it!” said the salesman.

  Francis and Nancy began saving that afternoon. She let the housekeeper/plain-cook go, and he began working a long day on Saturday. Her father in Texas wired five dollars when he heard, and his heartiest congratulations.

  Sundays became precious to them, the picnics on the beach off Delaware Street after church, the long strolls on campus among the oaks and eucalyptus. Nancy loved the sweet campus air; she loved all of Berkeley, with its rolling hills and canyons, its ever-changing bay. You can look, she’d say, but you won’t find a prettier place anywhere. At times on campus she liked to playact, strut along the gravel paths like the brainy girls, carrying her Bible the way they carried their texts, pressed to her ribs just so. Francis said there was no harm in daydreaming. He never poked fun. Nancy adored him, to the point of madness sometimes.

  The bearded man said his name. Oaks. Mr. Henry Oaks. She was blanketed still inside his scratchy coat. “I won’t forget,” she said weakly. “You remind me of one.”

  He arranged her ever so gently inside the Tillmans’ buggy, next to Mrs. Tillman. The reverend sat opposite.

  “Thank you, Mr. Oaks,” said Nancy. “God bless you.”

  He smiled a little, closing the buggy door. The reverend gave the signal and they were off before she could think to return Mr. Oaks’s coat.

  “That one will be the last in line for God’s blessing,” said Mrs. Tillman, with her hot muttony breath. Nancy turned away, but there was no escaping the odor. The restless baby shifted downward. Nancy gasped, clamping her knees together and contracting every muscle in her body. It couldn’t possibly happen now, in a moving buggy, with Rev. Tillman looking on. The baby rolled again, kicking hard, as if to let her know it certainly could. Already she felt herself no match for this child.

  THE DOCTOR’S front windows were aglow. Dr. Wheeler himself came rushing down the front walk, lamp held high and swinging. “Mercy,” he whispered, at the sight and smell of her.

  Inside, the doctor’s maid took her filthy housedress and apron first thing, bundling them up as if for the rag bag. She dressed Nancy in a man’s robe, asking, “Is the hair on your legs growing normally? If it is, you’re having a girl. Though I’d personally put my money on a boy, the way you’re carrying high and round.”

  “That’s what my husband thinks, too,” said Nancy.

  The doctor gave her an injection. She barely felt his clammy hands between her legs. “You’re experiencing hysteria, not labor,” he said. Nancy bowed her head and thanked the Lord for hysteria.

  The burns on her right hand were salved and bandaged. She was taken to the parsonage afterward and led up to a small dark room. The baby was still at last. “Wake me when Francis comes, please.” She closed her eyes and slept without dreaming.

  THE NEXT MORNING Mrs. Tillman came in with a tray.

  “Is Francis waiting?”

  Mrs. Tillman sat at the edge of the narrow bed and attempted to spoon-feed her.

  “I can manage.” Nancy picked up the spoon with her good left hand, testing the hot soup.

  “Farina,” said Mrs. Tillman.

  “Tasty,” Nancy lied, putting down the spoon. There were biscuits too, butter and a red jam, and tea to be poured into a pretty china cup, with honey and lemon. “Has anyone gone for him? Does he even know I’m here?”

  Round-shouldered Mrs. Tillman inched closer. An oval mirror hung over the washstand. Nancy saw something of a gray vulture in the wavy reflection, as well as something of her own dead mother.

  “Dear girl.”

  Nancy began stroking her belly in small circles. Very bad news was coming. Your mother has gone to live with the angels. Nancy had thought her father said Engels. Her mother had gone to live with the Engels, the grocer and his wife. Angels or Engels. Neither made any sense.

  Mrs. Tillman petted Nancy’s arm. “You must be brave now.”

  Nancy stroked wider circles, wishing on her fetus as she once wished on a lucky stone. She wished the woman gone, wished her not to say another word.

  “Mr. Foreland certainly was,” said Mrs. Tillman. Her bulbous nostrils quivered. “Your husband marched into that burning house
like Shadrach himself.”

  If you say it aloud it won’t come true. “Is he dead?”

  Mrs. Tillman nodded, long tears starting down her mottled cheeks.

  The wallpaper loomed, a dizzying cornflower pattern. Nancy stroked on, dazed and astonished. Why would God bother to bless them so exquisitely just to snatch it all away?

  Mrs. Tillman dabbed at her eyes. “I was visiting Mrs. Louder two doors down, poor gouty woman. I saw Mr. Foreland bring you out. He ran right back into that black smoke. Why would he do that? Did you have a little dog? A little parakeet?”

  “No, ma’am.” Nancy pushed the tray to the end of the bed and rolled onto her side, facing the wall. We had a little savings.

  There could be no other explanation. He’d gone back for their Berkeley Heights money. Close to fifty dollars last count. The greedy fool would have had to find the right tool and pry up the right floorboard.

  Mrs. Tillman pulled Nancy to her gaunt bosom, murmuring something about God’s will. Nancy hated her for it.

  DR. WHEELER arrived within the half hour and gave her another injection. Before he came Mrs. Tillman tried to get her to pray. Nancy refused. She wanted nothing more to do with God the thief. Mrs. Tillman said to the doctor, “She’s suffering a crisis of faith just when she needs Him most.”

  “May He shine His Almighty light upon her,” said the doctor.

  “Amen,” said Mrs. Tillman. They both looked at her hopefully. Nancy looked away. The injection was beginning to take hold. Her mouth felt as dry as her heart.

  The doctor asked, “Whom shall we contact on your behalf, dear lady?”

  “There’s no one,” said Nancy.

  He insisted. “Surely there’s someone. Try to think. An aunt you’ve forgotten? A second cousin?”

  “My father’s in Texas. I have a brother there, too, but he’s not right in the head.”

  Dr. Wheeler pressed on. “No one close by? A friend perhaps, a helpful neighbor?”