Nancy shook her head. There had been no room or desire for anyone else.
She lay in a state of blankness for the longest time after they left, her eyes trained on the closed door. She was as tired as she’d ever been, but determined to be awake when Francis finally came.
Together Always
NANCY SLEPT WELL into the afternoon, thanks to the injection. She awoke in the parsonage bedroom sadly aware, her murky brain kinked with questions. Of course she’d return to Texas once the baby was born, but what to do in the meantime? There was the funeral to consider. At what expense? The Berkeley Heights money was surely gone, burned to a cinder. They didn’t have a single red cent in the bank. Banks weren’t to be trusted, Francis always said. “Banks are for suckers, kitten.” Kitten, he called her. Sweetheart. Pumpkin. Darling. She could not bear the thought of leaving him behind in California.
She’d been sent west after her mother died. It pained him mightily to see her go, her father said. But a young lady needed a woman’s guidance. That was six years ago. She was fourteen at the time.
She hadn’t understood the permanence of the arrangement right away. She was too caught up in the adventure of going. Her father presented her with her mother’s valise, which made her feel very grown up, and there were two new ready-made dresses, and a silk clutch purse with paper money inside. She wouldn’t call it a sad leave-taking, not with all that, not with her daddy talking a mile a minute on the way to the station, describing the sights she’d see, the red Indians and buffalo and mountains, et cetera. She was the luckiest girl in east Texas, he said, and she believed him.
An elderly couple befriended her on the train. They sat opposite all the way to Berkeley, the gentleman teaching her to whittle. She carved a little horse with a wavy mane, a prized possession until the fire took it. So the journey itself was fine.
She could not say it often enough: Her great-aunt and-uncle had done their best. They were set in their ways, God rest their souls. She couldn’t blame them. They were old, that was all. An Oriental cooked their strange meals, serving them up half raw. Dominos was their only form of entertainment outside of church. Of course Nancy was lonely. There were no neighbor girls her age, and her schooling was over, having graduated from the sixth in Texas. One bitterly cold summer day she asked to go home.
Her aunt said, “You are home.”
Nancy had made herself fairly miserable with self-pity. You don’t just banish a blood relation, your very own child. It didn’t matter the reason. There was no decent reason.
She was due to return to Texas for a visit once. That was two years later. She was sixteen; she would have turned seventeen on the train. She remembered being plenty excited. But then her brother, Sanford, fell and hurt his head, a poor sick head not right to begin with. Her father wrote that it took every ounce of strength and every minute of the day to care for Sanford. He had no time to spare for her, apparently. Maybe next year, he said in the postscript. But it never happened. Nancy wondered how she and her father would be when they met again, if they’d even recognize one another right away.
Uncle Chester went first in ’96, dying as her mother had, without a word of farewell, collapsing on the front walk in his case. Her auntie passed the following year.
Neither believed in doctors—God’s usurpers, bound for hell, every last one of them. Aunt Gertrude had only Nancy at the end, to pray over her, to witness her heaving chest, with its horrible rasping noises. Nancy thought Satan had claimed her. She truly did. Auntie warned he might try. It was a fearsome display. The hands were the worst, twitching, clutching the air, grabbing for hours on end. Nancy slunk off when it was finally over, exhausted to the core. A full day passed before she could think what to do next. By that time the aunt’s curled fingers could not be straightened. The undertaker eventually broke them in order to remove her rings. It was either that or cut the rings.
On the second day she ventured out. She had to tell someone about her aunt’s passing. Mr. Jenkins, the pharmacist, seemed as good as anyone. Nancy went in and found Francis behind the counter. He later said it was love at first sight. She said the same, but couldn’t honestly recall after what she’d just been through. Francis gave her a celery soda free of charge and told her to wait while he went to inform the undertaker. She crumbled some and he brought out his stool for her. He was her savior from the very beginning, as profane as that might sound.
THE BABY TURNED and gave a listless kick. She should be grateful for his child; but she was only afraid, afraid of labor and delivery, afraid of the costly baby itself. How was she to dress it, feed it? What if it took ill, and needed a doctor and medicine before they arrived home? She didn’t even have a bed for it. Francis had planned to build the crib himself, but never got started.
Nancy rose to use the pot, passing the mirror, taking note of but not caring about her pimply, sleep-creased complexion or her bushy, bird’s-nest hair still smelling of smoke.
The irregular room looked out onto a green lawn and neat flower beds. Loudmouthed ragamuffins, stupid boys with stupid grins, played in the street, chasing each other with sticks. Nancy continued to watch. There was nowhere to go but back to bed, where every conscious minute took an hour to pass.
A tall gentleman with a limp, wearing a Sunday suit, opened the gate and came up the front walk. She heard the bell ring, and then a murmur of conversation below. Some moments later he was leaving again. Nancy recognized the man from the fire now. On impulse she heaved open the heavy pane and called down to him. “Mr. Oaks!”
He turned and looked up, smiling shyly when he spotted her at the window. “I was told you were resting.” He started across the lawn, removing his hat. His hair was reddish and curly like her father’s, like her father’s in memory, anyway. “It’s Oades, by the by,” he said. “Henry Oades.”
Nancy wrapped her arms about herself, suddenly aware of the shabby robe, the big belly it didn’t conceal. She was embarrassed now that she’d called to him. “I’m not very good with names,” she said as he neared. It was all she could think to say.
He stood beneath the big elm, partially hidden by a low branch. “I came to see how you were getting on.”
Tears rose in her eyes. “My husband…”
He advanced a clumsy step and came into full view. “I’m aware, dear lady.”
She sobbed, “I don’t know where he is,” immediately catching her irreverent-sounding self. “Of course he’s in Heaven. No sweeter soul ever lived. I mean, what’s left, you know.”
“I could inquire about his remains on your behalf.”
Francis would have been just as quick to volunteer. “Would you, sir?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Foreland. I’m at your service. You need only ask.”
The bedroom door opened behind her. Nancy whirled around, expecting Francis for the briefest moment. Mrs. Tillman came in scowling, carrying black drapery over her arm. “Who are you talking to? Standing there for all the world to see in your nightclothes.” She dumped the dark load on the unmade bed, and strode up to the window, peering out. “Mr. Oaks!”
“Oades,” Nancy whispered, mortified by the woman’s shrill caw. You’d think she’d caught him making a bouquet of her hybrids.
Mrs. Tillman scolded, “I told you she was resting, sir.”
“So you did, madam,” he said, with a stiff bow.
“We were just having a conversation,” said Nancy. “He offered to help.”
“Say thank you then, and be done with it. Anyone passing by can see you.”
All her young life she’d toed the line, never questioning an elder, certainly not a church elder. Be a good girl. Mind your manners. Sit up straight. Don’t gulp your food. Don’t sass. Yes ma’am, no sir. She’d been falsely led to believe that obedience would be rewarded. Comply and your precious husband won’t die. Conform and you won’t become a penniless expectant cow plagued with piles.
“We weren’t finished,” said Nancy.
“You are now,”
said Mrs. Tillman. “Get back to bed.” She started to close the window, her sharp elbow jabbing Nancy in the side. “I’ll not have you on display.”
“Then kindly invite the gentleman in for a moment,” said Nancy. Never had she spoken so defiantly. She hardly recognized herself.
“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” snapped Mrs. Tillman.
With that, her meek, indecisive self returned. Nancy hung her head and wept.
Mrs. Tillman latched on to Nancy’s forearm and gave her a shake. “All right. We’ll have him in. My goodness. Collect yourself.” She poked her head out the window and motioned Mr. Oades toward the front door. “Just ring once, sir, and possess your soul with patience. The girl’s busy in the kitchen.” She took Nancy’s hand and pulled her away from the window. Nancy was all of a sudden tired. She regretted now the demand to have him in.
Mrs. Tillman gathered up the black mound on the bed, holding the huge thing up by two corners. It was a dress, a tent of a thing.
“The girl and I were up half the night working on it. See? Just the one button in the front. On and off in a jiffy, and plenty of room to see you to the end. What do you think? You can’t spend your waking hours in a man’s dressing gown.”
She forced the mourning dress into Nancy’s arms. The fabric smelled strongly of moth balls. “Go ahead and put it on. You can’t receive your guest as you are.” Mrs. Tillman turned at the door. “Don’t dawdle, hear? It’s getting late. I don’t want Mr. Oaks getting any ideas about staying for supper.”
“Oades,” said Nancy wearily. Her neck and back ached. She undressed, avoiding looking at her hideous naked self. Her nipples had darkened considerably. An ugly brown line ran navel to pubis. Francis had thought the track an indication of twins. What would he know? He was barely twenty years old. Oh, Francis. Why? How could you? She put on the smelly black dress and checked herself in the mirror. Her hair was ratty, wild, shooting out in all directions. She licked her palm, attempting to tame the sides. Impossible, hopeless. All of it.
Downstairs, outside the parlor, Nancy heard Mrs. Tillman say there wouldn’t be a viewing. Who was she to decide? Nancy entered, the somber canopy rustling like a party dress. “Much better,” said Mrs. Tillman, interrupting herself, nodding approvingly.
Mr. Oades was seated alone on the velvet sofa. The Reverend and Mrs. Tillman flanked him on either side, a pair of pokers sitting perfectly straight. A fire was going, but no refreshments had been laid out. Mr. Oades stood as she came in, towering over the reverend, who popped up after him.
Dear God, how she wanted to go home and fix supper for Francis. He’d rub her swollen feet afterward and say how much he loved her. The gentlemen sat again. Nancy put the crumpled wad of damp hankie to her burning eyes and took the closest chair.
“Come sit by me, Mrs. Foreland,” said Mrs. Tillman. Nancy rose numbly and did as she was told. Mrs. Tillman petted Nancy’s knee, speaking as one would to a none-too-bright child. “We were discussing Mr. Foreland’s service.”
“What were you saying about a viewing?”
“We won’t be having one,” said Mrs. Tillman.
“Why not?”
Mrs. Tillman whispered, “He’s simply not viewable, dear.”
Nancy’s nose began to bleed. Mr. Oades leapt up. He put his big hand to her forehead and gently pushed back, pressing his spicy-smelling handkerchief to her nostrils.
“I’m all right,” she said, but his worried look didn’t change. She took charge of the bloody handkerchief, waving him away. “I’m all right, sir.” He retreated. “Where is he?” she demanded. “Who has my husband?”
Mrs. Tillman bent in again. “The Lord—”
“His remains,” said Nancy. “Where are his earthly remains?”
“He was taken to Fleming’s,” said the reverend.
“I know that scoundrel,” cried Nancy, flecks of blood flying. “Mr. Fleming was my auntie’s undertaker. He broke her fingers to remove her rings, and then charged extra for it! One ring turned up missing, too.”
“Don’t rile yourself,” said Mrs. Tillman. “Think of the baby.”
Nancy put a hand to her belly and apologized to the child in her heart. She took a deep breath, blotting her nostrils, examining the fresh blood on the hankie. “I can’t afford him, anyway,” she said quietly.
“I’m sure he’ll allow you to pay something each week,” said the reverend.
Nancy shook her head. “I’m in no position.”
Mr. Oades leaned forward. He had such earnest eyes. “I could make a loan, madam.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept, sir. Thank you just the same.”
“There’s Potter’s,” said Mrs. Tillman.
“I will not put my husband in a pauper’s unmarked grave.”
“You might consider cremation,” said Mr. Oades.
“Out of the question, sir,” said Mrs. Tillman.
“How much does it cost?” asked Nancy. Was he not as good as cremated already?
“Two dollars,” said Mr. Oades.
“God forbids it,” thundered the reverend.
Mr. Oades clasped his hands and spoke directly to Nancy. “I saw to my former employer. Mr. Barnhill was a devout Christian. He believed cremation to be spiritually beneficial. Purifying was the term he used.”
“Blasphemy,” spat the reverend. “I’m going to ask you to leave, sir.”
“A soul cannot be expected to rise from an unconsecrated urn,” said Mrs. Tillman.
As if God would deny a soul so guileless. As if a moldering body would please Him that much more come Judgment Day.
It was the best decision under the circumstances. This way she could bring him along to Texas. They’d be together always.
“He’ll rise just fine,” said Nancy. “Don’t you worry.”
The Main Concern
MR. OADES TOOK Francis’s remains to San Francisco, as Nancy was in no condition to go herself. He returned to the parsonage the following Tuesday and presented a lidded jar, a fancy expensive-looking vase, with a cabbage rose design.
“I was expecting something plain.” She didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but she already owed him two dollars for the cremation. For all she knew the jar’s gaudy trim was solid gold. Lord knows what it would set her back.
They were alone in the front room, though not really. The door to the rehearsal room had been intentionally left open. Mrs. Tillman and the choir’s discordant sopranos made up an army of chaperones. Nancy accepted the jar; she was drawn to look inside, but didn’t, for fear he’d think her ghoulish. She set the jar atop the reverend’s credenza for the time being. Mr. Oades had come with flowers too, a small bunch of violets. These she arranged alongside the vase, and then turned around to thank him. The lamps were lighted, softening his ruddy cheeks. A sheen of tears stood in his sad brown eyes.
“What is it, Mr. Oades?”
“I wanted you to have it….” he started.
“I’ll pay for it, of course. I wired my father. He’ll make good on my debts. I should be hearing from him any day now.”
“It cost nothing, Mrs. Foreland. The jar’s been in the family.”
“Oh, then I couldn’t possibly…oh dear. What have I said?”
He was weeping, making the quietest, strangest spectacle. She didn’t know what to do. She gestured toward the sofa. “Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Oades?”
He brought out a handkerchief and swiped his eyes. “The jar survived a fire,” he said. “I thought it fitting somehow. It was terribly presumptuous of me. I apologize.”
“No, no. It wasn’t presumptuous at all. It’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it always. I mean it truly. Please take a seat.”
He sat finally, as did she, across from him, smoothing the black folds that swamped her, smiling politely. “There. That’s much better, isn’t it?”
She’d never been good at parlor chat, especially with Francis in the room. Now there was a man with a gift, not a gift of gab so much, though he’d had t
hat, too. His main talent was bringing people out, keeping the conversation light and merry. “Just ask folks about themselves,” he used to say. “It’s everyone’s favorite topic.”
In the next room the soloist started up “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.” Why must worship music be sung so loud and mournfully? Nancy half shouted to be heard. “Where do you hail from, Mr. Oades? Not from east Texas, that’s for sure.”
He twitched a small smile. “I’m from England originally, by way of New Zealand.”
“My, what a coincidence. My husband always wanted to see London. And I always wanted to see Paris, France. We said we’d visit both one day. I tell you, we made so many crazy plans.” Burning grief washed over her. Nancy swallowed, trying to maintain a pleasant bent. She owed this kind gentleman so much more than money. “Do you have family, sir? Wife? Children?”
“They passed,” he said. “Six years ago in New Zealand.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears, the loss overwhelming, both his and her own. There was no such thing as true happiness. It was all a big hoax, a cruel tease. “Poor man,” she whispered. “Poor, poor man.”
Mr. Oades leaned forward, his expression full of anguish. “My wife perished in a fire, you see.”
Her heart jumped a kindred beat. “Then you know.”
“I do.”
“It’s a horrible death. You keep thinking about how it must have been.”
He nodded.
“You say to yourself, how could it have happened? Why didn’t he manage to escape? Was he trapped somehow? Did the roof fall on his head? Over and over and over, you think it. All the ways it might have been.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Oades, nodding still, a far-off look in his eyes. “I was away at the time.”
He blamed himself; she could tell. They had that in common, too. Her raw nose ran, coating the back of her throat with the taste of rusty nails. She accepted his overstarched handkerchief. “And your dear children?”
He shook his head, tears welling again. “I cannot talk about them.”
The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel Page 11
