The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel

by Johanna Moran

  Downstairs she wandered into the front room and stood at the window. The mantel clock struck a sonorous four. Nancy imagined their coffin lids closing, the shoveled dirt raining down. Mr. Oades’s pack of children would automatically become her sole responsibility. At least until she notified their relatives in England. How in the world would she manage? She was still shivering and so poured a brandy, then wrapped herself in the lap blanket and settled down to wait. When three quarters of an hour passed and they still hadn’t come, she poured herself another, adding water to the decanter. Mr. Oades didn’t mind her taking the occasional nightcap, but she did not think he’d like the idea of solitary drinking, even if cramps and frayed nerves called for it.

  Eventually she got up to check on supper’s progress. That’s all she meant to do. It certainly was not her plan to spy on Dora, to listen to her groans of rapture. That was the last thing Nancy needed today.

  The sink had been scoured to look like new; the floor had been swept. A strawberry pie with blackened edges cooled on the sideboard, and cow-heel soup, Henry’s favorite, simmered on the stove. So Dora had seen to her chores before inviting a man to her room and latching the door. Nancy knocked once and the low moaning stopped. She knocked again, harder, and the wanton girl called out. “A moment, ma’am, please.”

  Nancy could hear their whispers, the panicky rustle of bedclothes, the sounds of their hasty dressing. Lately, Dora had been keeping company with the neighbor’s bulgy-eyed hand. Clarence was his Christian name. He had to be at least twenty. How many times had Nancy said to her: Don’t let the sweet talk go to your head. The lower the intention, the higher the praise.

  Nancy pounded the door. “Open up this minute.” Dora was underage, an innocent. The misguided girl had probably lain beneath him thinking a wedding was coming; she’d probably conjured up an entire rosy future in the time it took.

  Dora cracked the door and peeped out. “I’m sorry, ma’am. “’Twas all a—”

  Nancy pushed on the door, letting herself in. There against the wall, red hair on end, eyes cast down, stood John Oades. “John!”

  The boy’s voice broke with remorse. “Please don’t tell my father, Mrs. Oades.”

  “I’m ashamed of you both,” said Nancy, with a twinge of longing. There was something of Francis in the boy, something pure and genuine and flawed. That type didn’t think twice before running headlong into a burning house or a young girl’s arms.

  “We meant no harm, ma’am,” said Dora, squeezing past into the kitchen. “No disrespect.” She pulled her work apron over her head, pausing to sniff at the soup and toss in some salt. “Mr. Oades’s favorite,” she murmured, her lips pressed tight, as if suppressing a smile. “Nothing he likes better.”

  John remained trapped, his escape blocked by Nancy. Nancy sighed, not knowing what to say to him. “Are the cows in?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, flush-faced still.

  “Milked?”

  He bobbed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Nancy stepped aside to allow him room to pass. “Go have a look at the latch on the henhouse door.” He and Dora exchanged tragic looks on his way out, as if the world were plotting against them.

  “It won’t happen again, missus,” said Dora.

  “My advice to you,” Nancy started, then stopped. She was tired, achy, and newly worried about Mr. Oades and Margaret. She turned to leave.

  “Missus?”

  “Yes, Dora?”

  “The back of your pretty dress—”

  John came running up to the back door, winded. “Mum and Dad have arrived…please, Mrs. Oades, don’t tell my father.”

  “Blood’s easy,” said Dora. “Cold water, elbow grease. Don’t you worry.”

  John clung to the door frame, arms raised, narrow chest heaving. “Please, Mrs. Oades.”

  “All right, John,” said Nancy. “All right.”

  Relief washed over the boy’s face. Nancy was once again reminded of Francis. How nervous he’d been that first time, how bumbling and precious. Thank you, he said afterward, holding her close. Their bodies had fit together perfectly. Nancy tied an apron on backward to hide the blood and went upstairs to change.

  She thought it was Dora knocking twenty minutes later, but it was bedraggled Margaret, cracking the door tentatively. Nancy was seated at her dressing table, repairing her bloated face. “Come in, don’t be shy, look at you, your sleeve is torn, close the door, will you, I don’t want Mr. Oades to see the mess.”

  Margaret entered, sidestepping the mound of soiled linen, coming up behind Nancy, softly, reverently, gazing down with such sadness in her eyes.

  Nancy spoke to Margaret’s grief-stricken reflection in the mirror. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, Nancy.” Margaret’s voice cracked.

  “Whatever for?”

  “Dora said you’d miscarried.”

  Nancy waved a hand in dismissal. “Dora doesn’t know one end of the horse from the other.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I didn’t miscarry, Margaret. I’d be the first to know, wouldn’t I? Now tell me about your day in court. Is it all over now?”

  “It isn’t. I’ve only returned to collect a few things, and then Henry or John or Titus shall drive me to Mr. Potter’s. I’m to stay there until the marriage certificate arrives.”

  Mrs. Potter was rumored to be a bona fide spell-casting witch. “You can’t stay there!”

  “There are other ladies in residence,” said Margaret.

  “Ladies! San Francisco types maybe, but no real lady would stay there.”

  “Well, I must.”

  Nancy looked up at her. “I’m expected to mind both Gertrude and your children while you’re gone?”

  “My girls are capable of minding themselves,” she said.

  Nancy scooped out another finger of face cream. She closed her eyes and slowly massaged the cool oil, reciting under her breath, “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe….” She opened her eyes, catching Margaret’s bewildered expression. “Yes, Margaret, I’m going crazy, out and out cuckoo, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Pheeny and Dora might take turns minding Gerty,” said Margaret, pulling on her hands. “If you’re not feeling up to it.”

  The smell of cow-heel soup wafted up the stairs. She’d added too many onions again, trying to please Mr. Oades. He was the one who told Dora about the soup in the first place. It tasted like home, he said once. “I’m thinking of letting Dora go.”

  “Why is that?” asked Margaret.

  “Because I found her under the covers with John, that’s why.” She regretted speaking mid sentence.

  Margaret’s thin shoulders jacked up. “The filthy little trout! I’ll box her ears.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry for opening my big trap, Margaret. I didn’t mean to say it.”

  “You’re making it up then?”

  “No,” said Nancy. “I just didn’t mean to tattle. I promised I wouldn’t. They said it wouldn’t happen again. Please don’t let John know I told you.”

  Margaret’s hands flexed and fisted at her sides. “I’d give her the sack before she could say Jack Robinson if I were you. She’s not needed, Nancy. I’d manage this household just fine without her, better in fact, if you gave me the chance. You needn’t lift a finger. Think how pleased Henry would be. Think of the money saved him.”

  “I’m not the Queen of Sheba. I don’t mind lifting a finger.”

  Margaret brightened. “Of course you don’t! Let’s then.”

  “Not now, not with you going away.”

  “I shan’t be gone more than a fortnight, surely,” said Margaret.

  “I can’t take care of Gertrude and your three, too.”

  “Josephine will mind the young ones. She’ll cook as well. She makes a lovely potted hare, a splendid livermush, a perfect potato. Dora’s a terrible cook, you’ve said so yourself more than once.”

  “You’re badgering me,” sai
d Nancy. “You’re giving me a terrible headache.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Margaret. “But I cannot bear the thought of leaving John to her immoral devices.”

  Nancy gestured toward the heap on the floor. The blood had set in. The torturous job would be hers should she send Dora packing. All by herself, she’d be scrubbing, soaking, rinsing, wringing, mangling and folding until doomsday. “This household takes tremendous effort since you…since lately.” Nancy shook her head. “Never mind, Margaret. I can’t think straight tonight.”

  “The clothes might go to the steam laundry in town,” said Margaret.

  “Out of the question. They wash in cholera water.”

  “Then Josephine shall do it.”

  Nancy didn’t picture skinny Josephine having the strength. “Does she know how?”

  “A far sight better than Miss Dora McGinnis.”

  Nancy fiddled with a hairpin, wanting nothing but the dirty mound to disappear.

  “He’s little more than a lad,” said Margaret, pleading. “She’ll hoodwink him into eloping the moment I’m gone.”

  A terrible bleak feeling had settled upon Nancy. Maybe all the blood caused it. She never knew a person could lose so much and live. “I’ll give Dora notice tonight,” she said, willing to agree to anything in exchange for silence.

  JOHN DROVE MARGARET off before supper, leaving not one but two empty places at the table.

  Mr. Oades explained to his daughters that there’d been a grown-up misunderstanding. “It shall be dealt with straightaway, don’t you worry.”

  Martha looked on the brink of tears. “I asked Mum if we might visit. She said it wasn’t a nice place for children. There’d be nothing for us to do there.”

  “She was right, sweetheart,” said Mr. Oades. “Enjoy your pie now, or I shall enjoy it for you. Don’t think I won’t.” Martha took a listless bite of cobbler. “See? Delicious! That’s a brave girl, that’s a love. Your mum shall be home before you know it.”

  Josephine glanced Nancy’s way, as if looking for confirmation. “Before you know it,” Nancy echoed. “Sooner.” Children never know what’s what. Parents were forever withholding the pertinent details.

  SHE WENT TO DORA after supper. Dora turned from the sink, eyes narrowing to slits, soapy fist going to a hip. “About to let me go, ain’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, Dora, but—”

  “You’re going to be, missus. You’re going to be more than sorry. People are talking. Nobody else is going to work for you, I promise you that.”

  Nancy had planned to give her two weeks’ severance and send her off with a letter of recommendation highlighting her ability to tote great weight. Instead she gave her one week’s pay and instructions to be packed by breakfast. If not for the sink full of greasy dishes, Nancy would have put the brazen sass out tonight. She’d reached the scraggly end of her rope hours ago.

  A Trip to the

  Quack

  A MAN FROM THE HEALTH DEPARTMENT came out a few days later. Mr. Oades said he wasn’t particularly surprised to see him. Everyone was in a dither over consumptive cows these days. Officials and doctors were scaring mothers half out of their minds with their pure-milk crusade.

  “He claimed Rose looked suspicious,” said Mr. Oades. It was late. He and Nancy were alone in the front room. “He was prepared to take her and two of the others. That’s when I picked up the rifle and showed him the way out. I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow some bloke with a badge to make off with my good animals.” He settled back in his chair with a sigh. “I’m going on his list, he says.”

  “What sort of list, Mr. Oades?”

  He smiled, putting his brandy glass aside and patting his thigh. Nancy went to him willingly, sleepily, arranging herself upon his lap. She loved the luxurious size of him. He went for her buttons, those of her shirtwaist, then those of her overcorset, taking his time about it. Francis had always been in too much of a rush.

  “You may call me Henry,” he said, teasingly. “We’re well enough acquainted now, don’t you think?”

  Nancy stroked his beard. “Yes, Henry.”

  Lines of happiness appeared at the corners of his eyes. Such a sweet blessing of a man.

  Their romance had been in full bloom this last week. Mr. Oades credited the warm weather, but they both knew Margaret’s absence was the reason. For the first time since she arrived, they’d not had to be mindful of her feelings.

  Nancy kissed his mouth, mentally combing the kitchen in search of a lemon. The last thing she wanted was another baby. She’d prayed over it. She’d also taken precautions, inserting a barrier just before bed, a new sponge dipped in lemon juice. (Some older wives were talking one Sunday after church, which is how she learned of the method.) Four children were plenty, more than enough. She didn’t think he’d disagree with the number, only with the unnatural interference of the sponge itself.

  Maybe the sponge alone did the trick. Hers were of a good dense quality, sturdy enough to repel a tiny seed, you’d think. What purpose did the juice serve? There ought to be a book to which a motherless lady might refer in private. Birth and the act should not be related, anyway. She’d long thought it. Another method of conception would make more sense, one not yoked to pleasurable sensations. The world would be a better place. The poorhouses wouldn’t be filled to the rafters with unwed mothers if babies were brought about by a hearty handshake. A lady need never remove her glove.

  The mantel clock bonged ten. Nancy gently extracted herself and stood, buttoning up, her stomach rumbling with the onions from supper.

  “Cruel lass! Where are you off to?”

  She remembered the health inspector then. “What sort of list?”

  “A scare tactic was all it was,” he said, rising with crackling joints. “Meg is ailing, by the by. I meant to make mention earlier.” He turned his back to her, as if embarrassed by the announcement, picking up the newspaper he’d already read, scowling into it.

  “Were you out at Potter’s today?”

  “I was,” he said, glaring down at the front page photograph of Jerger Okoudek, a Zulu prince who had fallen in love with a Caucasian lady while attending Cambridge University. The prince went by Tommy Taylor now. He was a soldier in the United States Army, stationed at Fort Alcatraz. His lady was “fair and French” according to the paper, a Cambridge student herself, amazingly enough. She’d boldly married her “ebony prince,” only to take ill and die soon after. Life lost all meaning for the prince then. Nancy had wept for them, reading.

  “What’s the matter with Margaret?” she asked.

  “Her teeth are giving her fits. Bullheaded woman refuses to see the dentist.”

  “Poor Margaret. That’s the worst pain in the world. A bad toothache is second only to childbirth. I wanted to kill myself once.”

  “I bought medicine in town,” said Henry, somewhat defensively.

  “Did it do any good?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose. The new pharmacist said it should.”

  “You didn’t stay to see?”

  “I was there to pay Potter. I did what I could. She needs to see a dentist.”

  “Well, she can’t go to Dr. Dooley,” said Nancy. “Not after what his wife put me through. Maybe you should take her to a dentist in San Francisco.”

  “Shall I show her the sights while we’re there? I’ve a farm to run, Nan.”

  “I’ll take her then,” said Nancy, expecting a blustery protest. Instead his expression softened.

  “You’d do that kindness?”

  “Of course.”

  He rushed on, as if fearing she’d have a change of heart. “You’d want to take the ten o’clock ferry, not the eleven. The eleven is crowded with Gypsies.”

  She wondered aloud, “When would we go?”

  “John will bring you to the ferry,” said Henry. “I could spare him say, Tuesday next.”

  “And leave Margaret to suffer until then? No, that wouldn’t be right, Mr…. Henry. I’ll g
o see her tomorrow. We’ll take the nine o’clock on Thursday. That’ll give us a good early start.”

  Almost immediately, Nancy had second thoughts about signing herself up for an entire day alone with Margaret, without the buffer of family. But it was too late now.

  JOHN DROVE HER to Mr. Potter’s eyesore the next morning. The porch was splotched with dried chicken dung; it sagged where they stood. Rusty nails stuck out everywhere. The grimy front windows looked as if they’d never been washed.

  “Your poor mother,” said Nancy. “It’s bad enough that she has to stay in this awful pit, but to stay here with a bad tooth is just beyond the pale.”

  “She’s had it worse,” said John, breaking his long silence. He was still mourning Dora’s departure. Nancy felt for him; the first heartbreak is the hardest. Maybe they should start going to church again, and give him a chance to meet some good girls.

  Margaret looked happy to see them, happy to see John at least. She ushered them into a ratty front room. “What brings you? Not that you need a reason, sweetheart.”

  Her left jaw was three times the size of the right and looked hot to the touch. Margaret said nothing about it, acting as if she were in the rosiest of health. Nancy was reminded of a story she’d heard a long time ago, about men who carried ferocious animals, wolverines or badgers, beneath their shirts. The men were gnawed nearly to death, but didn’t let on. Nancy never did understand the brave point.

  The oily red davenport obviously served as a bed at night. Long gray hairs had been shed, Margaret’s in all probability, but who could tell? Sitting, barely perching, Nancy came right to the point. “I’m going to take you to a dentist in San Francisco.”

  Margaret frowned, putting a hand to her swollen jaw as if to hide it. “I don’t care for dentists.”

  Something scurried along the baseboard, a rodent or a very large bug, giving Nancy a shiver. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m not in the least bit afraid,” said Margaret. “I simply loathe their existence. I’d sooner let a miner come near.”