“Is that all?” said Nancy, breathing hard. “Thank God.”
Mrs. Potter was in the yard when they arrived, hanging patched sheets on the line, and looking like a hobo’s sweetheart. She turned with pegs in her mouth and flapped a wave. Margaret and Nancy waved back.
“Thank you, Nancy,” said Margaret, “for all you’ve done.” She climbed down and started up the overgrown path to the door, gathering her shawl about herself.
Nancy called after her. “It won’t be much longer.”
The ride home took nearly two hours in the one-horse rig, sufficient time for John’s fitful account. The health department had had the advantage of surprise. Earlier that day, around noon, five armed men showed up. Two held Henry, John, and Titus at gunpoint, while the others inspected the herd.
“It’s not right, Mrs. Oades. It’s just not right.”
“Settle down, John,” she had to say more than once. “It’s not the end of the world.” As it surely would have been had she lost Henry Oades. She hadn’t loved him at first crack; but she did now. She especially loved the tender way he said, “I love you, Nan.” It was a strange thing to realize at this particular moment, and while talking about sick cows. Nancy thought of Francis then, the loss more than the man.
At home she found Gertrude in the bedroom, asleep in her crib. The baby had been fed, as had Henry and the girls. Josephine had seen to it all. She made flapjacks at her father’s request. “Dad wasn’t in the mood for meat.”
“I don’t know what the family would do without you,” said Nancy.
Josephine’s ears colored with the compliment, her mouth flicking with something close to a smile. The girl was beginning to thaw some.
Nancy and Henry retired early, undressing in the expiring amber light, getting under the covers. They lay faceup, not speaking until he turned his head on the pillow and said, “Did she do all right at the dentist?”
“He pulled her tooth cold,” said Nancy. “She refused to take gas. I can’t decide if she’s brave or just plain obstinate.”
“She’s both,” he murmured, kissing her lips. “Thank you for taking her.”
“I didn’t mind.”
“You are goodness personified,” he said sleepily, shifting, facing the ceiling again.
She turned to him. “Henry?”
“Hmmm?”
“It’s me you love, isn’t it?”
“Good God.” He came up on one elbow and stared down at her. “Don’t ever begin to doubt it.”
“Never mind,” she said. “I just thought…”
“What? What did you think?”
“I just thought you might be a little confused.”
“I’m not the least bit confused. You are my wife. Now and always.”
“Unless some old judge decides we have no business being married,” she said.
“That’s not going to happen, Nan.”
“Would you be willing to swear on the Bible?”
“I would.”
Nancy rolled, tucking her head beneath his arm. He smelled of fresh clean hay. “I love you, Henry,” she said, for the first time. “I truly do.”
Pieces
NANCY AND JOSEPHINE started the laundry soaking on Monday night, a full day and a half late. After the soaking came the scrubbing, the rubbing with lye soap, the boiling, the stirring, lifting the heavy clothes with the splintery paddle, rinsing twice, once in plain water, once with bluing. Finally came the wringing and hanging. Nancy had hoped to get to the ironing by Wednesday night, but did not.
She and Josephine regularly stayed behind schedule. There was just too much work for one woman and a girl. They took turns with the slops, Gertrude, the feeding of the stove, and the emptying of ashes. Josephine continued to do most of the cooking since she was better at it. Nancy was left with the floors, walls, bric-a-brac, and furniture. The lamp wicks got trimmed today, but there was no time for a badly needed polishing. She neglected Francis but for a brief swipe of his jar. They never did get to the windows. That afternoon Nancy picked up Gertrude and begged her to smile, to be happy and cooperative, but the baby refused, squirming like a snake in her arms until Nancy put her down again. Gertrude almost always behaved sweetly with Josephine, proof positive that Nancy was a failure as a mother. She felt ashamed and defeated, but mainly exhausted, too weary lately to bother with a sponge. Twice this week she went without, lying awake afterward, worrying, resenting Henry’s even snore. Yesterday she burst into tears for no earthly reason other than fatigue. Last night she spoke up and asked Henry for another maid-of-all-tasks.
“I wish you’d made mention sooner,” he said.
“I thought Josephine and I could manage,” said Nancy. “I was trying to save you money.”
He kissed her. “Your health is worth more than the price of a girl.”
On Friday, Henry rode into town to ask at the new employment agency on Shattuck Avenue, returning just before supper in a foul mood.
“How about a small brandy,” said Nancy. They went into the front room and closed the door, pouring two, as was not their habit so early in the day.
First-class Help, said the sign on the door. Satisfaction Guaranteed. The clerk turned biggity and high-hat right away, telling Henry he had no one suitable. Henry had asked, “How would you know off the top of your head? Have you every last maid memorized? Is there no list to consult?”
“I’ll run my business as I see fit, brother,” the clerk had said. “And don’t bother looking elsewhere.”
No one of any persuasion, of reputation high or low, was willing to work for the Mormons. The talk was all over town apparently.
Nancy suspected Dora McGinnis of starting the ugliness. Dora worked for the Stricklands now, not the uppity Leopold Stricklands in town, but the Horace Stricklands of the next farm over. Last Monday Dora sent their lovesick hand Clarence around to ask about a hair ribbon she’d left behind.
“Miss McGinnis would like to stop by, with your permission.” Wouldn’t she, though? Nancy could just picture the girl’s gears turning, itching to get at John. Poor duped Clarence. Nancy had been tempted to shake some sense into him. But she held her tongue and gave the donkey-dumb man a nickel. “Tell her to buy a new one.”
After leaving the employment agency, Henry went to the Health Department to see about the confiscated cows. All four had been shot and incinerated the day before.
“I asked how many other animals were done away with,” said Henry. “The man informs me just our four. I said, am I to believe mine were the only sick animals in all of Berkeley? He said he did not give a damn what I believed or did not believe.”
“They had no proof or right,” said Nancy. “We should sue.”
Henry settled back in his chair, closing his eyes. Nancy stood to refresh his glass. He pulled two envelopes from his breast pocket. “The marriage certificate came today,” he said wearily. Nancy took the envelopes, turning them over, studying the exotic stamps and markings.
“Well, at least Margaret can leave that horrible Potter pigsty now,” she said.
“I’ll need to put the certificate before the judge first,” said Henry.
“Do it soon, Henry. She could catch something there and bring it home.”
“As soon as I can, love.”
“Who is this other letter from?” she asked, analyzing the fine script, deciding it was a woman’s hand.
“A cousin,” said Henry. “A vicar.”
“Margaret has royal relations?”
“More like one of your ministers.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a birthday greeting, I expect. She’ll turn, let’s see…forty-two next week.”
“What do you know,” murmured Nancy. Her own mother would have been forty-two last month, a strange coincidence.
ON SATURDAY, Nancy, Josephine, and Martha washed every last window with vinegar and water. If any chore brought more satisfaction at the end, Nancy did not know what it was. On Sunday she had Henry and John mo
ve her sewing machine from the bedroom to the kitchen. Once Dora’s cot was removed, Nancy had the sewing room she’d always wanted. The Lord closes one window (a spanking clean one in this case), and opens another. It was the sweetest of sights: her machine oiled and gleaming, threaded with white thread, extra bobbins at the ready. It was warm inside with the door closed, but private. Nancy pictured happy productive hours to herself.
Margaret was not allowed home on Monday, after Nancy had planned a pork roast and lemon pound cake. She was due home on Wednesday now, after a second mandatory appearance at the courthouse for the signing of this, that, or the other.
“And that will be the end of it?” asked Nancy. “They’ll leave us be now?”
“They bloody well better,” said Henry.
In a celebratory mood, Nancy decided to sew. She settled on a nightgown for Margaret, as the fancy gown she’d left behind was now stained yellow. Too big of a load had gone into the boil this last time; the clothes never got stirred right when that happened.
Nancy had had the three yards of good quality cotton for some time now, since before Margaret’s arrival. She’d planned to sew up a nightgown for herself, but hadn’t gotten around to it. The fabric still looked and smelled clean when she brought it out to show Josephine, who tried to talk Nancy out of adding a flounce or two. “Mum prefers plain.”
“Too much so,” said Nancy. At least one flounce was in order; it was Margaret’s birthday, after all.
The girls were willing to help. Nancy put them to work at the kitchen table, pinning the pattern pieces to the cloth. They were using a McCall’s pattern, a pretty empire model, calling for long full sleeves.
“She’ll look like a queen,” said Martha.
Nice little girl, seeing her mother through rose-colored specs.
AT FOUR ON WEDNESDAY, Nancy and the girls were watching from the front room. The whole house smelled delicious from the baking. They heard the horses before they came into view and rushed out to greet Margaret.
“My,” she said, breathless, an arm around each clinging daughter. “Such a fine reception.”
Nancy noticed Henry’s solemn expression as he drove the buggy off to the shed, but gave it no lingering thought. There was the new nightgown to admire and a perfect lemon pound cake to fuss over. It came as no surprise that he chose not to join the welcoming festivities. He did not strictly avoid Margaret as he did at first, but neither did he look for opportunities to socialize with her. She haunted him still, understandably. Nancy could not carry his burden. She’d thought about it often enough, imagining the knock at the door, finding eager-eyed Francis standing there. Six months ago, she would have gone off with him. Now she was no longer so certain. Sending Francis away would be like stabbing him in the heart, especially if he were disfigured; but to have him stay and witness her new happiness would be more than she could bear. Despite the fierce grieving, it’s best for all concerned that the dead stay buried.
THE LETTER had slipped Nancy’s mind in all the gay hoopla. She finally thought to give it to Margaret at supper. Margaret examined the envelope briefly and slipped it inside her skirt pocket as Henry began grace. Later, after supper, she pulled the letter from her pocket. She and Nancy were alone in the kitchen. Margaret placed the letter on the table and went for her apron.
Nancy pumped water into the sink. “Why don’t you read it?”
Margaret tied a swift bow. “I don’t want to keep Henry waiting,” she said.
He’d barely said two words at supper. When the meal was over he stood, looking as if he’d lost his entire herd. “Meg,” he said. “Will you join us in the front room this evening?”
Nancy hadn’t expected an invitation herself, he’d been so withdrawn. She and Margaret had leapt up like soldiers and begun clearing the table. Never mind the digestive process. Never mind that she might have preferred to read her new Ladies’ Home Journal in bed.
“Let the grumpy bear wait,” said Nancy. “Go ahead and read your letter.”
“I wrote home some time ago,” Margaret said, taking a bread knife to the flap. “A single leaf,” she murmured, as though disappointed. She scanned the page, the corners of her mouth sagging. “Oh.”
“What is it?”
“My parents,” she said hoarsely, blinking back tears.
Nancy took a wooden step toward her, dread rising.
“How can it be? Mother has the constitution of an ox. She’s a McGregor! McGregors live well into old age, in wheelchairs some, but sharp as needles, able to boil an egg for themselves still, every last one of them. They’re famous for it!”
“Oh, Margaret.”
“My dad,” she sobbed. “My lovely, lovely dad.”
Nancy gently wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Margaret allowed it. She was scarcely more than trembling bones and a broken heart.
Henry came in half a moment later. “What is it?”
“Mother,” said Margaret, pulling away from Nancy, turning to him. “And Dad. They’re three years gone, Henry. Influenza both. Dad first, then Mum. They’re laid side by side.” Her chin dropped, tears streaming. “In the west corner of the churchyard.”
He advanced toward her, his own eyes filling.
Margaret closed the space between them, collapsing against his vest. “Ah, Meg,” he whispered, folding his arms around her. She was no more than two or three inches shorter than Henry. They looked disturbingly natural, like two pieces of a long-lost puzzle come together. Nancy stood watching, an odd feeling coming over her—a sense of not belonging in the same room with them. He spoke close to Margaret’s ear, their cheeks brushing. “I loved them like my own.”
Margaret nodded, her eyes closed. “And they you, Henry. Mother’s undisputed darling.”
Nancy asked, “What does that mean?”
They came apart, laughing softly over some shared memory. Margaret accepted Henry’s handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s something Meg’s dad used to say,” he said.
“He was jealous of Mum’s affection for Henry,” said Margaret, looking at Henry. “Do you remember her silly button collection?”
Henry said that he did.
“I wonder what became of it?”
Nancy went to the sink. An overwhelming tower of greasy crockery still waited. Supper with Francis had been so simple. Two plates, two cups, a single pot, a pan, no more. On special occasions they dined at Fonzo’s café in town. Nothing beat a juicy porterhouse at Fonzo’s. They should have gone every night, lived large while they could. He would have had no reason to run back inside if they had.
Dickering
HENRY OFFERED to write a letter to Margaret’s cousin and inquire about the button collection. Margaret said bother the letter, she’d only been wondering aloud.
Nancy turned from the sink, oily dishwater dribbling down her sleeve. She heard the squeak of a door hinge upstairs, a muffled thump of footsteps. “What was it you wanted to speak to us about, Henry?”
“It will keep until morning,” he said.
“We’re bone-tired,” said Nancy. “Just say what you have to say. Did something happen at the courthouse? Please tell us the charges were dropped.”
“They were,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “New charges were then laid. Against you and me, Nan.”
Nancy struck out at nothing, lashing the air with the dish towel. “You swore to me, Henry Oades! You swore on the Bible that it wouldn’t, it couldn’t, happen. What is the bogus charge this time?”
“The same. Open and notorious cohabitation and adultery.”
Margaret croaked out a noise. “Preposterous.”
“You were there,” said Nancy. “Have you known all day?”
“No indeed,” said Margaret. “I was made to wait in the carriage.”
“I plain refuse to accept this,” said Nancy. “We were legally married, in both the state’s eyes and Almighty God’s!”
“Which we shall prove in no uncertain terms,” said Henry, coming to
her.
Nancy flung the dish towel and stormed up the back stairs, catching Josephine and Martha, sneaky little eavesdroppers, on the landing. The girls fled back into their room, pale nighties flapping. Nancy escaped to her bedroom, blind with rage. She tore off her housedress and apron, peering over Gertrude’s crib—asleep, thank God. When Henry came in, Nancy was under the covers, facing the wall. “Nan, sweetheart?” She didn’t respond. He slipped in beside her, saying nothing more. She was seething, breathing like a dog in heat. Hot sleepless hours passed before she calmed, before she remembered how much he loved her. He would see that they had to leave this hateful place. She would make him see.
NANCY BLURTED out her plan the moment he stirred. “I think we should go to San Francisco.”
Henry got out of bed, floorboards creaking beneath his huge feet. He went first to the baby as always, looking down at her in the dark.
“Margaret and I have already discussed the idea some,” Nancy whispered. “We’ll just go and send for the furniture later. Or we’ll sell it all and buy new. That might be best. It fries me no end to turn tail when we’ve done nothing wrong, but what else are we supposed to do, Henry?”
He lit a lamp and took his drawers from the peg, the same pair he’d worn ten days running. Tomorrow would make eleven, for shame, for shame. Dora had produced a clean pair every week without fail. Fastidious Francis would have protested by the eighth day. Henry, though no less particular about his hygiene, hadn’t made the first peep.
“I want nothing more than a return to relative normalcy,” he said.
Nancy sat up in bed, hugging her knees. “Then we agree.”
He buttoned up, pulling on the drawstring. “We cannot simply light out. The farm and animals would have to go first.”
“Fine.” She began mentally packing up the room, leaving the old farmer’s ugly drapes behind. “Fine and dandy! Let them go. Sell the whole kit and caboodle to the highest bidder.”
His dirty wool shirt came next, trousers and suspenders. He sat to pull on his boots. “I’ve had an offer to purchase.”
The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel Page 22
