The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel

by Johanna Moran

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was too soon,” he said. “And there’s still the matter of the impending charges.”

  “They won’t come after us. Good riddance to the Mormons, they’ll say. And let them try and find us, anyway. We’ll change our name if necessary. Or go farther. Sacramento, maybe. Why not? Tell me about the offer.”

  “Sweetheart, please,” he said. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  She drew up the blanket, shivering with determination. They were going. It was simply a matter of when. “Who made the offer?”

  Henry sighed. “Horace Strickland.”

  “Mr. Strickland! Really.”

  John could be heard downstairs now, rattling around in the kitchen, making coffee for his father and himself. “The offer was far too low to consider,” said Henry.

  “Well, you have to dicker,” said Nancy. “My father taught me that much, at least.”

  Henry stuffed his gloves inside his coat pocket. “You need to leave these matters to me, Nan. The bounder sees a ripe opportunity to capitalize.”

  Left to Henry, they’d still be here next month. “What are you asking?”

  “Five thousand, with the animals. Now go back to sleep.”

  “Five thousand! My goodness. I had no idea. What did he offer?”

  “Two.”

  “Maybe I’ll call on Mildred Strickland.”

  “Don’t. It will serve no purpose.”

  He put on his hat, pushing it cockeyed. “You tossed the night long. Try and get a little rest before Gerty wakes up.”

  “We should strike while the iron is hot, Henry.”

  He pinched out the flame and came to her in the dark, kissing the bridge of her nose. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. Close your eyes now.”

  Nancy had already made up her mind to pay Mildred a visit.

  “DON’T LET ON that we’re leaving,” said Margaret, when Nancy told her.

  “I’m not a complete nincompoop,” said Nancy.

  Nancy set out for the Stricklands on foot because Henry had taken the small rig into town to see the lawyer. She didn’t want to involve John in her plan, have him drive her in the barouche, which Mildred might regard as uppity on so nice a day. She wore a dowdy featherless hat, and carried a basket of red carrots and lettuce from the garden, just the type of humble hostess gift Mildred would appreciate.

  The Stricklands didn’t live far, about six miles north. She and Henry had once been invited to play cards with them. Mildred, too, was a widow who’d married an older gentleman, not recently, but the experience was the same. Nancy thought she’d found a friend for life because of the similar situation.

  She arrived just after noon, perspiring and footsore, her speech running through her head. She’d written a note, in case Mildred wasn’t receiving. Margaret had thought up most of it.

  …In regards to our property, it would behoove you to act quickly. Other parties have expressed interest.

  Nancy covered the wilted lettuce with the carrots and rang the bell. The porch swing had been painted since she last visited. She reminded herself to compliment the nice finish.

  Dora McGinnis came to the door with her chin in the air.

  “Well, hello, Dora. My, you’re looking well.”

  “Are you expected, ma’am?”

  Mildred came bustling up behind. She was the fidgety, frenzied type, with sewing needles saved in her sleeve, a pencil caught up in her graying knot. She was expecting again. That would make six, or was it seven now? “Oh, dear, girl,” she said. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  Nancy offered the basket. “I haven’t been ill, Mildred.”

  “The domestic arrangement,” she whispered, her eyes sliding toward Dora.

  “We’re managing,” said Nancy, looking at Dora. Make the first smart remark, little missy, and you’ll feel the sting of my hand.

  “Refreshments, please,” said Mildred. Dora arched an eyebrow and left.

  “She’s working out nicely,” said Mildred, taking the basket, saying the carrots looked too good to eat. “You shouldn’t have, Nancy. Come in out of the heat. Dollars to doughnuts you’re here about the farm. Am I right? What if we hens came to an agreement on our own? Wouldn’t that be something?”

  Nancy followed Mildred inside, feeling light and confident. The deal was as good as sealed already. She wouldn’t wait. She’d tell him right away. There’s not much to say, Henry. We dickered awhile, but that’s how it’s done.

  They sat in the cramped front room, where a child’s cot was pushed up against the piano. Dora brought in lemonade and gingerbread that Nancy picked apart but did not eat, fearing saliva or worse had been added.

  Mildred moaned after eating a few bites, patting her rounded middle. “It’s not the same, the second husband, is it?”

  “Well, no,” said Nancy, thinking the comment strange. There was nothing to compare to first love. “You couldn’t expect it to be.”

  Mildred’s expression softened. “Your first husband was young, too, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Nancy. “Francis was only twenty when he passed, God rest his sweet soul.”

  “My Dicky had just turned twenty-two,” said Mildred, tears glistening. “Lockjaw.”

  “I remember you telling me, Millie,” said Nancy. “It was a terrible tragedy.”

  Mildred licked her finger and pressed it to the plate, attracting crumbs. “Do you recollect the time we had you to supper?”

  “Of course. Henry and I had only been married a week. We played whist. I don’t think I won a single trick all night.”

  Mildred waved a hand. “You played fine. I was just recalling our husbands, how they looked, sitting across from each other, Horace’s bald head blazing away in the mirror. I remember thinking, what have we done to ourselves, you and I? Saddling ourselves with these old men. Older than Methuselah, but that doesn’t stop them, does it?” She patted her middle again. “Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “I can’t say that I do,” said Nancy.

  Mildred clucked, rolling her eyes. “Never mind, Nancy. I’m bound for the madhouse. But then what wife with half a brain isn’t? Let’s get down to business, shall we? Why are you giving up that wonderful place?”

  Nancy said they were moving into town for the children’s sake. “The girls will be starting Miss Stanley’s Academy soon. Driving into town every day would be too much of a hardship.” Margaret had come up with the excuse, though their reason for leaving did not seem to matter to Mildred.

  “I’d sell my soul for your spacious front room and kitchen,” she said.

  For the next half hour they negotiated back and forth politely. Obviously, they could not reach an agreement on their own, without their husbands’ approval. They did all the preliminary work, though. A signature here and there, and that would be that.

  “Will you be taking the furnishings?”

  “Could you use them, Millie?”

  Mildred practically fainted with delight, offering another fifty dollars. That brought the grand total to thirty-five hundred even, a fortune. Nancy couldn’t wait to tell Henry and Margaret. Mildred brought out sherry to celebrate, pouring into tiny blue glasses, hardly bigger than thimbles. Nancy had had two before she knew it.

  “If I may speak frankly,” said Mildred, as Nancy stood to leave.

  Nancy pulled on her gloves. “Of course, Millie.”

  Mildred spoke carefully. “I continue to regard you as a Christian friend.”

  Something unpleasant was coming. “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  “I worry about you,” said Mildred.

  “Please, don’t. I’m fine.”

  “You must do something about that woman, Nancy.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as shipping her straight back to her people.”

  “Her parents have passed. We’re her people now.” It was true. There was no other place for Margaret to go. Why couldn’t peo
ple get it through their thick skulls?

  “I’m sure there are charitable services where she comes from,” said Mildred. “Some equivalent to the Berkeley Benevolent Society.”

  Nancy folded her arms. “I’m sure you’re right. What about the children?”

  “What about them?”

  Mildred was no better than Mrs. Dooley. “You’d ship them thousands of miles from their father? Never to see him again? That’s your Christian proposal?”

  “I’m not standing in judgment, Nancy. I’m only looking out for your best interests.”

  Nancy headed for the door. There was no point in carrying on.

  “If I were in crisis I’d expect you to speak up, out of our old affection.”

  “I’m not in crisis, Mildred. Good-bye. Thank you for the refreshments.”

  Mildred followed her onto the porch, scanning the darkening sky. “It looks like rain. I could round up one of my boys, have him drive you.”

  Nancy started down the steps. “I’d much prefer to walk, thank you.”

  “You haven’t changed your mind about selling your place?”

  “A deal is a deal,” said Nancy. “We shook hands, didn’t we?”

  It’s what a man would say. They never seemed to confuse friendship with enterprise. A man would stroll away whistling, caring only about the hefty profit in his pocket.

  The rain began a mile from home. Nancy trudged on. Chilblains and a ruined hat were a small price to pay for setting their departure in motion.

  Margaret was in the kitchen with Martha and Josephine, giving French lessons at the table. “You met with success,” she said, knowing right away.

  HENRY WAS SURPRISED by the price she’d wheedled, but he was not happy that she’d gone. “I specifically asked you not to.” He went to see Mr. Strickland the next afternoon, returning without having sold the farm.

  “Only twenty-three hundred? Mildred promised thirty-five!”

  “She doesn’t hold the purse strings, Nan.”

  The miserly offer was to include all tools, all animals, alive and butchered, the contents of larder and root cellar, and every last stick of furniture.

  “It’s still a great deal of money,” said Nancy.

  “The farm and livestock are worth much more.”

  His dismissive tone hurt. “You’re mean, Henry, and you’re greedy to boot.”

  He turned short with her. “I told you to leave business matters to me. He’ll come around, you’ll see. He’s desperate for the land.”

  She drew a bath the way he liked it, cold water first. The peace offering did nothing to improve his mood. He got in, spreading out, hogging the whole tub, when he usually made room for her.

  “Enjoy your old bath,” she said, leaving the kitchen.

  THEY WERE ARRAIGNED the following Monday. The proceeding took all of ten minutes. Nancy and Henry stood before Judge Billings, their lawyer, Mr. Lewis Grimes, a bald gentleman with fleshy lips, between them.

  “Absolutely not guilty!” The fury in Nancy’s voice ricocheted off the paneled walls and put an exasperated look on the old judge. He sucked his teeth and consulted his pocket watch, concerned about his noontime meal, no doubt. She had not expected such indifference from a man thrice married himself.

  He named a trial date two months off, but Nancy didn’t retain the exact day. It didn’t matter. They’d be long gone.

  “In the meantime,” said the judge, “beginning today, you and the lady will house yourselves separately.”

  Nancy let out a little cry. The worst she’d anticipated was a command to return to this churchy courtroom, with its domed ceiling painted to look like heaven. Fat cherubs cavorted among frescoed clouds, taunting the innocent below. “That’s not fair, your honor!”

  The bang of the gavel startled her. “Oh, my.”

  The beaky judge glared down. “I’ll be the judge of what’s fair and what isn’t, miss.”

  “It’s Mrs! Mrs. Henry P. Oades!” Nancy nearly bit her tongue in two getting the words out.

  A Question of Divorce

  THE MOON-BLUE ROOM SWAYED. Somewhere glass was breaking. Nancy lifted her head from the pillow, perspiring freely, alone and confused, still drunk on the croup remedy she’d taken for sleep. Henry was gone, spending his nights at Mr. Potter’s, who was charging double now, simply because he could. The lawyer said it would look better come trial time if she herself vacated the premises. Nancy had agreed, not with enthusiasm admittedly, but Henry wouldn’t hear of it. Mr. Grimes then made special arrangements. Henry was allowed to return by day to work his farm, as long as he kept his distance from her. He was permitted to speak to Margaret, his lawfully wedded wife, as long and as much as he pleased. They could go out riding in an open buckboard in broad daylight if they felt so inclined. But the briefest exchange with Nancy meant jail. The anger knotted her. She felt it pulsing the livelong day. All tranquillity left with Henry.

  A door slammed down the hall. Someone cried out, the words unintelligible. The dogs and cows kept on, barking and mooing in the dead of night. Nancy fell back on the damp pillow, groggy and sick. In the next instant the bed had shifted and she was on the floor. Margaret pounded on her door, shouting, “Earthquake!”

  The door burst open and in she flew, long gray braid streaming behind her. “Get up, Nancy, get up, get up!”

  She yanked Nancy to her feet and plucked wailing Gertrude from her crib. Somehow Nancy found her robe and slippers. They raced down the back stairs, glass from the fallen frames grinding beneath their thin soles. Outside, Margaret’s girls stood shivering, their flimsy nightgowns fluttering about their bare ankles. Margaret began pacing the yard, crooning a foreign ditty, reducing Gertrude’s cry to a whimper in a matter of seconds. Nancy might have taken her baby then, but she feared setting her off again. Instead she went with John to check on the bellowing cows. She managed to quiet Begonia, talking to her by lamplight, sleepily stroking her cheek.

  “Shush, cow. Simmer down now.” The heifer eventually responded, surrendering sweetly. If only Nancy had the same effect on her own child.

  At first light they went back inside.

  The front porch had buckled. Two front windows had shattered. A south section of chimney was gone. But the walls and roof had held, and the hall floor felt secure.

  The girls crept upstairs, Gertrude asleep in Josephine’s arms. Nancy and Margaret went into the front room, finding a glittering mess.

  The damage to Francis’s jar was complete. The shards themselves were cracked. They approached the irreparable ginger jar with reverence, as if approaching a sacristy. Nancy fell to her knees weeping. She scraped Francis’s soft ashes into a heap, desecrating his remains with house dust and spider legs. Margaret went into the kitchen, returning with a mason jar for Francis, a hand broom, and a pail. She knelt beside Nancy, stretching to reach behind the pedestal for the broken lid, her chin trembling.

  “The jar belonged to my mum, before it became Mr. Foreland’s resting place.”

  “Oh, Margaret, I never knew. Henry said it had been in the family, but I didn’t think to ask more. I’m sorry. I was in such a state at the time.”

  Margaret rubbed the piece of lid, her eyes dulling with sadness. “You couldn’t have known.”

  They sat back on their heels, not looking at each other. Nancy pushed at tears with a knuckle. “You’d think God was conspiring against us.”

  “I cannot imagine God bothering to concern himself one way or the other.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  Margaret gave a little shrug.

  “Maybe something for our nerves is in order. If the brandy bottle didn’t bust.”

  “No thank you, Nancy,” said Margaret, rising.

  Nancy waited for Margaret to leave the room, pouring then more than she’d intended.

  HENRY DROVE UP later than usual and headed straight for the milk room. Nancy so wanted to go to him, but didn’t dare take the risk. People rode by at all hours these days, hoping
for a peek of the bigamist and his wives. If Henry was reported seen near the house he’d go to jail. For of course the judge would take a shameless rubbernecker’s word over theirs.

  “You go, Margaret. He’ll want to know that we’re all right.” Margaret was gone almost two hours. Nancy was wound up tight by the time she returned. She met Margaret at the kitchen door. “What on earth kept you? No conversation could have lasted this long. Did he have you milking?”

  Margaret gave her a bewildered scowl, her thin lips all but disappearing. She was homely as dishwater, true, particularly in this harsh light, but she was also smart and sturdy. A man needed an oak in troubled times, not some useless meadow flower.

  Margaret took her apron from the nail, pulling it over her head. She stooped and picked up a missed sliver. Nancy had swept up the broken crockery by herself. She’d also dumped the cold ashes into the privy, fed the stove, got the fire going, picked and washed some carrots and put them on for soup. Margaret seemed not to notice any of it.

  Nancy asked, “Did Henry mention Mr. Strickland?”

  “He didn’t.” Margaret went to the sink and gazed out the window. “The butchering shed is in splinters.”

  The longing in her expression gave Nancy an uneasy feeling. “Did he ask about me?”

  “He wasn’t given time. I told him straightaway.”

  Nancy forked a hard carrot in the pot. “Told him what exactly?”

  “That Mr. Foreland’s jar had broken, that you were bereft over the loss.”

  Nancy put down the fork and turned to her. “Bereft?”

  “Are the girls still up in our room, Nancy?”

  Nancy brushed a damp curl from her eye. “Bereft, Margaret?”

  Margaret said without emotion, “Are you not?”

  “You left him thinking I was sobbing away over a vase? He pictures me inconsolable? Unable to come to my senses?” Nancy bobbed forward, coming nearly nose to nose. “Boo-hoo, Margaret!”

  Margaret stepped back, staring without comment, working her wedding band up and down. Her composure set Nancy’s back teeth on edge and caused her voice to rise another shrill octave. “Boo hoo hoo hoo!”