Dora chewed on the question for a moment, finally saying no, but that’s not the same as saying it did not occur. “I might have been in the kitchen while it was going on,” she said. “They kept me there day and night.”
Nancy glared, her hands fisting. Liar! She’d had Sunday afternoons free and every other Wednesday.
“No further questions,” said Mr. Teal.
Judge Billings thrust his chin toward Mr. Grimes. “Counselor?”
Mr. Grimes did not bother to stand. “Did you leave the household of your own volition, miss? Or were you let go?”
Dora looked at Nancy. “Let go. And I’m glad that I was.”
She was excused. Their hand, Titus Crump, was called next. He was dressed in collar and tie, looking as if he’d just put down a favorite horse. Nancy could not imagine what Mr. Teal expected from his loyal lips. Nothing incriminating it turned out, as Nancy had expected.
“I would have no way of knowing, sir,” he said, when asked the same questions.
Mr. Grimes declined to question Titus.
Mrs. Charles Middleton of the Daughters of Decency was called. She floated up the aisle, refined and stylish, wearing a beautiful polka-dotted silk, with leg-o’-mutton sleeves. Nancy had so admired her at one time, for all the good she did, working tirelessly for orphans and widows.
On the stand, Mrs. Middleton spoke in a quiet, affectionate tone, saying she felt for Nancy, calling her a motherless wayward who just hadn’t known any better.
“I pray for her every day,” she said. Nancy bowed her head, mortified. She did not look up again until Mrs. Middleton had stepped down and gone beyond her ken.
Mrs. Knox, the poundmaster’s wife, a woman known to horsewhip the strays, came next. “They are not denying the situation,” she said. “Why are we wasting precious time and money on this ridiculous circus?”
She was followed by Deputy Ingram, who only repeated in different words her same testimony. Henry Oades was an unabashed bigamist, and Nancy Foreland was his willing partner in sin. It was simply a matter of determining the punishment.
Mr. Grimes looked up wearily and said for the fourth time, “No questions for the witness.” Nancy and Henry turned to him at the same time. Why wasn’t the lawyer speaking up in their defense, exposing the vicious, ugly lies?
The state rested then. It was their turn.
Mr. Grimes started to rise, not quickly, but slowly, arthritically. He bent, bracing himself against the table before coming to a full stand, allowing the spectators a broad view of his rumpled backside. They stirred, snickering and whispering, causing the gavel to come down. The judge scowled, clearly blaming the turtle-slow Mr. Grimes for the disorder.
“My clients,” Mr. Grimes began, the words catching in a throat rusty from disuse.
Nancy felt a sharp pang in her side, along with an equally sharp sense of doom. She felt Mr. Teal’s eyes on her and glanced his way. He began tapping a pencil to his temple, as if marking time, theirs, ticking by.
A Christmas Duck
MR. GRIMES CLEARED HIS THROAT and began again. “My clients are not Mormons.” A woman close by whispered, “Prevaricator!” The gavel came down hard. Mr. Grimes gave no indication he’d heard her. He stood between Henry and Nancy, speaking to the judge alone. “Up until recently, they have been tithing members in good standing of First Congregational.”
A partial truth. She, though not Henry, had been a tithing member in good standing, sliding after Francis died, quitting altogether once moving so far out. Nancy became aware of herself shaking her head with regret and stopped, clenching her teeth to keep her brain still, clasping her gloved hands in her lap. A brown spot stained the thumb tip, dirt or blood.
“Mr. Oades, an Englishman, was baptized in the Anglican Church,” said Mr. Grimes. “I have the certificate here.” The sleepy bailiff came alive and sauntered over to receive the document. Mr. Grimes pulled Nancy’s baptismal certificate from his papers. “Take this, too.”
If only he’d treated Dora to the same authoritative bite.
“Mrs. Nancy Oades was baptized a Baptist at age twelve in Brenham, Texas. Shortly thereafter, at age fourteen, she came to Berkeley, where she resided with Mr. and Mrs. C. D. Dwyer, her maternal great-uncle and-aunt until their deaths in 1896 and ’97, respectively.”
Mr. Grimes went on to cite her uncle’s credentials. Chester D. Dwyer had been a deacon, an elder, the men’s Sunday school teacher. His name was engraved on two church plaques.
Judge Billings sucked on his pipe as he studied the birth certificates.
“And so quite clearly,” said Mr. Grimes, “my clients are not Mormons. Though if they were, it would not have the least bearing on this case.”
The judge shifted, grimacing as if with pain. “We’ll take a ten-minute recess.”
Nancy, Henry, and Mr. Grimes escaped to the side room. Henry and Nancy sat, Henry scraping his chair close to hers. Mr. Grimes remained standing, reading his notes.
Nancy peeled off the soiled glove and inspected her ragged, bleeding thumbnail. “I thought it was important that you prove we’re not Mormons.”
Mr. Grimes murmured without looking up, “It’s not.”
Nancy sucked the tip of her thumb, cleaning away the blood. “Well, I don’t really understand then. What will you say next, sir?”
The lawyer lowered the paper, his face creased with impatience. “The facts, madam. I will convey the legal facts. Now please cease and desist with that infernal fidgeting.”
Henry bristled with insult. “Sir!”
Nancy petted his knee. “Never mind, dear, never mind.” Henry’s complexion was unhealthily red. A pulsing place close to his ear looked ready to burst. He could keel over dead here and now. Would that satisfy the bloodthirsty hellhounds?
Mr. Grimes put his ear to the courtroom door, listening for a moment, and turning back to Nancy. “Another point, Mrs. Oades. Please refrain from those constant sidelong glances in the courtroom. You look my way every two minutes, and not with confidence, madam. You appear guilty, like black sin personified. I find it very distracting.”
“I’ll try not to do it again,” said Nancy, detesting him completely.
Mr. Grimes offered his hand. Nancy reluctantly surrendered hers, which became sandwiched between his unpleasantly fleshy palms. “Try not to worry your pretty head, all right? Concern yourself with what you might prepare for supper this evening, why don’t you? Leave the rest to me.”
She pulled free of his mushy grip. “Promise me that my husband will be seated at the head of the table and I will do just that, sir.”
Mr. Grimes smiled indulgently, saying nothing.
Nancy pitied his wife if he had one.
BACK INSIDE the courtroom, Mr. Grimes stood as tall as his diminutive stature would allow and spoke to the judge in a clear monotone. “Six years ago, Mr. Oades was living in Wellington, on New Zealand’s North Island. One day, in the spring of 1892, without warning, indigenous peoples, with whom the English were at relative peace, attacked the Oades home while Mr. Oades was away.”
Henry bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“Mr. Oades returned to discover his home in ashes and his family gone. Human remains were found in the ruins. From this sad evidence, and from information gathered in the ensuing months, Mr. Oades was forced to accept the fact that his wife and children were dead.”
Nancy dipped her chin, overcome with sadness.
Mr. Grimes glanced down, frowning, running a finger down the page to find his place again. “Loath to remain amid the sorrowful memories, Mr. Oades left New Zealand and came to California, where he became a contributing member of our community. Earlier this year, Mr. Oades married Mrs. Nancy Foreland, a widow lady with a child.” Mr. Grimes paused to take a sip of water. “Mr. Oades presumed himself a widower. And rightfully, lawfully so. My clients’ marriage was valid then and it is valid now under the second subdivision of the sixty-first section of the civil code, which provides that the marri
age of a person having a former husband or wife living is void unless such former husband or wife was absent and not known to be living for five consecutive years preceding the subsequent marriage!”
The judge’s rimless spectacles rode down his shiny broken-veined beak. “Bring me the law.” A paper was handed to the bailiff. The judge snatched it up, standing, as did they all, making a great collective questioning noise about it. “We’ll resume in an hour,” he said, stalking off.
Mr. Grimes touched her elbow. “You may be seated now, Mrs. Oades. He’s left.”
Henry came around Mr. Grimes, pulling out Nancy’s chair. “Sit, darling.”
Nancy sat, dizzy with confusion, her ears ringing. Behind her a knot of angry spectators spewed curses. She and Henry would rot in hell. They’d burn for all eternity. Hanging was too good for them. From the back of the room came singing, “A mighty fortress is our God.” Nancy buried her face in a fold of her arms and tried in vain to drown them out with prayer. Please, God. Shut them up.
The off-key singing grew louder. A man shouted, “Look at the adulteress talking to herself! She’s mad, batty as a bedbug!” Someone, Henry or Mr. Grimes, patted her shoulder. Nancy went on praying, begging God for unconsciousness.
The judge returned, visibly angry. He didn’t bother to sit. “I have no choice but to dismiss. Court adjourned.”
A new din started up. Nancy raised her voice to be heard. “It’s over?”
“It’s over!” Mr. Grimes shouted. Above, in the balcony, a woman shrieked. Something red came flying over their heads. Nancy turned, ducking, narrowly avoiding the second tomato. Raw eggs were hurled, an apple core, a melon rind. She stooped and scooped up a rotten handful from the floor, preparing to return fire.
“Nan!” Henry caught her in a tight grip, squeezing her arms to her sides. Juices ran through her fingers, staining her skirt. “Come quickly, sweetheart. We’re going home now.”
Nancy stumbled forward numbly, her mind transporting her, giving her wings. The spectators were below her now. She stomped on their cruel, thick heads on the way out, not missing a single one.
CHRISTMAS CAME the following week. Only the duck was delivered. They’d ordered a bushel of oranges too, and sugared filberts, candles, potatoes, coffee, and brandy. There’d been a long list of special things. Nancy could not recall what all now. They’d ordered most of it months ago, from various merchants. None of it came.
“We have the main feature at least,” said Margaret, kneading dough for her apple crumble. The duck had been left in a basket out by the gate. The butcher’s boy hadn’t even come to the door to collect his holiday dime.
“The lad didn’t want to be seen on the pariah’s doorstep,” said Margaret, laughing to herself.
“I don’t find it one bit amusing,” said Nancy, sampling Margaret’s simmering cider. The duck was soaking in milk to draw out the strong taste. He was a big one, with nice fat breasts. “We deserve to be left alone just as much as the next law-abiding person.”
“We do,” said Margaret. Gertrude let out a contented noise. The baby stood inside her crate, clinging to the rim. She’d taken her first wobbly steps recently, making Nancy deliriously proud.
“Those were my exact words to Henry last night,” said Nancy. “I’m not asking for the moon with a fence around it, I said. I simply want a little peace and quiet.”
“And?”
“And he agreed wholeheartedly. He promised to have the roof and chimney repaired, the butchering shed and privy rebuilt. If there’s time we’ll give the house a fresh coat. I said you and I could paint the first floor ourselves.”
“We could,” said Margaret.
“And then so long, farewell, and adios, as my daddy used to say. Let Beelzebub himself buy the place. Won’t that be a glorious day?”
Margaret nodded. “It will indeed.”
AN HOUR LATER, Nancy pulled the limp duck from its soak and gently dried it all over, vaguely recalling her mother cautioning not to bruise the breast. She minced celery to go inside, mixing it with sage leaves, mace, and nutmeg. She was feeling less melancholy by now. It was Christmas after all, her first with Henry. There was a hot festive smell in the air. Margaret began humming “Jingle Bells” under her breath. Nancy joined in, entertaining Gertrude. They were as merry as regular people until Nancy reached inside the duck and pulled out a trio of dead mice. They were pink-pawed babies, tied together with bright red ribbon. Nancy flung the bound vermin across the room, gray fur clinging to her sweating palm. They hit the wall, breaking apart, holiday ribbon fluttering. “Jesus,” she breathed, pumping water, washing her hands. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”
Margaret pitched the duck and the mice out the back door. The mean brown dogs came running, barking excitedly. Margaret stepped back inside, wrapping herself in the old wool shawl, and taking the small ax hanging next to the door. “We’ll have a pullet,” she said. “It’ll be every bit as good.”
Gertrude fell back on her diapered rump and began a hiccupy cry. Margaret set the ax aside and went to her, plucking the baby from her crate.
“What if I hadn’t planned a stuffing?” said Nancy. “What if I’d cooked the duck plain, come to the table proud as a peacock, having roasted the mice to a perfect turn? Our first Christmas! And what do I put before my husband? Piping hot rodents!”
“Please do stop,” said Margaret, suppressing a smile.
“It’s no laughing matter!”
Martha came in, bug-eyed curious. Gertrude wailed on. Nancy took the ax and went into the cold yard alone, terrifying dogs be damned. She meant to kill something. The ugly mongrels would be wise to keep their distance.
A True Wife
MARGARET AWOKE sticky-tongued and confused, still in the throes of a disturbing dream. Martha was pressed close, bony knees drawn up, jabbing the small of Margaret’s back. Martha complained regularly of having to sleep in the middle. It’s the lot of the youngest, Margaret told her. They’d have the bed to themselves soon enough, once Josephine married and left the nest. That hadn’t been good enough for the little miss. She’d suggested rotating every third week. The situation wasn’t democratic, she’d said. Democratic. Margaret had no idea where she got it.
She pushed gently. Martha rolled into snoring Josephine, who opened one cranky eye and gave a shove. Pheeny was bleeding for the first time, which made Margaret feel impossibly old. Margaret had prepared her, refraining from calling it curse or blessing. Her big girl knew all about cramps and pins and rags, but was still incredulously indignant when it came. As if she’d figured herself exempt somehow.
The dream had begun as a familiar one. It was dark. An open window allowed a breeze. She was naked beneath thick soft blankets with Henry, or a Henry hybrid. There was something of Captain Fisk in the man, as well as someone else she couldn’t identify. They were kissing as usual, quite passionately. And here the dream typically ended. This time there was sudden light, horribly harsh and glaring. The man saw her face and was incensed. He began hitting her over and over, bellowing that she’d tricked him. She was shouting, It is I! It is I! But he went on beating and berating her. Margaret blamed the New Year’s eggnog for the nightmare. One of Henry’s eggnogs would intoxicate a rhinoceros. They’d all had two.
Today was the first of January 1900. Time had run out on the year and century both. Last week, on Christmas morning, Henry presented Margaret with a handsome calendar.
“Just a token,” he’d said shyly.
“But I’ve nothing for you.”
She’d given plenty, he’d said, or words to that effect. From Nancy she received a length of Duchess lace. “To smarten up your good dress, Margaret.” Margaret accepted the gifts into her lap and made an appropriate fuss. Of course they hadn’t intended to make her feel small.
She’d spent the last of her wages earned on board the Golden State months ago, at the Palace Hotel, proudly insisting on paying a share of the bill. Nancy had been too inebriated to notice the five-dollar note, and
Margaret had been too inebriated to think prudently and ask for change. The money might have gone toward a reciprocal token of her own—handkerchiefs for Henry, gloves for Nancy, something of that nature. Instead she’d sat like a side of cold mutton, unable to contribute so much as a halfpenny sweet.
A true wife needed no purse of her own. She more than earned her allowance. But Margaret was not a true wife anymore. She resided in a peculiar limbo all her own. She’d considered hiring herself out as tutor or nanny, contemplated putting up seasonal jams, knitting booties and caps. The knitting idea had her spinning for days. She’d gone as far as designing a fancy label—her initials done in a monkish script, flanked by two winged sprites. It turned out rather nice, vaguely French. She’d shown the drawing to Martha, but to no one else. The entire idea was naturally ludicrous. She’d have no clientele, not here, not now. She had no choice but to wait until they arrived at the new place. Henry saw to the children’s needs, so she didn’t require much, just a small stipend of her own to hoard or squander as she saw fit.
Margaret slipped out of bed without waking her girls and went down the dark stairs to the kitchen. She scooped out the ashes and put on more wood. John was already gone, up and at his chores. He’d taken to this hardworking life as if born to it. Henry called John his right-hand man. Not a whisker on the lad’s chin! Still, his own mother could not deny the obvious. He was nearly eighteen. And Pheeny was bleeding. How impossible to have two so close to grown. She wondered if Henry had considered John’s tainted future. Eligible girls would not be queuing up to vie for the Mormon’s son’s attention. Margaret could not bear the thought of her son compromising, marrying a promiscuous guttersnipe the likes of Dora McGinnis. He would not resign himself to a bookish bachelorhood, that much was certain. He had already demonstrated his abject weakness there, with wanton Dora herself. Would that not be a feather in her slatternly cap? She’d have John jumping through flaming hoops simply because she could. And her randy son would gladly leap, of course. Off he’d go, with Josephine and Martha following like dominos. They’d leave, as she herself had, as all normal children do eventually, for good. Then Gerty would go. Good God, how would it be then, with just the three of them? What if Nancy were to die first? Would she and Henry come together in their dotage? Tears sprang to Margaret’s eyes, recalling his embrace the night he was told about her mum and dad. She’d relived the brief encounter a thousand times since. Stop it, she told herself. Enough of this now. She blotted her eyes on a dish towel. Her brain was a maudlin hodgepodge this morning, thanks to the eggnog. It would be a long while before she had another.
The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel Page 25
