She put the kettle on for tea. They’d been without coffee for more than a fortnight now.
Ten minutes later, Nancy came down, looking at odds with the universe. She was dressed for the day, wearing the winter house frock, a brown checked wool that looked on its second seam in places. Her engorged bosom strained at the fabric. “The water’s boiling.”
“And a very good morning to you, too, Nancy.”
Nancy sat, drumming on the table. “Where are the eggs?”
Margaret moved the kettle and collected the tea things. “I’ve not been out yet.”
Nancy came to her feet, snatching the egg basket from its peg. “I’ll just do it myself.”
“Are you having your monthly?”
Nancy snapped, “No.”
Margaret turned from the stove, holding the kettle in a dish towel. Nancy was on the brink of tears. “The eggs can wait. Let’s have a cup.”
Nancy pulled out the chair and sat hard, like a sulky tot in need of a sugar tit. “My monthly hasn’t come in a while.”
Margaret set down the kettle. “Do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
Margaret had been thrilled to learn from John that Gerty wasn’t Henry’s. She’d taken great pride in being the only mother to his children.
Nancy looked at Margaret. “I haven’t been sick, not even once.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“I still could be?”
Margaret brought two cups, tea sloshing at the rims. “Yes.” She sat down beside Nancy and patted her cold hand, a mix of jealousy and sadness stirring. Without tangible proof, Margaret was typically able to banish unwanted thoughts, images of her husband and Nancy making love. “Does Henry know?”
Nancy’s eyes filled with watery anguish. “No. I didn’t think there was anything to tell.”
Once, a long time ago in England, when Margaret was overdue with Josephine, Henry, in an attempt to cheer, popped into their room naked as a robin, and danced an Irish jig. A neighbor’s maid caught him. “Draw yer curtains,” she’d yelled from below. “I see yer old bum!”
“What’s so funny, Margaret?”
“Not a thing,” said Margaret, shaking her head. She took her shawl from the back of the chair and swathed Nancy in it. “You should tell him. He’ll want to be in on it from the start.”
“I suppose,” said Nancy. “I still don’t know for sure myself.”
“I tended to know straight off,” said Margaret.
Nancy slurped noisily, her loose scraggly hair falling forward. She muttered something about Margaret being an expert at it.
“I was fortunate that way,” said Margaret, standing. “I’ll fetch the eggs. You stay in, drink your tea. It’ll settle you.”
Nancy spoke to her cup. “Did you ever consider taking measures to reverse your fortune?”
“Never.” Margaret had heard of desperate mothers. She was aware of herbal concoctions, of long carriage rides over hilly terrain, the use of toilet articles, hairpins and combs, knives and knitting needles. “What are you considering, Nancy?”
Nancy picked absentmindedly at a blemish. Blood appeared on her chin. She licked her finger and smeared a red circle. “It was terrifying last time. The pain was terrible. Nobody told me how bad it would be. I kept screaming for Francis.” She looked up at Margaret. “I’d never felt so alone in my life.”
Margaret sat again. “You won’t be alone this time.” The midwife’s carriage had gotten stuck in the mud. Mary had already come by the time she arrived. Martha was on the way. “You’ll have Henry.”
“I know,” said Nancy, nodding, rubbing her belly. “I didn’t mean what I said about…you know. It’s not the poor baby’s fault.”
Henry had held slippery Mary in his two big hands, staring down in ecstatic wonder. It was a sight few wives get to witness, a transformation Margaret would never forget.
“And you’ll have me,” she said softly. “If you need me.”
Elsewhere
AS HEAVY AS SHE WAS, Nancy felt lighter than down. It was official. They were leaving. It was only a matter of selling the farm for the best price. Henry didn’t even say right or fair price anymore, just best.
Several well-to-do gentlemen had come out to look. Recently, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, a professor from the university rode up with his wife. Nancy spent a full hour giving Mrs. Meyer a tour of the house. The lady admired her clean kitchen aloud and fingered the lace curtains on the sly, clearly interested.
“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” Henry said afterward. “Professor Meyer said he wanted to sleep on it.”
“That’s just something men say,” said Nancy. “His wife will have the last word, you’ll see. She’s that type.”
They’d talked about other places. Henry suggested Colorado Springs, where a good many British had settled. (Nancy had said no to Colorado without explanation, feeling outnumbered enough as it was.) Henry also mentioned Los Angeles, where oil had opened up all sorts of opportunities. It was much warmer there, he said, more healthful.
“I only wish to see you content and thriving, darling girl,” he said.
“I will be,” said Nancy. “The moment we’re gone from here.”
They ultimately agreed upon San Francisco, a world away, and just across the bay.
To be elsewhere when this baby was born was all Nancy asked for.
A boy this time. She’d put good money on it. The hair on her legs was unusually coarse. He lay high (yet another sign) and quietly. Gertrude had thrashed without letup from the get-go. This baby was amazingly considerate, sleeping when she slept, moving with her rather than against her. Nancy had come to love him in a way she hadn’t known was possible.
Henry was beside himself with happiness. He caressed her belly late at night, speaking to their son, telling him how courageous his mum was, how kind and lovely. The little conversations might be the reason for the baby’s quietude. Gertrude had received no such gentleness. Nancy had wept and retched the entire time with her, which probably caused her rebellion. The womb would have been a tumultuous place for her little girl. And yet Gertrude seemed to hold none of it against her now. Margaret said just the other day, “See how her eyes light up when you come in.”
Nancy was dead set on making amends. That is not to say she planned on spoiling her children rotten. She’d be every bit as strict as the next mother, as strict as Margaret herself. But she would also read with them nightly, as Margaret did with hers. She would pay close attention, remember every birthday. This she solemnly vowed. Gertrude need never know how her mother once was.
Today was the big shopping day. Nancy and Margaret were on their way to the ferry dock at last, with John driving. The blue sky dazzled. Nancy bounced along, feeling extravagantly weighty, and proud of it for a change.
They needed traveling bags, and at least one sturdy trunk. Gloves and shoes were on the list, and a big jar of Pond’s extract to replace the jar that had broken. Her complexion had gone from bad to worse since the earthquake. Forget what they say about a glowing mother-to-be. She was as radiant as a warty toad. They also needed foodstuffs to see them to moving day. The local merchants couldn’t be trusted after the mice.
They expected to find everything they needed at the Emporium in San Francisco. Nancy had read that if a product wasn’t sold there, it didn’t exist. She and Margaret were both keyed up, having waited like impatient children for nearly a month. The butchering was going on, and the men were moving the fodder from the fields to the barnyard. John could not be spared for the longest time.
She’d wheedled. “Let Margaret drive us.”
Henry refused to budge. “I won’t have you going down to the docks unescorted. It isn’t safe.”
“But it’s perfectly safe for us to be roaming the streets of San Francisco unescorted, I suppose.” That had started him worrying all over again. She’d come this close to forfeiting the trip altogether with the stupid remark.
> Margaret claimed she needed nothing, which wasn’t true. She needed shoes too, as did Josephine and Martha. They all needed winter hats. Nancy wanted pipe tobacco for Henry, drawers and a decent suit for John. And newspapers. The paper was once the highlight of Henry’s evening. He’d canceled the subscription after the last editorial. The Gazette wrote that something needed to be done about the Oades family, that the law had been made a mockery of, that the three were thumbing their noses at decent society. The press was determined not to let the matter drop. To the devil with the lot of them, Henry said last night.
John flicked the whip lightly and Bonnie picked up the pace. Beside John lay a bouquet of yellow field flowers, dirt and roots still clinging. Margaret adjusted her collar and blanket and leaned forward. “Lovely posies,” she said.
John murmured, “They’re all right.”
Margaret cleared her throat and spoke up. “Who might the fortunate recipient be?”
“Father allowed me the afternoon off.”
“You deserve it, son. And how shall you spend it?”
John shrugged, saying nothing.
“Not with Dora McGinnis, I hope,” said Margaret.
John rubbed the back of his neck.
“I say,” said Margaret, raising her voice. “Not with Dora McGinnis, I hope.”
“She’s a lovely girl,” said John.
“She’s anything but,” said Margaret, her thin gloved hands working with agitation. Poor John hunched over, a grown man’s scowl creasing his forehead.
Nancy whispered to Margaret. “Let it be.”
Margaret hissed back, loud enough for John to hear. “I suppose you’d like to see a son of yours take up with that sort.”
John picked up the limp bouquet and threw it to the ground.
Margaret had him stop the buggy. She climbed down and walked the few yards back, gathering the scattered flowers as she went. She shook the flowers, as if to restore them, and offered the bunch to John.
“Forgive me,” she said, blinking in the bright sunlight. He accepted the flowers without comment, straightening through the shoulders. And that was that.
On the ferry, Margaret said, “I went too far. He’ll go and make an honest woman of her if only to prove me wrong.”
Nancy said, “Should I have Henry speak to him?”
“Perish the thought, Nancy.” Margaret asked to see the shopping list again, her way of changing the subject. Nancy brought out the list, sniffing at the briny air.
“One thing about San Francisco, it smells so fishy everywhere.”
“No place on earth offends as highly as Berkeley,” said Margaret.
From the ferry terminal they went by private carriage to the Emporium on Market Street. Once arrived, the driver came around to the door and assisted them down, treating them like royalty, warning them to mind their backs and watch their purses. The little kindnesses warmed Nancy. She’d forgotten how gentle strangers who don’t know your business could be. She fumbled in her bag and took out an extra nickel for him. He bowed and offered to return for them at three.
The Emporium was jam-packed with red-faced customers and a staggering amount of merchandise. Booths stretched in every direction, all decorated with colorful signs, loud banners, and bunting. It was hectic, exciting, noisy, and confusing. Nancy and Margaret linked arms, zigzagging down one drafty corridor after another, spotting the high-top lace-ups on the fourth or fifth turn. “There,” said Nancy, pointing. “Aren’t they perfect?”
The salesman said she had impeccable taste. “Notice the smart stacked heel,” he said, turning the shoe. Nancy ordered two pair, one in brown, and one in black. She was about to do the same for Margaret, but Margaret wouldn’t hear of it.
“They’re much too dear,” she said, stubborn as a mule as usual. “They’re priced well above their proper value.”
Nancy argued. “They’re only three dollars. I saw a pair just like them in the catalog, only not as nice, selling for three twenty-five.”
“A pair each for the girls,” said Margaret. “Mine will do a while longer.”
“Suit yourself,” said Nancy, scribbling out shipping instructions for the clerk, ordering two pair for all four of them. She purchased hats and gloves in the same surreptitious manner. Margaret desperately needed the things, Lord knows. Those raggedy patched shoes of hers looked as if they’d been to Hades and back on unpaved roads. Nancy wondered if she’d always been so tight, or had the Maw-ree done something to make her that way?
THEY FOUND every last item on their list and were leaving the Emporium, headed for the restaurant they’d spotted earlier, when the baby booth caught Nancy’s eye. “Oh, Margaret, look!”
Nancy lifted the porcelain display baby from its cradle. It wore a delicate lacy gown and tiny shoes, and an impractical bib trimmed in eyelet, the likes of which Gertrude had never worn, having started out life in yellowed donations. Gertrude hadn’t known the difference, but Nancy certainly had. She selected a christening gown and matching cap for the new baby, some precious fleecy stockings, and a wooden duck pull toy for Gertrude. It was half past three before they were on their way again. Nancy assumed the driver had come and gone, that they’d have a leisurely supper and then hire another cab later. But he was waiting at the curb, looking angry. He opened the door to the carriage and let down the steps.
Nancy started up, clumsy-footed and resentful. “You had your heart set on steak and kidney pie,” she said.
“Next time,” said Margaret. “We shall have opportunity galore in the future. Besides, we had quite the hearty breakfast, didn’t we?”
“That was hours and hours ago. I’m famished.”
“Well, then,” said Margaret, extending her hand, assisting Nancy down. “We shan’t be requiring your services after all,” she said to the driver.
He clutched his whip in a menacing way. “You owe me.”
“Let me give him something,” said Nancy, nervous, her fingers stiff on the clasp of her change purse.
“No more than a nickel,” said Margaret.
“A dollar,” he barked. “Half a buck for the ride, another half for waiting.”
Margaret gasped. “Put away your purse, Nancy. Don’t give this extortive blackguard the first stiver!”
His jowly face darkened. “What did you call me?”
Margaret took Nancy by the elbow and turned her about, steering her into the crowd. She had them scurrying like guilty thieves, weaving at such a clip.
“I’m going to the cops,” the driver yelled, just as they rounded the corner.
Nancy heard a piercing whistle and glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a squadron of police bearing down. She and Margaret turned another corner and ducked into a diner, a greasy dive. The fry cook waved his spatula toward a booth. Nancy slid close to the grimy window, eyeing the brutish men at the bar. “Henry would have a seizure if he knew we were here,” she said, and started to laugh. “Why am I so chickenhearted? So what if that hack called the cops? Would they have put us in jail for changing our minds?”
Margaret mopped her perspiring forehead. “Bullies,” she said. “The world abounds with them.”
“Well, they’re not going to get the best of me anymore,” said Nancy, reading the chalkboard specials on the wall. “I’m in the mood for a great big porterhouse and steam beer.” Hunger and confidence always seemed to go together somehow.
“I wish I might contribute,” said Margaret, when the bill came.
“You’re not expected to contribute,” said Nancy, counting the coins in her purse.
Margaret shifted her gaze toward the window. “Still.”
“It doesn’t matter, Margaret.”
“It does though, Nancy. I feel like a child.”
They seemed to be talking about something else now. Nancy wasn’t sure what. “I only meant you weren’t expected to contribute money. You most certainly contribute. My goodness! You contribute more than I do, I’m ashamed to admit. The household would fal
l to pieces without you. I mean it sincerely.” Margaret looked unconvinced. Nancy pushed the change purse toward her. “I’m not Madam Ruby at the Texas state fair. I can’t read your mind, you know. Do you want to be the one to pay the man? Is that it?”
Margaret pushed the purse back. “No, that’s not it.”
The baby inside was protesting the fatty porterhouse. “Well, I’m at a loss then.”
“Are you feeling unwell, Nancy?”
“I have a little indigestion,” said Nancy. Margaret went to the counter packed with loudmouthed men and brought back a Bromo Seltzer in a dirty glass. Nancy closed her eyes and drank, forgiving Margaret her peculiar ways.
THEY ARRIVED in Berkeley just before dark. John saw them stepping off the ferry and came running.
“Father’s been arrested again,” he said. “They took him off to jail.”
For a frantic half moment Nancy couldn’t recall Henry’s face, and then he suddenly stood illuminated in her mind, his every pore and whisker vividly defined. This is what it meant to truly go crazy, she thought.
“Take us to him,” she said.
Something Demonic
MARGARET COULD NOT HELP but recoil at the stench emanating from the walls of the jail, a horrible combination of mold and feces. Henry rose from his cot. “I instructed you to take them straight home,” he said to John.
The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel Page 26
