The Wives of Henry Oades (20 page)

“My God,” he said.

John straightened through the shoulders. “Father?” Henry and John advanced toward each other, meeting in a powerful slapping embrace. Margaret wept openly at the sight. The baby inside was wailing now.
He had another family.
The sick circumstances wrapped about her hot and tight. She’d never once considered the possibility.

A Fly in the
Amber

N
ANCY’S HUSBAND
looked as if he’d suffered a sharp blow to the head. The woman, his heretofore dead wife, appeared no less stunned. Nancy approached her as she might a ghost, apologizing. “Forgive my atrocious manners earlier, ma’am. I thought you were someone else.”

Nancy left it at that, unable to explain herself, confess that she’d mistaken Mrs. Oades for a Gypsy crone at first. West Berkeley teemed with those scary people. She took the woman’s rickety arm, blurting, “Where have you been all this time?” The woman freed herself, rubbing her arm, blinking, as if bothered by sun or sty, saying nothing. Nancy was sorry she’d asked. It was a bad habit of hers, speaking before thinking. The poor woman had enough to contend with. That ravaged complexion, good Lord, and the dejection in those sore-looking eyes. She was a living, breathing heartbreak.

The little girl was the least intimidating of the four. Nancy beckoned to her. “Come inside, why don’t you.” The dog-eared family exchanged reluctant looks. “Let’s all go inside where it’s nice and cool. What do you say? There’s lavender lemonade.” It wasn’t much in the way of comfort, but it was all she could think to do just then.

Mr. Oades came forward with his arm around the boy. They were nearly the same height. “John Oades,” he said, introducing his son to Nancy, his voice quivering with emotion. He turned to the older girl, touching her cheek. “Pheeny, sweetheart. I cannot believe my eyes.” The mud-plain girl curtsied, blushing behind a hectic constellation of brown freckles and pockmarks. “Please, Meg,” he said to the woman. “Come inside now.”

Mute Mrs. Oades lifted her chin and allowed herself to be escorted up the porch steps. Already Nancy felt her own world shrinking. This woman would fill every corner with her unhappiness.

“Well,” said Nancy, once inside the narrow vestibule. It didn’t matter which way she turned her head, the woman’s steely eyes cut right through her. “Well, well.”

The littlest girl asked, “Where are we to sleep?”

“You’ll sleep upstairs,” said Nancy. “You’ll have a nice big room, with a nice big bed, with a crocheted spread. Say now, I made a rhyme, didn’t I?”

The little girl nodded solemnly. They needed baths, the boy most of all. And with her sheets just off the line. But where else would they sleep? Of course they’d stay. For the time being, at least. You don’t send kin away when they’ve only just arrived.

Mr. Oades squatted on his haunches, putting himself face-to-face with the little one. He’d come from the pigs and smelled as if he’d danced a waltz with them. His odor didn’t seem to bother the child. She actually had the temerity to bob forward and touch her nose to his. The strange gesture filled Mr. Oades’s eyes with tears. He stroked her hair gingerly, reverently, as if he were stroking fine silk. “Baby girl,” he murmured.

“Martha,” said Mrs. Oades, speaking at last.

Henry looked up at her. “And Mary?”

“Gone,” Mrs. Oades whispered.

“Mary died,” the child said. “She was my twin sister.”

Mr. Oades glanced up again. “In the fire?”

Martha piped up before Mrs. Oades could respond. “She couldn’t breathe where she was.” Here in the failing light, at the base of the stairs, Mr. Oades buried his face in his hands and wept. Nancy touched his shoulder briefly, feeling the stony woman’s resentful breath on her neck, imagining at the same time some chippie’s hands on Francis. But that was not a fair comparison. Mrs. Oades was supposed to be dead and buried.
She
, not Nancy, was the out-of-place fly in the amber.

Mr. Oades composed himself and stood, the same stricken look on his face. Nancy couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking. “Meg and the girls will sleep upstairs,” he said. “We’ll give John the maid’s room.”

“What about Dora?” said Nancy.

“I’ll go anywhere, Dad,” said John.

“We’ll send Dora home for the time being,” said Mr. Oades.

“We can’t do that,” said Nancy. “Her father beats her regularly. Let’s have John sleep on the davenport. It’s comfortable enough.” She spoke to the woman’s mismatched shoelaces. “Will that be all right with you?”

“Whatever you decide, madam,” she said, her voice flat as a fritter.

Nancy felt for her. How could she bear to stay?

“Show the ladies upstairs,” she said to Mr. Oades. “Then fill the water pitcher and put out the rose petal soap. I’ll see about refreshments. I assume they’ve had their main meal by now.”

“We haven’t, miss,” said Martha.

Mrs. Oades shook the child’s shoulder. “Please don’t go to any bother,” she said.

The older girl continued to glare. One look in the mirror would cure her. Nancy gestured toward the stairs. “The sheets are fresh. Just off the line.”

Mr. Oades led Mrs. Oades and her daughters up to the spare room, Nancy’s future sewing room only an hour ago.

Nancy brought John into the kitchen, not knowing what else to do with him. She introduced him to Dora, whispering for fear of waking Gertrude, who lay inside a blanketed crate on the floor. She’d all but forgotten her baby’s existence in the bedlam.

Dora and John exchanged shy hellos, and the girl went back to oiling the tabletop.

“Our guests haven’t eaten,” said Nancy. “We’ll be five…no we’ll be six.” She hadn’t counted herself. “How about warming up this noon’s fricassee. Are there any more dumplings? No? Well, make a batch of quick biscuits, please, and take down a jar of strawberry jam. All right? And please be quiet about it, hear? Please, please, please, don’t wake the baby.”

Nancy went to Gertrude.

John came up behind. “What’s its name?”

“Gertrude Foreland, soon to be Gertrude Oades. Your father’s preparing the papers. Why do you look surprised…oh, I see, you thought…well, no. I was married to another gentleman, Mr. Foreland, Gertrude’s natural father. He passed before she was born.”

“My condolences, ma’am.”

“And mine for your sister, John.”

He bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Oades. Nancy liked him already. A man needed a son. All by himself, John would make a welcome addition to the household.

T
HE SIX GATHERED
in the back room. In addition to the fricassee and biscuits, there were pickled beets and eggs, and some sweet lettuce from the garden, cooked in bacon. So the meal itself turned out fine. Grace was said. Henry thanked the Lord for the safe return of
our
loved ones, intending to include Nancy in the reunion, she supposed. He picked at his second dinner, looking at his children with wonderment, asking finally, “What happened?”

“We were taken by Maori,” said John.

Mr. Oades nodded, as if he’d known all along.

“How awful,” said Nancy. She thought to ask what a
maw-ree
was, but held back for a change.

Mrs. Oades spoke to her plate. “I wrote to you in detail, Henry.”

Mr. Oades shook his head. “I never received a letter.”

Martha said, “We looked for you everywhere, Dad.”

Tears glistened in Mr. Oades’s brown eyes. “Oh, baby girl. I’m so sorry.”

“Oscar’s dad stayed!” said the older girl, accusingly.

“That’s quite enough, Pheeny,” said Mrs. Oades, laying down her fork.

Nancy glanced her way. Mrs. Oades met her eyes for an instant and then looked away again. The greatest hatred is silent. Nancy’s father once said so.

After the meal they retired to the front sitting room, Nancy’s favorite room, Francis’s room. She spent many an hour alone here, speaking to Francis aloud, polishing his jar and the pedestal it sat upon. Dora knew when to stay away.

Mrs. Oades noticed the ginger jar immediately. She stepped up to the marble pedestal with an outstretched hand. Nancy thought she was about to seize the jar. “Please be careful, Mrs. Oades. It’s old, easily broken.”

Mrs. Oades withdrew, looking at Mr. Oades, her eyes narrowing. He sat her in his reading chair, murmuring “sorry” and something else Nancy didn’t catch. Nancy took her place on the settee, wondering why he’d apologized. The children went to the davenport and sat wordlessly, three wan chicks on a roost.

“We want you to make yourself at home, Mrs. Oades,” said Nancy.

Mrs. Oades stiffened visibly. “It’s a bit difficult under the circumstances,
Mrs. Oades.
”

What was Nancy supposed to do about the circumstances? Did the woman expect her to simply pack up her sickly baby, leave her husband, and go join the Gypsies?

“It’s a peculiar situation I agree, but what can we do?” Nancy was babbling now. She heard her desperate-sounding self. “There’s no one to blame. We must play the hand we’ve been dealt, as my daddy used to say.”

Mrs. Oades looked at her children with such a forlorn expression, tucking a stray strand behind an ear. Her hair was gray and thin; the scalp showed in places.

Nancy tried again. “The children have been reunited with their father. You’re glad for that much at least, aren’t you?”

“I am,” said Mrs. Oades. “Of course I am.”

“Well, all right then,” said Nancy. “That’s a good start.” Mr. Oades sat down beside her, less close than he normally would. “We’ll figure things out, Mrs. Oades.” Nancy didn’t know what she was saying. She had no answers, no idea of how to satisfactorily figure things out. “Don’t you worry. It doesn’t all have to be thought of today. Let’s sleep on it. The children have had a long day. We’ve all had a long day. Let’s turn in early. What do you say?”

Mrs. Oades was on her feet before Nancy finished speaking, looking as if she couldn’t be up the stairs fast enough.

H
ENRY STOOD TOO
, his confounded gaze fixed high above the heads of both wives. His son was nearly a man. His baby was a little girl he shouldn’t know, but somehow did. He felt snatched from a dream, having his beautiful children before him, the betrayal overtly displayed in Josephine’s stiff posture, in her cold denunciative eyes. He’d replaced their mother. There was little a father might do to cause greater harm.

A Start

U
PSTAIRS
, M
ARGARET
and her girls looked at one another and commenced undressing in silence. Margaret had never before worn the delicate nightgown given to her in the hospital. She’d kept the lovely garment in the original tissue, saving it for this night.

“You look like a bride, Mum,” said Martha, stroking Margaret’s sleeve, obviously trying to cheer her.

They got into bed, Margaret taking the outside. She wet her fingers and pinched out the flame. “He’s still your same dad,” she said in the dark. “Nothing’s changed there.”

Josephine said bitterly, “You’re his
true
wife.”

“He thought we’d passed,” said Margaret. “He was horribly sad, dreadfully lonely. Let us sleep now.”

Her girls drifted off. Next to them, Margaret tried to stay still. He clearly adored the woman, the
girl.
There was no getting around it. No getting around either the dry pounding in her ears, or the voices heard on the stairs, his and his wife’s, the murmur fading as they neared their room down the hall.
Mr. Oades
, she called him. As if addressing the King of Egypt, as if she hardly knew him.

Toward morning Margaret slept, waking when the hammering started below, unsure of her whereabouts for a muddy half-moment. Her girls were gone, their frocks missing from the pegs. Light flooded in through the sheer curtains. It had to be late, far too late to make a reasonable appearance. She lay with her thoughts for a time, considering and rejecting a return to England. She’d spent years building up Henry, creating a near deity in the children’s impressionable minds. The cruelest, most selfish mother wouldn’t spirit them off now. John might even elect to stay. That she couldn’t tolerate.

And how was she to explain the wretched situation? Telling her parents about the girl in a letter would be difficult enough. Facing them with the news would be next to impossible. They revered Henry, especially her mother. They would turn on him out of loyalty, alleviating nothing. Worse, they would drown Margaret in pity. It would be unbearable.

She rose and made the bed, moving slowly, bumping into things, smoothing the crocheted spread, patting the pillows, wasting time. She did not know what to do or where to go.

At the window, still in her nightdress, she saw John carrying lumber toward the house. He wore rough work clothes, Henry’s, no doubt. He looked up and waved. She returned his wave and dropped her hand. An hour passed, two perhaps. The hammering downstairs continued, stopping at intervals and starting up again. The hacking baby could be heard from time to time. Margaret’s back ached from standing in one spot, the pain fanning down both legs and up into her neck. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to move away, sit, or lie down. The place was lovely, with long green views and flowering trees. She might have adapted to Berkeley, America. She might have gotten on quite nicely here.

The room was furnished with bed, rocker, a washstand and table, but nothing of a personal nature, no doilies or books, not even a clock. She heard Henry on the stairs, the clomp too heavy to be one of the children or his spurious wife, and guessed it to be noon. He knocked once and the deranged bird that was her heart began flapping in her chest.

“Are you all right in there?”

“Yes.” The door wasn’t locked. The besotted buzzard could easily enter and take her in his arms, say he was sorry, so very sorry, and vow to fix things straightaway. “Come in.”

He cracked the door, taking two steps inside and coming no farther. She remained by the window, the light pouring in, silhouetting her nakedness beneath the gown. She made no move to cover herself. She’d overcome modesty early on in marriage and had no intention of returning to it now. He was her husband. He had every right to look.

“You missed breakfast,” he said. “You must be famished.”

“I’m not.”

He looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept. She hoped he hadn’t. She hoped he’d suffered a long and torturous night as she had. He lowered his eyes. “I’d thought you gone.”

She blinked. “I’m not.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a familiar gesture of helplessness. His hair was silver at the edges now. Maturity became him. He was as handsome as ever, more so, perhaps. “I looked everywhere.”

“Not everywhere, Henry,” she said.

He looked up. “I’m sorry. Lord, Meg. I’m sorry.”

She held his gaze. “How do you plan to right things?”

He took a step closer. “I don’t know. But you needn’t worry.”

She felt a little flutter behind her ribs, a stir of hope. “I needn’t?”

“I shall do right by you and the children.”

“How so precisely?”

He threw up his hands. “By providing for you, of course, sweetheart!”

Sweetheart.
Her stoic resolve broke. Margaret bowed her head and wept. Henry came to her, tears standing in his eyes. He touched her shoulder, creating such a surge of love in her. Her husband and children were all she wanted on this earth. Nothing more. Only that. He pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Please don’t cry.” All wrongs could be righted here and now if he’d take her in his arms and hold her. But he did not.

He offered instead a cup of tea. “I could have a tray sent up.”

Margaret shook her head, unable to speak or look at him.

He touched her arm again, briefly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. There was a pause. “You need to eat something, Meg.”

Feed the gaping wound, give it tea.
She looked at him then, with a desire to laugh, an urge to slap him hard, an impulse to throw off the gown and give her whole self to him.

“I’m all right, Henry. Just go now, please.” He did.

S
HE WAITED OUT
the dinner hour, then dressed and started down the back staircase. It took a lifetime to descend.

In the chaotic kitchen she found Josephine and Martha just out of the tub, with wet hair pulled back, sleek and plaited. They sat at the table, hands clasped in their laps, somber angels in a stranger’s house. “You’ve bathed.” Why did her clean children shock her, offend and shame her?

The stocky young maid, Dora, turned from a sink full of crockery with a bemused look on her face. Henry’s wife paced the floorboards, bouncing her miserable raspy baby on a damp shoulder. She was quite pretty, even in her blowzy state; there was no pretending otherwise.

“Well, good gravy,” she said. She had a strange, drawn-out accent, unlike other American accents Margaret had encountered. “Mercy, yes, they’ve bathed. I’m sure you’re dying to do the same, Mrs. Oades.” The baby coughed a rough cough directly into her red ear.

“Colic,” said Margaret, striving to maintain a calm façade for her children’s sake. “What’s being done for it?”

“Lately we’ve tried avocado juice,” said Henry’s wife.

Margaret stepped closer and peered at the baby, seeing Henry’s flat ears and feeling a pang of jealous sorrow. She could hardly fault the scrawny infant. “Has it done any good?”

“As you can plainly see and hear,” said his exasperated wife, “no.”

Margaret resisted the temptation to poke a finger and scrape out the baby’s caked left nostril. “May I suggest angelica root boiled in sugar?”

His wife heaved a sigh. “Nothing works. I’m at my wit’s end here. I’m thinking about trying a brandy cocktail.” She laughed a weary laugh. “On myself, not Gertrude.”

“Oh,” said Margaret, and twitched a smile. “I see.” She stroked the baby’s warm bald head. “A bit of honey perhaps. To coat the throat.”

His wife shifted the baby, staring down into its pink face. “I don’t think she likes me.”

“Of course she does. All babies like their mums.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Henry’s wife. “She may be the world’s first exception to the rule.” She grasped the baby beneath her arms and thrust her toward Margaret. “Would you take her, please? I’m way behind schedule.” Margaret had no choice but to accept the sour-smelling child. His wife flexed her free hands. “Dora and I were supposed to start the clothes soaking this morning. It’ll be the middle of next week before I get to the ironing now.”

“Put us to work,” said Margaret. “My girls and I are quite capable.”

“You’re company,” said his wife.

“We’re not.”

The baby squawked. His wife scowled and scratched some of the crust from the tiny nostril. “I never know what she wants. I never know what
anyone
wants.” She brushed a hand across her apologetic face. “Never mind me. I didn’t sleep a single wink last night.” She hesitated. “I’m sure you didn’t either, Mrs. Oades.”

Margaret walked to the kitchen door and back again, rocking the peevish baby, saying nothing. How absurd it was to be having this asinine conversation with her husband’s child bride.

His wife opened the door to the maid’s room. “Look what Mr. Oades and John built this morning. I don’t know what possessed them, really. The davenport isn’t all that lumpy. But then no one asked for my opinion.”

Margaret looked in, still jiggling the baby. A wall had been erected, another cot put in. There was a peg for John’s clothes, a tiny table, and a lamp.

“It’s not exactly the Palace Hotel,” his wife said.

“I’m sure John will be comfortable,” said Margaret.

“Mr. Oades is very grateful that you and the children have turned up alive,” said his wife. Her eyes were hazel with flecks of gold; they were clear and well spaced. She had all her teeth and an unblemished complexion. She was fleshy, though. Years hence, she’d no doubt turn fat, carry a bosom large enough to accommodate teacup and saucer. But for now the advantages of youth and health were hers to enjoy.

“I’m truly sorry for…for things, Mrs. Oades,” she went on. “But I don’t know what you expect me to do. Well, maybe I do know….”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” said Margaret, aware of Dora blatantly eavesdropping. She shifted her eyes toward Martha and Josephine. “Now wouldn’t be the time to discuss it, in any event.”

His wife sighed and held out her arms. “I’ll take her now.” Margaret returned the baby. “You don’t even want to try, Mrs. Oades.”

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“You don’t want to try and get along.”

“Really, Mrs. Oades. I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”

His wife rolled her eyes. “We can’t run around calling each other Mrs. Oades day and night. It’s too confusing, not to mention just plain unfriendly and dumb.”

“What do you suggest?”

“You’ll call me Nancy and I’ll call you Margaret.”

“As you wish,” said Margaret, surrendering to the unwanted intimacy.

His wife shook her head. “It’s a start, Margaret. We have to start someplace, don’t we?”

“I suppose,” said Margaret. Precisely what did this young imposter think they were
starting
?