The Wives of Henry Oades (31 page)

A True Wife

M
ARGARET 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.

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

A
S 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?

T
HEY 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 fall 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.