The Wives of Henry Oades (10 page)

Berkeley

T
HE SAILOR IN CHARGE
of the animals allowed him to milk. “Sure, guv. She’s all yours.” During the final week at sea, Henry went to the animal pen twice daily. “They don’t care for surprises,” said the sailor. “Pick the side of her you prefer and stick to it.”

Henry chose the right side, resting his head against the warm agreeable flank as instructed. The stomachs gurgled in his ear. The cow chewed wetly, pissed hot streams, produced copious clods of yellow dung. By the third session he was milking with ease, falling a bit in love with the whole ripe enterprise. It was a world made up of just himself and an animal, a world he could somehow make sense of. The sailor in charge said he was born to it. Henry took it as a compliment.

Willy regularly looked on. “You’ve got the hang of it, Hank!” Henry let the nickname pass; he could afford to be tolerant. Their days together were numbered. Willy followed him everywhere now, as if in fear of losing him, or the twenty-four American dollars to come. He was at Henry’s side the morning California appeared on the foggy horizon. Above them, a herd of first-class passengers trampled to the bow.

“There she is, Hank! Do you see her?” Henry nodded. There was land certainly, hilly and gray this far out. They might be anywhere. Willy threw open his arms, his eyes filming over. “America! Home of the brave, brother.”

Willy had shaved his odd little beard and done something to quiet the halitosis, which may well have been what drove his Polly away in the first place. Henry hoped she’d receive Willy with open repentant arms. He wished them a long, happy life and a houseful of healthy children. He thought well enough of the boy, but would not miss his gregarious company. The youthful energy fatigued him. At thirty-three Henry felt too old for it all. He desired peace, only that. It was not asking too much.

Once docked, the passengers poured off the ship, all vying and pushing, including Henry. He was glad to be quit of the ship, and the men aboard her. A cold rain fell. His aching leg shook like a drunk’s in bad weather.

“Hank!” Willy darted and weaved through the throng, calling over his shoulder. “This way. Follow me.”

He and Willy carried only one satchel each. Within the first hour ashore they were on the ferry, crossing the bay to Berkeley. Henry sat in silence, huddled inside his greatcoat. He stared straight ahead, thinking of Meg, of arriving in New Zealand, the chaos, the peaked children, his ailing, useless self. How strong she was that day, how competent. She’d been gone from him nearly fifteen months now. At the moment it felt as if she’d just stepped out. Other times it seemed a century had passed.

“Don’t fall asleep,” said Willy, nudging his arm. “You’ll sometimes see whales in the bay. A big launch was nearly overturned by one once.”

Henry turned from him, feigning an interest in watching for whales. The world was solid gray outside the window. He could not tell which direction they were headed. It was impossible to get his bearings in a new place without her.

After a while he thought to ask, “Is there lodging nearby in the event something goes awry?”

Willy laughed. “You say the damnedest things, Hank.”

“Your uncle may not be hiring.”

“I told you the job’s waiting. He’ll have no choice.”

Henry turned back to the monotony outside, miserable with doubt. Mexico may have been the better choice. Or perhaps he should have stayed put. There was always that faint chance. No, there wasn’t. They were gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

“H
ER HAIR IS
reddish gold,” said Willy, on the way to the uncle’s. “She wears it up like the grown-up ladies, but I prefer it down. She used to let me comb out the knots.”

They’d leased a little rig and horse, which Willy planned to turn right around tonight. The lad drove too fast on the narrow road. He was afraid of missing the evening train to St. Louis, where he would surprise Polly. The promiscuous girl had sprouted wings and a halo. She was the prettiest by far of four sisters; her pies had won prizes. Not once since they had arrived had Willy goddamned her or threatened to harm her. Not once did he mention the other man, the skunk who stole her.

“You can think me nuts all you want,” said Willy. “I can tell you do. She loved me once, you know. A man doesn’t forget that, doesn’t just say the hell with her.”

“I don’t think you nuts, lad.”

“A good woman makes it all worthwhile,” said Willy.

“It’s true,” said Henry. “It would behoove you never to forget the fact.”

T
HE UNCLE’S
two-storied house was set far back from the road. Flowering trees made a bower leading up to a porch in need of repair. A floor plank was missing. The green paint was chipped and peeling. Willy rang the hanging bell, whispering, “Tell him you love the Lord if he asks.”

The bald-headed uncle came to the door in his stocking feet. “Well, well,” he said, baring a menacing set of false teeth. “The prodigal nephew has returned, has he?” There was no discernible affection in his voice, only sarcasm. Henry disliked him on sight. Willy greeted him with a hearty handshake.

“Good to see you, Uncle Ned. I won’t be staying long. I’m taking the nine o’clock train to St. Louis. There’s no use trying to talk me out of it. This here’s your new man, Hank Oades. He’s top-notch, milks with the best of them.” He pointed to the gap in the porch and said, without knowing the first thing about Henry’s abilities, “He’s handy with a hammer and saw, too. You won’t be sorry.”

The old man looked up at Henry, cocking his head like a sparrow. His beady eyes were the same cloudy blue as the boy’s. “Do you love the Lord, son?”

Henry had not given the Lord a great deal of thought lately and would not take up the subject with the old bloke in any event. “I do, sir,” he said, keeping all doors ajar for now.

They were invited in and seated for refreshments. Henry was introduced to Portia, the girl of all tasks, a spindly woman of thirty or so. She stammered a shy hello and then left the room, returning after a bit wearing a different frock and a yellow ribbon in her brown hair. She served tea and plain shortcake, and then disappeared again. Henry had not eaten since early morning; it was half past three now. He devoured the dry cake and accepted with gratitude the old man’s offer of more. The uncle shuffled off to the kitchen, humming a jolly tune under his breath. Willy grinned, slurping tea from his saucer. “He’s taken a shine to you. We might as well settle up. A deal’s a deal.”

The uncle did not attempt to dissuade Willy from leaving. On the contrary, he congratulated the boy for going after what was rightfully his, for staking his proper claim. He slapped his armrest and turned village vicar. “For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the Church!”

“Amen, Uncle,” said Willy, nodding solemnly. He excused himself and went to wash up.

The uncle pushed himself to a stand, beckoning to Henry. “I’ll give you the nickel tour while there’s still light.”

Henry presumed himself hired. He followed the uncle out the door. He didn’t much care for the pious old man. But he was the head of himself. He could always leave, expensive lesson learned.

Outside, the damp ground was mush in places, uneven. Henry struggled some.

“Something wrong with your leg, Hank?”

“It was injured in a fall,” said Henry, breathing hard. “Pay it no mind.”

The spry old man slowed, allowing him to catch up. “I’ve got a turpentine liniment that’ll bring some relief. We can go back now if you want. The cows will still be here tomorrow.”

They’d come to the entrance of the barn. Henry craned to see inside. He could hear the animals, a contented mingle of nickers and snorts. “I’m all right,” he said.

“You remind me of another Englishman I knew once,” said the old man. “His name was Joseph Abbott. You wouldn’t happen to be acquainted, would you?”

Henry smiled at the absurd improbability. “No, sir.”

“He was a righteous man,” said the uncle, crossing two fingers. “He and the Lord were like this.” Henry nodded. They went inside.

The uncle introduced the cows one by one, telling little stories. Pansy socialized with the pigs, preferring their company over her own kind. Iris mooed in her sleep. Petunia was completely blind in one eye, partially so in the other. Hyacinth was in heat. The uncle stroked the blind cow, scratching beneath her black ears.

“She’s not much good to me anymore,” he said. “But I don’t have the heart to beef her. She was my wife’s favorite.” He looked up at Henry, tears rising. “Belle…my wife passed last year.”

Henry’s throat clogged with sadness. “Mine as well,” he said.

“It’s a hard thing.”

“It is.”

The bereft uncle turned his back. He pulled on Petunia’s wet chin and examined her slick yellow teeth, turning back composed. “I’m pleased you’re here,” he said. “The mule-headed nephew would just run off again. I’ll pay fifteen dollars a month, plus a room of your own in the house. It’s got a picture window.”

“I’m new to this,” said Henry.

“It doesn’t take a college degree,” said the uncle. “Hard work is all that’s called for.”

Henry petted Petunia. “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll have a go at it.”

This life without them had to begin somewhere.

A Proposal

T
HE UNCLE
began to die in the spring of 1897. At eighty-four, Ned Barnhill was eager to join his beloved Belle in heaven. Henry and Portia discussed the situation. They both believed the old man had successfully willed himself ill. Henry had been with him just over three years by this time. Portia had lived in the little room off the kitchen for more than a decade, keeping house first for Mr. and Mrs. Barnhill, now mainly for Henry. Thoughts of marriage would naturally occur to her, he supposed, given the domestic setting. He should have been quicker to notice. She offered up her own supper one evening. “Seconds?” A cannier man would have guessed her objective then.

With the onset of cough and fever the old man took to his bed upstairs. Henry’s room was just down the hall. The tortured hacking kept them both awake nights. The doctor said Mr. Barnhill might come around, given the proper regimen. The uncle accused the doctor of interfering with the Good Lord’s plan. He stayed in bed, waiting impatiently.

Henry wrote to Willy Morgan in St. Louis, the only relative he knew of. Willy sent his regrets. His furniture store didn’t allow him a day off, much less the time required to come all the way to California. Lucius, his firstborn, was already walking. The next was due any time. Polly, whom Henry had never laid eyes upon, sent her love. Henry didn’t tell Mr. Barnhill they’d corresponded.

Henry was pretty much running the place now. The old man had slowed considerably over the last year and now he was useless. In June, Henry hired Titus Crump, a quiet fellow who didn’t loaf. Titus went back to town at night, leaving Henry alone with Portia.

“It’s strange,” she said at supper. “Only the two of us downstairs now.” She smiled, coyly twisting a lock of hair around her finger. It was clear she did not think the arrangement strange at all.

She chose to woo him on the sly, with charged gazes and food. Henry was uncomfortably aware of her fond feelings and did not encourage her in the least. He never lingered at the table, never said more than thank you for a succulent dish prepared just for him. She was a wonderfully inventive chef, turning out juicy roasts simmered with lady apples, crisp fowl stuffed with gooseberries and sage. There’d be no end to his compliments were she much older or much younger, or married. He’d bring tokens from town, lay chocolates and ribbons before her in honest appreciation, but he dared not. It would be neither decent nor smart.

They shared the nursing duties. Portia brought up oxtail broth and lemon tea on a tray. “He wants to starve himself,” she said to Henry on Thursday. Her cheeks had been freshly rouged. She wore a butterfly gewgaw in her hair. “You should insist he put his teeth in and eat something solid, an egg at least.”

“Portia thought you might enjoy an egg,” he said, entering the old man’s bedroom after supper. There was no response. He lay still as a mummy, the Bible opened on his chest, his bespectacled eyes open wide and staring. Henry felt a pang of sorrow for his passing and for the fact that he’d been alone. He approached reverently, intending to remove the spectacles and close the old man’s lids. Inches from his face, a withered hand rose from the bedclothes and swatted the air. Henry jerked back, his heart battering. “Christ Almighty!”

“Blasphemer,” snapped the uncle. “What’s the matter with you? Sneaking up on me like that.”

“I was about to remove your specs,” said Henry.

Mr. Barnhill closed his Bible. “I’m still capable of that much.”

“About the egg, sir?”

“A dying man has no need for eggs.”

“The pot, then?”

“If you please,” he said. “Thank you, Hank.”

Henry saw to the personal details, saving Portia and the uncle the embarrassment. He brought out the clean chamber pot and removed the lid. He lifted the frail old man beneath the arms and positioned him over the pot. He was light as cotton now, weighing no more than seven stone, if that. Henry turned his head, as if to draw a privacy curtain between them. A staccato of gas was passed, a pitiful trickle delivered. Another few moments went by unproductively. The old man shook himself off with a sigh.

“I’m finished now.”

Henry returned him to bed and blew out the lamp. Some nights the old man asked him to read Scripture aloud, but not tonight. Henry went downstairs and settled in the front room with a brandy. He looked forward to the end of the day. Portia would be in the kitchen or in her tiny room. She wouldn’t think of entering the best room except to clean. He might read or simply smoke his pipe before the fire. It was entirely up to him, whatever he fancied.

Some months later, in an unusually waggish mood, the uncle asked Henry if he was satisfied.
Content
was the word he used. Henry had just tucked him in and thought himself done for the evening. “Are you content here, Hank?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Henry wasn’t sure whether he meant here on earth or here on the farm. Either way he was not in the mood for a philosophical debate. He had other concerns pressing. A heifer was expected to calve any day now. She was young and small; it wouldn’t go easy.

The old man cocked his birdie head. “I’m leaving the farm to you.” He laughed at Henry’s stunned expression and broke into a fit of coughing. Henry went for the beaker of cold tea, putting it to Mr. Barnhill’s toothless gums. The old man pushed it away, sputtering, choking, laughing. Merry tears streamed from his eyes. “I’m your gift horse, boy. So stop staring me in the mouth. She’s all yours.”

“It’s a practical joke then,” said Henry.

The old man shook his head. “I’m dead serious. Now there’s a
practical
joke for you.”

“What about your relations?”

The old man sobered. “I’ve no blood kin left.”

“There’s Willy Morgan.”

“Except him and his no-good pap. They had their chance.”

Henry had often considered a farm of his own. Twenty-five acres or so, nothing as grand as the uncle’s sixty. “Perhaps a partial purchase could be arranged,” he said.

“I can’t take your money with me,” said the uncle. “Any more than I can take the farm.”

Henry went off in reverie, striding across his land, making improvements. The bloody bull would never accidentally get to any young heifer of
his.
“I don’t know what to say, sir.”

The uncle brightened, sitting up a bit. “Say you won’t pitch the place into ruin. Say you’ll get in solid with the Lord. Say you’ll do right by Portia.”

“How shall I do right by Portia?”

“She’s a fine girl. Steadfast, sturdy. Not too hard on the eyes, is she?”

“No, sir.”

“She’s a wonder at the stove.”

Henry agreed. “She is.”

The uncle said slyly, “She’s smitten by you, Hankie boy.”

Henry did not hedge the truth. “As I am not by her.”

The old man frowned, as if Henry had spoiled his happy game. “You might learn.”

“I won’t.”

The scowl deepened. “Never mind then. Just forget I spoke. We won’t discuss it again. Blow out the lamp, please. The glare is hurting my eyes.”

Henry complied, angry at himself for snapping at the dangling chop without looking for sharp bones. Besides, the offer was likely a moot one. The uncle’s color had improved recently. Twice this week he’d held down eggs. He was the sort to outlive them all.

The old man’s voice quivered in the dark. “A soft, warm woman under your covers is a blessing, Hank, a precious gift from God. He means to compensate us for what we must endure on earth. Think about that.”

Randy old coot
, Henry thought, trying not to mind the disappointment. Everything comes with its cost.

T
HE UNCLE
kept his word. He never mentioned Portia or the farm again. He rallied a degree around Christmas, and then took another turn for the worse after the New Year. He died in his sleep in February, of a worn-out heart, the doctor said, not consumption.

The lawyer came out the following week, asking to speak to Henry and Portia both. Henry was shocked to learn that he’d been left the farm free and clear, without contingencies. He was humbled; he felt guiltily elated. Portia had been bequeathed Mrs. Barnhill’s silver comb set, the old man’s coin collection, and five hundred dollars.

“It would make a nice dowry,” she said to the lawyer.

Henry pretended not to hear.

P
ORTIA WORKED UP
her nerve that same evening. Henry was seated at the kitchen table, finishing up delicious roast duck with creamed potatoes and peas. She hadn’t sat with him before; she didn’t now. She moved between table and stove as was her habit, looking serious, rather queenly, with her hair drawn back tight.

She said in an offhand manner, “Do you remember the day you came?”

He nodded to his plate. “Yes.”

“I was mortified. There was no sauce for the cake.”

He had no memory of cake without sauce. “It was lovely without,” he said.

“You were every bit the gentleman,” she said. “You didn’t let on it was missing.”

He smiled.

“Mr. Oades, I think it’s time we married.”

His insides clenched. He looked up at her. “I cannot. I’m sorry.”

Tears flashed in her round eyes. “Just like that? Without a second’s worth of thought?”

“I’m sorry.” He
was
sorry, sorry to wound her, humiliate her; but he was glad, too, to be done with the pretense finally.

“You’re not going to bother to say you’re flattered at least?”

“I am, of course.” He knew that was not what she wanted to hear.

“Ha! Sure you are.” She tore off her apron and threw it at him. The skirt went to his lap, the bib into congealed duck grease. “Clean up your own mess, why don’t you?” He folded the apron and stood.

“I shan’t marry again,” he said.

Her expression shifted, becoming a mix of longing and regret. “Your poor wife would want that for you? She’d expect you to spend the rest of your days alone?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

She took the apron from him, picking at a loose thread, her bottom lip pulsing. “I can’t stay on under the circumstances.”

Henry nodded. “I understand.”

Portia turned and went into her room, closing and latching the door.

Henry quickly washed the supper things and then retreated to the front room, relieved and ashamed. He should have spoken up a long time ago, found a way to act the man. He wasn’t at ease with women anymore, or with himself for that matter, in their presence. It was best to steer clear, to simply leave them be altogether.

O
N
M
ONDAY
, Henry went into town to inquire at the employment agency on Portia’s behalf. He was immediately successful. The Charles Middletons were a prominent family with a grand house near the university. Dr. Charles Middleton, the bursar, came on Tuesday to fetch her himself.

She stood on the porch, clutching her battered brown case. “Good-bye, Mr. Oades.”

“Good-bye, Portia. Good luck.”

She held his gaze. He could not very well look away. “I’m a forgiving woman, should you have a change of heart.” He had no proper response. They stood mute for an eternity. Finally she lifted her sturdy chin and made a smart turn. From the back, with those erect shoulders, she reminded him of Meg.