The Wives of Henry Oades (17 page)

D
EAR
M
IM
was officially declared dead. On Sunday, after regular services, Mr. Bell and Mrs. Wells married, with Martha, John, and Oscar in attendance. Margaret and Josephine were still in the hospital, their faces masks of angry, painful pustules.

The worst was over, said the doctor, speaking from the doorway. He had remarkably flawless skin, which made Margaret feel all the more repulsive. Had they suffered tremors lately? Bouts of delirium? They hadn’t, said Margaret. They’d been lucid from the onset. The doctor corrected her.

“You hallucinated nights on end. Your boy told me. It must have been dreadful under the circumstances.”

Margaret remembered only the road’s sharp stones, the sandflies, the headaches, and the ceaseless fantasies of Henry and home.

“Though you probably wouldn’t recall,” said the doctor. “Certainly not while in the throes of it. And it’s just as well, now that the worst is over.”

He said it twice, knowing that Henry was in America.

The point of crisis had passed. The pustules would soon begin to crust and shed. Once that occurred, and they were no longer contagious, the doctor would sign their discharge papers. The other children had been examined and pronounced uninfected.

“Thank God for that,” said the doctor.

“I have,” said Margaret. She’d considered inoculating Martha, John, and Oscar, picking a papule from her own body and applying it to an open nick or scrape, which they all had. She wouldn’t have had to cut them. But a cousin in England had died that way, and Margaret had not been willing to take the risk.

They were to rest, the doctor said. They were to nourish themselves well and take frequent sun baths. That was the sum of treatment. No miracle remedy had been invented in her absence, no magic salve to restore the complexion.

She’d forgotten how delicious it was to sleep in a bed with sheets; even so, the isolation ward was a lonely, gloomy place, with windows too high to see out. There had been one other woman in residence when Margaret and Josephine arrived. She slept the entire time, or was unconscious. She died sometime during their third night there, and was taken away. After that, Margaret and Josephine were alone.

Visitors weren’t permitted. The attendants were the only human faces they saw daily. The uniformed women were not without compassion, but neither did they linger. Meals came on a cart that was rolled as far as the doorway. Margaret and Josephine fetched for themselves, returning the dirty dishes to the cart. One evening, a piece of heavy muslin, a hoop, a needle, and three colors of embroidery thread were left with a note:
Something to wile away the hours. Best
wishes.

They took turns with the piece, working up some flowers that grew more elaborate by the day. When the thread was gone, Margaret carefully picked out the stitches, saving long strands so that they could start over. It was the most peaceful shared time in memory.

Josephine spoke of her dreams a great deal. One night she dreamt that she was a harem lady. She’d danced before a fire, wearing a bloomer costume and veil. She asked casually about other occupations that might require a veil. Some nurses wear them, Margaret said, her heart breaking. She’d give two limbs to have her beautiful daughter restored. She’d give all four.

One morning Josephine woke determined to become a stage actress. It was pouring rain outside, which cozied up the place and made them less restless. “A stage actress? Pheeny, really. Did you dream it?”

Josephine played with her thick braid, twisting the coil, holding the knot to the nape of her slender pocked neck. “No. I laid awake thinking.”

The attendant with her rattling breakfast cart appeared in the doorway. Good-mornings were exchanged, comments on the dismal weather. Makes a person homesick, said the attendant. She left, and Margaret said, “How did you arrive at stage actress?”

“I fancy adventure,” said Josephine. She got out of bed and headed toward the cart.

“A teacher’s life is chock full of grand adventure.”

Josephine turned, raising a skeptical eyebrow, already the little thespian.

Margaret said, “Stage actresses don’t enjoy much in the way of reputation.”

“Perhaps not.” Josephine lifted the domed lid and inspected the breakfast. “Lovely! A poached egg today.”

“They smoke cigarettes and paint their faces.”

“You once mentioned it,” said Josephine, bringing the plates, smiling a moony smile, her mind obviously made up for now. There’d be no pushing this one down an unwanted path. That much was certain.

O
N THE NINTH MORNING
, red roses and a note from Mr. Freylock, Henry’s former supervisor, arrived on the cart. He’d tried to visit apparently, but wasn’t allowed in. He’d last heard from Henry three years ago. At that time Henry resided in Berkeley, California—post #32. Mr. Freylock hoped the pittance of information would be of some help. He hoped, too, that she’d come to tea soon.

Berkeley, California.
A husband and father shouldn’t go to a place his family has never heard of.

V
IRGINIA
B
ELL
didn’t forget them. On Monday Margaret and Josephine received crisp nightgowns, smelling exquisitely new of the tissue they came in. Tuesday she sent a euchre deck, which evoked vivid images of Mim’s last moments. Mrs. Bell could not have known. Wednesday, Mrs. Bell’s own copy of
The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County
by Mr. Mark Twain arrived, inscribed on the flyleaf:
To our Calaveras County-bound friend, Mrs. Margaret Oades. She shall be missed.

Mrs. Bell knew by now that they were Berkeley bound. It was all California to her, and to Margaret as well, for that matter. One town was just as foreign sounding as the next, and no less distant.

T
HE ATTENDANT
brought stationery, fountain pen, and ink at Margaret’s request. Margaret began firing off letters to Henry while Josephine slept, tearing them up as she finished. The anger kept bleeding through. How dare he abandon them so far from home? Eventually she was down to a single leaf. She wrote on both sides and let it be done.

Wellington Hospital

13 December, 1898

Dearest Husband:

The news of our survival will no doubt come as a shock. I know the feeling well, having returned to our sweet cottage with hopes high only to find you gone. How I longed to see you, Henry. How I long to see you still.

Where do I begin? Suffice it to say, we are safely returned to civilization at last. You are aware, I now know, that we were taken by Maori. The details of our ordeal can wait until we meet. Pray God that day comes soon.

At present, Josephine & I are in hospital, recuperating from a relatively mild bout of smallpox. We are both expected to recover completely, our vision unaffected. John & Martha were spared, blessedly. They are being cared for by Cyril Bell, the sailmaker & his new wife, Virginia. (Our dear friend Anamim did not survive the horrible day. I miss her even now.)

I live for the moment you lay eyes on our children again. You will be proud of them, one & all. John has shot up like a weed this year. He is an honorable boy, brave of heart, a protector by nature. He remembers you well & fondly. You will barely recognize Josephine, who lately reminds me of your Aunt Bertie. Pheeny appears to have inherited Bertie’s independent streak. We’ll need to keep a close eye in the coming years. Martha, of course, is no longer a baby, but a precocious child, chock full of questions. She has described you to strangers on numerous occasions. One would think you had only just left the room. (I spoke of you long & often.) “He is bearded,” she will boast. “He is quite tall & very handsome. He served as constable on the ship & was the very best of the lot.” Prepare yourself, dear Henry. Our youngest is highly demonstrative. She will expect more than a pat on the head from her “very handsome” father.

I come now to the saddest news. Our precious Mary is gone. She died six years ago, just hours into the abduction. Our baby suffocated. I weep as I write it. I was allowed to bury her & say a prayer, but that is all. Nothing marks her little grave. I so wished to tell you in person. Shared grief is half the sorrow, they say. I can only close my eyes & pretend it is so.

I expect to be released from hospital next week, the following week at the latest. I’d entertained a grand fantasy that our family would be reunited by Christmas. Of course that is impossible. (If only I might magic this letter into your hands today, better yet, magic the four of us into your arms.) You left neither instructions nor funds with your office, & so I shall need both as soon as possible. Please write in care of Cyril Bell (addressed envelope enclosed). Mr. & Mrs. Bell have generously invited us to stay until we sail for America. I do not wish to insinuate ourselves upon the newlyweds, but I must, as I am penniless, plain & simple.
I prefer you send money as opposed to booking passage on a scheduled sailing. Various trading vessels put in regularly without notice. Funds in hand, I shall have us on the first one.

I must warn you that illness & circumstances have taken their toll. Do not expect the same fresh-faced, short-tempered lady to waltz through your front door. Expect only your devoted wife, your own Meg. I belong with my husband, & he with me & our children.

I miss you terribly, dearest.

Your loving wife, now & always,
Meg

    She could not possibly know when the letter would leave, much less when it would arrive. Would it go on the first vessel, or would the sack containing it remain on the Wellington docks for weeks and become a stool for a card-playing rummy? Would the letter go by swift steamer? Or would it be put aboard a slow-moving junk? Margaret couldn’t begin to guess. She waited anxiously, expecting his response in the next delivery.

Christmas fell on a Sunday. They celebrated Boxing Day, Virginia Bell’s favorite holiday, the next day, Monday. Margaret and Virginia were in the midst of preparing the tea things; it was just the two of them in Virginia’s big kitchen. Virginia relished the quiet, the sumptuous peace, of the holiday. She always had, she said, even as a child, especially as a child. She’d come from servants who’d never known a Christmas free from duty, even if it fell on a Sunday.

“Boxing Day was our special day.” She was in a chatty mood, which was not unusual. “They were very well off, you know, the people Mum and Dad worked for. Boxes went not only to the help, but to the help’s children as well. All different, too. Good tobacco in Papa’s box, fine linens in Mum’s. I received a great many figurines over the years, each representing a different country. It grew to be quite a collection. Perhaps you’d like to see it sometime.”

“I would indeed,” said Margaret, spooning black currant into the pretty glass jam jar. Virginia insisted on a minimum of two jams.

Virginia poured hot water, turning to Margaret with a sorrowful look. “That’s jam plenty,” she said.

Virginia frequently paused mid task or sentence, looking at Margaret, cocking her head and smiling that piteous smile. She recently asked if Margaret had written to Henry about the smallpox, and Margaret said that she had, which seemed to worry Virginia. As if she feared he might not send money to a scarred wife. Margaret privately forgave Virginia because her generosity more than compensated, and because they would soon be gone. Today is Monday, she said to herself, better than half over, almost Tuesday then, which would go by quickly because they planned to wash their hair, a time-consuming monthly ritual. That brought them almost to Thursday, nearly to the end of another week.

In the parlor, Virginia drew the curtains against the harsh summer light. Margaret wondered if it snowed in Berkeley, California, if she’d ever again know the pleasure of a cold, white Yuletide.

They had the front room to themselves. The servants were off, of course. The children had scattered. Mr. Bell was down at the docks. Margaret and Virginia took their places on the gold and blue sofa, a baronial piece of furniture, a good ten feet long, with solid mahogany arms and legs. It had taken four men to lift it, Virginia said. She’d inherited the large house and all its grand furniture from her late husband, who’d died of a rupture before he could be brought to hospital. Over tea and scones, Virginia described his last moments, the violent vomiting, the agonizing writhing and sweating.

“It was a frightening spectacle,” she said.

Margaret sympathized, thinking simultaneously that there were worse things than a husband’s death. A child’s death. That was the unspeakable worst.

Virginia shifted, sitting slightly closer, her knees angled in, brushing Margaret’s. “A halfpenny for your thoughts.”

Margaret managed a smile.

“You’ll hear from him soon.”

Margaret nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

Virginia seemed to hesitate before saying, “Mr. Oades did everything he could.”

Everything but stay.

“Perhaps you’d rather not hear…”

“I would,” said Margaret. “Please tell me what you know.”

“We all saw how distraught he was. Everyone turned out to help the bereft man rebuild his house.” There was a peculiar quiver to Virginia now, an eagerness to divulge all. “Some other ladies and I brought a picnic out to the site one Sunday, which is when I made Mr. Bell’s formal acquaintance.” Virginia dipped her chin to blush, touching Margaret’s hand as she did, an unpleasant sensation, like that of a long-legged spider lighting. “Dear Mr. Oades,” Virginia whispered. “He had such a time of it.”

In that moment, Margaret resolved to truly forgive him for leaving, for her own sake as well as his. “How so after the fact?”

“They say he went nearly insane, that he kept the lamps burning all night long, often riding about in the wee hours, wailing for the children.”

Tears rose in Margaret’s eyes. No father loved his children more.

“Oh, dear. Forgive me, Margaret. I’ve said too much.”

“It’s all right, Virginia. I’m simply not myself today. Will you excuse me, please?” Margaret bent over the tea tray, intending to carry it to the kitchen. Virginia stopped her. Margaret was not to lift a finger. She was to march straight upstairs this very moment and have a nice lie-down.

The weeping began the moment Margaret closed the guest room door, six years’ worth at once. Not since Mary’s death had she wept so hard.

J
ANUARY PASSED
without word from Henry. The days became excruciatingly long. The house was overstaffed as it was. Any contribution on Margaret’s part was regarded as intrusion. She read a great deal and worked with the children on their lessons; but there were still far too many hours in the day and too few ways to purposely fill them.

Evenings were spent in the front parlor, where Margaret was expected to accompany Virginia on the piano. Virginia’s girls, studious towheads, fifteen and thirteen, acted as chorus, harmonizing softly, never upstaging their mother. The other children, Margaret’s, and Oscar, were required to dress properly and serve as audience. Virginia’s shrill voice sent an ice-water chill down the spine. Cyril Bell cheered his wife on, initiating round after round of applause. “Brava, Sweet Puss! Encore! Encore!”

Mrs. Barry, the cook, passed treacly refreshments afterward, biscuits oozing jam, or a trifle soaked in sherry. Margaret’s children were still unaccustomed to such rich treats. The sweets undoubtedly contributed to Martha’s nightmares. Her little girl regularly woke up screaming. “There’s a man at the window!”

It was not unlike Margaret’s own dreams, though the shadow at her window was more often welcoming. She held her perspiring child until she cooled again. “We’re all dreaming of Dad.”

A
NOTHER THREE WEEKS
went by. Virginia said nothing directly, but Margaret knew she wished them gone. Fish and visitors stink after three days, according to Mr. Benjamin Franklin. They were long past spoiled. No one was more aware of the stench than Margaret.

Margaret was in the kitchen with Mrs. Barry one afternoon in late February, rolling out dough for kidney pasties. Virginia burst through the door, still wearing her good hat and coat. Margaret looked up, swiping her floury hands together. Virginia clutched a thick envelope, giggling like a girl. Margaret suspected her of tippling with the other Devoted-Friends-of-the-Library. “I went behind your back, Margaret.”

Margaret smiled. “Did you now?”

Virginia opened the envelope, displaying the money inside. “What do you suppose it’s for?”

“I have no idea,” said Margaret.

“It’s for you!” cried Virginia, fanning the notes. “For your passage to California!”

Margaret frowned, looking at Mrs. Barry, who shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Where did it come from?”

“From the lovely parishioners at St. Paul’s. I took up a collection. They gave clothes, too. Wait until you see. There’s one frock I wouldn’t mind—”

“You shouldn’t have,” said Margaret, her flesh heating with embarrassment. She was enough of a charity case as it was. Mrs. Barry glanced her way, with a look that said:
Don’t be a
fool. Take it.
Margaret stared at the money. Dear God, how she wanted to leave. She and Henry would pay it back, every last cent, with interest.

“There’s enough here for two,” said Virginia, sobering some. “I thought perhaps John and Josephine might go ahead and then—”

“Out of the question!” said Margaret, shocked.

Virginia’s blue eyes dulled. “John’s nearly a grown man.”

“He’s not,” said Margaret. “He’s barely seventeen.”

Virginia sighed. “Well, never mind then. I was afraid you’d feel this way.” She turned to leave. “Don’t look so forlorn, Margaret. We’ll think of something else.”

Margaret returned to the pasty crust, sprinkling water on the drying edges. It had seemed so real for a moment, so completely possible.