The Wives of Henry Oades (19 page)

He averted his gaze, heaving an impatient sigh. “Will you not give my proposal the least consideration?”

The warm harbor breeze brought a lovely scent from shore, a flower she could not name. “No sir, I cannot.”

“Very well,” he said coldly. “The
Golden State
is in port. I shall speak to the captain on your behalf.”

“Thank you, sir. When does she sail?”

His jaw went hard. “Saturday. Will that be soon enough for you, madam?” He turned and strode off toward his quarters. Margaret felt a twinge of regret watching him go. For all she knew Henry was dead. She spent the afternoon stewing. It was not like her. She was a decisive person by nature, or so she once believed.

A
LL DOUBT VANISHED
at first sight of the
Golden State.
She was a magnificent passenger ship, a fine, sleek steamer on the return leg of her maiden voyage. Margaret thrilled to see how clean and modern she was. She was more than delighted to accept the cook’s helper and pot-scrubber post. She would have gladly signed on as a stoker had it been the only job available.

She was at work in the galley when they sailed and did not have a last look at Hawaii. They were busy laying out a seven-course meal for United States congressmen, a clamorous group. Upon arrival in San Francisco the congressmen presented Margaret with an envelope thick with American notes. This was the second of May, 1899, a Tuesday. They’d been at sea two months less four days.

Hello, Henry

S
AN
F
RANCISCO
, C
ALIFORNIA
. A haven for the depraved, named for the kindliest of saints. Margaret corralled her children and kept them close. Seamen with knives swarmed the docks. They drank openly, staggering in and out of saloons and billiard parlors, shouting
fuck
this and
fuck
that at every turn. There were women, too, girls on the game, lingering in doorways, chatting up the reprobates. The atmosphere stank of fish, of whiskey, urine, and vomit.

“A reeking place,” said John. They started down a damp alley that ended at a padlocked door, and turned around again. There was no obvious route, no signs to direct them to the ferry. A cook from the
Golden State
brushed by in a hurry. Margaret called to him.

“Mr. Mandina! Could you help us locate the Berkeley ferry?”

He had two knives himself, she noticed up close, one tucked inside each boot. Self-defense, she supposed. On board he’d seemed a gentler sort, with a special fondness for the seabirds he spoke to and fed. He guided Margaret and the children through the crush of men, past the ships and cargo, past an open crate of bananas with a small dead monkey inside. Softhearted Martha saw the poor creature and began to cry.

“It’s sleeping,” said Margaret, wondering what in God’s name had drawn her husband to this miserable abyss.

On the ferry, John asked, “What shall be your very first words to Father?”

Margaret laughed a little, with a vague headache throbbing. “I suppose I shall say, ‘Hello, Henry.’”

“Hello, Henry?”

His deep voice would astound his father. John had been ten, a squeaking whelp, the last time Henry laid eyes on him. He would be thrilled beyond expression, utterly bedazzled by their beautiful son.

“After all these years, Mum? That’s the best you can do? A paltry
Hello, Henry
?”

Margaret cuffed him playfully. She had no idea what she’d say first, but was certain the right words would come naturally.

W
ITH THE
A
MERICAN DOLLARS
earned on board the
Golden State
, she hired a coach to deliver them to the Berkeley post office. Once there, Margaret asked the coachman to please wait, she wouldn’t be long. John made a move as if to accompany her inside.

“Stay and mind the girls. I shan’t be but a moment.”

All she had of her husband was this box number. She’d not given voice to it, but it had occurred to her that he’d left again, returned to England perhaps. Or died. She wouldn’t have her children hearing it first from a foreign stranger, not after all they’d been through.

The postmaster sorted envelopes behind a caged window. Margaret approached, introducing herself properly. He abandoned his task, his sleepy eyes widening. She ignored the rudeness. People will gawk, as if they’d paid their shilling to see the scarred lady and were entitled.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Oades, sir?”

“Dairyman,” said the postmaster.

“My husband is an accountant,” said Margaret.

“Only Henry Oades around here is a dairyman. You’re his missus, you say?” He wetted a pencil with the tip of his tongue and offered to draw a map to Henry’s farm. “Is he expecting you?”

She’d heard about overcurious Americans, how they were keen to pry for the pure sport of it. She was not about to take up the long wretched tale with him, and so simply said, “Of course he is.”

Outside, Margaret presented the map to the coachman, who offered a choice of a quick or scenic route.

“Oh, quick, please,” she said, paying the agreed upon coins.

“Only two bits more for the scenic,” he said, eyeing her bank notes.

She drew her reticule closed. “You shall take us directly.” She climbed up without assistance and settled in beside John. The coachman slammed the door, muttering, “Foreigners.”

“He’s turned dairy farmer of all things,” Margaret said to the children.

The news seemed to please John. He turned to the window with a smile. The coachman cracked his whip and they were off. Margaret rode facing her daughters, expectant-faced rag children in donated frocks. “He’s a lovely man,” she said, for perhaps the hundredth time.

“He’s tall, bearded, and quite handsome,” recited Martha.

Margaret nodded. “Quite.”

“He thinks the world of us,” said listless Josephine. She rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand. “We are Dad’s all and all.”

Margaret pulled down on Josephine’s lower lid, checking for pinkeye. Her big girl had suffered two dripping bouts in captivity. Josephine twisted to the side, fending off her hand.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“I’m just a bit nervous, is all,” said Josephine. “It’s been a very long time.”

“Though he may be standoffish at first,” said Martha, “due to the surprise. We shan’t let it bother us.”

John continued to stare out the window; he was having no part of the old game.

Margaret leaned forward again and fussed with Josephine’s limp hat ribbons. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. You
are
your father’s all and all; you mustn’t forget it.”

The hats weren’t the most grand. She’d thought them sufficiently suitable until she’d noticed all the women, on the ship and on the ferry, wearing extravagant feathered creations. Not that it would make a difference to Henry if she turned up wearing an entire swan.

Good God, Meg! Did you suppose I’d give your hat the first thought?

I wanted to look nice for you, Henry.

You could be wearing your drawers on your head for all I care. Come here now, lovely
girl. Let me look at you.

She imagined the children already tucked in when he said it, her thoughts roaming to how they’d be once they were alone for the night. They would be fine, she decided, a thin shiver running. She knew her Henry. They would be lovely. Margaret sat back, happy for the first time in years.

A
N HOUR OUT
Martha locked ankles and demanded a pot. They were in the countryside now, traveling over a rutted road, passing tranquil, hilly farmland. Margaret poked her head out the window and called up to the driver. “How much farther, sir?”

He hollered down, “Three or four miles, give or take. Just beyond this next rise.”

“Will you stop, please?”

“What for?”

Never mind what for.
“Only a moment.”

“Two bits extra for the inconvenience,” he yelled, expectorating a jawful of revolting black juice. Margaret ducked back inside.
The cheeky nerve!

“Mama, please.”

Margaret called to the driver. “We’ll stop here.”

He pulled on the reins. “Two bits extra.”

They all got out to the driver’s obvious surprise. “I shan’t pay you another stiver,” she said. “Please hand down our cases.”

The sneak thief climbed up to the roof and threw their satchels to the ground, cursing under his breath. “Pinchpenny,” he shouted, driving away, leaving them by the side of the road.

Pinchpenny, he called me.
Margaret was already making light of it, forming the story for Henry, thinking a bit of humor would go a long way in mitigating the shock of their existence.

Martha finished her business and they set off walking. In her thoughts and dreams Margaret had imagined California flat, an arid prairie thick with bison and wapiti. Had she read it? She’d not expected the green hills and winding roads, a place so poignantly reminiscent of England, down to the dragonflies.

J
OHN WAS THE FIRST
to see the start of a painted fence. They trudged on for some time, following the fence, scanning the acreage for signs of life. How peculiar that Henry had turned dairy farmer, but how like him to have such a pristine arrangement, a meadow so uninterruptedly verdant, a herd so storybook placid. Margaret spotted a male figure then, high on the horizon. She waved, sun and gladness watering her weak eyes. The children waved too, but the figure did not respond, and they all gave up.

Martha fell in alongside, taking Margaret’s hand. “He’ll have cake for us, don’t you think, Mum?”

They’d missed the noon meal. Margaret wondered what he might have on hand, deciding surely there’d be eggs, and wouldn’t eggs be perfect. A simple meal of toast and eggs. Bacon might be nice. Henry had always enjoyed his back bacon. She’d make a pud with the drippings, and cook his eggs without turning them. She hadn’t forgotten the small details.

“He’ll more likely have eggs,” she said.

“I prefer cake,” said Martha.

“You cannot count on it. Your father never had much of a tooth for sweets.”

Long-legged John was a good way ahead when he turned, pointing. “There’s Dad’s house. Do you see it up there?” The girls broke into an unladylike run, overtaking John. Margaret strained to keep up. John hollered over his shoulder. “Do you see it, Mum?”

Her vision was poor, but yes, she could make out some sort of structure.

At the gate she reined them in, giving each a quick cat bath, spanking the dust from their clothes. “Let us be calm now,” she said, a fresh wave of excitement running through her.

From the bottom of the porch steps she saw movement, a shadow passing behind the lace curtains. Margaret ascended and rang the hanging bell, her heart jumping with anticipation. A pretty girl opened the door and eyed them up and down suspiciously.

“Who are you? How did you get here? I didn’t hear a buggy come up.”

She was young, eighteen or nineteen perhaps, with thick brown hair sloppily pinned up. She was dressed in a work apron that had seen better days, though her milky blue-veined hands acknowledged no familiarity with hard work. Margaret had heard that American help was lazy, undependable. One had to stay on them. “Forgive us for startling you,” she said. “Is this the home of Mr. Henry Oades?”

The girl poked at her unruly hair. “Who wants to know? Is it food you’re after?”

The insolent lass could use a good caning. “We are Mrs. Henry Oades and children. We’re not expected.”

The girl scowled, cocking her head. As if she hadn’t heard right. “You’re his mother?”

“I am his
wife
, miss. If it’s any concern of yours.”

The loony thing clapped hands to ears and closed her eyes. Her lips moved rapidly for several moments, as if in prayer. With an audible “amen” her eyes opened wide, hands dropping to her sides, wedding band, gaudy new, winking with sunlight. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know any other way of saying it but right out. I am Mr. Oades’s wife now.”

Margaret’s children closed in, an arm encircling her waist, a little hand tugging on her skirts. They brought her down the steps just as a colicky baby started up inside, barking like a seal pup.

The girl shouted into the interior, “Dora! See to the baby!” She started down the stairs toward Margaret.

Margaret moved out of her range, trembling. “Father,” said John, close to her ear. Margaret turned. Henry approached from the west, making long, lopsided strides. But for the limp he looked the same from this distance, leaner perhaps, but otherwise just as she remembered him. He stopped short just inside the gate, removing his shabby hat, staring, shifting his disbelieving gaze between Margaret and the girl.