The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel

by Johanna Moran

  “We’re not here to judge,” said Mrs. Middleton, waving a perfumed hand. “We’re here to offer you and your innocent child refuge, Mrs. Foreland….”

  “I told you it’s Oades.”

  Mrs. Middleton gave a little push to Nancy’s shoulder, as if to start her up the stairs. “Collect your things. You’ll stay with us for the time being.”

  Us? Was she offering up her own magnificent mansion? She and Gertrude would probably have an entire wing to themselves in a place so huge. Nancy said as calmly as she knew how, “I’m not going anywhere. I have a house full of children under my care. Besides, you don’t understand the circumstances.”

  “We understand perfectly,” said Mrs. Dooley. “Two women are calling the same man husband. A Mormon in San Bernardino was hanged just this past Christmas. His wives—his widows, I should say, found themselves in the poorhouse.”

  “That’s hardly our same situation,” said Nancy, seething. She expected a personal thank you from Jesus one day for the tolerance shown Margaret Oades. The last thing she deserved was condemnation. “We’re not Mormons, for your information. There is no funny business going on in our household, believe you me. The very idea! Really.”

  Mrs. Dooley, her ears obviously plugged with manure, repeated herself. “Two women are calling the same man husband.”

  Nancy could not contain the shrillness. “Would you have us put her out? Mrs. Oades doesn’t have a dime to her name, you know. Her children are my husband’s own flesh and blood! How can you suggest something so mean, so out-and-out heartless?”

  Mrs. Dooley pointed a gloved finger. “What is preventing you yourself from leaving?”

  Mrs. Middleton said softly, “You’re living in grievous sin.”

  Nancy whirled on her. “I’m not! How dare you.”

  Dora came in from the dining room. “Will you be needing me, Mrs. Oades?”

  Clearly she’d been eavesdropping, a habit Nancy normally deplored, but now appreciated. “Please show the ladies to the door,” she said.

  Dora spread wide her arms and herded the murmuring women forward.

  “My offer stands,” said Mrs. Middleton, over her shoulder.

  The door closed on them. Good riddance to the sanctimonious, coldhearted hellcats. Nancy sank to the settee.

  Josephine appeared on the stairs, clutching the banister. “Are they going to take us, Mrs. Oades?”

  Nancy looked up. “Take you? Take you where? No one’s going to take you anywhere. Not on your tintype.”

  Dora came back in carrying the damp newspapers left on the porch, ink running down her arm. “Dora, please. You’re dripping all over creation.”

  Dora patted down a page with a corner of apron. “You’ll want to read this.”

  Nancy took the soggy paper, the insides of her cheeks going sour with nausea.

  DAUGHTERS OF DECENCY VS. LOCAL DAIRYMAN

  Henry P. Oades, Berkeley dairy farmer, has been charged with having two wives. Oades is an Englishman of good education who came to Berkeley from New Zealand. In January last he married Mrs. Nancy Foreland, a young widow lady with a child. Postmaster Cleon Russell made it known that a second woman turned up recently, claiming to be none other than Mrs. Henry P. Oades. The three parties have been residing on Oades’s farm since late last month. The Daughters of Decency organization, indignant at such open profligacy, put the matter before Justice Billings. On Monday, a criminal complaint was laid against Oades, charging him with open and notorious cohabitation and adultery. A hearing has been scheduled for June 17th.

  The words jumped incomprehensibly. It may as well have been a malicious story about somebody else. Better not to think about it, anyway, better to leave it be, leave the whole ugly mess to Mr. Oades.

  Josephine turned to go back upstairs. She was regal in profile like her mother. Nancy called after her. She’d promised to look after them, and this one, this Pheeny, was a hard little nut to please. “Let’s make something sweet to take the nasty taste out of our mouths. What do you say?”

  Josephine nodded in compliance, obviously no more in the mood to make something sweet than Nancy was.

  Beginning Today

  THE LAW IS ON OUR SIDE,” said Henry. Margaret did not respond.

  They’d been taken from their dingy cells and brought to a windowless room in the courthouse, where they were left to await the lawyer. The airless place was unpleasantly close. Her brown frock, the same drab frock she’d left the house in, worn four days and three nights running now, clung wetly to her back. Henry was dressed far more acceptably for public exposure. Someone had provided him a decent suit since the arrest. He hadn’t said who. “Did you hear me, Meg?”

  “Yes, Henry. The law is on our side.”

  He stood and opened the door to the hallway, peering out and ducking back in, closing the door again.

  Margaret returned to quiet contemplation. There’d be no conviction. No one could deny the fact of their legal ceremony, to which she’d arrived late, knock-kneed with nerves and love, lilies of the valley clutched to her bosom. Indeed theirs was a blatantly lawful union, as his with Nancy was not, due to the fact. The first trumped the second. Common sense said so. Henry paced, a welter of tics and worry, having no doubt reached the same conclusion. What would he do? A man cannot be legally married to two women. It occurred to her that he might ask for a divorce. The answer would be an unequivocal no. He was her husband. She would not slink away; nor would she stigmatize her children by agreeing to it. That much was certain.

  Henry crossed his arms and spoke to the framed portrait of William McKinley. “I sincerely wish I might have spared you, Meg.”

  Margaret glanced up briefly. Spared her what exactly? New Zealand? The Maori? His desertion? The miserable foolhardy journey to California? His fixation on Nancy? His inexorable passion for her?

  “It cannot be helped,” she said, equally enigmatically. Henry turned and faced the door, initiating a silence between them.

  Minutes later, the lawyer burst in, florid and breathless, bringing with him a cacophony of voices. He closed the heavy door quickly, cutting off the noise in the hall.

  “I’m late. Ever so sorry.” He was a small man, particularly next to Henry, trim and dainty, with a cleric’s shiny pink dome. He offered Margaret his hand. “Lewis Grimes, esquire, madam.”

  Henry said irritably, “How long should the bloody ordeal take? I’ve a farm to run.”

  Mr. Grimes began rummaging through a satchel of papers. “Hard to say, sir, hard to say. And don’t bring that testiness inside. It’ll get you nowhere lickety-split. Don’t speak to anyone outside, Mrs. Oades.”

  Margaret nodded, a shiver of apprehension running along her spine. Why was Henry so certain that the law was on their side? What did either one of them know about the laws here?

  “Don’t give as much as a ‘good-day’ to the newspaper people,” said Mr. Grimes. “Ned Bowman in particular. Speak to me or the judge. No one else.”

  Margaret nodded. For all she and Henry knew, an American marriage took precedence over a foreign one. “Our marriage is perfectly valid,” she said, her voice shaky.

  “Mr. Grimes is aware, Meg,” said Henry. “Try not to worry.”

  The tidy lawyer dug out his pocket watch. “It’s time to go.”

  OUTSIDE IN THE HALL, a middle-aged woman came forward, shaking her finger in Margaret’s face. “Shame on you!”

  Mr. Grimes latched on to Margaret’s arm. “Say nothing, Mrs. Oades.”

  Margaret was surprised to see so many women among the men, regular women, motherly sorts, who should be home with their children. She was worried sick about her own. Josephine had yet to warm to Nancy. Margaret took great care not to say the first denigrating word, but Pheeny was as stubborn as they came these days.

  Mr. Grimes steered her toward a marble staircase lined with gawking people. Henry followed close behind. Together the three bored through the gabbling throng and made their way up the steps. Behind them c
ame inspirational singing, a cappella.

  Midway up the stairs an unseen woman screeched, “Let us have a turn! We want a look at her!” A female hand appeared, bearing an opal that caught the light. The hand snatched at Margaret’s sleeve, tearing the cuff. Margaret cried out, “Henry!”

  Henry moved up as if to guard her. Mr. Grimes pulled her forward. “Say nothing!”

  A great handlebar mustache with foul breath above an unclean collar came into her peripheral vision. She did not look his way. “Please, Mrs. Oades,” he said. “A few words?”

  Margaret shook her head. The man was fat and warty, a jowly cock of the walk. “Are there other wives?” he asked. “Or just the two so far?”

  “Leave her be, Bowman.” The lawyer’s bark belied his size. “Damn locusts. Every last one of you.”

  The newsman struggled to keep up, wheezing stink, pencil and black notebook in hand. “I’ll wager you’re the favorite,” he said, his voice like oily sewage. Mr. Grimes tugged on her arm, just as she was jabbed from behind with an umbrella or cane. “You’d surely be mine,” whispered Mr. Bowman.

  “Bail out your filthy mouth, sir,” she said, looking at him now, trembling with rage. “We’re not Mormons.”

  Mr. Grimes’s grip tightened. “Mrs. Oades!”

  Someone yelled over the others, “Heathen polygamists! Worse yet.”

  Mr. Bowman bared a wicked smile, clearly pleased with himself for having goaded her to outburst.

  Mr. Grimes opened the door to the courtroom and ushered her inside.

  “It’ll be all right, Meg,” said Henry. It won’t, she thought. Ever again.

  THE HEARING was shockingly brief, as if the judge and Mr. Grimes had rehearsed. Justice Billings certainly didn’t seem surprised to hear that Henry couldn’t produce a marriage certificate here and now.

  “It’s been sent for,” said Mr. Grimes, with little zeal.

  “You have my word that it exists,” said Henry, nearly begging.

  “Put the marriage certificate before me, sir,” said the judge. “The court will decide the validity then. In the meantime, beginning today, you and Mrs. Margaret Oades will house yourselves separately.” He gave a listless rap of his gavel and it was over. Henry and Mr. Grimes formed a lopsided phalanx and led Margaret away.

  Henry’s carriage and horse had been delivered to the stable six blocks down. Henry walked hurriedly, his face creased with worry.

  “What is it, Henry?”

  “I’ve put off burning the pasture too long as it is,” he muttered.

  “Why would you burn your own pasture?”

  “Better grazing,” he said.

  “Perhaps I might take a room elsewhere,” she said. “The judge said nothing about how we should house ourselves separately.”

  He glanced sideways. “You’d do that kindness?”

  “You know I would,” she said.

  “I do,” he said, looking relieved. “Thank you, Meg.”

  “In turn, promise that you’ll keep a close eye on the children, Pheeny especially. She’s at loose ends. She doesn’t understand the arrangement.” And neither do I, for that matter.

  “I’ll take her out riding before supper,” he said.

  “That would be lovely.” It was rather like old times, discussing their children. Late at night, usually. In bed. One thousand years ago.

  MRS. OSGOOD’S boardinghouse was three-storied and painted robin’s-egg blue, with white trim. The front porch had been swept clean, and there were wicker chairs about for reading or crocheting in pleasant weather. Henry removed his hat and rang the bell. Bread was baking inside. “You’ll speak to the children?” said Margaret. “Explain the situation without alarming them?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Try not to worry.”

  Mrs. Osgood opened the front door, broom in hand. She had a face full of irregular moles and a large nose pricked solid with blackheads. Margaret’s first and immediate feeling was one of kinship.

  “I have no rooms,” she said straight off.

  “Your notice board indicates otherwise, madam,” said Henry.

  Mrs. Osgood advanced onto the porch, broom in both hands, held like a rifle. She lowered her voice. “I won’t have your kind here.” Margaret bristled, assuming an arbitrary loathing of the English. “This is a Christian house,” she said.

  “I’m prepared to pay twice the published rate,” said Henry.

  The woman seemed to hesitate before repeating herself. “I have no rooms. Good-day.”

  “Madam,” said Henry, with a curt bob. He returned hat to head, taking Margaret’s arm and turning her about. At the gate Margaret glanced back to see the woman furiously sweeping the spot where they’d stood.

  Henry inquired at two more houses while Margaret waited in the carriage. Those rooms were allegedly taken as well. Henry then remembered a man who owed him a favor.

  “Mr. Potter’s twice borrowed my bull.” He laughed softly, a sound she hadn’t heard in years. “Sir Roger is quite the popular beast.” She laughed too a little. It felt so nice.

  They drove out of town, traveling in the opposite direction of the farm, eventually coming to a dilapidated house with a few stringy wet hens in the front yard. No smoke rose from the chimney. No smell of bread perfumed the air. “I’m sorry, Meg.”

  She touched his cuff. “I shall get on fine here.”

  “For all of it,” he said, sitting back, the reins still in his hands. “Your letter came only Thursday last.” He looked at her briefly and turned away again. “I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “You once said that we’d have stories to tell in our old age,” she said. “Do you recall it? ‘Think of the grand stories we’ll tell in our sapless dotage,’ you said. The day we sailed, standing at the rail together. Those were your exact words. Do you remember, Henry?”

  “Christ,” he whispered. “It’s been so long, Meg, so bloody long.” He climbed down from the buggy. “I thought I’d never see my way through after you….” He shook his head, not looking at her. “At some point I began to come round. I couldn’t tell you when precisely.” He looked at her then, wanting something, forgiveness, understanding at least. “It’s a terrible thing to say,” he said. “I’m sorry, but there it is.”

  Sitting in her cell, Margaret had imagined him sitting in his, pondering the situation without Nancy’s influence and coming to his senses. But that hadn’t happened.

  She wept quietly, unable to stop. “I merely asked if you remembered how we once were.”

  “I do, of course,” he said, offering up his handkerchief. “Jesus, Meg. How could I forget?”

  There Was an

  Old Woman

  NANCY’S MONTHLY came that morning, around eleven, right about the time Mr. Oades and Margaret would have been standing before the judge. She thought at first she must be miscarrying because the cramping was so severe; but a miscarrying mother will deliver a tiny infant, the size of a tree frog, her mama said, perfect in every way, by and for God. Nancy inspected the pot afterward and saw that she’d delivered nothing but blood, more than a decapitated chicken would spill.

  She called down to Dora, who came finally. Nancy climbed into bed, weak and perspiring, wanting only sleep. “Take the pot, please. Then bring the rags and pins.”

  Dora squatted to lift the porcelain pot, grunting, her knees spread wide. She was a hulking girl of sixteen, saddled with big feet and hands. Her eyes were pretty, though, bright and clear, with enviable long, dark lashes. “Oh, Mrs. Oades.”

  “Dora, please. Lower your voice. It’s enough to wake the dead.”

  “Poor missus.” Like a starved cat’s wail, only twice as irritating.

  “Please, Dora.”

  “How far along were you?”

  Nancy sat up and peered into the rank pot again, becoming dizzy with the clotted sight and metallic stench of it. “There was no issue. Please take it away now.”

  The girl left, clucking sympathetically. Nancy slept, wakin
g to Dora’s work shoes ascending the stairs, the battering knock. She carried a cleaned pot and enough folded rags to staunch a dozen monthlies, piling them on the dressing table. “Poor missus,” she murmured, making a coquettish face for the mirror. “’Tis a shame.”

  Nancy threw aside the bedclothes and stood. “’Tis life, dearie. We’re all blessed by Eve’s curse, every last one of us. So save your pity and leave me be now.”

  Sulky Dora stomped off. Nancy washed between her legs and pinned two folded rags to the belt, stabbing her thumb in the process and drawing more blood. She got under the covers, feeling empty, and wanting her mother. Her first monthly had come while her mother was still alive. Heaven knows what her father would have done if he’d been left to explain lady things. Nancy would still be in the dark to this day probably. He never would have thought to make black haw bark tea for the cramps, much less drink a cup of the nasty brew himself just to keep her company.

  Nancy slept fitfully, waking to find her gown and sheets soaked through. A person could drown in all that disgusting blood. She washed again, turning the water in the basin bright pink, and dressed for supper, putting on the old gingham, the baggiest of her dresses. Her face was swollen, as if she’d been stung by a thousand angry wasps. She applied some cream, but it did little good, and she did not much care. She gathered up the sheets, rags, and ruined nightgown, leaving the unholy heap on the floor.

  Margaret’s door was ajar. Nancy announced herself. “Hello?” Martha was on the floor, playing spillikins by herself. She abandoned the game, looking up, wiping her chubby hands on her everyday smock. “Where’s our mum, Mrs. Oades?”

  “I thought I’d find her returned by now,” said Nancy. Josephine sat in the rocker by the window, nestling sleeping Gertrude. “I told Dora to look after the baby this afternoon.”

  “Dora asked me to keep her up here,” whispered Josephine. “I said I didn’t mind.”

  “Well, thank you, Josephine. I can see she takes to you.” Nancy stepped out again, hugging herself against the chill, picturing the wrecked buggy on its side, Mr. Oades and Margaret dead, their broken bodies lying in a ditch.