The Wives of Henry Oades

“That’s very good news, sir.”

“At his desk Monday last,” said Mr. Freylock, casting a sidelong glance. “Taking it all in his stride.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said Henry.

Mr. Freylock’s thin mouth tightened. “I can tell you don’t find me particularly helpful.”

Henry lied. “I do, sir.” Roots or mussels mashed with river water. John would find a way.

They arrived on the outskirts toward dusk. Nothing had been said about where he might stay. “I won’t impose on your family a second time,” Henry said, expecting an argument.

“I know of a suitable bachelor’s flat,” said Mr. Freylock.

The word bachelor brought to mind an irresponsible, glib sort, no one like himself. He began to regret leaving the cottage, though he couldn’t possibly endure a return trip. His leg throbbed from heel to groin. The day had gone on too long. And now the night was upon him. Nights were the worst with his kids out there.

THE TIDY BEDSIT was located over a haberdasher. Mr. Freylock helped him up the two pair of stairs, and then went out again, bringing back a pasty and tea for one. He remained standing, driving gloves in hand.

“Will you be all right, Henry?”

“I shall get on fine, sir. Go on home now. Your wife will be waiting.”

“I’ll say it again,” said Mr. Freylock in parting. “Work is what you need.”

“Yes, sir,” said Henry, and was rid of him at last.

The following Tuesday he returned to his desk, where he could not concentrate for the blinding headaches. On Friday he requested and was granted a leave of absence.

“You may as well go,” said Mr. Freylock, signing the permission form. “You’ve no head for numbers these days.”

That Sunday, in the social hall after services, Henry clapped his hands once and asked for volunteers. He’d hoped to find some of the Maori parishioners about, but everyone there was English, two dozen or so, prattling away.

“Who’ll come with me to look?”

They stirred, scraping their feet. Someone offered to bring him tea.

“I’m posting a reward for their safe return. One hundred pounds sterling.”

“Poor man,” said a woman by the door.

Henry turned slowly, looking them in the eye individually. “I’d go without question were it any one of your children.”

“God bless you, Mr. Oades,” the same woman chirped.

“And God blast you, madam,” said Henry, storming out. “God blast you one and all.”

Someone called after him. “You’re looking to get eaten, brother Oades.”

HENRY RODE NORTH, following the river, tying blue rags to tree limbs as he went, marking the places searched. He turned after a week, starting first south, and then west into the higher elevations. The pristine forest revealed nothing but the impossibility of survival. Sometime during the fourth week he lost what little hope remained and did not recover it. His children were gone. He stayed out looking another two weeks before finally giving up. Coming back, he saw that the blue rags had turned gray.

The return brought him past the cottage, where clothes hung on the line. Henry hitched the horse to a post and ran up the grassy rise, praying to find his children inside, feverishly calculating the chances. Miracles occurred every day. Anything was possible on this earth. A squat lady opened the door and his heart quieted. Behind her skirts a red-faced toddling child bawled, a glistening slime streaming from both nostrils. The woman did nothing to comfort or shush it. They both needed a hair combing.

“I had not expected to find the home occupied,” he said.

Her fists went to ample hips. “I’ve papers to show we paid.”

A spotted dog lapped at a pie on the table. The place was a mess, the walls and floor streaked with black God-knows-what. Even he’d been a better housekeeper. Henry gestured toward the back of the cottage. “Are you aware of the grave, madam?”

A look of horror came into her yellowish eyes.

“My wife,” he said.

“Animals must have been digging,” she said. “My husband spent a good portion of his day restoring it. He put up a wall of stones, did a fine job of it, too. Didn’t want the little ones bothering it. You know how children can be, particularly curious boys. You’re welcome to have a visit with her.”

Henry declined, sickened by the idea of scavengers and brats. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find the slovenly family there. He’d abandoned the place after all, without bothering to inform the owner. He rode back to town to discover that his bedsit had been leased as well, his clothes given to the Sisters of Mercy.

“You might give notice next time,” said the landlord. “Was I supposed to hold the room indefinitely?”

On the man’s cluttered mantel, next to a dusty shepherd-boy figurine, stood Meg’s ginger jar. Henry noticed almost immediately and took it down. “It belonged to my wife.”

“I was keeping it safe,” the landlord said defensively.

Henry turned to go, not knowing where.

The landlord spoke up. “The Germans might have a room to spare. The old frau won’t allow you in as you are, though. Five pence will buy you a hot bath. I’ll toss in a trim free of charge, knowing your sorrow.”

Henry paid double for a full tub, refusing the charity. There was sufficient money in the bank. The landlord sold him a threadbare suit, the sleeves of which were too short. The castoff got him to the tailor, where he was measured for a mourning suit, to the undertaker’s after that, where he arranged for Meg’s immediate unearthing. He went next to the Germans’ and took the one available room without inspecting it.

Three days later, when the suit was ready, he hired a hack and rode out to the Freylocks’. He had in mind a simple graveside service. He meant only to ask Mr. Freylock for an extended leave.

Mrs. Freylock fell upon him weeping. She called her husband to the door. Together, with far too much chatter, they brought him inside, seating him in the best chair in the best room, feeding him tea and crumpets he could not taste.

“Shall we host the memory service here, Mr. Oades?” She glanced toward her husband, who nodded.

“I couldn’t ask it of you,” said Henry. “Just a marker might be best.”

“Forgive me for saying so,” said Mrs. Freylock. “But that hardly seems adequate.”

Henry shook his head, his weary thoughts clashing. He was incapable of making the smallest decision lately. “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Freylock touched his sleeve. “For your wife and children.”

Henry felt himself on the brink of tears. “All right. Thank you.”

She smiled. “It’s settled then. Is there a beloved photograph we might display?”

“The fire took everything, madam.”

A little whimper escaped her lips. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Her nervous hands did not still for a second; they went to her throat, to her hair, to her ear bobs, and back to her throat. She pushed the plate of crumpets his way again. How unlike his Meg she was. His wife had possessed a certain feminine manliness all women could learn from.

Mrs. Freylock said something. He leaned toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

She pantomimed plucking. “Flowers, Mr. Oades. What sort would you prefer?”

“My wife enjoyed her roses,” Henry said. For a light-headed half moment he thought to correct himself. Enjoys. My wife enjoys her roses. He was deliriously tired, and missing her so.

Something was said then about the funeral biscuits, but Henry did not retain it. He was allowed to leave finally. The same hackie drove him back to the Germans’, where the stench of cooking cabbage reached even his small attic room. He vomited into the empty basin and swiped his mouth. Minutes later the downstairs girl knocked on his door. He vomited again, and then let her in to take the basin. Her elfin face pinched in disgust. But he was past caring what others might think.

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