Johanna Moran - The Wives of Henry Oades

“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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