Johanna Moran - The Wives of Henry Oades

Mrs. Randolph waved off the suggestion, pulling a hankie from a side pocket, wiping her perspiring brow and neck. “No, thank you. His breath is foul, and he has a tremendous backside for a man. It’s every bit as broad as my own.” Her watery eyes shifted about. “The wind has died down, hasn’t it? Perhaps it’s time I fetched your husband.”

Margaret sat up a bit. “Please visit a moment longer.”

The cabin air was inhospitable, as warm and muggy as a coop’s. Still, Mrs. Randolph didn’t hesitate. She pulled the stool close and sat, buffing the ring with a sleeve and splaying her fingers. “Pretty, isn’t it? I noticed you looking.”

“It’s lovely. A ruby?”

“A garnet, actually. You should see how it does in a good light.” She tugged the ring free and pushed it down Margaret’s middle finger. “There now. Hold your hand to your cheek.” Margaret shyly complied. “Yes, like that. Isn’t it striking next to your dark hair? Christmas is coming. I’ll make a mention to Mr. Oades.”

“He’d think us both daft,” Margaret said, studying the ring. Henry was always saying that she was a natural, a born beauty. She denied that she was, though of course she liked to hear him say it. Oh, she wasn’t a scare. Her features were arranged nicely enough. She was a tall woman, a bit too tall, though she walked erect as she’d been taught, in fear of growing a hump. Her wasp waist, considering the children, drew the occasional flattering comment from other women. Her eyes were clear, more gray than blue, and her complexion was even, unblemished. But her mannish hands weren’t right. The knuckles were too large, unworthy of the ring’s glamour.

“You may borrow it one evening,” said Mrs. Randolph.

Margaret removed the ring and returned it. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

“It was given to me by a circus performer,” said Mrs. Randolph. “A wild-animal trainer, a Persian living in Paris, a splendid masculine specimen.”

“How romantic,” said Margaret. “And the blue ring? A sapphire, is it?”

Mrs. Randolph nodded, smiling as if with fond memory. “An English gent surprised me with this one, a charming old dear from London. Rich as Midas. George. I don’t recall the surname. We’d just been to the Lyceum to see Sarah Bernhardt onstage.”

“Sarah Bernhardt. Really.”

“It was the highlight of my life. She sleeps in a satin-lined coffin, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Am I tiring you, Mrs. Oades?”

“Not in the least,” said Margaret. “Was she as vulgar as they say?”

Mrs. Randolph leaned in. “She was sensual. She embodied the complete woman, if you know what I mean.” She closed her eyes and threw back her head, embracing the air, an invisible lover. A warm flutter passed through Margaret. She felt herself blushing. Mrs. Randolph let out a dreamy moan, her back arching, the stool teetering. She toppled off sideways, hitting her head with a solid thud.

“Mrs. Randolph! Are you all right?”

The cabin door flew open. Storming in ahead of the children, clumsy Henry nearly stepped on Mrs. Randolph’s outstretched hand. She rolled out of his range and stood awkwardly, brushing herself off, starting to laugh. Margaret laughed too. She couldn’t help herself.

Henry stood staring, looking as if he’d happened upon a cell of loons. “I heard the noise. What are you up to here? I thought my wife had fallen out of bed.”

“It was nothing,” said Mrs. Randolph, breathing hard. “Just a bit of cheer.”

She left a moment later, with a sisterly kiss to Margaret’s cheek and a promise to look in on her later. When Mrs. Randolph knocked at two, Margaret was sleeping, and Henry didn’t wake her.

“I hadn’t the heart,” he said.

They put in at Malta the next morning. Margaret looked for Mrs. Randolph at breakfast, but then the ship began taking on coal, a filthy process. A dry black dust rained down on the decks, their faces, their clothes. She and the children were forced below because of it. Soon after leaving tranquil Malta they were in rolling seas again. Henry ventured out toward the end of the day, bringing back cheese and warm milk that was to be their supper. The captain had ordered the decks cleared and the hatches closed.

“It’s expected to get worse before it gets better,” said Henry, breaking up the cheese with his hands.

They remained penned for the better part of two days. It fell to Henry to dump the pot and fetch the food. Margaret stayed with the children, entertaining them with stories and spillikins, a simple game when played on land. Players take turns selecting a jackstraw from a scattered pile, losing if another straw is disturbed. Margaret should have known that the ship’s movement would spoil the game, although the children didn’t seem to mind. They spent hours playing, riding John’s lower berth together.

On the third morning Henry returned later than usual from his constable’s duties. “Your Mrs. Randolph is gravely ill, I’m afraid.”

Margaret stood to leave. “You’ll mind the children?”

“I’m sorry, Meg. I cannot allow you to go. She might be contagious.”

“Think of all she’s done for me, Henry. I’ll stay no more than a minute, I promise. I’ll simply peek in to show I’ve come.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

She kicked the stool instead of him. “Imagine my preventing you from going to a friend in need!” John quit playing suddenly, gathering up the jackstraws. Josephine began nibbling her thumb, her wary eyes darting from parent to parent.

“Never mind,” Margaret said to the children. “Carry on with your game. Or would you rather a story? Shall I read some Tom Sawyer? ” Henry hovered too close, looking infuriatingly contrite. There was no place to turn with her anger.

MRS. RANDOLPH DIED the next day. Margaret left John and Josephine with Henry and attended the service alone, joining a clutch of women on the lower deck. The cause of death was internal convulsions. So said the dentist. He volunteered the information straightaway, before anyone might think to inquire.

“I did everything within my power,” he said.

Margaret spoke up. “She didn’t respond to the orange cure?”

The dentist turned, glaring at her, drawing up his collar. As if her remark had sharpened the day’s gray bite. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Randolph complained to you of a stomach disorder early on, did she not?”

The dentist cupped a hand to his ear, feigning deafness. Margaret was about to repeat herself when Mrs. Randolph’s sailcloth-wrapped body arrived. She made a heartbreakingly paltry package. Margaret wept. There was so little to her in death.

Two African sailors brought her. The somber, broad-beamed Captain Burns—the bounder who’d allowed the dentist to pose as physician—followed behind, Bible in hand. Margaret bowed her head and prayed curses. God blast them both.

When she lifted her eyes, the sailors were in position at the rail. The Africans shivered in the damp air, awaiting their cue from the captain, who appeared impervious, both to weather and death. Almighty Burns began with a great heave of his shoulders, a world-weary glance skyward. A minute was given Mrs. Randolph, two at the most.

“We therefore commit Martha’s body to the deep…”

The mourners were forced aside to allow the crew room. Her body fell with a flat splash into the choppy sea, floating only a moment inside the weighted shroud.

“Looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead…”