The Wives of Henry Oades (24 page)

Josephine glanced Nancy’s way, as if looking for confirmation. “Before you know it,” Nancy echoed. “Sooner.” Children never know what’s what. Parents were forever withholding the pertinent details.

S
HE WENT TO
D
ORA
after supper. Dora turned from the sink, eyes narrowing to slits, soapy fist going to a hip. “About to let me go, ain’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Dora, but—”

“You’re going to be, missus. You’re going to be more than sorry. People are talking. Nobody else is going to work for you, I promise you that.”

Nancy had planned to give her two weeks’ severance and send her off with a letter of recommendation highlighting her ability to tote great weight. Instead she gave her one week’s pay and instructions to be packed by breakfast. If not for the sink full of greasy dishes, Nancy would have put the brazen sass out tonight. She’d reached the scraggly end of her rope hours ago.

A Trip to the
Quack

A
MAN FROM THE HEALTH DEPARTMENT
came out a few days later. Mr. Oades said he wasn’t particularly surprised to see him. Everyone was in a dither over consumptive cows these days. Officials and doctors were scaring mothers half out of their minds with their pure-milk crusade.

“He claimed Rose looked suspicious,” said Mr. Oades. It was late. He and Nancy were alone in the front room. “He was prepared to take her and two of the others. That’s when I picked up the rifle and showed him the way out. I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow some bloke with a badge to make off with my good animals.” He settled back in his chair with a sigh. “I’m going on his list, he says.”

“What sort of list, Mr. Oades?”

He smiled, putting his brandy glass aside and patting his thigh. Nancy went to him willingly, sleepily, arranging herself upon his lap. She loved the luxurious size of him. He went for her buttons, those of her shirtwaist, then those of her overcorset, taking his time about it. Francis had always been in too much of a rush.

“You may call me Henry,” he said, teasingly. “We’re well enough acquainted now, don’t you think?”

Nancy stroked his beard. “Yes, Henry.”

Lines of happiness appeared at the corners of his eyes. Such a sweet blessing of a man.

Their romance had been in full bloom this last week. Mr. Oades credited the warm weather, but they both knew Margaret’s absence was the reason. For the first time since she arrived, they’d not had to be mindful of her feelings.

Nancy kissed his mouth, mentally combing the kitchen in search of a lemon. The last thing she wanted was another baby. She’d prayed over it. She’d also taken precautions, inserting a barrier just before bed, a new sponge dipped in lemon juice. (Some older wives were talking one Sunday after church, which is how she learned of the method.) Four children were plenty, more than enough. She didn’t think he’d disagree with the number, only with the unnatural interference of the sponge itself.

Maybe the sponge alone did the trick. Hers were of a good dense quality, sturdy enough to repel a tiny seed, you’d think. What purpose did the juice serve? There ought to be a book to which a motherless lady might refer in private. Birth and the act should not be related, anyway. She’d long thought it. Another method of conception would make more sense, one not yoked to pleasurable sensations. The world would be a better place. The poorhouses wouldn’t be filled to the rafters with unwed mothers if babies were brought about by a hearty handshake. A lady need never remove her glove.

The mantel clock bonged ten. Nancy gently extracted herself and stood, buttoning up, her stomach rumbling with the onions from supper.

“Cruel lass! Where are you off to?”

She remembered the health inspector then. “What sort of list?”

“A scare tactic was all it was,” he said, rising with crackling joints. “Meg is ailing, by the by. I meant to make mention earlier.” He turned his back to her, as if embarrassed by the announcement, picking up the newspaper he’d already read, scowling into it.

“Were you out at Potter’s today?”

“I was,” he said, glaring down at the front page photograph of Jerger Okoudek, a Zulu prince who had fallen in love with a Caucasian lady while attending Cambridge University. The prince went by Tommy Taylor now. He was a soldier in the United States Army, stationed at Fort Alcatraz. His lady was “fair and French” according to the paper, a Cambridge student herself, amazingly enough. She’d boldly married her “ebony prince,” only to take ill and die soon after. Life lost all meaning for the prince then. Nancy had wept for them, reading.

“What’s the matter with Margaret?” she asked.

“Her teeth are giving her fits. Bullheaded woman refuses to see the dentist.”

“Poor Margaret. That’s the worst pain in the world. A bad toothache is second only to childbirth. I wanted to kill myself once.”

“I bought medicine in town,” said Henry, somewhat defensively.

“Did it do any good?”

“I don’t know. I suppose. The new pharmacist said it should.”

“You didn’t stay to see?”

“I was there to pay Potter. I did what I could. She needs to see a dentist.”

“Well, she can’t go to Dr. Dooley,” said Nancy. “Not after what his wife put me through. Maybe you should take her to a dentist in San Francisco.”

“Shall I show her the sights while we’re there? I’ve a farm to run, Nan.”

“I’ll take her then,” said Nancy, expecting a blustery protest. Instead his expression softened.

“You’d do that kindness?”

“Of course.”

He rushed on, as if fearing she’d have a change of heart. “You’d want to take the ten o’clock ferry, not the eleven. The eleven is crowded with Gypsies.”

She wondered aloud, “When would we go?”

“John will bring you to the ferry,” said Henry. “I could spare him say, Tuesday next.”

“And leave Margaret to suffer until then? No, that wouldn’t be right, Mr…. Henry. I’ll go see her tomorrow. We’ll take the nine o’clock on Thursday. That’ll give us a good early start.”

Almost immediately, Nancy had second thoughts about signing herself up for an entire day alone with Margaret, without the buffer of family. But it was too late now.

J
OHN DROVE HER
to Mr. Potter’s eyesore the next morning. The porch was splotched with dried chicken dung; it sagged where they stood. Rusty nails stuck out everywhere. The grimy front windows looked as if they’d never been washed.

“Your poor mother,” said Nancy. “It’s bad enough that she has to stay in this awful pit, but to stay here with a bad tooth is just beyond the pale.”

“She’s had it worse,” said John, breaking his long silence. He was still mourning Dora’s departure. Nancy felt for him; the first heartbreak is the hardest. Maybe they should start going to church again, and give him a chance to meet some
good
girls.

Margaret looked happy to see them, happy to see John at least. She ushered them into a ratty front room. “What brings you? Not that you need a reason, sweetheart.”

Her left jaw was three times the size of the right and looked hot to the touch. Margaret said nothing about it, acting as if she were in the rosiest of health. Nancy was reminded of a story she’d heard a long time ago, about men who carried ferocious animals, wolverines or badgers, beneath their shirts. The men were gnawed nearly to death, but didn’t let on. Nancy never did understand the brave point.

The oily red davenport obviously served as a bed at night. Long gray hairs had been shed, Margaret’s in all probability, but who could tell? Sitting, barely perching, Nancy came right to the point. “I’m going to take you to a dentist in San Francisco.”

Margaret frowned, putting a hand to her swollen jaw as if to hide it. “I don’t care for dentists.”

Something scurried along the baseboard, a rodent or a very large bug, giving Nancy a shiver. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not in the least bit afraid,” said Margaret. “I simply loathe their existence. I’d sooner let a miner come near.”

Nancy laughed. “A miner?”

“A miner wrests a gemstone as a dentist wrests a tooth, does he not? Yet one won’t find the honest miner strutting about, claiming a physician’s mantle.”

Nancy didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about. Despite the unpleasant purpose of the trip, a normal person would be champing at the bit to leave this decrepit shanty for a day. “Well, suit yourself, Margaret. If you want to be a martyr about it. I can’t tie you up and force you to go.”

Margaret stood, cradling her jaw in her trembling hand. “Tea?” A sheen of tears stood in her eyes.

“You should go to the dentist, Mum,” said John. “It’ll only get worse.”

Margaret dropped her hand and raised it again, silent tears streaming. “All right, Nancy.” Each syllable seemed a painful effort. “Thank you. When do we leave?”

N
ANCY AND
J
OHN
set out on Thursday, directions to Dr. McTeague’s dental parlors tucked inside Nancy’s velvet bag. Titus’s mother had recommended the dentist to Titus, who recommended him to Henry.

Margaret was waiting on the Potters’ porch when they drove up. She wore the same old brown dress, which could use a little lace. Lace flattered the homeliest of ladies. Nancy’s own blue wedding suit had lace everywhere it might go, real duchess lace at the sleeves, neck, and hem. There was even a cunning bow of lace at the waist. She didn’t care about the rule of wearing one’s shabbiest clothes when traveling. If not for this one measly outing it would never be seen. On the ferry, she took extreme care in choosing clean seats. Margaret plopped right down without as much as a glance behind.

Nancy had been to San Francisco once before. Francis took her to the Cliff House to see the seals on her birthday. Coming back, a floating log became caught up in the propeller, causing the ferry to pitch and roll. It turned out they were never in any real danger, but the passengers didn’t know it at the time. Women were shrieking. Men were shouting, flinging life preservers. No one could have slept through the commotion, as Margaret, blessedly drunk on tooth medicine, was doing now. Nancy sat beside her, watching the human panorama, guessing at ages, at professions and wealth. She bought an orange drink after a while, tart and delicious, tipping the vendor a penny. She was feeling generous, grown-up, and happy. It had been ages since she’d set foot off the farm.

From the ferry they made their way through knots of chattering Chinese and boarded a cable car to Polk Street. They found the address with no trouble. The doctor’s sign hung outside a bay window, over a post office.

D
R
. M
C
T
EAGUE
. D
ENTAL
P
ARLORS
. G
AS
G
IVEN
.

The sign should have read Dental
Parlor.
That’s all it was, a single room, overly warm, smelling of beer and pipesmoke, and faintly, unpleasantly, of gas. From the looks of things—a stack of newspapers, a dirty plate, a mute canary in a cage—the doctor lived in the unsanitary room. The muggy little place had to be teeming with germs. And the doctor himself, good gravy! He looked nothing like a medical man. He was an oaf, a big yellow-haired lummox, with redwoods for limbs. He had a patient in his chair, a young lady, who sat with her head back and her eyes closed, still as a cadaver.

“Sit yourselves,” he said, gesturing with a silver instrument toward three straight-back chairs. “I’ll only be another five minutes.”

Margaret turned to Nancy and mouthed the word “Quack.”

“Let’s leave, then,” whispered Nancy. “We’ll find another dentist.”

Margaret deliberated for a moment before whispering back, “They’re all the same. This one comes with a recommendation at least.” She sat, holding her jaw, letting out a gasp of pain. Dr. McTeague looked at them, his broad forehead creasing in sympathy.
Was that egg in his mustache?

He called to Nancy, “I’ll have your mother fixed right up.”

“She’s not my mother,” snapped Nancy. In Margaret’s shoes she would have marched straight out the door. Margaret just shook her head, dismissing the idiotic insult. Nancy began to seethe on Margaret’s behalf, working herself up to a good boil by the time he was finished with his patient. Margaret was in no condition to take him on, but Nancy certainly was.

“Just where did you receive your training?” she asked, as Margaret was settling back in his operating chair. He scratched his chin, a fine yellow dust falling. The dried yolk might have been clinging to the yellow whiskers for days. Nancy took a position behind his dental engine, where Margaret could see her.

“I apprenticed with a good man,” he said, peering intently into Margaret’s open mouth. “Abscess,” he murmured. “No saving it. Ether would be best.”

“No,” said Margaret. “I want my wits about me, thank you.”

“It won’t hurt,” he said.