The Wives of Henry Oades (8 page)

He watched the flowers go into the ground.

“He’s smiling,” someone whispered. “He’s bearing up well.”

On Sunday Henry attended evening services. Everyone seemed to expect it of him. He got through it. A bachelor colleague, Simon Reed, brought him back to the cottage afterward. “You’re not equipped to see to yourself, Henry.”

“I am, Simon,” Henry insisted. His family would come. They’d see to him, and he to them. Things would right themselves. They’d all be fine. He believed it wholly.

Simon pushed him up the new ramp and inside, muttering under his breath. “A man in your state shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I shall get on fine here,” said Henry.

Simon lighted a lamp and set it on the table.

“If you’ll light the others, please.”

Henry had him light every lamp, seven in all.

“Where would you like them, Henry?”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Henry. “You’ve done enough. Go on home now.”

Alone, Henry maneuvered the wheelchair without difficulty. He put one lamp in his lap and rolled himself, setting the lamp in the side window, returning then for the next lamp. Lamp by lamp, he turned the room bright, as gay as a ballroom, making himself visible ten miles out.

He ate hard cheese and opened the brandy someone had left, putting out another goblet. Meg enjoyed a nice brandy. He rolled himself to the front window again, restless, excited. But they did not come. Not that night, nor the next. A quiet week passed, then another. He sat on the porch daily, his eyes fixed on the road. He went inside eventually and sat there, a useless stump by the window.
Sweet Jesus.
Every bloody day.

He rose one morning and limped unaided to the grave out back. He stood over the mound until his leg would no longer support him, then sat alongside and began to dig. He hadn’t planned to do it; but once started he could not stop.

Almost before he pulled aside the sheet he knew. He brushed dirt from the skull, recognizing the sharp little tooth way back in her head, pointed, darker than the others. Henry cried out and began to cover her again. He scooped great handfuls as fast as he could, tamping down the crumbly dirt, beating it hard. He fell back exhausted, sobbing, struggling for air. He calmed after a while, but did not, could not, move. For months he’d felt her about, alive, and now he did not. He could no longer pretend. Meg was gone, lost to him forever. He lay stunned, face to the sun. He’d thought they had all the time in the world.

No Worse
than Here

H
ENRY FOUND
flat black seeds lying loose on a pantry shelf and planted a few at the foot of Meg’s grave. He watched faithfully, witnessing the first shoot, the subsequent withering and dying. He gave thought to starting over, but knew the same would happen. He’d never had much luck in a garden. So he quit, and his days turned that much longer.

Mr. Freylock rode out at the end of June. “Good God,” he said straight off. “Have a flock of filthy sheep been run through here?”

Henry said nothing. A bit of dust, a dried rat turd or two hardly warranted comment.

Mr. Freylock clucked like a woman. “There’s no excuse for squalor. Even for a chap on his own.” He dropped a slim packet of envelopes on the table. “A spot of comfort from home for you, Henry.”

Henry didn’t get up. “Her parents?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He picked up Henry’s urinal and went outside to pour it over the porch rail. Henry watched without interest from his usual place by the front window. Recently he’d moved from the wheelchair to an armless ladder-back and felt less the invalid for it. He was able to move about as necessary, using the broom as a crutch.

Mr. Freylock came back in. “Have you written her loved ones?”

Henry studied his fingernails, broken and blackened from tending her grave. He hadn’t written to her parents or his own. He hadn’t the words. “I’ll get round to it in due course.”

“You should inform them immediately. They’ve a right to know.”

“A right to know what precisely?”

“The facts, boy.” Mr. Freylock pumped water and rinsed his hands, drying them on the only dish towel. “You know in your heart of hearts they’re gone.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” said Henry. “Show me my dead children, sir!”

Mr. Freylock ran last night’s plate under the water. What had he had to eat? Henry couldn’t remember. “You’re in a bad way, Henry. I’m sorry. I won’t say any more about it.”

Henry spoke to the window, the one thing he kept cleaned. “What do the savages do with them?” Hideous images too frequently rose from a black hell in his mind, visions of his maimed children screaming his name.

Mr. Freylock said softly, “What are you asking?”

Henry looked at him. “They wouldn’t consume a tiny innocent, would they?”

“Oh, Christ, Henry. Please. Don’t torture yourself. They’re past their suffering now.”

Henry’s voice quaked. “They wouldn’t.”

“It isn’t healthful, you know. Sitting out here all alone, with only your morbid thoughts for company. You’d be better off in town, in my opinion.”

Henry turned back to the window, resuming his vigil.

Mr. Freylock offered to put the kettle on. Henry shook his head, willing the man gone. “Work is what you need,” said Mr. Freylock. “Why not ride back with me now. Have you a decent shirt and trousers? You cannot go out as you are.”

Hot tears rose in Henry’s eyes. “Would they kill them first? Surely they wouldn’t boil a live screaming child….”

Mr. Freylock threw up his hands. “Henry, Henry. For the love of God, don’t dwell on it. Think of them at peace with Jesus, will you? Think of your children quit of all adversity.”

“They’d shoot them first,” said Henry decisively.

Mr. Freylock sighed. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Henry put his face in his hands, depleted. “I’m going mad, sir. And it’s not doing my kids the first bit of good. There’s no reason to believe they didn’t escape. My boy’s as clever as they come.”

“Ah, Henry. They—”

“You don’t know him,” said Henry, cutting him off. “John’s sharp as a needle. The lad reads the night skies as well as you do the gazette.” He stood with the aid of the broom and hobbled toward the back room, planning his next move. There were men in town he might call upon to help, resources he’d not yet thought of. It was merely a matter of keeping a rational mind, resisting the panic. That’s all. He managed yesterday. He’d manage today.

He changed his clothes, and then wrote a note while Mr. Freylock waited.

Dearest children
,
you’ll find a cord of good wood round the side and a large ham in the larder. You’re to contact the distillery immediately. Your always loving and devoted father.

Outside he turned, scanning the forest, the road in both directions, looking for them.

M
R
. F
REYLOCK DROVE
, breaking the silence with small talk every mile or two. His wife’s brisket was mentioned, the new accountant with a penchant for the bottle. “Tom Flowers is coming along well,” he said, interrupting Henry’s reverie yet again. He’d been thinking about the babies, wondering what John was doing to feed them. It took a moment to recall Tom’s amputation.

“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.

T
HE 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.”

H
ENRY 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.”