The Wives of Henry Oades. Johanna Moran

ME, HENRY,” she said next morning. He was dressing in the far corner by wavering lamplight. Her voice gave him a start. “I was purely selfish.”

      He came to her just as she sat up, cracking his forehead against hers, swearing. “Christ! Hardheaded woman.”

      “Irreverent man! You shall be struck down by lightning.”

      Both laughed softly. She stroked his beard, the back of his bristly neck. “I’m quite proud of you.”

      He took her face between his hands and kissed her lips. “And I of you, my girl.”

      “I’ll post your letter this morning,” he said, standing, pulling his coat from the peg.

      “I need to add a few lines,” she said.

      He nodded. “I’ll wait, then.”

      Margaret hugged herself, thinking of home. “What shall I say about our return?”

      “I wish I could tell you. I’ll know more next month.”

      “Forever?” she asked.

      He bent and kissed her again. “Not forever.”

       PS: We have only just learned of Henry’s promotion to senior inspector. He has twelve men below him now, two of whom have just arrived. It is an unexpected honor, one that requires an extended stay here. We hope to start for home before next Christmas, but no assurances have been made as of yet. I shall write again soon with the particulars.

       Taken

      THE IRRITABLE BABIES kept Margaret from going herself.

      She sent John in his dog cart to Mim’s, returning the six borrowed eggs, plus one as interest. A note went along, telling of the promotion.

       It’s an honor, indeed, though I wish with all my heart we were preparing to sail. This morning I could no longer hear my father’s voice in my head.

      She’d stopped writing and fed the note to the fire, starting another. You’d never hear such sob-baby blather leaving Mim’s pen or lips. “I’ll escape this godforsaken place when Cyril croaks,” Mim once said. “Not a day before. There’s no point in stewing in the meantime.”

      Mim rode out two days later, her dull-witted boy, Oscar, driving. Margaret was watching for Henry at the front window. She came out to greet them, lantern in hand. The reddening sky was already fading.

      Something spooked Mim’s horse, causing it to rear and Oscar to shriek. Mim seized the abandoned reins, yanking hard. Margaret took hold of the cheekpiece and tied the shuddering animal to a fence post, smiling up at Mim’s only child. “Hello, Oscar. Fine evening, isn’t it?”

      Oscar stared off into the middle distance, a thin stream of drool coursing from the corner of his slack mouth. He was eight now, a stocky boy, too fond of boiled sweets, and fearful of everything, horses in particular.

      Mim, as myopic as any mother, thought him exceptional. “You should have seen him coming over,” she said. “Calm as a rutabaga, weren’t you, sweetheart? And every bit as brave.”

      Margaret took his slippery fat hand and assisted him down from the open rig. “What do we have here?” she asked of the dish towel knotted at his neck.

      “He fancies himself a cowboy,” said Mim, climbing down. The mare let out an odd squeal, straining against her tether, baring yellow teeth. Mim slapped a broad rump. “Mind your manners.”

      “You’re a fine cowboy indeed,” said Margaret. She stroked Oscar’s round head, a terrain of scabs and bumps she couldn’t see.

      He thrust out his chest and bowed his chubby legs. “I’m off to America.”

      It may have been the longest sentence he’d ever uttered in her presence. Margaret wrapped an arm about him, grateful for her sound-minded children. “You’re not sailing straightaway, are you, Sir Cowboy? I’ve a lovely goulash cooking. You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

      “Grub,” said Oscar, shrugging off her hand.

      “That’s a cowboy’s supper,” said Mim, rolling her eyes. “He’s been down on the docks with his dad all week. There’s a Yank ship in port. The blokes sport with him, fill his ears with cowboy rubbish.”

      Oscar drew an imaginary pistol from an imaginary holster and aimed thumb and forefinger, shooting first his mother, and then Margaret. Mim clutched her heart and reeled a bit.

      Margaret laughed and passed the lantern to him. “Lead us in, cowboy. I’ve grub burning on the stove.”

      “You’re in jolly spirits, considering,” said Mim.

      “Jolly enough,” said Margaret. “What choice is there, really?”

      “Have you considered returning early with the children?”

      “Certainly not.” Though Margaret had, privately. Yesterday while shelling peas she’d given the idea long selfish thought. She’d imagined herself standing on the dock, the ship bobbing in the bright distance. She saw the leather trunk being loaded onto the tender. She saw too her morose and confused children, falling on Henry, refusing to be separated.

      Margaret and Mim started up the path behind Oscar. Mim caught Margaret’s hand, swinging to and fro, like a schoolgirl. “It shall be a sad day for me when you go.”

      Margaret squeezed Mim’s hand. “Misery loves her company, doesn’t she?”

      JOSEPHINE STOOD at the stove, humming under her breath. “Auntie Mim! I didn’t know you were coming.”

      “Hello, my darling girl.” Mim came into the light, struggling from her too small coat. “Your lamb smells divine. Where’s your brother? He promised to show Oscar a rope trick.”

      “He’s round back with the dogs.” Josephine left the stove, picking up her embroidery and settling on the divan. “We’re training them for the circus. I’m to hold the hoop. I’ll wear a special costume done up in spangles.”

      Margaret smiled, picturing her freckled twig-thin girl done up in spangles. Josephine gave a haughty toss of braids, as if reading her mother’s thoughts. “We plan to make our fortune.”

      Mim gave Oscar a swat to his trousers. “Run along outside now, and I do mean run, precious slug. It’ll do you some good.”

      “I’m hankering for grub,” said Oscar, moving out of her reach.

      “Hanker outside then,” said Mim.

      Determined Oscar started toward the goulash, like a poky sow toward her trough. “I reckon it’s too dark out.”

      Mim took him by the shoulders and turned him about. “I don’t reckon the dark will harm you any.”

      “Grub shan’t be long,” said Margaret.

      Oscar took the lantern and shuffled outside, calling John’s name.

      Mim went to the babies, asleep in their cradles. “Oh, the loves,” she whispered, gazing down. “What I’d give for a tidy girl.”

      Margaret came up behind. “Their ears are tidier, certainly. Was Oscar born with dirty ears?”

      “Filthy. Chock full of crusty muck, his nostrils no better.”

      Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know what it is. John was a little wax factory from the start.” Martha suckled in her sleep, creating a sweet milky foam. Their beauty never ceased to amaze. There was no love like it, not in this world.

      “And mine?” asked Josephine.

      “You were born with angel ears,”