The Wives of Henry Oades Page 0,3

relieve herself. Some of the others and I plan to attend the service at four. Will you come, Mrs. Oades?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll show she’s not alone in the world, won’t we?”

“Yes,” said Margaret. “Though we won’t begin to solace.”

The baby’s name was Homer Brown. Someone whispered, “Barely a year old.”

Prayers were said, and then the shrouded child was let over the rail, into gray water, beneath a gray sky. The bereft mother faltered as the baby was released, grasping the rail in lieu of a husband. There was no man present, no kin at all.

Above, Margaret could hear the rowdy drunks in the men’s hatch, Norsemen, a good many of them. Someone shouted in English, “Show a bit of respect for the baby’s mum.” But they did not let up for a moment.

Kindness Itself

MARGARET BEGAN to miscarry on the eleventh morning out. A strong wind had come up during the night and was only now abating. A keen howl continued, along with straining-timber noises, hideous, ungodly sounds to die by.

Henry brought her down to John’s berth, and then went for Dr. Pritchard, returning instead with Mrs. Randolph. She carried a sack and something wrapped in blue flannel.

“Dr. Pritchard is ill,” said Henry.

“He’s utterly worthless is what he is,” said Mrs. Randolph, placing the flanneled package upon Margaret’s abdomen. “A brick hot from the oven,” she said. “Just the thing.”

Mrs. Randolph turned to Henry. “Take the children up top, why don’t you?”

“Yes, do please, Henry,” said Margaret.

Henry began snatching the children’s clothes from pegs. He dressed them, consoling all the while. “Mum is fine, Mum is perfectly fine.” With sleepy Josephine riding his hip, he bent and kissed Margaret’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

The ship rolled to port. A stir of odor rose from the chamber pot. Margaret turned to the wall, cramping still. The heat from the brick helped some. She drew up her knees, the sheet falling away, exposing her stained nightgown.

John cried out, “Mum’s bleeding!”

“Lady’s blood,” said Henry in a low voice, though not so low as to frighten John with seriousness. “Nothing more natural, boy.”

“Her eyes are closed,” wailed John. “She’s dead.”

“She’s not, son, she’s not. She’s resting. Let’s let her be now.”

She’d marry him all over, Margaret thought vaguely, for his fathering alone. “Go look for whales, John,” she murmured. “This may be your lucky day.”

Mrs. Randolph went to work the moment they left, preparing a basin of cool water and fishing a bar of scented soap from her bag. “Were you very far along?”

“Not quite three months.” She’d lost two others. It never got easier. The first, a full-term boy, was stillborn. That was the unspeakable worst.

Mrs. Randolph sighed. “It’s a terrible bleak feeling, isn’t it?”

Margaret sat up and began to wash. “Have you children?”

“None living.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tut, tut, Mrs. Oades. No need for the long pussy face. I’ve not dried on the vine quite yet.” Through the wall came a male groan, a ghoulish sound. “So many ill,” said Mrs. Randolph. “Especially down in the women’s hatch. It isn’t right the way they have us situated alongside the animals. The girl under me is ailing. Spinster sisters both have a fever.”

“They should be quarantined,” said Margaret.

“The ship is chock full. Where would you have them go?”

“Hammocks might be slung in Dr. Pritchard’s quarters.”

Mrs. Randolph swatted the air. “And have the quack incommoded? He’d force oranges on the poor women and then fault them for dying, the same way he blamed Homer’s mum.”

“He didn’t,” said Margaret.

“He did,” said Mrs. Randolph. “The baby was fed tinned milk instead of mother’s. He’d be alive if not for that. The charlatan said it straight to the grieving woman’s face. I was there.”

“How cruel,” said Margaret.

“Men are.”

“What would a dentist know about babies?”

“What would any man, Mrs. Oades? Now where might I find a fresh nightgown?”

Margaret pointed toward the corner. “In the trunk. Near the bottom.”

Mrs. Randolph crossed the rolling floor, her arms spread for balance. She wore big, bold rings on both hands. Margaret had never owned a ring other than her wedding band. Her grandmother had been the same plain way, her mother was, all the aunts and cousins. Each generation bequeathed the austerity to the next, passed it sideways.

Mrs. Randolph knelt and opened the trunk, picking up the porcelain ginger jar inside. “Here’s a lovely thing.”

“A parting gift from my mum,” said Margaret. “A keepsake from home. It’s been sitting on her chimneypiece for as long as I can remember.”

“My mum was the sentimental sort, too,” said