The Wives of Henry Oades by Johanna Moran Page A

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