The Wives of Henry Oades by Johanna Moran Page B

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