The Main Concern

MR. OADES TOOK Francis’s remains to San Francisco, as Nancy was in no condition to go herself. He returned to the parsonage the following Tuesday and presented a lidded jar, a fancy expensive-looking vase, with a cabbage rose design.

“I was expecting something plain.” She didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but she already owed him two dollars for the cremation. For all she knew the jar’s gaudy trim was solid gold. Lord knows what it would set her back.

They were alone in the front room, though not really. The door to the rehearsal room had been intentionally left open. Mrs. Tillman and the choir’s discordant sopranos made up an army of chaperones. Nancy accepted the jar; she was drawn to look inside, but didn’t, for fear he’d think her ghoulish. She set the jar atop the reverend’s credenza for the time being. Mr. Oades had come with flowers too, a small bunch of violets. These she arranged alongside the vase, and then turned around to thank him. The lamps were lighted, softening his ruddy cheeks. A sheen of tears stood in his sad brown eyes.

“What is it, Mr. Oades?”

“I wanted you to have it….” he started.

“I’ll pay for it, of course. I wired my father. He’ll make good on my debts. I should be hearing from him any day now.”

“It cost nothing, Mrs. Foreland. The jar’s been in the family.”

“Oh, then I couldn’t possibly…oh dear. What have I said?”

He was weeping, making the quietest, strangest spectacle. She didn’t know what to do. She gestured toward the sofa. “Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Oades?”

He brought out a handkerchief and swiped his eyes. “The jar survived a fire,” he said. “I thought it fitting somehow. It was terribly presumptuous of me. I apologize.”

“No, no. It wasn’t presumptuous at all. It’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it always. I mean it truly. Please take a seat.”

He sat finally, as did she, across from him, smoothing the black folds that swamped her, smiling politely. “There. That’s much better, isn’t it?”

She’d never been good at parlor chat, especially with Francis in the room. Now there was a man with a gift, not a gift of gab so much, though he’d had that, too. His main talent was bringing people out, keeping the conversation light and merry. “Just ask folks about themselves,” he used to say. “It’s everyone’s favorite topic.”

In the next room the soloist started up “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.” Why must worship music be sung so loud and mournfully? Nancy half shouted to be heard. “Where do you hail from, Mr. Oades? Not from east Texas, that’s for sure.”

He twitched a small smile. “I’m from England originally, by way of New Zealand.”

“My, what a coincidence. My husband always wanted to see London. And I always wanted to see Paris, France. We said we’d visit both one day. I tell you, we made so many crazy plans.” Burning grief washed over her. Nancy swallowed, trying to maintain a pleasant bent. She owed this kind gentleman so much more than money. “Do you have family, sir? Wife? Children?”

“They passed,” he said. “Six years ago in New Zealand.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears, the loss overwhelming, both his and her own. There was no such thing as true happiness. It was all a big hoax, a cruel tease. “Poor man,” she whispered. “Poor, poor man.”

Mr. Oades leaned forward, his expression full of anguish. “My wife perished in a fire, you see.”

Her heart jumped a kindred beat. “Then you know.”

“I do.”

“It’s a horrible death. You keep thinking about how it must have been.”

He nodded.

“You say to yourself, how could it have happened? Why didn’t he manage to escape? Was he trapped somehow? Did the roof fall on his head? Over and over and over, you think it. All the ways it might have been.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Oades, nodding still, a far-off look in his eyes. “I was away at the time.”

He blamed himself; she could tell. They had that in common, too. Her raw nose ran, coating the back of her throat with the taste of rusty nails. She accepted his overstarched handkerchief. “And your dear children?”

He shook his head, tears welling again. “I cannot talk about them.”

She laid a trembling hand on her belly. “Poor innocents. I don’t understand.” She crossed her arms and rocked herself, searching the dark ceiling for answers. The sopranos in the next room sang at the top of their lungs. Help of the helpless, O abide with me. “I don’t understand one damn bit of it.”

Mr. Oades reached, touching her hand briefly, creating in her a small serenity, a sense of surrender. Even the baby seemed to respond.

“It’s impossible at first,” he said. “You don’t believe it now, but the days shall get easier in time. Don’t punish yourself when they do, Mrs. Foreland; don’t despair the first time you experience a bit of contentment.”

Mrs. Tillman came in then, chattering sopranos in tow. Mr. Oades stood, nodding greetings. Only now did Nancy notice the singing had stopped. Wraps and hats were doled out. The ladies giggled, fussing over whose was whose, their careless arms flailing. Nancy got up and took the jar from its precarious perch at the edge of the credenza. Mrs. Tillman raised one eyebrow in her direction, as if to say, what is that doing here?

Nancy clutched the jar to her bosom, guarding Francis, shielding, too, the one possession to her name aside from the black dress and baggy drawstring drawers.

Mr. Oades said his good-byes shortly after the ladies did. Nancy followed him onto the porch, still cradling the ginger jar. “I can’t begin to adequately thank you, sir. I know my father will want to thank you, too, for standing in for him, watching over me as you have.”

“Will you be returning to Texas then?”

She nodded. “After the baby comes.”

Mr. Oades fumbled behind a lapel for a pencil and paper scrap. He scribbled down his post office number. “Will you write once settled?”

“If you’d like. I wouldn’t know what to say. My husband was the one. You’d think his letters were written by a college professor.”

Mr. Oades looked away, squinting into the sun. “It’d do me some good to know that you and your baby arrived safely.” He seemed on the verge of saying more, but didn’t. He stepped off the porch, turning halfway down the walkway, tipping his hat in farewell. Nancy waved, sorry to see him go. He’d made her feel a degree less alone today.

FINALLY. After weeks of queasy panic, imagining him ill, comatose, dead as a doornail, her father’s letter arrived, along with twenty precious dollars and a promotional circus poster featuring nearly naked Serena, Peerless Fearless Queen of the Serpents. The advertisement put a shiver in Nancy’s slippers. Black snakes slithered all over the tiny woman; a dozen were reared back with their jaws open, as if about to bite her placid, heart-shaped face.

Mrs. Tillman leaned across the breakfast table, her face pinched in revulsion. “What in the world?”

On the back of the poster, in his familiar loopy hand, her father had written: The reptiles are old and have had their poison fangs removed. Even so. How desperate would a lady have to be to take up with snakes?

“I guess my father is acquainted with her,” murmured Nancy, scanning his letter. She started over, disbelieving. The letter was written six weeks ago. He was already long gone.

New York, NY, October 17, 1898

My dear daughter Nancy:

I know this letter will find you full of sorrow at the unexpected loss of your young husband. I regret to hear the news, and hasten to offer you the enclosed twenty dollars, which I hope will provide financial comfort in your time of distress.

By the time you read this I will be in Europe with the Barnum & Bailey circus. I signed on as a front man, which means I will travel ahead of the show, and see to a number of tasks. I will not bore you with the details at this sad juncture. Suffice it to say I am in no position to care for you and my beloved grandchild. The contract with B & B is binding for two years. My hands are legally tied. Would that I could better assist.

The Brenham house was sold eight months ago. Your brother Sanford resides now at the Austin State Hospital. He gained a great deal of weight over the years and became too large to manage on my own. He appears much better off where he is.

    How would her father know he was better off? Sanford never spoke. He grunted, squealed, but as hard as her mother tried, she never got him to say the first word.

    Daughter, I know your optimistic nature too well to think that you will remain buried in grief. I have suffered my own black days and have learned firsthand that: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Psalms 30:5.

I will write again soon. Meanwhile you are in my daily thoughts and prayers.

    Nancy excused herself from the table. She scooped up the money, letter, and poster, and waddled up to her chilly little room. Under the covers she read his letter again, still thinking she’d missed the instructions regarding her future. But she had not.

Two weeks later, on December 16th, after a full day and night of grueling labor, bald-headed, blue-eyed, red-faced Gertrude came howling into the world. Five weeks after her birth, the Tillmans’ son returned from missionary work in China and assumed his room, Nancy’s room until now. She and the cranky baby had long since worn out their welcome, anyway. The reverend wrote a letter of introduction, attesting to Nancy’s good reputation, which he gave to Mrs. Osgood, the owner of the boardinghouse. After four nights there she was asked to leave due to the infant’s endless squalling. Nancy begged Mrs. Osgood for time to make other arrangements. When the woman begrudgingly consented, Nancy sent a messenger to Mr. Oades.

Gertrude had just burped up her afternoon bottle when he arrived. Nancy ushered him inside, messy drooling baby on her shoulder. She couldn’t afford to offer him anything. A greasy breakfast and supper came with the room. Beyond that, she was charged extra.

Mr. Oades held out his arms. “May I?”

“You want to hold her?”

“Oh, please,” he said.

The fancy parlor was crammed with plush furniture. Nancy was afraid to put the baby down anywhere in the house for fear she’d leak or worse. She carried Gertrude around the livelong day, keeping her in a dresser drawer at night. “Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Oades. Your nice suit.”

“Not to worry,” he said. He had a red mark on his neck, a shaving nick, probably. Francis was always nicking himself.

Nancy shifted Gertrude, frowning down on her baby, trying to read her wants. She was peaceful now, but that wouldn’t last. “She’s been bawling her head off all morning. Maybe I’m doing something wrong.”

Mr. Oades eased the sticky baby from her hands. “Let’s have a cross lass.”

“Look at her poor splotched face.”

“It’ll fade in due course,” he said. “My Josephine was the same.”

“She looks all right to you then? She looks like a normal baby?”

He smiled. “She’s a lovely girl, a perfect girl.” Gertrude stared up at him, seemingly transfixed by his beard. He began humming to her.

With empty arms, Nancy collapsed on the settee, bone-weary and cockeyed from lack of sleep. She hadn’t felt clean since before Gertrude’s birth. Her unproductive, sour-smelling breasts ached, and she was still wearing rags to sop the disgusting bloody discharge that wouldn’t quit.

Mr. Oades paced to the far wall and turned, at home with her baby, singing a lullaby now.

She told him about her father. “Like a little boy running off to the join the circus! I’m at my wit’s end, Mr. Oades. I didn’t know what to do next. I thought on it and thought on it. Yesterday it came to me, and so I sent for you. You’ve been such a helpful friend, sir. I’ll just come out and ask…could I come and keep house for you? I’m not the best cook in the world, but I’m not the worst either. You wouldn’t have to pay much. Room and board are my main concern.”

He came to her. “Mrs. Foreland.”

“Never mind,” she said. “Don’t look at me that way, please. You think I’m off my rocker. I knew it was a crazy idea. I can’t think straight anymore.”

He sat down beside her. She studied her wedding band, refusing to meet his eyes. “Crazy ideas are my specialty these days,” she murmured.

Gertrude gurgled, suckling a tiny fist. “Marry me, Mrs. Foreland.” He said it so softly she almost didn’t hear. She looked at him and knew at once the offer was sincere. He had a nice mouth and honest eyes, a hound dog’s beseeching liquid eyes.

“You take your pity a step too far, Mr. Oades. But I thank you just the same.”

“I realize I’m too old for you…”

Just how old was he? Thirty-five? Forty? Not impossibly old.

“…But I’d move mountains to make you and Gertrude happy.”

“You don’t mean it,” she said. But she knew that he did.

“I do.”

“We barely know each other.”

He stroked Gertrude’s bald head. “I feel as though we do,” he said.

She liked him fine, gentle as he was, and she trusted him. But that was not saying she was even remotely in love with him. He couldn’t suppose that she was. Though what did love mean or matter at this stage, anyway? Just a bunch of heart-fluttery nonsense. She was hot and confused, on the verge of yet more useless tears. What else in God’s name was she to do?

His cheeks were flushed, his look hopeful. “Will you give it thought, madam?”

She whispered “yes,” glancing toward the stairs. The house was full of busybodies, the queen of whom, with her razor-sharp voice, was salty Mrs. Osgood herself.

Mr. Oades returned sleepy Gertrude to her arms. He stood, taking his hat and coat from the tree. “Will you send word? Either way?”

“Of course, Mr. Oades.”

They shook hands at the door, both smiling shyly.

That evening before bed she took it up with Francis, who rested inside his ornate jar on top of the chest of drawers. She swore he’d remain first in her heart always.

She married Mr. Oades the following week and moved to his farm, where a brand-new crib and highchair were waiting for Gertrude. It was a good-size house, with a spare room slated to become her sewing room. There was a garden, and a girl to help with the chores and the baby. Nancy found contentment eventually, and when she did, she took her new husband’s advice and didn’t despair.