Calling the
Same Man Husband

MARGARET AND HER children had been living under their roof three weeks to the day when the sheriff’s deputy rode up. It had started out a nice day too, warm, not too muggy. He arrived midmorning. Nancy saw him from the front room and came out onto the porch. The brim of his hat was angled, so she could not discern his mood at first. Though when, if ever, did the law bring good news?

He came as far as the bottom step and stopped, smelling like cheese gone bad. Some bachelors will go the entire winter without bathing.

“I have a warrant for the arrest of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Oades.”

It took a moment for the crazy words to align themselves. “There must be some mistake, sir. My husband and I are law-abiding citizens.”

He regarded her as one would a strange specimen under glass, leering after a moment, displaying large yellow teeth. “You Mrs. Margaret Oades?”

“I am Mrs. Nancy Oades.”

A jaw muscle twitched. “I’m here for Mrs. Margaret Oades.”

“What is the charge? I demand to know.”

The arrogant mongrel consulted the paper in his hand, and said without emotion, “Open and notorious cohabitation and adultery.”

She gasped, her insides sinking. “Outrageous!”

He worked up a cheekful of brown juice and spat. “I don’t have all day, miss.”

Nancy flew down the porch steps, running past him on watery legs, checking first the buggy shed, and then the henhouse and pigpen. She found Mr. Oades in the milking room with Titus, and fell upon him in broad daylight. “Oh, Mr. Oades.” She got it out piecemeal, whispering in his ear the odious words cohabitation and adultery.

Together they went back to the house, Mr. Oades walking fast, Nancy straining to keep up. Margaret had come outside in the meantime. She stood on the bottom step, stiff as a queen, a glowering John Oades at her side.

“You’re trespassing,” said Mr. Oades, approaching.

The deputy scowled, putting a hand on his holstered gun. “Henry Oades? You’re under arrest.” He pointed to Margaret. “You and this here woman. I’m to take you in.”

Mr. Oades extended a grimy hand. “Let’s have a look.” The deputy shrugged and surrendered the warrant. Nancy pictured Mr. Oades ripping the paper into tiny pieces and throwing the scraps down the well. But he only scanned the sheet, looking up once finished, thrusting his chin toward Margaret.

“The lady and I were legally married in England,” he said.

A glaze, a love-shine, crossed Margaret’s narrow features. Nancy didn’t mistake it. “Three, February,” said Mr. Oades, “1880.”

They, she and Mr. Oades, were legally married, too, don’t anyone forget. They married in the United States of America, before a judge and two sober witnesses. What God hath joined together, let no man turn asunder.

“I’ll write for the wedding certificate today,” said Mr. Oades. “And prove it.”

“Tell it to the judge,” said the deputy. He put a hand on Mr. Oades’s arm, as if to goad him forward. Mr. Oades pulled away. He took Nancy’s face between his hands and kissed her forehead.

“Take heart,” he said. “Be a brave girl.” Nancy nodded. He smiled. “The situation shall right itself, not to worry.” He turned to John and ticked off some chores to be done, clapping the boy’s shoulder.

Margaret took a tentative step into their midst, pulling on her hands. “When shall we be returning?”

Mr. Oades spoke gently. “Calm yourself, Meg. We’ll be back before supper.”

“Don’t bet on it,” said the deputy.

Margaret said to Nancy, “You’ll look after my girls?”

“Of course,” said Nancy, flicking a smile. “Like my own.”

Margaret looked almost appreciative. “I’m in your debt,” she said.

Without farewells, Mr. Oades and Margaret set off down the walk, the bowlegged deputy between them. Nancy stood watching until they were out of sight, thinking of Francis then, how quiet life had been with him, how sweet and peaceful. Had he not gone after the money, had he not died, she never would have met Mr. Oades, much less married him. He and Margaret would have surely resumed their life together. There’d be no trouble, no deputy at the door. It galled her to know what plain old greed had led to.

THEY DID NOT RETURN that day. Alone in the front room after supper, a cold supper she’d barely touched, Nancy dipped into Mr. Oades’s brandy and became almost instantly drunk. Still she couldn’t sleep. Around three in the morning, Martha cried out. Nancy threw on her robe and rushed into their darkened room, nicking her shin on the bedpost. “Damn it all!” She bent over, breathing hard, her leg throbbing with pain. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Josephine whispered in a tiny voice, “She had a bad dream, Mrs. Oades. We’re sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” said Nancy. “Who doesn’t have a bad dream from time to time?” Martha had the covers pulled up to her eyes. Nancy touched the top of her head. “Are you all right now?”

Josephine answered for her sister. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Come to my room if you need me,” said Nancy, limping to the door. “And don’t tell your mother I cursed.”

Squally Gertrude was awake now. Nancy spent the next two hours rocking her, dozing intermittently, jerking to with cricks in her neck.

In the morning, groggy and bloated, she sent Titus into town to find out what was what. He was back before noon, tramping up the front steps and onto the porch, leaving a trail of dried mud in his wake. “They’re in the clink,” he said, hat in hand.

Nancy let the door slam in her fury, waking Gertrude inside. “This family has done nothing wrong!”

“Judge Billings came down with dropsy, ma’am….”

“Serves him right,” said Nancy. May his privates swell and burst, fall down a trouser leg and into the gutter.

“So the hearing was put off.” Titus dug inside a coat pocket and proffered a folded note on dirty paper. “Until the 17th.”

Nancy opened the note and read.

Dearest wife,

Rest assured, this foolish debacle shall be put behind us soon. Do not get it into your head to attend the hearing. No possible good would come of it. You and the children are better off on the farm. I shall be home before you know it.

Inside, the baby wailed, pining for Margaret most likely. Margaret had an almost magical soothing way with Gertrude. Maybe the baby preferred Margaret’s voice over her own mother’s. Nancy didn’t know. She crumpled the note, thinking about the ironing and mending still to be done, about supper. Margaret’s children woke hungry and stayed hungry the livelong day, especially John. He was always feeding, like a hog bent on a blue ribbon. She was not sure she wouldn’t trade places with Margaret, given a choice. What was jail but a little room with service and no ravenous boys, no ironing or colicky babies. She was weary, too weary to think straight. What was a debacle, anyway?

THE FOUR LADIES, led by Mrs. Charles Middleton herself, the bursar’s wife, came the next day, a broody, rainy morning. Nancy was in the front room dusting Mr. Oades’s Oriental carvings, ugly satanic-looking pieces, inherited from old Mr. Barnhill along with everything else. She heard the horses and went to the window, recognizing the women right away, of course: Mrs. Middleton, fat Mrs. Dooley, the dentist’s wife, Mrs. Goodfriend, the professor’s wife, and Mrs. Knox, the poundmaster’s wife. Collectively and separately they served on dozens of committees. Their photographs, mainly Mrs. Middleton’s, regularly appeared in the paper. The temperance brigade was their most vocal endeavor.

The old hags want to burn down every saloon in town, Francis once said, mounting his soap box, claiming the rich would hoard their whiskey and drink in the privacy of their homes, but the poor workingman would have no place to go. He must be turning in his jar to see them scurrying up the walk, shielding themselves against the rain with newspapers, a single open umbrella among them. Nancy tore off her work apron and stashed the ratty thing inside the liquor cabinet, and then went to let them in.

“We apologize for arriving without notice,” said Mrs. Middleton. They left the umbrella and newspapers behind on the porch and entered single file, looking about. Nancy had nothing in the house to serve them. They’d probably expect one of those fancy frozen bombes.

She smiled. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Mrs. Middleton was elegant up close, tall and stately, with a pale complexion and kindly expression on her long horsey face. She reminded Nancy of the Catholics’ Mary. “We represent the Daughters of Decency, Mrs. Foreland.”

Nancy frowned, hairs prickling on the back of her neck. She was aware of someone lurking in the dining room, Dora probably, or Margaret’s Josephine. “It’s Mrs. Oades now.”

The ladies exchanged knowing looks. “Not legally,” said Mrs. Dooley.

Nancy put a hand to her chin, where a pimple was starting. “Mr. Oades and I are very much legally married. I can show you the license.”

“We don’t blame you, dear,” said the poundmaster’s wife, a mother of girl triplets. Mrs. Tillman had said that her bloodcurdling screams went on for days. Three times the ripping agony. Merciful God, no thank you.

“Blame me for what?”

“You’re not the first naive girl to be taken in by a depraved hedonist,” said Mrs. Dooley.

Nancy looked directly into her little black piggy eyes. “I beg your pardon. Are you referring to my husband?”

“We’re not here to judge,” said Mrs. Middleton, waving a perfumed hand. “We’re here to offer you and your innocent child refuge, Mrs. Foreland….”

“I told you it’s Oades.”

Mrs. Middleton gave a little push to Nancy’s shoulder, as if to start her up the stairs. “Collect your things. You’ll stay with us for the time being.”

Us? Was she offering up her own magnificent mansion? She and Gertrude would probably have an entire wing to themselves in a place so huge. Nancy said as calmly as she knew how, “I’m not going anywhere. I have a house full of children under my care. Besides, you don’t understand the circumstances.”

“We understand perfectly,” said Mrs. Dooley. “Two women are calling the same man husband. A Mormon in San Bernardino was hanged just this past Christmas. His wives—his widows, I should say, found themselves in the poorhouse.”

“That’s hardly our same situation,” said Nancy, seething. She expected a personal thank you from Jesus one day for the tolerance shown Margaret Oades. The last thing she deserved was condemnation. “We’re not Mormons, for your information. There is no funny business going on in our household, believe you me. The very idea! Really.”

Mrs. Dooley, her ears obviously plugged with manure, repeated herself. “Two women are calling the same man husband.”

Nancy could not contain the shrillness. “Would you have us put her out? Mrs. Oades doesn’t have a dime to her name, you know. Her children are my husband’s own flesh and blood! How can you suggest something so mean, so out-and-out heartless?”

Mrs. Dooley pointed a gloved finger. “What is preventing you yourself from leaving?”

Mrs. Middleton said softly, “You’re living in grievous sin.”

Nancy whirled on her. “I’m not! How dare you.”

Dora came in from the dining room. “Will you be needing me, Mrs. Oades?”

Clearly she’d been eavesdropping, a habit Nancy normally deplored, but now appreciated. “Please show the ladies to the door,” she said.

Dora spread wide her arms and herded the murmuring women forward.

“My offer stands,” said Mrs. Middleton, over her shoulder.

The door closed on them. Good riddance to the sanctimonious, coldhearted hellcats. Nancy sank to the settee.

Josephine appeared on the stairs, clutching the banister. “Are they going to take us, Mrs. Oades?”

Nancy looked up. “Take you? Take you where? No one’s going to take you anywhere. Not on your tintype.”

Dora came back in carrying the damp newspapers left on the porch, ink running down her arm. “Dora, please. You’re dripping all over creation.”

Dora patted down a page with a corner of apron. “You’ll want to read this.”

Nancy took the soggy paper, the insides of her cheeks going sour with nausea.

The words jumped incomprehensibly. It may as well have been a malicious story about somebody else. Better not to think about it, anyway, better to leave it be, leave the whole ugly mess to Mr. Oades.

Josephine turned to go back upstairs. She was regal in profile like her mother. Nancy called after her. She’d promised to look after them, and this one, this Pheeny, was a hard little nut to please. “Let’s make something sweet to take the nasty taste out of our mouths. What do you say?”

Josephine nodded in compliance, obviously no more in the mood to make something sweet than Nancy was.