Free The Wives of Henry Oades by Johanna Moran Page B

out his handkerchief and polished the lenses. “That’s not the issue.”
    The anger thickened Henry’s voice. “What would you do in my place, sir?”
    Mr. Freylock held the spectacles up to the window for inspection. “I’d be every bit as distraught, I’m sure. I’d propose infeasible schemes. It’s only natural. We turned over every last bloody stone looking, Henry. Do you remember my telling you?”
    “I do, sir.”
    “We almost lost Tom Flowers.”
    “I know Tom.”
    Mr. Freylock returned the spectacles to his face, blinking still. “Of course you do. Good lad. Quick with a joke. Fifth child on the way. I didn’t tell you before. Didn’t want to add to your distress. Nothing you could have done for him. Nothing any of us could have done, except perhaps turned back straightaway.”
    Perspiration trickled down Henry’s spine. The room was warm, as stifling as a summer greenhouse. “About Tom?”
    “He sliced his hand,” said Mr. Freylock. “Nice and deep, but manageable. This was the fourth night out. We stayed gone a week, you’ll remember, the better part of eight days, actually.”
    Henry heard a scratching outside the door and pictured his children standing on the other side, eager to surprise him. His mind playing tricks, he realized.
    “…We weren’t surgeons,” Mr. Freylock was saying. “We wrapped the wound, thought, well, a cut’s a cut, isn’t it? None of us could have anticipated infection. They took his writing arm at the elbow. Poor man.”
    “Yes,” murmured Henry. “Poor Tom. I’m sorry to hear it.” Tom’s pretty wife suffered a clubfoot, an odd thing to remember now.
    A Freylock family photograph hung on the opposite wall, the parents and children posed as he and Meg had posed not long after the twins were born. Were his babies rolling over yet? Josephine was a veritable little acrobat at five months, their age now. God, how he missed them all.
    Mr. Freylock came to him, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “We’ve done all we can, then. Everything within reason. Do you see that we have?”
    Henry nodded. There’d be no help here.
    “It wouldn’t be disloyal to acknowledge their passing, Henry. I’ll arrange a memory service if you’re ready.”
    “I’m not,” said Henry, beginning to plan his escape. He’d had enough of this place already.

    H E DREAMT of John that night. His son came walking out of the bush, steady and sure. Henry took it as a sign they’d be returned to him. He lay awake in the dark, cursing himself for having had doubt. In the morning he proposed rebuilding the cottage. “Just as it was,” he said.
    Curiously, Mr. Freylock heartily agreed. He slapped the breakfast table, rattling the cutlery. “Capital idea! Isn’t it, darling?”
    Mrs. Freylock smiled and passed the last rasher of bacon Henry’s way. “Yes, indeed. It’s a splendid plan. Aren’t you smart to think of it, Mr. Oades.”
    “We’ll get started straightaway,” said Mr. Freylock, dribbling red jam.
    Henry had not expected such enthusiasm. Perhaps they simply wished him gone. He gave it no further thought. Having the cottage restored was all that concerned him just now. Otherwise, how would they find their way back to him?

    T HE OWNER of the property gave his permission. A new lease was signed. Dozens turned out to help, colleagues and strangers both. Henry had never laid eyes on some of them. He sat in his wheelchair, beneath the shade of a ladies’ white parasol. The men sawed, hammered, and painted; the women served from overflowing hampers, vying to bring Henry a plate. The cottage was finished in six days. The donated furniture inside was different, but the outside was nearly identical, down to the green shutters and red door.
    Mrs. Freylock asked about flowers.
    “Roses,” said Henry. “And blue hydrangea.”
    He watched the flowers go into the ground.
    “He’s smiling,” someone whispered. “He’s bearing up well.”
    On Sunday Henry attended evening