The Wives of Henry Oades. Johanna Moran

had in mind a simple graveside service. He meant only to ask Mr. Freylock for an extended leave.

      Mrs. Freylock fell upon him weeping. She called her husband to the door. Together, with far too much chatter, they brought him inside, seating him in the best chair in the best room, feeding him tea and crumpets he could not taste.

      “Shall we host the memory service here, Mr. Oades?” She glanced toward her husband, who nodded.

      “I couldn’t ask it of you,” said Henry. “Just a marker might be best.”

      “Forgive me for saying so,” said Mrs. Freylock. “But that hardly seems adequate.”

      Henry shook his head, his weary thoughts clashing. He was incapable of making the smallest decision lately. “I don’t know.”

      Mrs. Freylock touched his sleeve. “For your wife and children.”

      Henry felt himself on the brink of tears. “All right. Thank you.”

      She smiled. “It’s settled then. Is there a beloved photograph we might display?”

      “The fire took everything, madam.”

      A little whimper escaped her lips. “I wasn’t thinking.”

      Her nervous hands did not still for a second; they went to her throat, to her hair, to her ear bobs, and back to her throat. She pushed the plate of crumpets his way again. How unlike his Meg she was. His wife had possessed a certain feminine manliness all women could learn from.

      Mrs. Freylock said something. He leaned toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

      She pantomimed plucking. “Flowers, Mr. Oades. What sort would you prefer?”

      “My wife enjoyed her roses,” Henry said. For a light-headed half moment he thought to correct himself. Enjoys. My wife enjoys her roses. He was deliriously tired, and missing her so.

      Something was said then about the funeral biscuits, but Henry did not retain it. He was allowed to leave finally. The same hackie drove him back to the Germans’, where the stench of cooking cabbage reached even his small attic room. He vomited into the empty basin and swiped his mouth. Minutes later the downstairs girl knocked on his door. He vomited again, and then let her in to take the basin. Her elfin face pinched in disgust. But he was past caring what others might think.