A Proposal

THE UNCLE began to die in the spring of 1897. At eighty-four, Ned Barnhill was eager to join his beloved Belle in heaven. Henry and Portia discussed the situation. They both believed the old man had successfully willed himself ill. Henry had been with him just over three years by this time. Portia had lived in the little room off the kitchen for more than a decade, keeping house first for Mr. and Mrs. Barnhill, now mainly for Henry. Thoughts of marriage would naturally occur to her, he supposed, given the domestic setting. He should have been quicker to notice. She offered up her own supper one evening. “Seconds?” A cannier man would have guessed her objective then.

With the onset of cough and fever the old man took to his bed upstairs. Henry’s room was just down the hall. The tortured hacking kept them both awake nights. The doctor said Mr. Barnhill might come around, given the proper regimen. The uncle accused the doctor of interfering with the Good Lord’s plan. He stayed in bed, waiting impatiently.

Henry wrote to Willy Morgan in St. Louis, the only relative he knew of. Willy sent his regrets. His furniture store didn’t allow him a day off, much less the time required to come all the way to California. Lucius, his firstborn, was already walking. The next was due any time. Polly, whom Henry had never laid eyes upon, sent her love. Henry didn’t tell Mr. Barnhill they’d corresponded.

Henry was pretty much running the place now. The old man had slowed considerably over the last year and now he was useless. In June, Henry hired Titus Crump, a quiet fellow who didn’t loaf. Titus went back to town at night, leaving Henry alone with Portia.

“It’s strange,” she said at supper. “Only the two of us downstairs now.” She smiled, coyly twisting a lock of hair around her finger. It was clear she did not think the arrangement strange at all.

She chose to woo him on the sly, with charged gazes and food. Henry was uncomfortably aware of her fond feelings and did not encourage her in the least. He never lingered at the table, never said more than thank you for a succulent dish prepared just for him. She was a wonderfully inventive chef, turning out juicy roasts simmered with lady apples, crisp fowl stuffed with gooseberries and sage. There’d be no end to his compliments were she much older or much younger, or married. He’d bring tokens from town, lay chocolates and ribbons before her in honest appreciation, but he dared not. It would be neither decent nor smart.

They shared the nursing duties. Portia brought up oxtail broth and lemon tea on a tray. “He wants to starve himself,” she said to Henry on Thursday. Her cheeks had been freshly rouged. She wore a butterfly gewgaw in her hair. “You should insist he put his teeth in and eat something solid, an egg at least.”

“Portia thought you might enjoy an egg,” he said, entering the old man’s bedroom after supper. There was no response. He lay still as a mummy, the Bible opened on his chest, his bespectacled eyes open wide and staring. Henry felt a pang of sorrow for his passing and for the fact that he’d been alone. He approached reverently, intending to remove the spectacles and close the old man’s lids. Inches from his face, a withered hand rose from the bedclothes and swatted the air. Henry jerked back, his heart battering. “Christ Almighty!”

“Blasphemer,” snapped the uncle. “What’s the matter with you? Sneaking up on me like that.”

“I was about to remove your specs,” said Henry.

Mr. Barnhill closed his Bible. “I’m still capable of that much.”

“About the egg, sir?”

“A dying man has no need for eggs.”

“The pot, then?”

“If you please,” he said. “Thank you, Hank.”

Henry saw to the personal details, saving Portia and the uncle the embarrassment. He brought out the clean chamber pot and removed the lid. He lifted the frail old man beneath the arms and positioned him over the pot. He was light as cotton now, weighing no more than seven stone, if that. Henry turned his head, as if to draw a privacy curtain between them. A staccato of gas was passed, a pitiful trickle delivered. Another few moments went by unproductively. The old man shook himself off with a sigh.

“I’m finished now.”

Henry returned him to bed and blew out the lamp. Some nights the old man asked him to read Scripture aloud, but not tonight. Henry went downstairs and settled in the front room with a brandy. He looked forward to the end of the day. Portia would be in the kitchen or in her tiny room. She wouldn’t think of entering the best room except to clean. He might read or simply smoke his pipe before the fire. It was entirely up to him, whatever he fancied.

Some months later, in an unusually waggish mood, the uncle asked Henry if he was satisfied. Content was the word he used. Henry had just tucked him in and thought himself done for the evening. “Are you content here, Hank?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Henry wasn’t sure whether he meant here on earth or here on the farm. Either way he was not in the mood for a philosophical debate. He had other concerns pressing. A heifer was expected to calve any day now. She was young and small; it wouldn’t go easy.

The old man cocked his birdie head. “I’m leaving the farm to you.” He laughed at Henry’s stunned expression and broke into a fit of coughing. Henry went for the beaker of cold tea, putting it to Mr. Barnhill’s toothless gums. The old man pushed it away, sputtering, choking, laughing. Merry tears streamed from his eyes. “I’m your gift horse, boy. So stop staring me in the mouth. She’s all yours.”

“It’s a practical joke then,” said Henry.

The old man shook his head. “I’m dead serious. Now there’s a practical joke for you.”

“What about your relations?”

The old man sobered. “I’ve no blood kin left.”

“There’s Willy Morgan.”

“Except him and his no-good pap. They had their chance.”

Henry had often considered a farm of his own. Twenty-five acres or so, nothing as grand as the uncle’s sixty. “Perhaps a partial purchase could be arranged,” he said.

“I can’t take your money with me,” said the uncle. “Any more than I can take the farm.”

Henry went off in reverie, striding across his land, making improvements. The bloody bull would never accidentally get to any young heifer of his. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

The uncle brightened, sitting up a bit. “Say you won’t pitch the place into ruin. Say you’ll get in solid with the Lord. Say you’ll do right by Portia.”

“How shall I do right by Portia?”

“She’s a fine girl. Steadfast, sturdy. Not too hard on the eyes, is she?”

“No, sir.”

“She’s a wonder at the stove.”

Henry agreed. “She is.”

The uncle said slyly, “She’s smitten by you, Hankie boy.”

Henry did not hedge the truth. “As I am not by her.”

The old man frowned, as if Henry had spoiled his happy game. “You might learn.”

“I won’t.”

The scowl deepened. “Never mind then. Just forget I spoke. We won’t discuss it again. Blow out the lamp, please. The glare is hurting my eyes.”

Henry complied, angry at himself for snapping at the dangling chop without looking for sharp bones. Besides, the offer was likely a moot one. The uncle’s color had improved recently. Twice this week he’d held down eggs. He was the sort to outlive them all.

The old man’s voice quivered in the dark. “A soft, warm woman under your covers is a blessing, Hank, a precious gift from God. He means to compensate us for what we must endure on earth. Think about that.”

Randy old coot, Henry thought, trying not to mind the disappointment. Everything comes with its cost.

THE UNCLE kept his word. He never mentioned Portia or the farm again. He rallied a degree around Christmas, and then took another turn for the worse after the New Year. He died in his sleep in February, of a worn-out heart, the doctor said, not consumption.

The lawyer came out the following week, asking to speak to Henry and Portia both. Henry was shocked to learn that he’d been left the farm free and clear, without contingencies. He was humbled; he felt guiltily elated. Portia had been bequeathed Mrs. Barnhill’s silver comb set, the old man’s coin collection, and five hundred dollars.

“It would make a nice dowry,” she said to the lawyer.

Henry pretended not to hear.

PORTIA WORKED UP her nerve that same evening. Henry was seated at the kitchen table, finishing up delicious roast duck with creamed potatoes and peas. She hadn’t sat with him before; she didn’t now. She moved between table and stove as was her habit, looking serious, rather queenly, with her hair drawn back tight.

She said in an offhand manner, “Do you remember the day you came?”

He nodded to his plate. “Yes.”

“I was mortified. There was no sauce for the cake.”

He had no memory of cake without sauce. “It was lovely without,” he said.

“You were every bit the gentleman,” she said. “You didn’t let on it was missing.”

He smiled.

“Mr. Oades, I think it’s time we married.”

His insides clenched. He looked up at her. “I cannot. I’m sorry.”

Tears flashed in her round eyes. “Just like that? Without a second’s worth of thought?”

“I’m sorry.” He was sorry, sorry to wound her, humiliate her; but he was glad, too, to be done with the pretense finally.

“You’re not going to bother to say you’re flattered at least?”

“I am, of course.” He knew that was not what she wanted to hear.

“Ha! Sure you are.” She tore off her apron and threw it at him. The skirt went to his lap, the bib into congealed duck grease. “Clean up your own mess, why don’t you?” He folded the apron and stood.

“I shan’t marry again,” he said.

Her expression shifted, becoming a mix of longing and regret. “Your poor wife would want that for you? She’d expect you to spend the rest of your days alone?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

She took the apron from him, picking at a loose thread, her bottom lip pulsing. “I can’t stay on under the circumstances.”

Henry nodded. “I understand.”

Portia turned and went into her room, closing and latching the door.

Henry quickly washed the supper things and then retreated to the front room, relieved and ashamed. He should have spoken up a long time ago, found a way to act the man. He wasn’t at ease with women anymore, or with himself for that matter, in their presence. It was best to steer clear, to simply leave them be altogether.

ON MONDAY, Henry went into town to inquire at the employment agency on Portia’s behalf. He was immediately successful. The Charles Middletons were a prominent family with a grand house near the university. Dr. Charles Middleton, the bursar, came on Tuesday to fetch her himself.

She stood on the porch, clutching her battered brown case. “Good-bye, Mr. Oades.”

“Good-bye, Portia. Good luck.”

She held his gaze. He could not very well look away. “I’m a forgiving woman, should you have a change of heart.” He had no proper response. They stood mute for an eternity. Finally she lifted her sturdy chin and made a smart turn. From the back, with those erect shoulders, she reminded him of Meg.

HE INTERVIEWED five domestics before settling on Dora McGinnis, a plump, uneducated girl of fifteen. She appeared a born workhorse and not bright enough to scheme without him catching first wind of it. “Fine, then,” he said, stern as a dad, as a bloody granddad, no one a girl would take to. “You’ll do.” She turned out to be a rather dull cook, but that was all right. A dry rump roast seemed appropriate somehow. She spoke when addressed, staying out of sight for the most part. Eventually, happily, he began to forget she was even about.

In April he moved his belongings from the small room to the uncle’s much larger one down the hall. Little else changed otherwise. The farm was thriving. Wright’s on Center Street bragged in print that they used only the best and purest of cream in their ice cream—his. He grew wealthier by the month. He grew leaner as well, losing the soft flesh about the middle. He was lonely at times, but more often not, due to his schedule. A Sunday spent idle was not for him. He worked seven days, starting before dawn, continuing past dark. Only on Saturdays did he finish early. At half past two he cleared the kitchen of Dora and had his bath, then changed into a clean shirt and collar and rode into town. He visited the library, the tobacconist, the hardware shop, and occasionally the pharmacy, in that order. Afterward he treated himself to an oyster dinner at Smith’s Chop House. He was typically home before nine, a dull creature of habit. Not that he craved change; he liked his life. He would say he was content if anyone cared to ask again.

ON A SATURDAY in late summer of 1898 Henry drove in at his usual hour. Men in town, rooster-proud Americans, were still talking about the destruction of Spain’s navy in Manila Bay. You’d think they’d had a personal hand in it.

The fire bells began sounding as he was leaving the Shattuck Avenue pharmacy. In the next moment the young assistant pharmacist came flying from his store. He ran past Henry, his white coat billowing behind him. Henry started after him, smelling the smoke, walking fast at first, and then breaking into a clumsy run. All of Berkeley seemed headed in the same direction. They carried buckets and cans, sped by on foot, on wheels, in buggies. Henry followed the pharmacist around one corner, another, a third, dropping library books along the way, a sack of tobacco.

Fire was already on the roof of the little house. Henry broke through the gabbling crowd, intent on going inside. He came up the walk just as the pharmacist emerged from the black smoke, an expectant woman in his arms. The pharmacist thrust the woman at Henry. “Watch her.” Henry staggered back under the sudden weight. The pharmacist ran back inside. The fire wagon pulled up, horses snorting, bells clanging. Gawking neighbors scattered out of the way, reconvening again. Henry carried the woman across the street and lowered her to the grass. She was dazed, muzzy, mumbling incoherently. He removed his coat and made her warm, thinking of Meg, living her burning death for the ten-thousandth time.