There Was an
Old Woman

NANCY’S MONTHLY came that morning, around eleven, right about the time Mr. Oades and Margaret would have been standing before the judge. She thought at first she must be miscarrying because the cramping was so severe; but a miscarrying mother will deliver a tiny infant, the size of a tree frog, her mama said, perfect in every way, by and for God. Nancy inspected the pot afterward and saw that she’d delivered nothing but blood, more than a decapitated chicken would spill.

She called down to Dora, who came finally. Nancy climbed into bed, weak and perspiring, wanting only sleep. “Take the pot, please. Then bring the rags and pins.”

Dora squatted to lift the porcelain pot, grunting, her knees spread wide. She was a hulking girl of sixteen, saddled with big feet and hands. Her eyes were pretty, though, bright and clear, with enviable long, dark lashes. “Oh, Mrs. Oades.”

“Dora, please. Lower your voice. It’s enough to wake the dead.”

“Poor missus.” Like a starved cat’s wail, only twice as irritating.

“Please, Dora.”

“How far along were you?”

Nancy sat up and peered into the rank pot again, becoming dizzy with the clotted sight and metallic stench of it. “There was no issue. Please take it away now.”

The girl left, clucking sympathetically. Nancy slept, waking to Dora’s work shoes ascending the stairs, the battering knock. She carried a cleaned pot and enough folded rags to staunch a dozen monthlies, piling them on the dressing table. “Poor missus,” she murmured, making a coquettish face for the mirror. “’Tis a shame.”

Nancy threw aside the bedclothes and stood. “’Tis life, dearie. We’re all blessed by Eve’s curse, every last one of us. So save your pity and leave me be now.”

Sulky Dora stomped off. Nancy washed between her legs and pinned two folded rags to the belt, stabbing her thumb in the process and drawing more blood. She got under the covers, feeling empty, and wanting her mother. Her first monthly had come while her mother was still alive. Heaven knows what her father would have done if he’d been left to explain lady things. Nancy would still be in the dark to this day probably. He never would have thought to make black haw bark tea for the cramps, much less drink a cup of the nasty brew himself just to keep her company.

Nancy slept fitfully, waking to find her gown and sheets soaked through. A person could drown in all that disgusting blood. She washed again, turning the water in the basin bright pink, and dressed for supper, putting on the old gingham, the baggiest of her dresses. Her face was swollen, as if she’d been stung by a thousand angry wasps. She applied some cream, but it did little good, and she did not much care. She gathered up the sheets, rags, and ruined nightgown, leaving the unholy heap on the floor.

Margaret’s door was ajar. Nancy announced herself. “Hello?” Martha was on the floor, playing spillikins by herself. She abandoned the game, looking up, wiping her chubby hands on her everyday smock. “Where’s our mum, Mrs. Oades?”

“I thought I’d find her returned by now,” said Nancy. Josephine sat in the rocker by the window, nestling sleeping Gertrude. “I told Dora to look after the baby this afternoon.”

“Dora asked me to keep her up here,” whispered Josephine. “I said I didn’t mind.”

“Well, thank you, Josephine. I can see she takes to you.” Nancy stepped out again, hugging herself against the chill, picturing the wrecked buggy on its side, Mr. Oades and Margaret dead, their broken bodies lying in a ditch.

Downstairs she wandered into the front room and stood at the window. The mantel clock struck a sonorous four. Nancy imagined their coffin lids closing, the shoveled dirt raining down. Mr. Oades’s pack of children would automatically become her sole responsibility. At least until she notified their relatives in England. How in the world would she manage? She was still shivering and so poured a brandy, then wrapped herself in the lap blanket and settled down to wait. When three quarters of an hour passed and they still hadn’t come, she poured herself another, adding water to the decanter. Mr. Oades didn’t mind her taking the occasional nightcap, but she did not think he’d like the idea of solitary drinking, even if cramps and frayed nerves called for it.

Eventually she got up to check on supper’s progress. That’s all she meant to do. It certainly was not her plan to spy on Dora, to listen to her groans of rapture. That was the last thing Nancy needed today.

The sink had been scoured to look like new; the floor had been swept. A strawberry pie with blackened edges cooled on the sideboard, and cow-heel soup, Henry’s favorite, simmered on the stove. So Dora had seen to her chores before inviting a man to her room and latching the door. Nancy knocked once and the low moaning stopped. She knocked again, harder, and the wanton girl called out. “A moment, ma’am, please.”

Nancy could hear their whispers, the panicky rustle of bedclothes, the sounds of their hasty dressing. Lately, Dora had been keeping company with the neighbor’s bulgy-eyed hand. Clarence was his Christian name. He had to be at least twenty. How many times had Nancy said to her: Don’t let the sweet talk go to your head. The lower the intention, the higher the praise.

Nancy pounded the door. “Open up this minute.” Dora was underage, an innocent. The misguided girl had probably lain beneath him thinking a wedding was coming; she’d probably conjured up an entire rosy future in the time it took.

Dora cracked the door and peeped out. “I’m sorry, ma’am. “’Twas all a—”

Nancy pushed on the door, letting herself in. There against the wall, red hair on end, eyes cast down, stood John Oades. “John!”

The boy’s voice broke with remorse. “Please don’t tell my father, Mrs. Oades.”

“I’m ashamed of you both,” said Nancy, with a twinge of longing. There was something of Francis in the boy, something pure and genuine and flawed. That type didn’t think twice before running headlong into a burning house or a young girl’s arms.

“We meant no harm, ma’am,” said Dora, squeezing past into the kitchen. “No disrespect.” She pulled her work apron over her head, pausing to sniff at the soup and toss in some salt. “Mr. Oades’s favorite,” she murmured, her lips pressed tight, as if suppressing a smile. “Nothing he likes better.”

John remained trapped, his escape blocked by Nancy. Nancy sighed, not knowing what to say to him. “Are the cows in?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, flush-faced still.

“Milked?”

He bobbed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Nancy stepped aside to allow him room to pass. “Go have a look at the latch on the henhouse door.” He and Dora exchanged tragic looks on his way out, as if the world were plotting against them.

“It won’t happen again, missus,” said Dora.

“My advice to you,” Nancy started, then stopped. She was tired, achy, and newly worried about Mr. Oades and Margaret. She turned to leave.

“Missus?”

“Yes, Dora?”

“The back of your pretty dress—”

John came running up to the back door, winded. “Mum and Dad have arrived…please, Mrs. Oades, don’t tell my father.”

“Blood’s easy,” said Dora. “Cold water, elbow grease. Don’t you worry.”

John clung to the door frame, arms raised, narrow chest heaving. “Please, Mrs. Oades.”

“All right, John,” said Nancy. “All right.”

Relief washed over the boy’s face. Nancy was once again reminded of Francis. How nervous he’d been that first time, how bumbling and precious. Thank you, he said afterward, holding her close. Their bodies had fit together perfectly. Nancy tied an apron on backward to hide the blood and went upstairs to change.

She thought it was Dora knocking twenty minutes later, but it was bedraggled Margaret, cracking the door tentatively. Nancy was seated at her dressing table, repairing her bloated face. “Come in, don’t be shy, look at you, your sleeve is torn, close the door, will you, I don’t want Mr. Oades to see the mess.”

Margaret entered, sidestepping the mound of soiled linen, coming up behind Nancy, softly, reverently, gazing down with such sadness in her eyes.

Nancy spoke to Margaret’s grief-stricken reflection in the mirror. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Nancy.” Margaret’s voice cracked.

“Whatever for?”

“Dora said you’d miscarried.”

Nancy waved a hand in dismissal. “Dora doesn’t know one end of the horse from the other.”

“Sorry?”

“I didn’t miscarry, Margaret. I’d be the first to know, wouldn’t I? Now tell me about your day in court. Is it all over now?”

“It isn’t. I’ve only returned to collect a few things, and then Henry or John or Titus shall drive me to Mr. Potter’s. I’m to stay there until the marriage certificate arrives.”

Mrs. Potter was rumored to be a bona fide spell-casting witch. “You can’t stay there!”

“There are other ladies in residence,” said Margaret.

“Ladies! San Francisco types maybe, but no real lady would stay there.”

“Well, I must.”

Nancy looked up at her. “I’m expected to mind both Gertrude and your children while you’re gone?”

“My girls are capable of minding themselves,” she said.

Nancy scooped out another finger of face cream. She closed her eyes and slowly massaged the cool oil, reciting under her breath, “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe….” She opened her eyes, catching Margaret’s bewildered expression. “Yes, Margaret, I’m going crazy, out and out cuckoo, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Pheeny and Dora might take turns minding Gerty,” said Margaret, pulling on her hands. “If you’re not feeling up to it.”

The smell of cow-heel soup wafted up the stairs. She’d added too many onions again, trying to please Mr. Oades. He was the one who told Dora about the soup in the first place. It tasted like home, he said once. “I’m thinking of letting Dora go.”

“Why is that?” asked Margaret.

“Because I found her under the covers with John, that’s why.” She regretted speaking mid sentence.

Margaret’s thin shoulders jacked up. “The filthy little trout! I’ll box her ears.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for opening my big trap, Margaret. I didn’t mean to say it.”

“You’re making it up then?”

“No,” said Nancy. “I just didn’t mean to tattle. I promised I wouldn’t. They said it wouldn’t happen again. Please don’t let John know I told you.”

Margaret’s hands flexed and fisted at her sides. “I’d give her the sack before she could say Jack Robinson if I were you. She’s not needed, Nancy. I’d manage this household just fine without her, better in fact, if you gave me the chance. You needn’t lift a finger. Think how pleased Henry would be. Think of the money saved him.”

“I’m not the Queen of Sheba. I don’t mind lifting a finger.”

Margaret brightened. “Of course you don’t! Let’s then.”

“Not now, not with you going away.”

“I shan’t be gone more than a fortnight, surely,” said Margaret.

“I can’t take care of Gertrude and your three, too.”

“Josephine will mind the young ones. She’ll cook as well. She makes a lovely potted hare, a splendid livermush, a perfect potato. Dora’s a terrible cook, you’ve said so yourself more than once.”

“You’re badgering me,” said Nancy. “You’re giving me a terrible headache.”

“I’m sorry,” said Margaret. “But I cannot bear the thought of leaving John to her immoral devices.”

Nancy gestured toward the heap on the floor. The blood had set in. The torturous job would be hers should she send Dora packing. All by herself, she’d be scrubbing, soaking, rinsing, wringing, mangling and folding until doomsday. “This household takes tremendous effort since you…since lately.” Nancy shook her head. “Never mind, Margaret. I can’t think straight tonight.”

“The clothes might go to the steam laundry in town,” said Margaret.

“Out of the question. They wash in cholera water.”

“Then Josephine shall do it.”

Nancy didn’t picture skinny Josephine having the strength. “Does she know how?”

“A far sight better than Miss Dora McGinnis.”

Nancy fiddled with a hairpin, wanting nothing but the dirty mound to disappear.

“He’s little more than a lad,” said Margaret, pleading. “She’ll hoodwink him into eloping the moment I’m gone.”

A terrible bleak feeling had settled upon Nancy. Maybe all the blood caused it. She never knew a person could lose so much and live. “I’ll give Dora notice tonight,” she said, willing to agree to anything in exchange for silence.

JOHN DROVE MARGARET off before supper, leaving not one but two empty places at the table.

Mr. Oades explained to his daughters that there’d been a grown-up misunderstanding. “It shall be dealt with straightaway, don’t you worry.”

Martha looked on the brink of tears. “I asked Mum if we might visit. She said it wasn’t a nice place for children. There’d be nothing for us to do there.”

“She was right, sweetheart,” said Mr. Oades. “Enjoy your pie now, or I shall enjoy it for you. Don’t think I won’t.” Martha took a listless bite of cobbler. “See? Delicious! That’s a brave girl, that’s a love. Your mum shall be home before you know it.”

Josephine glanced Nancy’s way, as if looking for confirmation. “Before you know it,” Nancy echoed. “Sooner.” Children never know what’s what. Parents were forever withholding the pertinent details.

SHE WENT TO DORA after supper. Dora turned from the sink, eyes narrowing to slits, soapy fist going to a hip. “About to let me go, ain’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Dora, but—”

“You’re going to be, missus. You’re going to be more than sorry. People are talking. Nobody else is going to work for you, I promise you that.”

Nancy had planned to give her two weeks’ severance and send her off with a letter of recommendation highlighting her ability to tote great weight. Instead she gave her one week’s pay and instructions to be packed by breakfast. If not for the sink full of greasy dishes, Nancy would have put the brazen sass out tonight. She’d reached the scraggly end of her rope hours ago.