The Wives of Henry Oades by Johanna Moran

might have been the better choice. One can live on the cheap there, he’d been told. The natives aren’t as bothersome, it was said, as rudely inquisitive as the Americans. He could always go. If California didn’t suit him; if nothing purposeful turned up. Christ, did it gnaw. What was he to do next?
    Willy cleared his throat. Henry willed him to keep his adolescent thoughts to himself. What did an untethered lad have to ponder? Twenty years old, if that. Henry was married at his age. The first, a stillborn boy, was on the way. John came next, beautiful lad.
    Willy stared intently at the water. “Ever have the temptation to jump in headfirst?”
    “No.” But Henry had, more than once. He imagined a swift cold shock, the terror over in an instant.
    Willy drew on his cigarette. “It’s like those Siren beauties. Do you know about them?”
    “Yes.”
    “I thought so. You’re the bookish type. Let me guess. A schoolteacher?”
    “No.” A shooting star, first one, then another, arced and died in the southern sky. The grandeur brought a rise of tears to Henry’s eyes. He thought of John running about the yard with his homemade sextant, taking sightings, meticulously jotting down his findings.
    “Those Sirens will sing to a fellow,” said Willy, “lure him right into the drink.”
    “I believe their primary occupation is shipwrecking,” said Henry.
    “I beg to differ, sir. Odysseus…do you know him?”
    “Yes.” Henry had found Homer too fanciful, Odysseus’s exploits too preposterous. He was fifteen when he read The Odyssey , in love with Verdi and all things Italian.
    “Well,” said Willy, “Odysseus lashed himself to the mast because he feared the Siren would get to him , don’t you see. I don’t think he was all that worried about his ship.”
    “Perhaps,” murmured Henry, recalling the sting of his father’s strap against the back of his legs. The headmaster had reported him a daydreamer. Flighty thinking could be beaten from a boy. His bickering parents had agreed upon that much at least.
    Willy asked, “Do you know much about wicked women, sir?”
    A peculiar question from a peculiar boy. “Not a thing.”
    “You say things in your sleep. I thought you might.”
    Henry glanced sideways. “Such as?”
    Willy whined, “ Please , Meg ,” embarrassing Henry. “Things like that.” He flicked his cigarette overboard. “Mine ran off. I miss her something fierce. I’d also like to shoot her dead. Her and the goddamned skunk that stole her.”
    “You’re young,” said Henry.
    “Sure,” Willy snapped. “I’ve got my whole life ahead. I’ll find another. Is that what you’re about to say? I’ll find a sweet girl who will do right by me, is that it?” He spat an angry glob over the rail. “I don’t want anyone else. I want my goddamned Polly.”
    Henry felt for him, though what was there to say? Yes, lad, I understand completely. There’s no such thing as a settled life. Endure the day, get on to the next. Enjoy the sea if you can. Enjoy your smoke. Enjoy a grand void of the bowels. Try to sleep. Try not to dream. It’s the best you can do.
    A pleasant breeze was kicking up. Henry considered sleeping on deck and inviting cuckolded Willy to do the same. He felt himself turning soft, involuntarily paternal. He patted the boy’s narrow shoulder and changed the subject. “What shall you do in California?”
    A resigned sadness passed over Willy’s bony features. “My great-uncle owns a dairy farm in Berkeley. I’ll be doing time there.”
    “Where is Berkeley?”
    “Near San Francisco. Just across the bay. It’s a dandy place if you happen to be a cow.”
    “Benign creatures, aren’t they?” said Henry.
    Willy snorted a laugh. “Bay-nine?”
    “Placid,” said Henry. “Tranquil.”
    Willy shrugged, lighting another cigarette. “If you say so. They sleep, they eat, they shit. I stayed a month. This was after I got out of jail. How can a man be punished for abducting his