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Authors: Catherine Anderson
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study the family tree. The first entry dated back to the seventeen hundreds, making this Bible nearly three hundred years old. The thought was mind-boggling.
“Dad,” he said after a long silence. “Look at this.” Frank came around the table to peer over Quincy’s shoulder. “Practically all the first wives of your ancestors died at young ages.”
“Dyin’ young wasn’t uncommon back then. Men often lost their wives durin’ childbirth or shortly afterward from childbed fever.”
Quincy knew that was true, but the theory didn’t hold up under closer examination. “Most of the second wives made it. I mean, well, they eventually died, of course, a few of them at fairly young ages, but a good majority of them lived nice, long lives for that day.”
Frank fetched his cooling coffee and took a seat beside Quincy to study the tree himself. “I’ll be damned. You’re right.”
A prickly sensation moved over Quincy’s skin. He could only hope he wasn’t allowing his imagination to get the better of him. “Mom died at only thirty-one, which was really young by our standards, even then. And now there’s Loni. She’s what—only thirty-five?” He met his father’s gaze. “What about your father and brothers, Dad? Did any of their first wives die?” Quincy knew his uncles and saw them fairly often, but he wasn’t familiar with details of their younger years. “Like before I was born, or when I was really little, I mean. Any deaths?”
A thoughtful frown pleated Frank’s brow. “My father, your grandpa Zachary, did lose his first wife, now that I think of it. They were both real young when they married. I think she was only eighteen. Then, right here on Harrigan land, she was injured in a farm accident and bled out before Dad could get her to the hospital. It wasn’t much of a hospital back then, but he always blamed himself for not gettin’ her there in time. Later he made a trip back to Ireland to see some relatives and met my mother, Mariah. They was married over there, and she lived here on this land to a ripe old age.” Frank smiled slightly. “You remember Mama, don’t you?”
Quincy sank back on his chair. “Of course I do. Not as well as I’d like. I was still pretty young when she passed away, but I’ll never forget her Irish brogue and her big laugh. And, oh, man, how I loved her soda bread.”
Frank nodded. “No one makes it like Mama did. It was her mother’s recipe, straight from the old country.”
“So Grandpa lost his first wife when she was really young.”
“Yep.” Frank took a sip of coffee. “And come to think of it, my brothers all lost their first wives, too. Paul lost his—well, that was truly a tragedy. They’d had three little kids, and after she gave birth to the fourth baby, she got postnatal depression real bad. He came home one evenin’ to find her dead in the bathtub. She’d slit her wrists.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Quincy whispered.
“Back then they didn’t have many treatments for postnatal depression,” Frank expounded. “Women were expected to buck up and just get on with it. Paul nearly went off the deep end when he found her. For a long time, he blamed himself.”
Quincy could understand that. To walk in and find your depressed wife dead by her own hand would be devastating.
“Then there was my brother Marcus. He lost his first wife in a car accident. They was on their way to church, and he had his whole family in the vehicle. A pickup truck came over the center line, and there was a head-on collision. Nobody else was bad hurt, but Marcus’s wife came out of it with a severed main artery. She died at the scene. Then there was Hugh, whose first wife was an undiagnosed hemo—” Frank broke off, frowned, and waved a hand. “Hemo-something-or-other.”
“Hemophiliac?”
“That’s it,” Frank said, snapping his fingers. “She died early in the marriage, and Hugh, now with his second wife, has five healthy kids, thank God.”
Quincy’s
“Dad,” he said after a long silence. “Look at this.” Frank came around the table to peer over Quincy’s shoulder. “Practically all the first wives of your ancestors died at young ages.”
“Dyin’ young wasn’t uncommon back then. Men often lost their wives durin’ childbirth or shortly afterward from childbed fever.”
Quincy knew that was true, but the theory didn’t hold up under closer examination. “Most of the second wives made it. I mean, well, they eventually died, of course, a few of them at fairly young ages, but a good majority of them lived nice, long lives for that day.”
Frank fetched his cooling coffee and took a seat beside Quincy to study the tree himself. “I’ll be damned. You’re right.”
A prickly sensation moved over Quincy’s skin. He could only hope he wasn’t allowing his imagination to get the better of him. “Mom died at only thirty-one, which was really young by our standards, even then. And now there’s Loni. She’s what—only thirty-five?” He met his father’s gaze. “What about your father and brothers, Dad? Did any of their first wives die?” Quincy knew his uncles and saw them fairly often, but he wasn’t familiar with details of their younger years. “Like before I was born, or when I was really little, I mean. Any deaths?”
A thoughtful frown pleated Frank’s brow. “My father, your grandpa Zachary, did lose his first wife, now that I think of it. They were both real young when they married. I think she was only eighteen. Then, right here on Harrigan land, she was injured in a farm accident and bled out before Dad could get her to the hospital. It wasn’t much of a hospital back then, but he always blamed himself for not gettin’ her there in time. Later he made a trip back to Ireland to see some relatives and met my mother, Mariah. They was married over there, and she lived here on this land to a ripe old age.” Frank smiled slightly. “You remember Mama, don’t you?”
Quincy sank back on his chair. “Of course I do. Not as well as I’d like. I was still pretty young when she passed away, but I’ll never forget her Irish brogue and her big laugh. And, oh, man, how I loved her soda bread.”
Frank nodded. “No one makes it like Mama did. It was her mother’s recipe, straight from the old country.”
“So Grandpa lost his first wife when she was really young.”
“Yep.” Frank took a sip of coffee. “And come to think of it, my brothers all lost their first wives, too. Paul lost his—well, that was truly a tragedy. They’d had three little kids, and after she gave birth to the fourth baby, she got postnatal depression real bad. He came home one evenin’ to find her dead in the bathtub. She’d slit her wrists.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Quincy whispered.
“Back then they didn’t have many treatments for postnatal depression,” Frank expounded. “Women were expected to buck up and just get on with it. Paul nearly went off the deep end when he found her. For a long time, he blamed himself.”
Quincy could understand that. To walk in and find your depressed wife dead by her own hand would be devastating.
“Then there was my brother Marcus. He lost his first wife in a car accident. They was on their way to church, and he had his whole family in the vehicle. A pickup truck came over the center line, and there was a head-on collision. Nobody else was bad hurt, but Marcus’s wife came out of it with a severed main artery. She died at the scene. Then there was Hugh, whose first wife was an undiagnosed hemo—” Frank broke off, frowned, and waved a hand. “Hemo-something-or-other.”
“Hemophiliac?”
“That’s it,” Frank said, snapping his fingers. “She died early in the marriage, and Hugh, now with his second wife, has five healthy kids, thank God.”
Quincy’s
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