Free Cascade by Maryanne O'Hara

babies.
    “I want children and I want Dr. Proulx’s opinion why they’re notcoming, damn it. I’m entitled to that! I’m a little sick of my friends looking at me like—The house a disaster.” His voice rose. “My wife’s only friend the traveling Jew-man.”
    Dez went still. Asa had never seemed to notice Jacob, never mind insult him. “The house is
not
a disaster” was all she could manage to say.
    He didn’t respond, didn’t look back, just strode across the lawn, got into the Buick, and skidded away as if it were her fault the state wanted to drown them all.
    She stood in the doorway long after the sounds of the car had faded. Did people know about her friendship with Jacob? Were they talking about it? Laughing? It gave her a pang to know that people would. As a child, she had once referred to old Mr. Solomon as the Jew-man, like she had heard people do. Her father had used the opportunity to pull out
The Merchant of Venice
. He’d condensed and clarified, and even though Dez was only eight, she’d followed the gist of the story. She had imagined the pound of flesh as something neat and square, wrapped in paper and tied with twine, like lard, and was delighted with Portia’s shattering of that image, delighted with Portia’s cleverness. She wanted to know why her father hadn’t named her Portia instead of clumsy old, silly-sounding Desdemona, but he said only that her mother hadn’t liked the name and reread Shylock’s speech again, intent on driving home his point.
If you prick us,
he read,
do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?
Her ears pricked up at the word
revenge
, thinking that her father was preparing her for some wonderful act of retribution that Mr. Solomon would perpetrate on Cascade. None came, of course. Mr. Solomon took no offense; the townspeople meant none. Innocents all, her father used to say,
but Dez
,
innocence is the excuse of the ignorant
.

    She was in bed when she heard the car pull into the driveway, the back door opening, the sound of rustling downstairs. She opened her bedside drawer and gazed down at the thermometer, closing her thumb andforefinger around the cool glass. How easy it would be to snap it, to release the puddle of mercury, to say, yes, Asa, I’m ready for all that you want. But she shut the drawer and shut her eyes, slid under the sheets, and pretended to sleep until he came in and turned out the light and pretended to sleep, too.
    She woke to morning sun and the scent of soap, to the breeze of his body standing over her. He sat down on the edge of the bed; he took her hand. The pads of his fingers were rough where they made contact with the stone pestle day after day.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you.”
    Thanks, she started to say.
    “But here’s the thing,” he said. “I think it might be best if Jacob Solomon didn’t come here anymore.”
    She moved to sit up, to look him clearly in the face. “Asa, we’ve done nothing wrong.”
    “I didn’t say you had.”
    What, then? “Has someone said something?”
    “I’m saying something, saying I don’t think it’s the best idea for my wife to be alone with a man who shares her interests. It’s a recipe for disaster, and I think I’ve had my head in the sand about it.”
    “But it’s our work we have in common. He’s just a friend.”
    His eyes were steady. “I’m not stupid, Dez.”
    No, he wasn’t. But neither was she, and she forced herself to hold his gaze, to show her innocence. She’d been careful. She hadn’t done a thing wrong and there was no reason why she should have to give up her friendship. “You can think what you like but you’re wrong. And he’ll be gone soon enough anyway.”
    “I don’t care. I don’t want him here.” He got to his feet. “And that’s the end of the matter.”
    “But he’s coming today. What am I supposed to