Dez.” His eyes asked, why was she arguing? He
saw
thatshe had been made uncomfortable by the drawing, too, by the fact that it was so clearly meant to shock. “You don’t have to ask. Taste.”
“Whose taste?”
“Everyone’s. People’s. Jeez, Dez.” He wanted her to let him off the hook. He still had deliveries to make, plus evening hours to put in at the drugstore. Conversation at their table was usually a simple review of the events of the day. “That thing she drew—it was degenerate.
In my opinion
.”
He held the afternoon newspaper high to retreat behind its pages. The front-page headline was blacker, deeper than normal. STORM CLOUDS GATHERING IN EUROPE , and she was reminded of the strained, anxious times they lived in.
Be grateful for what you have. Didn’t you just decide to make the best of things?
She forced her voice into a gentler register. “Dinner’s ready,” she said, lifting their plates and cocking her head for him to follow.
In the studio, he stopped short at the scene she had set. “What’s all this?” His eyes going straight to her belly.
Of course. When a normal woman found out she was expecting, she made a special dinner to announce it.
“Asa, no. It’s not that.”
“But—” He looked around, at the silver, the apple butter, the painting on the easel, before appealing to her with eyes that had turned cloudy. “But you’ve made everything so special.”
“I don’t have news, Asa. Not that kind of news.”
“Oh.” He pushed at the wire rims of his spectacles, then sat down and touched the sides of his plate, a gesture that made her feel guilty. Who did he have in the world, besides his brother, Silas, anymore? He wanted children, roots of his own, a family.
He looked up and gave her a bucking-up sort of smile. “What, then?”
“I just thought we’d have a change. Do something other than eat our supper in exactly the same way every night.”
“I see.” He hid his disappointment. He praised the cabbage rolls, praised the chops. “Juicy.” She looked down at her plate to suppress the irrational shudder that the word
juicy
provoked in her.
From the radio came the sound of an audience clapping. There was a pause, the murmuring of a voice introducing the next song, then “Temptation” tinkling into the room:
You came, I was alone, I should have known you were temptation
.
She jumped up. This song always reminded her of Jacob. It made her feel wild and full of crazy longing that was pointless and stupid and wrong. “Don’t you love this song?” She positioned herself behind Asa and rested her hands on his shoulders. She closed her eyes to sway to the melody. She wanted to be in love with her husband. She pulled him to his feet, making him lead her around the narrow space between the table and the wall, putting his hands to her hips so they would rest there. She looked up into his face, and saw that even as he was baffled by her, he was still crazy for her, and wasn’t that a lucky thing?
Let him be enough
, she thought, relaxing against him, moving with the music, until he closed his mouth down over hers and then it was there—the knowledge—too late, that all this, of course, would lead to him wanting to go upstairs, and her temperature had spiked four days ago. Unsafe, unsafe.
He let go. He took a few steps backward and studied her for a few moments. “What is going on, Dez?”
Nothing.
I’m just a crazy person.
“Nothing.”
“That’s right, nothing.” He composed himself before speaking, obviously trying to be nice, trying to be reasonable. “Dez, we’ve been married six months and nothing is happening and you don’t seem to want anything to happen.”
Why not tell the truth, she realized? Why not just tell him? “I’m not ready for babies, Asa, I’m just not. And I’ve been talking to Lucy Winters.” Lucy, who had delivered three children in just under three years and was beside herself. “There’s a doctor in Worcester where I
saw
thatshe had been made uncomfortable by the drawing, too, by the fact that it was so clearly meant to shock. “You don’t have to ask. Taste.”
“Whose taste?”
“Everyone’s. People’s. Jeez, Dez.” He wanted her to let him off the hook. He still had deliveries to make, plus evening hours to put in at the drugstore. Conversation at their table was usually a simple review of the events of the day. “That thing she drew—it was degenerate.
In my opinion
.”
He held the afternoon newspaper high to retreat behind its pages. The front-page headline was blacker, deeper than normal. STORM CLOUDS GATHERING IN EUROPE , and she was reminded of the strained, anxious times they lived in.
Be grateful for what you have. Didn’t you just decide to make the best of things?
She forced her voice into a gentler register. “Dinner’s ready,” she said, lifting their plates and cocking her head for him to follow.
In the studio, he stopped short at the scene she had set. “What’s all this?” His eyes going straight to her belly.
Of course. When a normal woman found out she was expecting, she made a special dinner to announce it.
“Asa, no. It’s not that.”
“But—” He looked around, at the silver, the apple butter, the painting on the easel, before appealing to her with eyes that had turned cloudy. “But you’ve made everything so special.”
“I don’t have news, Asa. Not that kind of news.”
“Oh.” He pushed at the wire rims of his spectacles, then sat down and touched the sides of his plate, a gesture that made her feel guilty. Who did he have in the world, besides his brother, Silas, anymore? He wanted children, roots of his own, a family.
He looked up and gave her a bucking-up sort of smile. “What, then?”
“I just thought we’d have a change. Do something other than eat our supper in exactly the same way every night.”
“I see.” He hid his disappointment. He praised the cabbage rolls, praised the chops. “Juicy.” She looked down at her plate to suppress the irrational shudder that the word
juicy
provoked in her.
From the radio came the sound of an audience clapping. There was a pause, the murmuring of a voice introducing the next song, then “Temptation” tinkling into the room:
You came, I was alone, I should have known you were temptation
.
She jumped up. This song always reminded her of Jacob. It made her feel wild and full of crazy longing that was pointless and stupid and wrong. “Don’t you love this song?” She positioned herself behind Asa and rested her hands on his shoulders. She closed her eyes to sway to the melody. She wanted to be in love with her husband. She pulled him to his feet, making him lead her around the narrow space between the table and the wall, putting his hands to her hips so they would rest there. She looked up into his face, and saw that even as he was baffled by her, he was still crazy for her, and wasn’t that a lucky thing?
Let him be enough
, she thought, relaxing against him, moving with the music, until he closed his mouth down over hers and then it was there—the knowledge—too late, that all this, of course, would lead to him wanting to go upstairs, and her temperature had spiked four days ago. Unsafe, unsafe.
He let go. He took a few steps backward and studied her for a few moments. “What is going on, Dez?”
Nothing.
I’m just a crazy person.
“Nothing.”
“That’s right, nothing.” He composed himself before speaking, obviously trying to be nice, trying to be reasonable. “Dez, we’ve been married six months and nothing is happening and you don’t seem to want anything to happen.”
Why not tell the truth, she realized? Why not just tell him? “I’m not ready for babies, Asa, I’m just not. And I’ve been talking to Lucy Winters.” Lucy, who had delivered three children in just under three years and was beside herself. “There’s a doctor in Worcester where I
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