Comfort Me With Apples(10)

“Well, of course I do, but…” Sophia struggles to comprehend what he can mean. She believed in his wonder, so she said it to him. How could such a thing have purpose other than itself?

“I knew it!” her husband crows triumphantly. Sophia’s chest feels tight. Her shoulders tense against her spine, little spasms of dissonance.

“You think it’s nonsense?” she says quietly.

“Only because it is nonsense. That stuff’s all for you, darling. Dancing, theater, music, fraternization—women’s work! Me, I’d be happy sleeping out on the ground among the herds, eating what falls off the vine, never seeing another soul. Other than you, of course!” Sophia casts her eyes down. “Oh, don’t look so stricken! I like that you like it! Keeps me civilized. We’ll go, I promise. You watch the show, I’ll watch you. And we’ll both be happy.”

Sophia does not look up. She will not ask him. She will not. She will not.

“My love,” she says into her chest.

Her husband wipes the crumbs and grease of his breakfast off on his knees. “What is it now? I’ve already said we’ll go.”

“My love, when we are apart, what do you do?”

His great bright eyes narrow. “What are you talking about? I work. I work hard. I do it for us, Soph.”

“I know! I know, beloved. But what I mean is … what else do you do? Do you have friends, outside Arcadia?”

“My supervisors, if that’s what you’re on about.”

“No, I thought, perhaps … new people. New women?” Women with long, coarse, dark, wild hair. Women missing a fingertip …

He laughs. Sophia adores his laugh. When her dearheart laughs, nothing dark can stay. “Is that what you’ve got your little heart in a knot over?” He grabs her in his arms and swings her around as easily as a clean sheet. He is so big and she is so small. He can make her fly. “Not possible. You are the only woman in the world, Sophia,” he says, pressing his cheek to hers. “You were made for me.”

He sets her down and Sophia gasps, breathless, weeping. Relief. Relief to be wrong and to be his.

“Is that dissatisfaction I see?” her husband asks, lifting her chin with his thumb. His eyes search hers. “It couldn’t be, not my Sophie.”

“No,” she gasps. “Never. I love you. I’m such a silly thing, you know. Such a silly thing.”

He looks over her head. His face shifts, darkens, pales, like clouds moving on water. “What happened to the window?”

“I have no idea,” Sophia says, and immediately recoils from herself. She cannot understand why she lied, and for the second time in a day. Only that she has, and she cannot take either of them back, and the world is changed because of it.





GINGER GOLD



16.??At no time and for no reason will the Residents be permitted to transfer ownership of the Property, sublet, subdivide, sell, or otherwise abandon it. Dissolution of this Agreement may occur only at the discretion of the Association.

17.??No fences or other obstructions for the purpose of partitioning Arcadia Gardens properties are permitted. Be a good neighbor and you will have good neighbors!

18.??Roof shingles are to conform and be no larger than three inches by three (3x3) inches, in shades of Gevurah Grey or Binah Brown.

19.??Fraternization and assembly may occur only in private residences or in the following designated public areas: the Community Garden, within six (6) feet of all shops and business fronts, Chikidel Community Pool, Dilmun Park and Promenade, the Hesperides Riverwalk, and the Arcadia Gardens Municipal Amphitheater. Loitering, dallying, idling, lingering, or malingering on streets, sidewalks, and other non-designated locations is forbidden.





GALA



The night dazzles Sophia.

Fireflies blaze in the brush just as she thought they might. The amphitheater benches fill slowly with all the friendly faces of her dear and darling neighborhood. Everyone buzzes with the thrill of being allowed out of doors at night, granted dispensation for a special event.

There flits Mrs. Bea up and down the stands with her covered mugs of tea for sale. There sits Mr. Breame with his big belly and his lady and all their little ones bubbling around them. There lounges Mrs. Baer with her big heavy coat, even in summer, fishing raspberries out of the greasepaper bag she got from Mrs. Elke, the broad, pretty brunette who rules the farmer’s market every weekend like a kingdom.

And yes, there goes Mrs. Lyon!

And all her little ones, and Mrs. Minke and Mrs. Fische besides, waving to her, to Sophia, the luckiest woman the earth could imagine. And there is Mr. Semengelof too. He sits straight-backed as a heron in the lower rows, the last of the sun a corona ringing his hair. He lifts a solemn hand to them in greeting. Sophia looks away quickly. Her husband grins and waves to the music teacher as though they are old friends.

“Do you know him?” Sophia asks, and then feels foolish. Of course he does. He knows everyone.

“We work together,” he says, drinking from his bottle. His tan throat moves gorgeously as he swallows.

Sophia blinks. He has never mentioned a music teacher, nor can he carry a tune. So it must be Semengelof’s other work that her husband knows. “Did you help him find that criminal?” she whispers. “Is that what you do when you don’t come home? Hunt?”