Cascade

by Maryanne O'Hara

  “What kind of chain? Why do they think it’s yours?”

  “A neck chain, of some sort. I gather it sports a Star of David or some symbol they consider Jewish.”

  He should stand up to them, she thought, tell them they were being bigoted. Music drifted in through the small casement window. Ragtime music. “Asa himself opened that dam,” she said. “He was keeping it a secret from everyone. He hoped the altered water levels of the river would affect the state’s decision. He’s planning to tell them when he gets back from Connecticut.”

  Jacob shrugged. “That doesn’t explain who closed it.”

  “They’ll think it was Stan.”

  “If they thought that, they wouldn’t have hauled me in here now, would they?”

  She studied the floor, a speckled, gritty cement, and stole a glance at his hands, resting in his lap. Her eyes locked there for a second before looking away, a dreadful second, because looking at his lap felt wrong and embarrassing. And then she felt sad. They’d been together in the most intimate way possible yet now they sat with a gulf between them.

  “You’ll just have to tell them the truth,” she said decisively, brave on the outside but inside starting to free-fall at the thought of Asa finding out. “You—we—closed the dam, just because we wanted to see how it worked.”

  “I don’t want people talking about you, gossiping about why we were in the woods together.”

  “But we can’t lie to the police.”

  Still. There had to be a way out of this for both of them. Asa had said he was going to tell the police he opened the dam himself. If she told them that Asa had been working on the dam, they might just drop the matter altogether. She could tell Asa that there was no need to talk to Dwight and Wendell because she’d already told them all they needed to know.

  That’s what she would say, she decided. And she would never, ever get herself tangled up in lies again. What was that line from The Tempest, about making a sinner of one’s own memory by crediting a lie? She’d never been a lying sort of person; she wanted to be done with lies. “There’s something I haven’t told you. I have the offer of a job in New York. With the Standard.”

  He looked at her, wordlessly asking for explanation. She told him about the Postcards from America plan, how the conversation with Mr. Washburn had come about so quickly. “He asked if I could be there by August and I didn’t have time to think, I just said yes. All I know is that I want that job. I don’t belong here, I never did.”

  He didn’t say anything and she couldn’t read him. “I didn’t want you to think I was chasing after you. That’s why I didn’t mention it.”

  He was silent so long she began to feel impatient. Was this the man who’d said, “We belong together”?

  “Are you kidding?” he said quietly. “I would love it if you were in New York.” His face so serious, such a contrast to his words. “But what about Asa?”

  “Asa,” she said, pronouncing his name with all the anguish she felt. “I haven’t told him yet. I guess I was vaguely, miraculously hoping he would think about moving there if they take Cascade.” But there wasn’t really a hope that Asa would consent to a move to New York. And now he would find out about the dam and maybe about Jacob, and maybe he would want a clean slate, a chance to start fresh. A new town, new wife, the children he wanted. Wouldn’t there be some kind of relief in that for him?

  She and Jacob had to go forward with a clean slate, too. “And there’s something else. It was stupid and rash but—” She had to tell him she had known, all along, the truth about the dam at Secret Pond.

  There was the sound of the outside door opening, multiple footsteps pounding down the stairs. She got to her feet and spoke quickly. “Asa’s in Connecticut till late, midnight. Come by when they’re done with you.”

  “If they let me go—”

  “They have to, you haven’t done anything wrong,” she said as Elliot Lowell strode in, followed by Wendell and Dwight.

  Dwight set two steaming cartons of something from the Brilliant on one of the desks. “Dez,” he said, almost under his breath, as if no one else could hear. “What’s going on?”

  She gathered herself up, ready to make all the difference with what she had to say.

  “Asa himself was working on that dam. No one else was fooling with it,” she said. She waited for the understanding that would follow her pronouncement, but Dwight and Wendell simply exchanged raised eyebrows.

  Lowell stepped forward and looked down at her with some amusement. “Your husband told me that already.” Obviously, his expression said, she didn’t share confidences with her husband. Obviously, she visited men who were not her husband as they sat in jail cells on Saturday nights. “Just this morning on his way out of town. He opened it, he said, but someone else closed it.” His eyes lifted and he regarded Jacob steadily. “What your husband did also has no bearing on why Mr. Solomon was up there two days in a row. That’s why he’s here to answer a few questions.” He nodded to Dwight and Wendell. “I will walk Mrs. Spaulding out.”

  Dez tried to catch Jacob’s eye, but Wendell stood between them and she had no choice but to follow Elliot Lowell as he ushered her through the door and up the stairs.

  They emerged onto the sidewalk, to a warm wind and brassy music floating down from the bandstand, wavering in intensity—now loud, now barely discernible. In the distance, electric light haloed the air over the common, but where they stood was dark and shadowy.

  “I found your note,” Dez said. “What is it you want?”

  “Well, I’ve got a man dead, and his widow clamoring to find out what happened to him.”

  She was silent. Let him steer the conversation.

  “Now everyone’s saying Stanley himself was probably trying to close up the dam, that it was an accident. And it probably was an accident. But not the way people are saying.” His languid way of speaking, and looking at her, unnerved her. “Stan would have notified others before doing anything himself. That’s the way we run our operation.”

  “You know, Mr. Lowell, regardless of who closed the dam, the act of doing it didn’t necessarily cause Stan’s death.”

  “I’m hearing there’s talk about you and this peddler fellow,” he said abruptly. She was glad of the night, to hide the blush she knew had spread up her face. “And I’m guessing why you were in the woods, but I have no idea why you’d want to close up that dam.”

  Did someone actually see them? Again, she didn’t respond. Let him reveal what he knew.

  “Mr. Solomon didn’t want to say why he was up at Pine Point, and that got Wendell suspicious of him. Wendell’s ready to point the finger at him just to get rid of Mrs. Smith. But Dwight sensed that Mr. Solomon was only trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t see how Jacob can be charged with anything. So what if he was at Pine Point? People walk it every day.”

  He pulled a pipe and lighter from his breast pocket, tamped down the barrel of the pipe, and flicked the lighter. Then he told her what Dot’s oblique comment must have referred to. Then she knew the real reason Dwight and Wendell were taking a closer look at Jacob. Attorney Peterson was probating Addis Proulx’s will. And it was only a matter of time before everyone would know that the partners in the Cascade Valley Golf Club built the course with an eye to the money they would get when the state was forced to buy it from them at assessed value.

  “The land was the doctor’s part of the investment,” Lowell said. “Nearly two hundred acres of abandoned farmland that wasn’t worth much as it stood. The other two put up the money to build the course and they built it cheap, and how?” And now, Lowell spoke like a politician. “They built it on the backs of men grateful to earn a nickel for a dollar’s work, and those two crooks—well, let’s just say they know what’s what. That land was assessed at fifteen hundred dollars before they built the course. Now it’s assessed at thirty-seven thousand. We have to pay assessed value to all property owners. The investors stand to make a tidy sum, and whe
n we go ahead with eminent domain proceedings, proceeds from Dr. Proulx’s portion of the sale will be disbursed to the beneficiaries of his will.”

  “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me or Asa or Jacob,” she said uneasily.

  Lowell clamped his teeth against his pipe and looked up at the night sky. He put both hands in his pockets, obviously enjoying the tension he was creating. “The doctor’s primary beneficiary is ‘the artist Jacob Solomon.’”

  No. She felt unsteady, as if Lowell had pushed her. No. Jacob could not have known; he would have told her. She knew this. And she knew Dr. Proulx. “Dr. Proulx was a generous man, a philanthropic man. He would certainly have kept such a thing to himself. Jacob reminded him of his son, Paul, he liked Jacob. You don’t think—?”

  “You know how talk spreads.”

  “Jacob had no idea, I know it.”

  “Calm down,” Lowell said. “I’m guessing Dr. Proulx found out that the golf course was a scheme. After all, the man did, out of character, so everyone said, commit suicide and no one really knows why. If he was as honest as his reputation, then the thought that he played a role in something underhanded might have troubled him. I don’t know. I’m sure there are a host of reasons why someone commits suicide.”

  “You do believe he did?”

  “I do. And so does the doctor who attended to him, but unfortunately for Mr. Solomon and his reputation, and the reputation of his friends—” He rubbed at the back of his head. “Look, he’s been at the scene of two deaths. First, he finds Dr. Proulx. And then there’s the fact of him up at Pine Point two days in a row. You must see how bad that looks.”

  “How could closing the dam or causing Stan’s accident, as ridiculous as it sounds to even voice that, possibly benefit him?”

  “If he knew about his inheritance, then he might try to sway us. Choosing Cascade means buying out the golf course.”

  So that was the root of the gossip. It was preposterous, yet her mind turned back to Dot King and Popcorn’s mother, and Lil, and people gossiping over coffee at the Brilliant, all ready to believe the worst. She thought of Mrs. Smith and her suspicions.

  Lowell puffed on his pipe, the stem clicking against his teeth. “Let me tell you something, Mrs. Spaulding. This incident is, quite honestly, getting in my way and on my nerves. I’ve got a job here, a reservoir to build, and I want this mess swept up and behind us as soon as possible. Now, I’m going to ask you outright. Are you that man’s alibi?”

  She saw what was happening, saw that this politician could smooth things over, fix them. Yet the answer lodged itself in her throat as she realized how completely her “yes” would change everything. She would have to face Asa and maybe his sense of anger would be so great that he would be driven to use the playhouse as pawn.

  And yet she couldn’t betray Jacob.

  Best to be honest and face the consequences.

  “Are you?”

  She looked over her shoulder, instinctively lowering her voice, as if someone might hear. “I am. We were in the woods, and we found the dam, and yes, we closed it.” Her rate of speech sped up. “But Jacob knew nothing about it being Asa’s land, and it would really be better if my husband didn’t know either—”

  He held up a palm to stop her, observing her with a lazy smile. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  Really? It was as easy as her word? “You’ll let him go?”

  “Let’s just say I have some influence. I do think the whole incident was an accident and it’s pointless to turn this into something it’s not. We have a project to get on with and I don’t want this to slow us down. I’m curious as to why you closed it, though.”

  “It was an impulse. He wanted to see how it worked, we both did. The pulleys. I don’t know.” She didn’t want to explain herself to Elliot Lowell.

  “Well, I am going to recommend this.” He lowered one finger onto his left hand to make his point. “You go on home to that husband of yours and you take care of him. Because he’s going to be upset. He opened that dam for obvious and pitiable reasons, and I’m sorry for him, but—” He lowered his voice. “We are taking Cascade.”

  A quick, harsh noise—a noise that sounded human—caused them both to spin around. Dez peered into the night. Wind fluttered across her shoulder blades, lifted her skirt.

  “Night birds,” she said, shivering and instinctively looking up, imagining, already, the water overhead. So it was going to happen. It was finally real.

  “We’ve had to kind of go through the motions—play politics. Well, you know. Your father understood these kinds of things.”

  Her first reaction was bristling, naïve. She almost said, My father understood such things but didn’t approve. Then she realized that he’d approved of every political move that had kept the state and its reservoir out of Cascade.

  “Stan told me it looked like Whistling Falls would be chosen,” she said.

  “Well, Stan was a talker and we wanted people to believe that we were seriously weighing the two options. He wasn’t really in the know.”

  “I see.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and wrapped it around the tight roll of the award.

  “So I’ll do my part to quiet things down,” Lowell said. “I will tell the policemen here that I’m satisfied that everything is as it seems. I’ll tell them the two of you were in there sketching—that might keep the gossips from talking.”

  She nodded intently but she was half listening. They were taking Cascade, and if they were taking Cascade, then she wanted to go to New York. She wanted to get out while there was still a way out. Like Abby had said, no babies means you can leave. And wouldn’t Asa be better off, eventually, with someone who wanted what he wanted? If Lowell kept quiet about her involvement in the dam closing, she could wait until the water committee’s formal announcement. Then, when all would be turmoil anyway, she could let Asa know, as gently as possible, that she was leaving.

  It was a relief to have come to a decision, to have a plan of action, even though her resolve was still on the raw, new side, with underpinnings of doubt and trepidation.

  “Mrs. Spaulding.”

  Lowell was looking at her in his infuriating, mildly amused way, and it dawned on her more fully: the extent of her naïveté. “Why are you telling me all this?” she asked. “Helping me. Why me?”

  “You’re William Hart’s daughter, and I can see that you’ve got smarts. And I would guess from this American Sunday Standard business that you are ambitious. And practical.” He let his words settle while he tapped at his pipe, reached into his pocket, pulled out a plug of tobacco, relit it. “I plan to run for the U.S. Senate next year.”

  “Ah.” So he wanted something he thought Dez could give him. Music drifted down the street. “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile,” taking her beyond the common, and across the country that was so full of trusting people believing in Memorial Day and band concerts and The American Sunday Standard.

  “We plan to announce the reservoir decision on July twenty-sixth,” Lowell said. “That’s a Friday. And what happens when we make the announcement? The rest of the state’s happy. They’re going to have water. Your issue comes out the next day, and I make you and your magazine look good because your page includes ‘A Letter from the Commissioner.’ Which I will give you, explaining that this reservoir is for the good of the majority, which it is. I get all those Massachusetts voters who read me on Saturday night, Sunday morning, feeling good about the fact that their state’s in good hands. They’ve got the water they need. They remember that when they go to the polls. And there’s nothing wrong or bad about that.”

  And there wasn’t—really. Sometimes politics did make sense, because someone had to be in charge, and better it be those who made an attempt at working toward the common good.

  And shouldn’t she play politics, too, now she had the chance?

  “About the playhouse,” she said. “You said you could probably find a wa
y to move it.” With Lowell involved, Asa might not dare threaten it.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He removed a card from his inner pocket. “All the information you need to reach me is there. In the meantime, where shall I send the letter?”

  She thought of her detour down Wrong Turn Path. Now the path itself was forking yet again, and the way to go was clear. New York. “To the Standard’s offices, I suppose. Care of me.” How strange to say that. “One Hundred West Forty-third Street, New York.”

  28

  At home, stepping into the familiar, the everyday, the decision to leave felt immediately implausible. It was hard to hold on to her resolve. She was rattled, too aware of herself, her presence, the sound of her footsteps moving around the house, turning on lights, fingers turning the dial on the radio and the Ben Bernie Orchestra flooding the room. Too loud, jarring. She switched it off and the room reverted to silence.

  The worst of it: Asa had no idea of any of this, not an inkling. No idea that his wife had decided to leave, that another man had said, “I would love it if you were in New York.” No idea that Cascade had already been chosen. That Cascade would be disincorporated and its buildings depopulated and razed, its acres scooped out, flooded.

  She wouldn’t ask for a thing.

  She could support herself. Aside from the playhouse fund, she now had the seventy-five-dollar check from the Standard. Seventy-five dollars could last weeks, and next week there would be another seventy-five dollars, and for weeks after that, she would get the kind of money any family man would be grateful to earn.

  As for her things, all she needed were her painting supplies, a few photographs. Portia’s casket. Everything else could go into storage at the playhouse.

  The clock chimed eight thirty. Asa and Silas would be talking, having a cup of coffee or two, then Asa would pack up for the three-hour drive back. He would be eager to see the award. She unrolled it and read a few words—In appreciation for your great efforts—before letting it curl up with a snap. She was a fraud, but she hadn’t intended to be a fraud.