heading home white and chalky from working in the kaolin mines among the other hard-working folks who frequented the popular bar and grill.
But when he needed that fellowship most, at home with his wife and daughters, it wasn't there. Here at home was where he most needed that camaraderie. Didn't they understand that, like the man said, mens needs to talk?
He hadn't given up right away. He had held sway over his home, his wife, his children, his household, his territory for too long to give up that tyranny, that position, that authority right away.
When he had first felt his control slipping away, he had gathered his men friends around him. A few times, he had invited one or two of his friends over. One, a man who fixed televisions, he asked over on the pretext that the TV needed repairing. "Stop by and take a look at my TV, man, and we can have a litde drink, too, while you there."
But the friend had had more than a litde drink sitting at the kitchen table with Poppa. He had had quite a few, seeming to want to drink the full fifth of Old Forester dry before he left. Then, in his drunken stupor, he had gotten up and, turning the wrong way, had wandered into the living room mistaking it for the bathroom, unzipped his pants, and peed on one of the low side tables next to the sofa. Annie Ruth, still almost a baby then, had discovered it and gone running to her mother yelling, "Tee-tee! Tee-tee!" His friend had been banished from the house by the women.
Any time Emest dared to mention a friend or coworker in Mudear's hearing, she would say, "I hope he ain't gonna come into my house and pee on the floor."
It was enough to keep him from ever again venturing into the realm of male bonding. He was in this alone.
Emest looked down at his hands hanging between his legs and shook his head sadly at their condition. At one time, he had taken such pride in his hands. Even though he was now a supervisor near retirement at the mines and rarely had to even pick up a chunk of chalk, his hands still showed the signs of his years in the pits. The white powdery chalk still showed up starkly around and under his nails against his dark brown fingers.
Even though it was one of the first things she stopped doing after the change, Ernest could still picture Mudear seated on a small stool by his chair in the living room, her knees scrunched up to her still firm breasts, one of his hands lounging carelessly in hers. His other hand resting in a small bowl of soapy Lux liquid water on the arm of his chair.
For quite a long time, he relished the memory of that vision, Mudear manicuring his nails. He loved to remember her doing his nails. The filing, clipping, soaking, painting them with clear nail polish. She was so good at it, like everything she tried her hand at, doing his nails. The final stepâbuffing them to a pink healthy glowâwas his favorite. As she zipped the soft pink padded instrument back and forth across his nails, her whole body shimmied to the rhythm of the buffer. It was almost as good as sex.
At first, after she refused to ever as long as she lived and stayed black ever sit on that stoolâwhatever happened to that wicker stool, he wonderedâand serve him like some slave or something, he tried to do his own nails.
The only reason he did that was some of the guys at the downtown bar noticed what sad shape his nails were falling into around all that soft chalk at work. "Wife ain't taking care a' her job like she supposed to, huh, Ernest?" one of the guys asked two Saturdays in a row while he and his friends lounged over a couple of quarts of cold Pabst Blue Ribbon at The Place downtown.
Ernest had almost balled his fists up in shame. Damn her, he thought. Damn her, damn her. When he came in from work, she had the nerve to be sitting up there in bed polishing her own nails a creamy shell pink. Like she the Queen of Sheba, he had thought. That night he had dreamed that he drove both of his balled-up fists into her
But when he needed that fellowship most, at home with his wife and daughters, it wasn't there. Here at home was where he most needed that camaraderie. Didn't they understand that, like the man said, mens needs to talk?
He hadn't given up right away. He had held sway over his home, his wife, his children, his household, his territory for too long to give up that tyranny, that position, that authority right away.
When he had first felt his control slipping away, he had gathered his men friends around him. A few times, he had invited one or two of his friends over. One, a man who fixed televisions, he asked over on the pretext that the TV needed repairing. "Stop by and take a look at my TV, man, and we can have a litde drink, too, while you there."
But the friend had had more than a litde drink sitting at the kitchen table with Poppa. He had had quite a few, seeming to want to drink the full fifth of Old Forester dry before he left. Then, in his drunken stupor, he had gotten up and, turning the wrong way, had wandered into the living room mistaking it for the bathroom, unzipped his pants, and peed on one of the low side tables next to the sofa. Annie Ruth, still almost a baby then, had discovered it and gone running to her mother yelling, "Tee-tee! Tee-tee!" His friend had been banished from the house by the women.
Any time Emest dared to mention a friend or coworker in Mudear's hearing, she would say, "I hope he ain't gonna come into my house and pee on the floor."
It was enough to keep him from ever again venturing into the realm of male bonding. He was in this alone.
Emest looked down at his hands hanging between his legs and shook his head sadly at their condition. At one time, he had taken such pride in his hands. Even though he was now a supervisor near retirement at the mines and rarely had to even pick up a chunk of chalk, his hands still showed the signs of his years in the pits. The white powdery chalk still showed up starkly around and under his nails against his dark brown fingers.
Even though it was one of the first things she stopped doing after the change, Ernest could still picture Mudear seated on a small stool by his chair in the living room, her knees scrunched up to her still firm breasts, one of his hands lounging carelessly in hers. His other hand resting in a small bowl of soapy Lux liquid water on the arm of his chair.
For quite a long time, he relished the memory of that vision, Mudear manicuring his nails. He loved to remember her doing his nails. The filing, clipping, soaking, painting them with clear nail polish. She was so good at it, like everything she tried her hand at, doing his nails. The final stepâbuffing them to a pink healthy glowâwas his favorite. As she zipped the soft pink padded instrument back and forth across his nails, her whole body shimmied to the rhythm of the buffer. It was almost as good as sex.
At first, after she refused to ever as long as she lived and stayed black ever sit on that stoolâwhatever happened to that wicker stool, he wonderedâand serve him like some slave or something, he tried to do his own nails.
The only reason he did that was some of the guys at the downtown bar noticed what sad shape his nails were falling into around all that soft chalk at work. "Wife ain't taking care a' her job like she supposed to, huh, Ernest?" one of the guys asked two Saturdays in a row while he and his friends lounged over a couple of quarts of cold Pabst Blue Ribbon at The Place downtown.
Ernest had almost balled his fists up in shame. Damn her, he thought. Damn her, damn her. When he came in from work, she had the nerve to be sitting up there in bed polishing her own nails a creamy shell pink. Like she the Queen of Sheba, he had thought. That night he had dreamed that he drove both of his balled-up fists into her
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