Like he was a man across the ocean in Africa, one who had a right to more than one wife. Whenever Barbara-Pam started in with her nagging, he’d remind her: Don’t get too feisty. Surprisingly, however, the loving had returned with Barbara-Pam. He began to enjoy it when she climbed on top. Also, there was the smothered cube steak she made for him on alternate Saturday nights.
Then Floretta’s baby boy came, and she started giving Norman a settling-down eye, and he decided Barbara-Pam was his choice. They had made vows in front of a preacher, it didn’t make no sense to keep bouncing back and forth, and, truth be told, Norman just couldn’t keep up no more. Their little boy had been walking for a month the Friday he packed the things he kept at Floretta’s place, but she didn’t cry. She told him, “Just ’cause the cock crow, don’t make the sun rise.
The Sunday morning after their true reconciliation, Norman reached for his wife, but she wasn’t in bed. He smelled sausage cooking: church mornings weren’t the same if there wasn’t pork on the table, and he sure hoped there were biscuits and grits as well. He quickly showered, dried off, then went to the closet, where he found that Barbara-Pam had splattered his deacon’s suits with bleach. Even his pride and joy, the maroon one with pointy-toed gaiters to match.
It took Norman two months to save enough for new church suits, and he was too old-fashioned to wear work clothes to Sunday services. On those heathen days, he’d drive to his old high school, which was now integrated. Not only law but custom had finally changed, and Norman didn’t even recognize the place. On school days, there were no loud boasts from boys, no girls fanning their bottoms. He sat in his truck and listened to the radio until he had to turn it off to save the battery.