“All right,” she said, barely above a whisper. I didn’t like the pout on her face, so I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. We was still standing in front of the door. But I wasn’t going to stick around much longer. She had other ideas in her head, though. “Sugar, can you wait a little while before you leave?” she cooed, nodding toward our bedroom. “My period is probably going to start tomorrow, and I’ll be out of commission by the time you get back home on Sunday . . .”

Now that she was back in a good mood, I had to take advantage of it even though it was going to delay me. “I can’t think of nothing I’d rather do more. A little loving would be a good way to start off my weekend in them boondocks with Daddy and that crazy wife of his.”

After I’d pleasured Joyce and myself for about twenty minutes, I got back in my clothes and took off. I didn’t want to waste no more time washing up, and I would be sorry I hadn’t.

When I got to Betty Jean’s house, she met me at the door with her arms wide-open and her lips puckered. We embraced and kissed so passionately my whole body tingled. After having three babies, her body was still amazing. Her breasts and butt were as firm as they’d been when I met her. She was only eighteen then. The rest of her was soft where she was supposed to be soft. I loved the way she felt, and I thought she was enjoying being close to me, too, until her body got stiff. Now it felt like I was hugging a tree. She reared back and looked up at me with her eyebrows furrowed. “Odell, you could have at least cleaned yourself off before you came over here.”

“What do you mean? I ain’t dirty.”

“I smell Joyce all over you. Even on your lips . . .”

I felt picked on and abused, and I let Betty Jean know that right away. “What do you expect? Joyce is my wife. I have to give her some pleasure, too.”

I could tell from her long, loud sigh that she felt frustrated and slighted by what I’d just said. “And you ain’t never going to let me forget that.” She frowned, pried my arms from around her, and stormed into the kitchen.

“Don’t you start,” I advised, stumbling along behind her. When we stopped in front of the stove, she snatched a long-handled spoon off the counter and started stirring the pot of turnip greens she was cooking. My marriage wasn’t what I wanted to conversate about, so I abruptly changed the subject. “Where the boys at?”

She didn’t turn around to face me. “They went down the road to play with them Martin kids. I told them to come home before dark.”