As for my husband, she said, he’s just that. My husband. I want that to be perfectly clear. Till death do us part. It’s final. Yes, ma’am, I said again, forgetting. They used to have dolls, for little girls, that would talk if you pulled a string at the back; I thought I was sounding like that, voice of a monotone, voice of a doll. She probably longed to slap my face. They can hit us, there’s Scriptural precedent. But not with any implement. Only with their hands.
