Free Plantation by Dorothea Benton Frank

behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning into his back with the side of my face.
    “You smell so good, sweetheart,” I said, “tell me what it is and I’ll buy you a barrel of it!”
    Silence.
    “I love you, Richard,” I said, my heart sinking a little, feeling he was troubled, “what’s wrong?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “May I just tell you straight out?”
    “Of course! Do you want to sit on the sofa?”
    “Sure,” he said, crossing the room and turning on a reading lamp. “Come sit by me.”

    P l a n t a t i o n
    5 3
    I sat on the end cushion and said nothing, but looked at him, trying to read his thoughts. I reached out to take his hand in mine and he covered mine with his other.
    “Caroline,” he said, arching his eyebrow, “there are things about marriage that I love. I love having a partner, I love coming home and knowing that someone who loves me is waiting, someone who wants to share my life.”
    “That’s me! I love you forever, Richard. You know that.”
    “Yes, darling, and I love you forever as well. But there are other issues involved in marriage which, to me, seem pedestrian and unrealistic.”
    “Such as?” I knew I was not going to like what I was about to hear.
    “Well, this business of the wife obeying the husband. It’s arcane, don’t you think?”
    “I don’t know. I mean, if you and I had a disagreement over something like, I don’t know, health care? And you liked one policy and I liked another, I wouldn’t go to the mats over it. I’d do what you thought was best.”
    “You would?” he said, and took a long drink. His face was skeptical. “You surprise me! I thought you were, I don’t know, more modern.”
    “I am modern but yes, I think I would support your decision.
    Richard, I know I married a brilliant man. I have great regard for your intellect and I trust your judgment.”
    “Humph,” he said, getting up and walking toward the kitchen.
    I followed him. He opened the freezer and dropped some ice cubes in the crystal tumbler, then poured himself another liberal dose of Dewar’s.
    “What’s this really about, Richard? Money? You know I intend to work. I quit my job at the bank because it was boring. I already have three clients and I’ve only been in business for a month.”
    “Well, that’s good because I believe every woman should have 5 4
    D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k her own money. You shouldn’t have to ask me for everything you ever want for the rest of your life.”
    “I agree with that. So, Richard”—I took the drink from his hand and put it down on the counter—“what’s this really about?
    It’s not about respect or money. What can it be? Fidelity?”
    “Ah!” he said, taking the glass back and taking a long drink,
    “that old nasty bit of ancient lore! Don’t you agree that it’s rather had its day?”
    “No,” I said, “do you?”
    “Oh, come now, Caroline,” he said, walking back to the living room. He kicked off his loafers and untied his bow tie. One by one, he dropped his cuff links and studs into the small Steuben bowl on our glass coffee table. With every clink against the heavy crystal I felt the growing weight of stones on my chest. He put his feet up on the coffee table and looked up at me, smiling. “You can’t be serious?”
    I stood before him in my wedding dress and bare feet, wondering if I was making too much of this. “Before I remind you that this is a helluva conversation to be having on our wedding night, may I just assure you that I am very serious about fidelity.”
    “Darling,” he said, lifting his chin to me, “please don’t use vulgar language. It demeans you. But you’re right, perhaps this isn’t the best moment to bring this up.”
    “Sorry to offend you, Richard, but it’s true. And this is the perfect moment, because once you harvest the corn it’s time to make grits. Or polenta. So let’s have it out right now.”
    “Caroline,” he said, and reached