"Besides," she riles as she breezes past his blank face en route to fluff one well-fluffed pillow: "I’m fed-up of your incessant snoring. Like, like, like some tired bulldozer."

"Woman!"

"Taboo!" She retaliates. "And-and. And! Do you really want me to believe that Moses landed on earth express delivery from heaven?"

"What?"

"Yes? Tell me about that. Look at me, Reverend."

"Woman, what is your problem?"

"Am I Woman, Reverend? Am I? Yes? Tell me."

‘Woman’ had been her title full five years. She had long graduated from ‘Beryl’ to ‘My Sweet Beryl’. During the honeymoon years she had earned the hailed title of ‘Lady of my life’. Along love’s in-between years she had achieved various other dubious honors: Honey Bunch, Pookee, Better Half, Mrs. Jones, Thorn-in-the-flesh. Finally, she reached that crowning glory – Woman! And she wore that well-earned crown with accustomed grace. But not on this vexed day. Not… not… not on this vexed day! This day she vexed him, assailing him from every side, like a woman, like a woman’s woman, like an indignant woman's woman!

"What do you want your woman to think?" She posits as she rips one puffed pillow from the over dressed bed and tosses it into his face. "Yes? What do you want your woman to think? That holy children are made from play dough? Yes? Mixed with yeast, shoved up the stomach, heated for nine months, then phoofed out into this world like turkey laying eggs? Is that what you want this woman…"

"This is preposterous." Basil interjects in his commanding, ecclesiastical, Caribbean tone, a tone which has long since lost it’s romantic unction.

"Do you want me to think immaculate conception, Reverend? Yes? Abracadabra! Iasiah shazammed into being from behind some burning bush. Just like that! All his private parts in tact. Holy and all. Of no use further! Tell me, Taboo. Tell me. Is sex is sinful business? Yes? Corruption to the soul? The devil’s candy? Huh?"

"In the name of God…"

Before she thwarts him, that word ‘God’ dangles with the weight of a preacher’s gavel, sure evidence of the Reverend’s confusion between the pleasures of bed and the powers of pulpit. With all her desire to hear him speak, she refuses to let him into her brawl.

"Is good sex taboo to holy people? Just tell me."

Her question was so loud, the gardener’s head jerked violently such that he snipped a bunch of beautiful buds as he froze like a stiff-necked statue.

"Woman! That's enough!"

"Preacher! Woman is not my name. And, is it holier to enjoy sleep than sex? And if, God forbid, sex must be done, then do it quickly. Boom-bam-blam! The deed is done! Men have cigarettes. Preachers sleep."

"Mrs. Jones!"

The phone begins to ring again.

"Yes, Reverend Jones! Am I supposed to simply shut up and be satisfied with this boring bed? Boring. Boring. Boring bed. Just be grateful. Yes? Sleep like some sweet angel while you snore like a tired bulldozer. Tell me." She jabs him with increasing hardness.

"Woman, I am a man of God. I will not..."

She blocks his holy attack, defense, whatever, ignoring demands for accustomed respect; a respect she customarily granted him with genuflecting ease. She bars him from invading her brawl. She bullies him, ignoring the irritating phone which Basil dares not touch for fear in unaccustomed rage she'd bash his head.

"If sleep is that much holier than sex, why do you even bother to wake up? Ever!" A few more flowery pillows fly. Candle flames turn to smoke. "And you, especially, man-of-god, since being active in bed is such a bore, such a sin, sleep should be your heaven!"

"Don’t be ridiculous, woman. I’m not that bad in bed."

"Oh yea! I suffer for your goodness. Suffer. Why should I…?" She grabs the ringing phone off its hook and slams it back on again.

"Woman, what's that? You’re being vindictive. Unbearably vindictive! How many more times are you going to make this bed? You have made it umpteen times. And all this violence…"

"Vindictive! Vindictive? Telling you, ‘this bed knows less bounce than a two-hundred-pound stone-head dropped on a sand dune’ would be vindictive. Telling you, Preacher, ‘you have no more rhythm than a picket fence’ would be vindictive. Letting you know that the only excitement this bedroom knows comes from the stutter in your snores is not being vindictive, it is the raw truth. Boring, boring, boring reality. You used to be good. Used to be! Look at you now. A strong, healthy, virile looking man! What waste! I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep, Preacher. I count sheep."

"What exactly is your problem? Why, out of the blue, after all these years, suddenly, I am disturbing your sleep?"

He retrieves one over-puffed pillow, which had landed on the Tiffany lamp.

"After all these years! My God, after all these years! Sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping. That's all we do. Give me that pillow." She grabbed it. "I am not complaining about you disturbing my sleep. Preacher!" She slapped the pillow unto the bed. "I am complaining about you NOT disturbing me. ME! When last did I need to wash and press these sheets? Huh? They are as smooth as a baby’s butt. I knew it was a mistake letting you buy this bed from Serta’s Perfect Sleepers when I could have gotten a bargain from David’s Ooh-a-aah Giant Mattress Firm. Yes? This bed has nothing to show for the money. Nothing. No oomph. No squeak. No sweetness. No bounce. Perfect sleep."

"For goodness sake, woman. Don’t exaggerate. We do have a daughter."

"Which only proves God performs miracles. When will Moses’ rod strike again?"

"I can’t believe…you said you only wanted one child!"

"My God, Reverend! Is that all sex is for?"

"Woman, what has come over you? Whatever do you think we were doing last Thursday? And every Thursday for the last year for that matter?"

"What?" Her crop of red hair swishes around her head as she turns to stare him down for the callousness, the sheer matter-of-factness with which he poses his question. "What? Pray tell me what we do every Thursday night. Could you give me a hint? Just a little tiny hint?" She used the tip of her index finger and thumb to demonstrate the size of her request.

"Don’t be ridiculous. We have sex. Right here in this very oomph-less bed."

"Is that what you call that little fuss? A wriggle, a roll, and poof! You call that sex? These sheets weren’t even wrinkled." Beryl tossed another pillow.

"What do you expect? Volcanoes?"

"That would be a good start. But let me think a second… what about some good reason for being awake? Yes? Like a glint in my eyes and a silly smile on my face. Yes? Some good reason to wash these damned sheets. Or to buy new sheets! Not some quickie sneeze. Bingo-bango-it’s-done! Some reason to tell my daughter it is damn worth it to be a woman married to a preacher! For God’s sake, she is twelve and I have no proof of its worth!"

"Woman, I can’t believe you are speaking to me like this. What has gotten into you?" The unthinkable slips from his lips. "Did Doctor Singh poke you too hard, or something?"

"Good God! Take that back. I said take that back."

"What is it you want, Bathsheba? Perversion and promiscuity?"

Oops! Two mis-speaks in a row! This ballsy new take-the-bull-by-the-horn approach edges the Reverend right out of his zone.

"Perversion? Promiscuity? Did I hear promiscuity? That limp little thing is not capable of such a thrill so don’t flatter yourself, Pigly-wigly."

"Pigly-wi… Woman!" Basil's eyes spring wide black in solid white. For one, my thing is not little. For two, who is this woman who looks like my wife but sounds like a bitch? And for three, I know I'm good in bed. I know I'm good. "My God, woman! What in the name of heavens has gotten…"

"Apologize to me, Reverend. Get on your knees and apologize."

"Don’t be ridiculous, woman. You’re being ridiculous. And very irreverent."

Beryl flings her eyes to the vaulted ceiling. "Lord, he is your creation! Lord. Explain this to me, please." Beryl plucks her eyes from the vaulted ceiling. "Reverend, I think you should read the scriptures you preach about. Read them right. Perhaps 1Corinthians 7:3-5 will give you a hint. Read, read, read; read them right." She grabbed the bible from the chest of drawers and shoved it into Basil’s chest. "Read Proverbs 5:18,19. God does have a way of explaining these things in biblical terms. Read it. If you can’t understand God’s explanation, Reverend, tell me you can’t and I will gladly teach Pigly-wigly some useful perversion and promiscuity. At least it might get your ignition started. You-you-you, I tell you, you-you never know how good a thing you have until you lose it. Huh? Lose all of it! For good! You should know that, Reverend. Don’t you? You should know that. You are the preacher of the Word. Don't we all have a limited number of heart beats?"

"Woman!"

He takes the bible from her as if it were a thing he was saving from desecration.

"Read the scriptures, Reverend. Read it right! And just in case you develop an appetite for this subject matter I have plenty more scriptures for your inspiration. It's-it's… Reverend!"

She looks upon his staunch tall blackness as he walks away in disgust.

And she yearns.

And for the pain of her desire, a sudden hatred, which one full mug of his blood could never quench, overtakes her. She grunts in German, fearing complicity in his callous cool. Then she falls upon the bewitched bed, her face sunken in her hands. And she weeps.

"God, please! Please! What did I do? What did I do? What did I do wrong?"

Seeking Solomon's Secrets