Women were in the kitchen, where God and men intended, baking. Their children were outside playing.
Being the only boy, James decided to question the girls about tools, assuming us dumb. I hollered: Hammer. Screwdriver. Nails. When Mr. Know It All picked up the shovel, I glared at him, quiet. He branded me stupid.
Smirking, he said, “I wonder if it would hurt to get hit on the head with this shovel.”
I obliged his curiosity, bonking him. Just a little.
Banished to the living room, I read a magazine article about Sophia Loren demanding a separate bedroom from her husband.