Stumpy Fowler sat on the edge of the bed watching Mae Beth brush out her hair.  She was one of the few women her age who kept her hair long and put it up every day.  Stumpy reflected that for a woman in her late thirties Mae Beth had certainly kept her looks and her shape.  The shorty pajamas she was wearing showed most of her shape, and he wondered if she was wearing them for a reason.  The thought crossed his mind that maybe she thought tonight would be a better night than Saturday night for making love.  

     “Arthur, what would happen if we had a Negra choir in the Singing Convention?”  She said it just like it was a normal, everyday question.  In fact, her tone was so normal, Stumpy thought that he had misunderstood her.

     “Huh, what do you mean?”

     “I mean, why can’t Bessie and her choir compete in the Singing Convention.”

     This time Stumpy understood her.  He quit watching her brush her hair and focused intently on her face.

     Stump knew to take any conversation that included Bessie Williams seriously.  Bessie was Mrs. Fowler’s help and had been almost since they got married.  She cleaned the house, cooked most of the meals, and participated in raising Li’l.  As much as anything, she was somebody Mae Beth leaned on; so anything concerning Bessie was not to be ignored. 

     “What is it we’re talking about here?” he asked cautiously.  He remembered that at least once in their twenty years of marriage a quiet conversation with Mae Beth had ended up with him sleeping on the sofa for nearly two weeks.

     “Just that.  Why is it we don’t have any negra choirs in the singing convention?”

     “Well, it’s the same reason we don’t have any negra trios or quartets or solos or duets.  We just don’t have any.”

     Mae Beth nodded like she understood the logic of Stumpy’s answer, then she said, “And why’s that.”

     “Mae Beth, you know that we have never had any negra choirs or any other negras at the Singing Convention.  That’s just the way it is.  Their music is different from ours.  They probably don’t want to be in the Singing Convention anyway.”

     “Yes, they do.  And I think they should.”

     By now, Stumpy had gotten in bed and was lying on his side with his back to Mae Beth, hoping to discourage any more conversation.  She came over to the bed, sat down beside him, and ran her fingernails down his arm, very lightly.  Stumpy looked up at her and saw that she was smiling.  Maybe, he thought, that’s the end of that.

     He reached over and patted Mae Beth’s leg and her stroking on his arm became more insistent.  His hand went slid up her leg, and she turned slightly toward him, rubbing her palm down his chest, pulling at the hairs.  Stumpy turned over on his back and reached up to pull her down.

     Mae Beth smiled and stood up.  “I think I’m going to go read a while,” she said.  She turned and walked to the door.  “You know, I still don’t quite understand why we don’t have any negra choirs in the Singing Convention.”  And she went downstairs.

     Stumpy lay on the bed, knowing that tonight -- and probably Saturday night -- were not good nights for making love.