His wife had always spoiled him outrageously. No doubt of that. Take,
example, the matter of the pillows merely. Old man Minick slept high. That is, he thought he slept high. He liked two plump pillows
his side of the great, wide, old-fashioned cherry bed. He would sink
them with a vast grunting and sighing and puffing expressive of nerves and muscles relaxed and gratified. But
the morning there was always one pillow
the floor. He had thrown it there. Always,
the morning, there it lay, its plump white cheek turned reproachfully
at him from the side of the bed. Ma Minick knew this, naturally, after forty years of the cherry bed. But she never begrudged him that extra pillow. Each morning, when she arose, she picked it
on her way to shut the window. Each morning the bed was made
with two pillows
his side of it, as usual.
An excerpt from "Gigolo" by Edna Ferber
