All a Man Needs

All a Man Needs

They tell you all a man needs is the love of a good woman.

A good woman.

Ella’s mother was a good woman. Hell, she was an exemplary, saintly woman. One of those women destined to die from a disease she caught nursing some other poor slob. One of those women who expend so much energy her waist would never thicken. One of those women, placid and calm and soothing, with all of the time in the world to give to . . . everyone.

Perhaps what a good woman needs is the love of a good man.

When she died, they all shivered and shook their heads. Such a tragedy! How could such an awful, unexpected fate happen to one so good? Resolute and grim, they delivered their casseroles and condolences.

Poor little Ella wailed and cried. She seemed so lost and alone. I had no comfort to give her.

When I married my second wife, they all turned from me in anger. How could a man so blessed in his first choice choose such a woman! They questioned if I had known the measure of my wife’s worth.

I knew her worth. I knew the weight of her impression upon the world; I knew her value to me as a wife. I am just a man: a selfish man with selfish needs. A selfish man who wants his wife by his side. A selfish man who wants a woman to want nothing more than to be in his arms.

Little Ella would come to our bed every night; dividing me from my new wife. Ella’s small body trembled. Her hand clutched at my chest hairs. I began to bolt the door. When she cried to me, I told her to go to bed. Eventually I refused to answer. Forced to become more independent, Ella went nearly daily to the cliff where her mother fell. She visited her grave every day. When she began to talk of seeing her mother’s ghost, I shrank from her in fear. I listened for the accusation: “You killed my mother.” Instead Ella talked only of birds and trees, golden light and her mother’s warm spirit. I told myself it was harmless; no ghost had visited her. A ghost would come seeking justice. I convinced myself it was only a story she told to find comfort. All the same, I let my wife and her daughters isolate and ostracize Ella. Truthfully I had no taste for her company either.

Now they talk of how my wife escaped punishment for how she treated poor “Cinder-Ella;” they hem and haw about how the scales of justice need to be balanced. Her daughters have shriveled into themselves; become frail creatures who walk lightly as if afraid of springing a trap. It is no longer just love that draws my wife nightly to my arms. She uses me as a shield.

Ella will someday be the Queen. My daughter has married a prince. A good prince. The very model of the perfect prince; daily rescuing maidens; fighting ogres; righting wrongs.

They beam and smile. Such a handsome, lucky couple!

But I watch. Nature’s frost has not yet fallen on a day of their marriage, yet Ella spends much of her time alone. When they talk of his virtues and how lucky she is, she remains still and quiet. And I wonder whose daughter Ella really is: mine or her mother’s?

Even a Prince can have an untimely accident.