Page 124 - The Geography of Women

110 Jack Fritscher

like a elephant come to bag her Great White Hunter, an
brushin her hands at her hair an clothes, out stepped Mizz
Lulabelle.
“Whyn’t you,” I said to her, “just hold a flashlight
pointin up under your chins an scare us all to death?”
“C’mere, Lulie,” Wilmer Fox said.
“Wilmer, you got no shame,” I said. “Her a married
woman an you a married man.”
“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,”
he said.
“Come on, Wilmer,” Mizz Lulabelle said. “She’s so
borin an I’m dyin for a smoke an a Coke.”
“Wait,” I said.
“Whatever for?” Mizz Lulabelle asked.
“What about Mister Henry?” I said.
“What about him?”
“He’s your husband. He’s the father a your children.”
“He’s a jerk. Look at him. Over there moonin all over
Rosie in the swing, an her makin time with him as fast as
she can. She’s gonna win the title as the next town pump.”
“An you,” I said, “can give her your tiara.”
“Come on, Wilmer.” She grabbed his arm in a real
greedy dohseedoh hold.
“But what about your children,” I said. “What about
John an James.”
“You can have em,” she said. “You practically raised the
little bastards anyway. You’re so good at bein a house wife,
you’d make somebody a good husband!” She laughed up
an down the scale bein very pleased with herself havin not
a worry in the world with Wilmer Fox at last in a vise grip
on her arm, happy as if they were all future an no past.
I wanted to ask her if she had told Wilmer the truth
about the dead red-head baby, but I thought better a it.

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