Cry Snooker — A Closer Reading

George wrapped a towel around his rump and came into the living room. Rosy sat curled up reading a magazine.

"Do me a favor, Rosy," George said. "Put caps on bottles so your perfume won't evaporate. I paid twelve bucks for that Chanel."

Rosy looked up at him, stretching her neck a little.

"And next time close the damn Bendix so I won't have to swim through the basement to shut it off."

"I told you, the catch wouldn't catch."

"The catch would catch all right if you didn't leave Timmy's diaper hanging out."

"That's not fair," Rosy said. "Blaming little Timmy."

His hands tried to crush an invisible bowling ball. "Just a little ... presence of mind, Rosy. Okay?"

"You dropped your towel," Rosy said, looking away.

George ran into the bedroom and came back in his pajamas. "For God's sake, honey, _try_ to remember what you're doing when you're doing it. Like with the power mower."

"I suppose _that_ was my fault?"

"Don't you know enough to cut the engine when you're done?"

"I _wasn't_ done. I had to answer the phone, didn't I?"

George threw up his hands. "So all right. So you left it running and it went right through Charlie's fence."

"Sometimes," Rosy said, putting down the magazine, "you exasperate me, George. I _told_ you, I put it in neutral or whatever it is."

"You put it in high and let it run through Charlie's fence."

Rosy looked at him as at a bad tomato. "Why," she said, "do I get blamed every time something mechanical goes wrong?"

But they kissed and made up because it was the night before their third wedding anniversary.

At the breakfast table next morning George gave her the diamond cocktail ring she'd drooled over. Rosy gave him the self-winding time piece he'd slobbered over in Cellini's window. Dear girl, had the courage to get it for nothing down and thirty-six months to pay.

"Don't gulp your food," Rosy said. "It's Charlie's turn to drive you."

In his high chair, Timmy scooped up handfuls of oatmeal and heaved them over the port side.

When Charlie came to the door he had a gift-wrapped box for them. It looked heavy. He gave it to Rosy and slipped on one of Timmy's oatmeal bombs and flew headlong into the couch.

"Happy wedding anniversary, you two," Charlie said, picking himself up. "When are you going to fix my fence?"

Rosy weighed the box in her arms. "Charlie, that's real sweet of you and Beth. Let's open it now, George."

"We're late," Charlie said. He wiped his shoe on the rug. "Come on, pal."

They took the freeway out of Sunnydale. Downtown the clock on the Trojan Life & Casualty building gave them four minutes to get there.

"What was in that box you brought?" George asked.

"Supposed to build up terrific pressure," Charlie said. "Five thousand pounds per square inch."

George stared before him as they drove into the Park-O-Port.

He had not a moment free till his coffee break at ten. Mr. Perkins wanted the Lawndale policies cleared right away and Mr. Zungenspiel had all the juniors in for a briefing on exorbitant rates. When he got back to his desk Maude Doody waited to interview him about his wedding anniversary for her "Sweetness and Light" column in _Keep Smiling_, the company weekly.

"I hope you're always polite to Rosy," Meddlin' Maude said. "I can't stand rude men. How old is Timmy now?"

"He'll be three in September."

Maude made a quick mental calculation. She looked doubtful. "And could you tell us what you gave Rosy for her wedding anniversary?"

"A pressure cooker," George said, forgetting everything else.

"Is that all? What kind of pressure cooker, George?"

"Five thousand pounds per square inch."

"I mean the _brand_," Maude said, stabbing the air with her sharp pencil. "Don't you think the folks would like to know the brand?"

"Uh, I guess the best."

"They're all best," Maude said. "Can't you remember the brand?"

Meddlin' Maude rose to her feet. She looked down at him severely. "George, you're slipping," she said and marched off to the _Keep Smiling_ office.

George grabbed the telephone. Five thousand pounds per square inch, he thought. Whammo!

The phone rang seven times. Then he dialed Charlie's house, but Beth did not answer either. Rosy and Beth spent hours at the supermart. It was the social center of Sunnydale where the gals could gossip a little and compare brands.

George took the elevator up to the company cafeteria. On the fifth floor Mr. Perkins stepped in.

"Just got your Lawndale policies," Mr. Perkins said. "Fast work, son. Keep it up."

"Thank you, sir. I had an inquiry this morning, sir. About domestic accidents."

"Shoot the problem, son."