Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

When Billy saw how depressed I was about losing my job, he actually got off the sofa and opened a can of tortellini-o’s for our lunch. It was thoughtful things like that that made me love Billy so much and gave me the strength to battle Sally Sue over the years for his affection.

“Now tell me all about it, hon,” Billy said.

As I sobbed out the story of the three producers, Billy sat thoughtfully scratching his belly. He didn’t laugh or snort about them wanting us to go on TV like I thought he would. Even through my tears I could tell that Billy was planning something or “taking charge of his life” as the TV therapists put it. After I finished my story, right down to the un-Elvis-like curl of my boss’s lips, Billy burped, a sure sign that he was about to say something deep.

He handed me a Kleenex and said, “Hon, you just dry those tears. We want your eyes all nice and sparkly for those three TV shows.”

“Three?” I gasped.

“Why sure. There’s enough of you for all three. And me too.”

“But I thought you didn’t like those shows,” I said.

“Well, usually I don’t, hon, but that’s before I knew there’d be some monetary compensation.”

I loved it when Billy used big words. I got all tingly. When I recovered, I asked him how we could possibly be on three shows at once.

“Not at once, at staggered times. Heck, those shows use the same people all the time. I saw that dog-house guy on Ricardo the week after Zazu and on Maurice the week after Ricardo.”

Billy patted his belly contentedly and gave me a little pat on the thigh of my Lady Bountiful slacks. Sweet gestures like that made me love Billy so much. He never poked fun at my weight without poking fun at his too, although on him it looked cute.

“Now you just relax and finish clipping the hedges around the trailer while I put my mind to our problem. And don’t worry about paying bills. That money from SLEEZ paid off my bookie, all except five hundred dollars, and he’s willing to wait a couple of weeks for that. And the phone company and electric company’s been real understanding since I told them you’d been kidnapped by aliens and soon as you got back from Mars, you’d pay.”

Billy sure can put things in perspective. I was actually humming as I attacked the hedges, which had grown too high for me even to see the mobile home across from us. What with working two shifts at the convenience store and tending to the housework and laundry, I had really let the hedges go. But lunch with Billy had cured my guilt about the hedges and losing my job. As one of the TV therapists that Billy liked to quote said, “Don’t cry over spilt guilt. It’s better out than in. Were all victims.”

After fifteen minutes, I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and looked at the home across the way. It had been for sale but somebody had bought it and moved in. The home sported frilly new curtains and a flock of wooden sheep with curly wool grazing on the lawn. I couldn’t wait to tell Billy. I’d be the one with humor for a change.

“Hey, Billy, hon,” I’d say, “Little Bo Beep has moved in across the way.”

And Billy would say something funny like, “Well, I’ll be Little Jack Homer stuck in a corner,” or something clever like that.

But I didn’t have a chance to test out my new comedy routine. Billy came outside, squinted in the sunlight, and plopped down on a lawn chair from the exertion.

“Hey, Ruth Anne, hon,” he said, “look across the way. Little Sally Sue is waving howdy-do.”

I spun around and laid eyes on my enemy herself, Sally Sue Bilodeau. There she stood in the middle of those smiling sheep looking like she was feeding them silly pills. The sight of her waving amidst those grinning animals gave me a weak spell and I fell backwards onto the lap of Billy, who said, “Oosh,” as we tumbled to the ground. Luckily we weren’t hurt, but unluckily our collapse gave Sally Sue the excuse to scurry over and coo, “Are you hurt, Billy? Do you feel a great weight on your chest? I’ve had CPR training.”

The great weight on Billy’s chest rolled off and scrambled to her feet.

“I’ll count to three and you’d better be out of here, Sally Sue,” I snarled. “Your silly sheep need tending.”

Sally Sue dimpled prettily and brushed back a wisp of her long blond hair. She wears the same style she did in high school when she was voted “Most Likely to Dye Early.”

“Why, Ruth Anne,” she simpered, “I just thought I’d move close by so you wouldn’t have to walk so far to deliver Billy when I win him back. I’ve got a great idea. We’ve never played horseshoes for Billy and I’ve got a brand new set.”

When I waved the hedge clippers menacingly, Sally Sue covered her Rapunzel tresses with both hands.

“No more bets for Billy, Sally Sue. The bingo game was the grand finale.”

During this exchange Billy just grinned. Sometimes I believed that he enjoyed us bickering over him, but he always stepped in, or created an intervention as the TV therapists put it, before Sally Sue and I did each other harm.