Cry Snooker By ANDREW FETLER Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What a wife! Pretty, smart ... and when she cooked it was just out of this world! "Baby Doll," George called from the bathroom. There was no answer. 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."