The only rule is that Dorothy and Ma come as a packaged deal; f*, marry or kill, doesn’t matter. Them Petrillos are inseparable.
The safe bet here seems like Blanche, right? I’m going with Rose.
It’s a late night. Rose and I finish Bringing Up Baby on AMC (she likes romantic comedies; I’m trying to get in her pants). She asks me if I’d like to go into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I tell her I’d rather go back to her room. “Oh,” she says, and smiles coyly.
She says she’s going to freshen up and… slip into something a little more comfortable. I get chub.
Suddenly she appears in the doorway wearing a nightgown that somehow reveals less than the jogging suit she changed out of.
The sex is okay. At one point, I accidentally roll on the remote for the Craftmatic Bed. The foot of the bed raises and messes up my rhythm. She takes a long time, and I’m kind of chafed by the end of it.
We spend the rest of the night spooning. As soon as she’s asleep, I roll out. Let a butcher butch, y’all.
So I go with Blanche for this one rather than the f*.
The first three months go well… a lot of trips to AC Moore filled with laughter and a lot of early dinners (like a quarter-to-five-early).
But many nights I want to sleep while Blanche wants to “go out.” My mind races as I lie awake, waiting for her to come home. Oh, Blanche, don’t take your love to town.
Then Miles Webster starts coming around again. He’s Rose’s friend, but I know he nailed my wife. A man can just sense these things.
One night, in the darkness of our room, I blurt out: “Who’s a better lay, me or Miles?” She groans and says Big Daddy was right: never marry a Yankee. That means Miles is.
The next few months are rocky. Every once in a while it seems like things are getting better, but my insecurities haunt me and I end up saying something snide about my wife, the village bicycle.
The divorce is uneventful. I didn’t bring anything into the relationship. At one point I tried to make an argument for the wicker furniture in the living room, but I never got very far.
Damn it, there I go thinking with my small head again, and drafting poorly.
I should’ve took Rose. Instead I gotta take out two of them. One of them is practically a man.
I hang out in the kitchen with the lights off. Rose is in St. Olaf at a cow-themed wedding. Blanche is out, probably with Miles. Hours pass until I finally hear Dorothy talking to Ma. Their voices become more audible as they get closer. And then the kitchen door swings wide.
“Oh my God,” Dorothy exclaims.
We stare at one another before I lunge at her. Despite her old age and sex, I struggle to wrestle her to the floor. As we grapple, I realize that I am losing my footing. She’s winning this thing. I’m about to go to plan b when all of a sudden… BANG. Sophia rocks me upside the head with a frying pan. Rock a bye, baby. I’m out cold.
I’m on an ambulance stretcher outside the house. Neighbors gather in the wee hours of the night to see what’s going on. My eyes first focus on Dorothy, still visibly shaken and hugging her ex-husband, Stan Zbornak. Sophia is next to her, quietly whispering, “it’s okay, pussycat.”
Paramedics start asking me questions. Do you know where you are? That sort of thing.
As they lift me into the back of the ambulance, I see a couple walking towards the scene. Clutching hands, they jog as fast two old people can.
It’s Blanche and Miles. She gasps when she recognizes me.
With two fingers, I point to my eyes before pointing back at her.
I’m watching you, Blanche. I’m watching you like a hawk.