Cooked Goose

sweetie pie. How’s your tummy?” Savannah said as she tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and reached into the refrigerator for the milk. Even if the bath and candles were a write-off, the hot chocolate and Bailey’s were still within arm’s reach.
    “My tummy is hu-u-u-ge!” The plaintive admission was punctuated with a long, fluid sniff. “And so’s my butt. I’m the size of a barn door and gettin’ bigger every day. I hate being pregnant!”
    “Don’t worry, honey. Your butt was big before you got pregnant and—”
    No sooner had the words left her mouth than Savannah wanted to kick her own ample posterior from there to Sunday. But she had never received any awards for tactfulness, and she was even less diplomatic after a hard day on the job.
    Fresh wailing erupted on the other end, and Savannah felt as useful as a boll weevil in a cotton patch.
    “I didn’t mean that the way it came out, sugar,” she said. “I just meant that we Reid gals are known for being deliciously curvaceous and voluptuous... whether we’re with child or not.
    “Well, Butch says I’m a heifer and if I don’t lose all this weight as soon as the baby’s born, he’s gonna divorce me.”
    I’d be plum delighted to put a 9mm slug between his beady little eyes and save you the paperwork, Savannah thought. But this time she censored her words before they rolled off her tongue. One major faux pas per evening was enough.
    “I’m sure he didn’t mean a word of it,” she said. “You know how men are...“
    “Rude, selfish bastards who only care about themselves, who only worry about whether they’re gonna run out of beer, and who’s gonna win the World Series.”
    “Precisely.”
    Another pathetic sniff. “Do you think they’re all that way, or just Butch?”
    Savannah thought of her bougainvillea that needed chopping, and the proposed escalator construction in her front yard. “There has to be a good one, or two.”
    “Do you really think so?”
    “It’s hard to imagine, but there’s a lot of them around. I mean, what are the odds they’d all be rotten?”
    “So, why didn’t I marry a nice one?”
    Savannah sighed as she poured the milk into a glass measuring cup and stuck it into the microwave. “Because you were in love with Butch.” She set the timer and punched the Start button. “You said he had a cute butt and drove his own car. Those were his two major attributes, as I remember you explaining them to me on your wedding day.”
    “Boy, I was sure dumb then.”
    “You were young, sweetie, that’s all. You—”
    “Yeah. I shoulda held out for Bobby Taylor. He had a new truck and great shoulders, too.”
    Savannah’s fatigue gauge slid a few notches closer to exhaustion. “Vidalia, I hope you’re feeling better now, because I’ve had a rough day and I really need to just kick back and—”
    “Oh, I see. You don’t have time for me either. You’re so busy with your career and all that more exciting stuff. But that’s okay; I understand. Don’t you worry about me. No, sirree, Bob. I’ll be all right... I always am...”
    A vision materialized before Savannah’s eyes: The blessed Saint Vidalia, tied to a stake as flames licked the hem of her robe, eyes lifted heavenward.
    It made her want to barf.
    As her sister sniffled on the Georgia end, Savannah removed the heated milk from the microwave and slammed the door closed. Mentally, she counted to five, collecting the fragments of her patience before replying. “I’m sure Butch didn’t mean to hurt you, Vidalia,” she said as she poured the milk into her favorite Old Country Roses teacup and added a generous scoop of cocoa mix. “He’s the father of your children and a pretty decent dad. Besides, you married him for better and for worse.”
    “He’s a slob.”
    “He doesn’t beat you.”
    “And he snores.”
    “He brings home a weekly paycheck... most of the time.“
    “I have to make him get a haircut and—”
    “And he doesn’t fool around on you. Stop bitching, kiddo. You’ve got it better than most. Kiss and make up.”
    Louder sniffles. “We can’t. We haven’t had sex for ages, what with my backaches and all.”
    “Oh, well, no wonder the old boy’s cranky,” she muttered, pulling an oversized bottle of Bailey’s from the liquor cabinet. “Ask him to take the twins to McDonalds for dinner, to vacuum the house, take out the garbage and give you a back massage in exchange for a blow job.”
    The