Mean Woman Blues

into a right fine seven-year-old evangelist if Errol said so himself. Didn’t quit wetting the bed till he was nearly ten, but he could preach pretty good.
    But when he was twelve or thirteen, something like that, he got… how the hell did you describe it? He didn’t get religion; he got the opposite of religion. Refused to preach any more and started stuffing his face with everything he could find: hamburgers, milkshakes, french fries. Turned into a regular little butterball. Hell, that wouldn’t have been so bad, but his face broke out in zits the size of eyeballs. God, the kid was ugly. Hell, good thing he wouldn’t preach; nobody could stand to look at him. And ornery! Errol had to go back to the strap again.
    Little bastard. Years later, he’d betrayed his whole family in the perfidious manner of an enemy. He had lain with his brother’s wife and brought shame to the house of Jacomine.
    After that, not a one of them had any use for him. Errol wasn’t sure he’d recognize him if he passed him on the street. Why the hell should a dumb fuck like Isaac recognize
him
? Especially now that he’d changed his appearance, his accent even his height. He probably had nothing to fear from his lesser son. But he admitted to himself that there was a chance. This crazy thing had brought that home to him. There was a chance, and he’d overlooked it. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t had the little bastard killed.
    Karen was in his office, on her feet, beaming, squealing, waving her arms. She was wearing a short paisley skirt and a black T-shirt kind of thing with long sleeves. Her hair was up.
    “Ohhhhh, it’s Mr. Riiiiiight!” She leapt up and grabbed his face between her two hands and forcibly kissed him. He was in no mood to kiss back. God, she was irritating. “Sugar, that is gon’ put you over the top! That was the best best best thing I have ever seen in my entire life!”
    “Well, that hasn’t been very long, has it?”
    The joy drained out of her face. He liked that. He liked being able to put it there and take it away. It didn’t belong there now.
    She looked as if she’d gotten a war telegram— “regret-to-inform-you” kind of thing— and then compassion replaced the shock. She grabbed the back of his head, pulling his face close to hers. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t feel insecure. People loved it. They loved that poor girl, Terri, and they just hated the big bad bank. And they think Mr. Right is their knight in shining armor, just like I do.” She actually rubbed her nose against his. He was revolted. Before he thought he shoved a hand in her stomach and pushed her.
    “Get the hell away from me, whore!”
    She landed in a chair, breathing hard, some of her hair coming out of its tight twist. This time she registered only amazement. “What did you call me?” She pushed at the errant strand.
    Pushing her had felt good. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up, drew her close. “Whore,” he whispered. “You look like a whore in that outfit.”
    He brought his mouth down on hers like a weapon. She shook him off. “What’s wrong with you?”
    He answered her in a loud whisper, more or less a hiss, partly designed to keep anyone outside from hearing. But it unnerved people even more than yelling. “You’re my wife, bitch. Act like it!” He pulled her back toward him.
    She twisted sideways and tried to pull away, but he still had a firm hold on her wrist. He reeled her back in, and now she shoved him with her free hand. That infuriated him. He backhanded her across the face, and before she could recover, he slung her by the arm he held and let go. She sailed across the room like a scarecrow, coming to rest only when she smacked the opposite wall, losing her balance and sliding down it.
    Suddenly alarmed, he knelt beside her, “Darling. Karen, are you all right?”
    There was a tiny, almost inaudible knock, and the door opened. Tracie said, “Oh, God. What happened? Is there anything I can do?”
    He held Karen so tightly around the wrist that she had to take his meaning. “Mrs. Wright… tripped. She’s fine, aren’t you, darling?”
    Dutifully, as he had known she would, Karen smiled up at the producer. “New shoes,” she said. “David calls them Jezebel pumps.”
    “Ever the gentleman. That’s not what most people call them.” Tracie left and closed the door behind her.
    As soon as it clicked, he went into full-tilt apology. “Omigod, Karen, I don’t know what happened