Drowning Barbie by Frederick Ramsay

hope lighting strikes—metaphorically speaking.”
    â€œYou are hoping someone or something else solves this for us?”
    â€œIn a word, yes.”
    â€œThat is a trait found exclusively on the Y chromosome, I believe. Doing nothing only puts off the inevitable. Our relationship, as jolly as we seem to think it is, has produced major heartburn among the faculty, your deputies, and our respective parents. Doing nothing will only promote more of the same and perhaps irrational behavior by the people we need in order to maintain our professional positions.”
    â€œWow! All that? Who knew? In the first place, you know what I think about my professional position, as you call it. I have been elected sheriff of the town twice, which is one more time than I had planned for. So, if the job goes away, it will be a mercy. You, on the other hand, can pick just about any academic post you want. If it’s in the northeast or the People’s Republic of California, our relationship would be celebrated as an exercise in diversity and broad-mindedness. Political correctness would elevate us to star status. So, no big deal.”
    â€œDon’t be a horse’s gazunka, Schwartz. You know what I mean. We are here, will be for the near future, and at the moment I have no desire to move north, east, or in any direction, and for all your fake disdain for your job, you love it and you know you do. So, get the wine and let’s get serious.”
    Ike uncorked a bottle of Merlot with an odd year, which he’d been assured by the bald guy at the liquor store was a good thing. Ike did not know or wish to learn the niceties of wine appreciation. Red was red, white was white, and pink was pink. What more did anyone need to know about wine?
    Ruth tasted the new batch and nodded. “Better. Plans?”
    â€œHow about this? You know the mayor…”
    â€œOf course I know the mayor. Everybody knows the Town Dope. Why?”
    â€œWe’ll ask him to do the honors.”
    â€œYou want “the Mayor from the Dark Lagoon” to perform our wedding? Ike, he hates your guts.”
    â€œHe does and that’s the best part. He hates me, but he owes me for saving his cookies in the last election, remember? So, he’ll be glad to even things up a bit.” Ike grinned at the idea of putting the mayor front-and-center. “Oh, and let’s have your guy who teaches comparative religion…you know, the Presbyterian-pastor-turned professor to be the co—whatever you call them when they tag-team a wedding. Think of it. Town and gown together, a celebration of unity.”
    â€œI know you think you are being cute and funny, but you may have hit on something. Do you think the mayor would do it?”
    â€œWe have but to call and ask.”
    â€œYou think?” Ruth did not sound convinced.
    â€œNo, but on the other hand I really do not want to make a party list tonight.”
    â€œNo? No, you’re right. We need to think this through and neither of us is acting particularly sensible at the moment. Remember you’ve slept at your apartment for the last three nights and if you’re over the leg cramps you developed in your Buick, not to mention the endgame, shall we say, coming up less than what you expected—”
    â€œI have no complaints about the end game. You may end the game that way anytime you wish.”
    â€œBe happy to, but it is a bit one-sided. Anyway, with that thought in mind, I have a better idea where we might polish off this mediocre red. Different ending, however.”
    â€œI like the way you problem-solve.”

Chapter Thirteen
    Sunday dinner at Abe Schwartz’s farm was variously described as a heart attack-about-to-happen or the tryptophan two-step. Either way, the time that might have been devoted to discussing—or rather avoiding a discussion of—a forthcoming wedding, devolved into desultory murmurings and, in Abe’s case,