I looked at them again. Mavis was smiling; her hands were folded comfortably on her swollen stomach, and Edith’s eyes were snapping bright brown. They were delighted. So I made them a little speech.
“I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “But I believe Lyman here is in need of a drink. So I’m going to buy him one, system or no system, whatever the hell it is. And I’m going to drink one myself. Now do either of you ladies object to that?”
“I believe Sandy is getting mad too,” Edith said.
“No, he’s not. He never gets mad. Do you, sweetheart?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I just get thirsty.”
“But I guess we’ve had our fun,” Mavis said. “What do you think, Edith?”
“I think so,” she said. “And let us pay for it. We’ve got all the money there is.”
That set them off again. They were giggling like teenagers and digging in their purses to stuff my hands with bills. I took the money and bought Lyman the beer he wanted, the beer he in fact needed bad now, the beer he was even beginning to get a little mad about not having sooner. I brought it back from the counter in paper cups. I still didn’t understand it, but it seems they had made side bets with one another during the quarter-horse races. Edith and my wife bet each of the six races against Lyman, betting their system against what he knew was good sense. I don’t claim to understand that either—perhaps no man could—but their system had something to do with how the color the jockey was wearing complemented the name of the horse the jockey was riding. They gave this as an example: a horse named Cajun Scoot was ridden by a jockey wearing chocolate and peach. That made it a sure winner. It was like ice cream. I didn’t see it. But anyway, five of the six horses the women bet on came in ahead of Lyman’s horses, and as a result they had won all the pocket money Lyman was carrying. To clinch the matter, they resolved to spend all their winnings—all of Lyman’s money—spend it all right there under his nose before they went home that evening. They started by buying that paper cup of beer Lyman wanted but which they weren’t going to allow until he agreed it was a good system. You can’t tell me women don’t have a complicated sense of fair play.
Their resolution to spend all his money, though, meant we weren’t going home yet. I would have to do chores in full dark, and Mavis wouldn’t have much opportunity to put her feet up. Before we could drive home, we had to do the carnival: throw darts for stuffed monkeys, lick the cotton candy off our fingers, play bingo, toss nickels, drink more beer, ride the Ferris wheel. They got a lot of mileage out of his money. I remember the Ferris wheel best.