The other party-goers applauded wildly.
"Change her clothes!" someone yelled. Knowing a good cue when I heard one, I whipped my cape around her quickly, muttering a wish under my breath.
When the cape finished circling her, Mrs. Bockman looked down and saw she now had a sarong, white with pink and red blossoms printed on it, wrapped around her waist. Her shoes had become red sandals, and she was wearing the tiniest of string bikini tops over her pert little ebony breasts. She instinctively tried to cover herself with her arms, and then squealed.
At that moment, Brad's father entered the room. I don't know if he'd just gotten home or had been in another room. But, as soon as Mrs. Bockman saw him, she ran to him and threw her arms around him.
"George, mon," she began to say. "Look what dot boy do to -- my voice! He change my voice, too. I sound Jamaican!"
"Excuse me, young lady," said Mr. Bockman, removing the black girl's arms from around him. "I'm flattered by your attention, but I don't want my wife to see you with your arms around me."
"But, George, I AM your wife. Dot boy, dot Jeff or Jim or whoever he is -- he turn me to colored bitch!"
I was tempted to make the bitch literal, but I wanted to see what Mr. Bockman did next.