"Wilson, honey, will you please put that stuff away? But not the frozen meat... leave that out so we can have it for dinner."
"OK," came a voice from the kitchen. "Can I make some popcorn?"
"You can if you bring me some. I have to sit down though. I'm beat."
Demarco went to the recliner in the den, his fingers lightly tracing furniture pieces along the way... more from routine than anything. His strength was returning daily and, though he still carried the cane, it too was more from habit—an insurance policy perhaps, less for support and more for defense... just in case he came across any former first lady lookalikes.
"There's a message on the phone."
"I'll get it later," Demarco said, collapsing into the leather chair.
Wilson was moving about in the kitchen... a cabinet closed, a drawer opened, cellophane crinkled... followed by the microwave door, button beeps, and the sporadic pops of Orville Redenbacher.
"You want this in the refrigerator?" Wilson asked, holding up the frozen package of ground Turkey.
Demarco used the remote to turn the television on, glancing over to Wilson in the kitchen. "No, leave it on the counter. It'll be fine. But bring me a Coke with the popcorn."
"This ain'tslave times," Wilson muttered, in a dead-on impersonation of RuPaul.
Demarco cracked up. "I think someone has been watching too muchDrag Race," he said. "Pretty please."
The local news on channel 7 was on. The commentator said:"Senator Roy Kicklighter was seen today leaving congressional sessions at the capitol. We caught up with him briefly for a statement about his wife's incarceration and subsequent institutionalization as a result of the trial's temporary insanity verdict."
"What about this?" Wilson asked. He was holding up a mesh bag of onions.
"Leave one out and put the rest in the pantry."
Roy Kicklighter's large head filled the television screen—a hand and microphone reading WJLA was thrust at him from below—his puffy, round face the familiar shade of salmon Demarco remembered.
"I have complete confidence in the mental health-care professionals that I have entrusted Agnes to. It has been a very difficult adjustment for me... and I am coping as best I can. I hope with time, and perseverance, Agnes will one day rejoin my side. Until then, I will continue to focus on the concerns of my constituents, fulfilling the job I was elected to do."
He turned away from the camera. Another reporter shouted:"Senator Kicklighter... What about Demarco Alford? What about Chandelier?"
Kicklighter continued moving away from the camera, dismissing any further commentary with a wave of his hand.
"Fucker," said Demarco.
Wilson was flagging him from the kitchen again. He was holding a bottle of lotion in one hand and a box of Kleenex in the other, awaiting a response.
"Those are foryou."
Wilson's looked again at what he was holding, confused... then realization hit, and he looked at Demarco, mortified.
"All boys your age do the same thing behind closed doors. Just keep it quiet, and keep it clean."
Wilson, dazed, turned slowly and proceeded down the hallway to his room.
"Hey! You forgot the popcorn."
Late that evening, Demarco was on the couch asleep with a textbook—Treating Complex Trauma in Adolescents and Young Adults—tented on his chest. The deadbolt unlocked and the front door opened. Jack came in, putting his satchel down and placing his keys on the foyer table. He made his way toward the couch and Demarco's eyes opened.
"Sorry," Jack said. "I was trying to be quiet."
"Hey, sexy. You're late."
Jack scrunched up his nose. "Smells like burnt popcorn."
"Yeah. Wilson made some earlier."
