“Cut!” a man with a bullhorn exclaimed with exasperation. “Who is this? What’s going on?”

He was glaring at his crew, who were all shaking their heads that they didn’t know. Whoever had failed to stop this intruder at the gate and instruct him to wait for the all-clear sign between takes was clearly in trouble.

If the director had targeted his accusatory questions toward Travis’s perch on the veranda, Travis would’ve been happy to tell him that the truck belonged to his friend Roy, who was coming to visit him at exactly the time Travis had instructed, smack in the middle of the shoot.

Travis was pleased to watch the cloud of dust from Roy’s truck descend on the group surrounding his son. It was the first break in a bad mood that had been worsening ever since he’d been rolled out onto the veranda earlier that morning.

“How ya doin’, Dad?” Bobby had called back then, in his booming, good-natured, people-are-observing-me voice.

Travis had nodded at him, wishing he didn’t have a blanket on his lap. Only the old or infirm needed blankets on warm days. Travis knew he was both, but he preferred not to dress the part if he could help it. The nurse had put the blanket there, and he’d forgotten. But of course then all the people on the lawn had turned to look at him, and he had recognized the indulgent condescension in their eyes. It was the same look his wife had given the mentally challenged bird feeder salesman that used to come around—so encouraging of someone from whom she expected so little. To these people, Travis was sweetly pathetic. Their simpering smiles disgusted him.

“He’s adorable,” the makeup lady had exclaimed.

Travis had heard this distinctly. His ears were two of the only body parts that had yet to betray him.

So Travis was now pleased to have these people’s work disrupted by Roy’s arrival. Roy continued driving straight up to him, aware that the dust and noise made by his truck were sending the bullhorn blowhard into paroxysms. He even drove a little faster than he needed to and gave a couple honks for good measure. The chairs in the back of his truck were strapped down tight enough, and the smile on Travis’s face made it all worth it.

“Mornin’, Trav,” Roy called as he climbed out of his truck.

“Morning, Roy. You got the chairs?”

“You bet.”

Roy was thrilled to be there. He and Travis had been friends for seventy years, but they’d never been equals. Roy was more sycophant than confidant, which suited Travis just fine. He valued deference in his companions.

Travis could see his son striding across the lawn. This walk wasn’t for the cameras, which were being reset for another take. Bobby was headed for them.

“Mr. Tomlins, I thought that was you,” he said to Roy as he took the porch steps two at a time.

He was taller than Travis by several inches, and he’d inherited his mother’s untapped athleticism. He moved well, Travis admitted, aware that he should take some pride in this.

“Well, hi there, Bobby,” Roy said, shaking hands with Travis’s son. “You sure got yourself into something these days.”

Bobby laughed deeply and turned to a short man with curly brown hair and glasses who’d been trailing him.

“David, I’d like you to meet one of my dad’s oldest friends, someone who’s known me since I was a baby,” Bobby said to the curly-haired man.

“Since before you were a baby,” Roy said.

Bobby laughed again.

“Since even before,” he agreed. “David Eisen, meet Mr. Roy Tomlins. Mr. Tomlins, meet David Eisen. David’s a writer for Esquire magazine, doin’ a profile on up-and-comin’ Southern leaders.”

In truth, Bobby had been apprehensive about letting any journalist too close to his father or his father’s friends, but his press secretary had convinced him that they’d get a much better story if they allowed a more intimate level of access. Bobby prayed she was right, and decided to mask his worry with aggressive good cheer, willing everything to go well with the sheer force of his winning demeanor.

In the glow of Bobby’s thousand-watt smile, Roy looked David Eisen over before shaking his hand. He didn’t particularly want to shake it, but he realized it was the thing to do. He noticed that the writer was holding something small and gray that he brought close to Roy’s mouth when Roy started to speak, which made him step back.

“It’s just a digital recorder,” the writer explained.

“Oh,” Roy said, hesitatingly stepping forward again.

He didn’t know whether to direct his comments to the writer or the machine. He was supremely uncomfortable.

“Well, Bobby’s a leader all right,” he managed. “Always has been.”

Bobby beamed and clapped Roy lightly on his shoulder as David Eisen looked Roy straight in the eyes. The sunlight reflecting off the writer’s glasses was blinding. Roy blinked in irritation.

“What do you have there?” David asked, pointing to the back of Roy’s truck.

It was Travis who answered, grinning all the while.

“Some stolen property he recovered for me. Let’s get a look, Roy.”

Roy walked to the back of his truck and struggled to put his foot on the bumper. He felt like his body was growing stiffer and creakier by the day. Still, at least he wasn’t wheelchair-bound like Travis yet.

“Here, let me help ya,” Bobby boomed. “Wanna get a little dirty, David?”

David did not.

He stayed put while Bobby launched himself into the bed of Roy’s truck and began undoing the straps.

“These are some purty chairs, Mr. Tomlins. Dad, you said they belonged to you?”

Travis nodded.

“Had ’em made special,” he replied. “Haven’t seen ’em in thirty some years.”

Bobby hoisted one of the chairs over his head unnecessarily and jumped to the ground with it, then placed it in front of his father.

“They look good as new,” he said.

Roy watched the Esquire writer run his fingers over the wood and resisted the urge to slap his hand away.

“K.S.O.,” David Eisen read. “Is that someone’s initials?”

Roy saw a look of surprised alarm cross Bobby’s face. Saw him check the label himself and turn back toward the commercial shoot, ready to lead David Eisen away.

“It’s just an old name,” Bobby answered. “You know what? I’d like nothin’ better than to keep sittin’ here and jawin’, but I think we gotta take advantage of this weather and finish up. Know what they say: ‘Make hay while the sun shines!’ ”

He grinned as he placed his big hand on the writer’s shoulder.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Tomlins,” David Eisen said. “And these are beautiful chairs, Mr. Brayer. You say they were stolen from you?”

“That’s right,” Travis replied. “By some good-for-nothin’ spics.”

David Eisen looked up quickly.

“Dad, you don’t mean that,” Bobby said sharply.

There was panic and reprimand in his voice. Roy looked from son to father and back again. Travis seemed completely calm, which made Roy love him all the more. He already had quite a story to tell the boys. He was recording it in his memory for later, just as carefully as David Eisen was recording it on his little machine.

“He doesn’t mean that,” Bobby said to the writer.

“What do you mean, exactly?” David asked Travis in a quiet, curious voice.

Travis waved a hand in front of his face.

“I don’t mean that all wetbacks are good for nothin’,” Travis clarified. “I just mean the ones that sneak in here to steal jobs and such, which is most of ’em. They take whatever they can get their dirty hands on. They’re just as bad as the nig—”

“That’s enough, Dad,” Bobby interrupted sharply.

Roy had never heard Bobby speak that way to his father, though he’d also never heard Travis speak quite the way he was speaking either, at least not in this sort of company. Travis was usually quite careful around Bobby and his political friends. He wasn’t an old man unaware that the times had changed. He knew exactly what sort of impact he was capable of having by saying such things in front of such people.