Leslie slouched in the doorway. “You alone?” She only called him John Boy when she was feeling frisky. She knew he hated it. “No, there are eight or ten guys here with me, turkey.” He pushed aside the mounds of books and magazines to make room for her. “I alvays haf time for one so beautiful as you, Mother Walton,” he said. Les sprawled, flinging one of her long legs over him, pinning him in place. “You are my captive,” she said. Les had big feet, made bigger by old-fashioned high-top basketball sneakers, a holdover from her high school days. She always wore them when she was home. They were very ugly, but they had class, she’d once told him. “Are you aware, Johnny, that there are things in life that combine ugliness and classiness? One of life’s imponderables.” He loved it when she said stuff like that. Half the time he didn’t believe her, but the other half he did. “Emma said I should kiss you good-bye for her.” Les leaned over and planted a juicy kiss on his cheek.
