Darlene had a scowl on her face as she dropped the curtain and stepped back from the living room window.
“It’s that pint-sized preacher again, honey,” she said emphasizing the term of endearment the way she did when she was piqued.
The sports section of the Sunday paper fell from in front of Dennis’ face as he exhaled a resigned sigh. He squirmed in his recliner chair.
“Jeeez. Again? What’s with that kid? This is the fourth time in a row. Didn’t he do enough bible thumping last week?”
“Don’t answer the door. Maybe he doesn’t know we’re here.”
“Darlene, dear,” becoming aware of the programmed response his own tone carried but powerless to withhold the irony which precipitated their arguments, “of course he knows we’re home. We just walked in from brunch. He probably hides out in the bushes until we drive up.”
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The doorbell chimed once more.
“All right, all right. I’ll handle it.”
Beginning his stairway descent, Dennis heard Darlene call out, “Don’t let him in! Talk to him on the stoop but do not let him in the goddam house. You hear me, Dennis?”
Muttering a reply as he cracked the Levolors, a dead give away to anyone on the other side they were being scrutinized, Dennis recognized the small stern face staring up at him. He pulled the door open.
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