11
ONE HOUR LATER.
DRAKE
“ Hold that pose,” says Papa Turner breathlessly as my new wife and I smile for what must be the thirtieth wedding photo of our newly married lives. “I want this one to be perfect.”
“They’re all perfect photos, Dad.” Wanda smiles, her pretty face lit up like a star. “Everything is perfect. Isn’t it, Ma?”
Mama Turner smiles at us, then nudges Papa Turner to take the picture. He takes about ten photos with his phone, and immediately Mama and Papa Turner huddle together to pick the perfect one to get framed by the patiently waiting Elvis who just declared us man and wife, doctor and damsel, killer king and paranoid princess.
My parents are here too, Dad and Mom beaming at us, the two of them standing close to each other, my brothers milling about in the background, arguing about something or the other. The police stopped by earlier, of course, but Dad told them to show him a warrant or else go fuck themselves. The cops know Dad well enough, and they didn’t take it personally. They left, but they’ll be back around eventually.
But I’m not worried. Nobody witnessed Lenny doing his swan dive out of that window except my wife, and she isn’t talking, isn’t telling, isn’t snitching.
As for me?
Well, I’m still grinning like that big bad wolf, watching my beautiful wife thank Elvis for his service as her paranoid parents fuss about the photos, frantically searching for the perfect pose, the pristine picture, the final photograph.
But I don’t need a photograph to remind me of today.
Because I’ve got the real thing.
I’ve got her.
Now and for ever.
∞