Kind of Kin by Rilla Askew Page B

moment.”
    â€œWell, if you ever do decide to run, you’ll get my
vote. You’d get the votes of a whole lot of folks in this state who’re fed up
with things.”
    â€œThanks.” She shook the woman’s hand, patted the
little boy’s leg. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
    â€œMy husband says you’re the only one with guts
enough to do anything. He says what this state ought to do is rent one of those
big Air Force cargo jets out at Tinker and load a bunch of these spics in it and
fly out over the ocean and open the doors.”
    Monica couldn’t think of anything to say. She
smiled. The woman turned and made her way on toward the restroom, and Monica
looked over at Charlie.
    â€œTell you what, babe,” he said, lifting his red
plastic iced tea glass in a toast, “that Latimer D.A. is going to be falling all
over himself tomorrow announcing that felony charges are going forward. Mark my
words.”
    â€œWell,” she said, still a little taken aback by the
woman’s comment, “I hope you’re right.”
    â€œHow often have you known me to be wrong?”
    â€œAlmost never. Here, you want the rest of this?”
She pushed her half-eaten petite sirloin across the table and motioned the
waitress to bring her a cup of coffee. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything to
Langley about moving the trial. I mean, that would be perfect, but I’d rather
they came up with the idea themselves.”
    â€œDon’t worry, by the time all the publicity takes
hold, that D.A. will be begging to move the trial to McAlester.”
    â€œWhat makes you so sure? District attorneys aren’t
exactly known for their aversion to publicity.”
    He gave her his sly look.
    â€œYes, all right,” she said. “I believe you.” She
relaxed. She didn’t know what he was feeling sly about, but whatever it was, if
he was that certain, she could be certain, too. Not that she was in such a hurry
to get back to McAlester, but surely a trial wouldn’t start before the end of
session, when she’d have to be down there anyway. Most legislators hurried home
to their districts on weekends, but Monica only did so when she had some Rotary
Club breakfast or FFA calf-judging event to attend. Oklahoma City was provincial
enough, but McAlester—well, what could you say about a town where the nonchain
dining choices were Tex-Mex, Tex-Mex, Tex-Mex, and Ball Barbecue? Still, she
would shine in McAlester. She always had. The place had been good for her
career, as Charlie so enthusiastically, and frequently, reminded her.
    She’d thought he’d lost his mind when he came home
one day, spread the Rand McNally on their kitchen table in Indianapolis, and
stabbed his index finger in the middle of the national map. “Right there, babe,”
he’d said. “This little town is your destiny.” She’d squinted. The black dot was
no bigger than a pinprick. McAlester? Okla ho ma?
Where and what the hell was that? He’d had to educate her: a small town with a
huge political legacy, McAlester had sent a governor twice to the state mansion,
a local legislator to the state capitol for nearly as long as the building had
been standing, and a U.S. representative to within a heartbeat of the presidency
when Carl Albert became Speaker of the House back in the 1970s—a long time ago,
Charlie said, granted, but so much the better. Lots of lost glory for folks to
look back on. Nostalgia was as good as Crisco for slicking open wallets when it
came to fund-raising, he said. And here was the kicker: the district was on the
brink of a massive political shift straight out from under the feet of a
locked-in good-old-boys yellow dog network in place since FDR days that was
about to wake up on the wrong side of guns-God-and-gays and the fate of unborn
babies—and none of them had seen it yet. But Charlie had seen, all the way from
their