“Is it OK to come in?” Finnegan asked from the doorway, a hand clamped tightly over her eyes.

“Come in, Marcy,” Joe said. His pupils were blown out by the cocktail of drugs they had given him for the State of the Union address and his hands still shook like chihuahuas.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“He left a w-w-w-week ago,” Joe said.

Finnegan took her hand away and look cautiously around the room.

“He’s gone,” Joe said tiredly.

“I can’t believe you invited him in here.”

“It was his for four years,” Joe said. “New carpets and flooring, new drywall and mercury-impregnated paint doesn’t change that.”

“You know what they say about things you can’t unsee?” Finnegan asked. “That’s literal. I went to the eye doctor. I have a dead spot in my right eye from your make-out session. Low blood pressure optic nerve stroke. They said it was from when I fainted.”

“That’s just how politics works,” Joe said. “You make out with your predecessors, you help Hillary bury a body, you spring Tom DeLay from a drunk tank.”

“And I’m totally gay now.”

“That’s nice, dear. Don’t bring any fats home.”

“I’m so sorry about the State of the Union address, Grandpa. Those horrible women heckling, those gargoyles sitting behind you.”

“Being exposed like that is just the job of the Vice President,” Joe said.

“You’re the President, Grandpa.”

“I know that!” the old man snapped.

“Please calm down,” Finnegan said. She began searching her pockets for a Miltown.

Joe looked up at her and smiled. “Hey, sweetheart. When did you get here.”

“We need to get you in bed, Grandpa,” she said forcefully.

“I truly believe the Iranian people will never love Putin. Donald taught me that much.”

“Trump is just so gross,” Finnegan groaned.

“Just be glad he didn’t bring his hat,” Joe said. “That little bastard is a real fucker.”

“His hat?” Finnegan asked. “What are you talking about?”

“The hair,” Joe whispered. “Make them vacuum again. If even one is left behind…”

Joe’s eyes closed and his head fell forward.

“Grandpa?” Finnegan asked. “Grandpa?” She shook him gently.

When he didn’t respond, she slapped a big red button on the Oval Office desk. An ice-cold Diet Coke slid up out of a recess in the desk. Slapping another large red button on the side of the desk lowered the lights in the office, the security shields came down over the windows, and a jazzy version of “The Girl From Ipanema” began to burble.

“Which one is it?” Finnegan shouted over the music.

She felt under the desk and found a toggle and flipped it. A portion of the office wall slid away and a bidet thrust itself in the room. A siren began to warble and wail.

A thick line of drool was hanging from Joe’s mouth and it reached down into his lap.

“Where’s the medical emergency button?” she screamed.

Finnegan ran her hand down into Joe’s shirt. His LifeAlert necklace was missing. Someone began pounding on the door to the Oval Office, muffled shouting, the bleep-blorp of the Secret Service trying to over-ride security settings.

She began slapping at all the buttons on, under, or near the Resolute desk. The toilets in the Presidential Shitter flushed repeatedly, the music changed to Boys II  Men, a rack of dusty swords and muskets slid from the wainscotting, and the skeleton of a large eagle fell from the ceiling.

“Fuck,” Finnegan screamed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She pushed her way through the half-open door of the Presidential Shitter, thought for the thousandth time about how they should change the name, and shut the door behind her. The water in the hydrotherapy pool was boiling and the expensive Japanese toilet seemed to have fallen into a defensive crouch.

Finnegan lit one of the massive deodorizing candles and slapped off the lights.

To her wavering reflection in the giant mirror, she said clearly and in an even voice: “Hunter, Hunter, Hunter.”

The siren stopped and the toilet relaxed. She heard Joe in the office proper cry out, “My boy! My beautiful boy!”

She looked out, barely cracking the door, to see her grandfather up out of his chair, kissing her father and crying.