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  Bill marched in at the stroke of 10:00 a.m. and saluted the troops. “I understand that, as citizens of the world, you do not speak or understand American. All your orders will therefore be given in a visual form,” he announced from the podium.

  He broke into a hopping, jiggling dance, resting only to draw sketches with chalk on the blackboard behind him. A rabbit hopped down from its chair, a hamster scuttled beneath a radiator, and Estée kept busy reclaiming them, maintaining a constant vigil for emerging pellets and moisture. Bill liked his soldiers to be neat. She moved between the seats, cleaning up pellets and wiping, retrieving AWOL pets from the floor as Bill performed a loosely choreographed charade in the background. It was exhausting labor.

  Finally Bill pronounced his platoon formally debriefed, saluted, and walked out. She closed the door behind him, sat down, and relaxed. On the blackboard was a series of arrows, indicating tactical maneuvers, accompanied by rudimentary depictions of rats. On their backs were blobs resembling pineapples, minus their spiky tops. She looked closer and discerned it: the pineapples stood for hand grenades.

  She closed the door to the war room behind her and went to find Bill. He was on the front porch, sipping a Heineken.

  “I feel we should address strategic flaws,” she said, sitting down on the steps beside him.

  “Go ahead, go ahead,” said Bill affably.

  “With the, uh, deployment of the grenades there may be problems.”

  “We have to give them names,” said Bill. “I was thinking, Corporal Rabbit One, Corporal Rabbit Two. Like that.”

  “They can’t pull the pins on the grenades or throw them, is the first problem I see,” said Estée.

  “Of course, I thought of that,” said Bill. “They will be our kamikazes.”

  “Kami—”

  “If a conflict situation arises,” said Bill patiently, “the reserves will be hurled aloft. Either you or I will pull the pins in the grenades before this hurling takes place. You and I will both have to practice our hurling.”

  “But, but the kamikazes,” said Estée, “my understanding is they agreed to die for the emperor or something. But the guinea pigs—”

  “I have confidence in them,” said Bill, taking a swig. “I think you were right Esty, their hearts are in the right place. Those brave boys will not shirk their duty. They would die for Kraft.”

  “But—”

  “I trust the conflict situation will not arise,” said Bill. “If my petition for secession is granted, it should be no problem. Hostilities will not be necessary.”

  “The grenades may also be too heavy for them to carry,” said Estée. “They may not be able to march if burdened with the grenades.”

  “We will not use the grenades in practice drills. I have found an adequate substitute in your mother’s old things,” said Bill, and from beneath his chair pulled a plastic L’eggs egg, labeled Control-top Pantyhose, Medium, Beige, Sandal Toe.

  “I see,” said Estée.

  At weapons detail the reserves were fitted out with their dummy grenades. Bill insisted on taping the L’eggs to their backs with Scotch tape, which circled under their bellies like saddle girths.

  “But it’ll hurt them when we take off the tape,” said Estée.

  “Brave men to the last,” said Bill staunchly.

  At first the reserves were confused by their new L’eggs, and then they became nonchalant. Estée noted, however, a marked lack of activity. When the guinea pig sector failed to remain in formation, Bill got frustrated and unleashed his Ruger on a rusty barrel. Estée placed the platoon carefully in single file.

  “It’s the language barrier,” she amended. “They have their own methods. You have to give them a little leeway. They’re not Americans. That has both advantages and disadvantages. Patience is a virtue.”

  “Bullshit,” said Bill, but appeared to resign himself to the disorganization of the troops. Sweltering under the sun the next morning, and frequently refreshed by Estée with bowls of cold water, the reserves were trained in endurance on a makeshift obstacle course. Shepherded over low platforms, they were forced to negotiate their way over doll-sized ladders Bill had reclaimed from Estée’s old Barbie play set and then encouraged to wade through water in a Tupperware container. Estée toweled them off, adjusted their L’eggs, and gave them bowls of cold water. She comforted herself with the knowledge that human guinea pigs were more dangerous: this was the lesser of two evils.

  Bill brought up the subject of disciplinary action, to be directed against reserves who failed to obey orders. Estée suggested the carrot would be more effective than the stick. “A good soldier knows that punishment builds character,” said Bill. No, argued Estée, positive reinforcement was the way to go with rodents. They were not strong and were likely to weaken if physically injured. “All right,” said Bill reluctantly, “but if I get one whiff of insubordination, the kid gloves are off.”

  Bill was using a carrot as a reward during a training drill, for rodents who successfully completed their run along a treadmill, when the doorbell rang and Estée ran to get it. She opened the door to two men in gray suits.

  “We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said the closest one, and drew an identity card from his breast pocket. “I’m Agent Wilson, this is Agent Fruehauf. Would Mr. William Kraft be available?”

  Breakthrough. She saw light at the end of her tunnel.

  “He’s here,” she said. “At the moment he’s drilling reserve troops in the yard out back. Please follow me.”

  The FBI men met Bill, who shook their hands eagerly and claimed he was a big fan of J. Edgar Hoover. Estée occupied herself collecting rodents off the ground and installing them in cages.

  “We do have a search warrant for the premises,” said Agent Wilson.

  “Be my guest, be my guest,” said Bill heartily. “Give you the grand tour.”

  They went inside, Bill in the lead, Estée trailing. The FBI men were stone-faced and bored, following Bill through the downstairs rooms, upstairs, finally into the basement. Estée kept a tight rein on her excitement. Agents Wilson and Fruehauf stooped occasionally to open a cupboard or glance beneath a table.

  “We’ll need some time on our own, if you don’t mind,” said one of them to Bill, who had not shown them the armory.

  “Sure, make yourselves at home,” said Bill, all jocular welcome. “I guess you wouldn’t be able to tell me if my petition has been granted? Would you care for a drink?”

  The agents opted for coffee. While it was brewing, Estée scrawled a note on a grocery-store receipt: “Arsenal downstairs concealed door east end pedal operated floor level.” She bunched up the note in her hand and gave it, pressed against the handle of a coffee mug, to Agent Fruehauf, who was staring vacantly out the window while Bill told them the story of his life.

  “… own father was a crook, a common crook, beat me to a pulp every day of his life, so I took my savings off a pizza job and invested in landfill … ,” he said fondly. “Esty, get your dad a Heineken, would you?”

  Estée retired to fetch the beer. Her father was a chameleon of delusions. Not once since the arrival of the FBI had he called her his attorney general.

  When she got back with the beer he was beaming with satisfaction and the guests had left their coffee mugs steaming on the table.

  “The Americans are responding,” he said. “They are going to grant my petition, I can feel it in my bones.”

  Estée sat with him, nervous, glancing at her watch until the FBI men clumped back up the stairs from the basement.

  “Mr. Kraft,” said one, “if we could speak to you for a moment?”

  “In private,” added the other.

  “Sure, in the study,” said Bill, eager beaver. Estée waited until they were inside and then stood outside the door, which was cracked open. She could hear well.

  “I’m afraid what there’s been here is a prank,” said Agent Wilson.

  “Misunderstanding,” added Frueha
uf. “An unfortunate expenditure of Bureau funds and our personal time.”

  “We’re not going to point any fingers, but in future,” continued Wilson, “since we can’t afford to waste our time on jokes, and we don’t want to press charges of malicious mischief, especially since we feel there may be a minor involved, but we’d appreciate it if you were careful what goes out of your house. In terms of mail.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Bill.

  “We received misinformation, in fact several threats, intimations of felonious activities that would come under Bureau jurisdiction … of course there’s no evidence, it’s been a wild goose chase,” said Fruehauf. “Nothing whatsoever to warrant our involvement. As I’m sure you know.”

  “Oh yes, yes,” said Bill.

  “This petition you’re talking about, we don’t know about that, it may be administrative material,” went on Wilson. “As far as the armaments, the felonies are concerned, you’ve got a clean slate, so that’s where our involvement has to end. We’d just like your help in ensuring that this kind of mix-up doesn’t occur again. Discipline, maybe. The help of a counselor. The teenage years can be difficult. Emotional turmoil. We have your cooperation on this?”

  “My, yes,” said Bill, bedazzled.

  “Thanks for your hospitality,” said Fruehauf. “We should be moving on.”

  Estée, shocked, leaned back against the wall, drawing deep breaths. Agents Wilson and Fruehauf came out the door with Bill at their heels like a puppy and shot her stern looks as they passed. Bill saw them to the door. In a panic she ran through her options, and when Bill returned she was past him in a flash, waving a piece of paper, offering up a staccato excuse. She caught up to the agents on the curb.

  “Excuse me!” she said. “Wait!”

  They turned, raising four federal eyebrows.

  “Didn’t you see it?” she asked. “In the basement? All the guns? There are grenade launchers, I’ve seen fully automatics, I know for a fact there are Marlin Model Nines and .45s, SIG P220s and P226s, Steyr AUGs, M-16s, AKs. Doesn’t he have to have a license? Isn’t it illegal?”

  “Honey,” said Fruehauf, “you’re agitated. There aren’t any weapons in your daddy’s basement. He’s a little eccentric, but he’s a good American. Has he told you about his service in the armed forces? His war service? Did you know your daddy was a hero?”

  “War service?”

  “Vietnam, sweetheart. Your father was a Green Beret. He was a good soldier. He did a lot for this country in his own way. Head trauma, too bad, but he was a fine soldier once.”

  “But I can show you! Didn’t you find the door?”

  “Sweetheart, go talk this over with your daddy. If you’re having problems, you should talk to him,” advised Wilson in paternal tones.

  “Didn’t you see the floor pedal? Didn’t you go in?”

  Wilson and Fruehauf exchanged sideways glances.

  “No, hon, there’s no secret door down there,” said Fruehauf softly. “Now run on back to your dad. You two need to have a little talk. And you remember. He was a fine soldier once. He paid his dues for the red white and blue. You should be proud of your daddy.”

  “We have to be on our way,” said the other, and they turned and got into their car.

  She stood watching them, despondent, as they gunned the motor and drove off. Was she deluded? Was she as unbalanced as Bill?

  Back in the basement, she located the foot pedal, stepped on it, and the door popped open. There was the armory, fully stocked. Her father was perched on a footstool polishing an M92 automatic with tender care.

  “Those men didn’t come in here,” she said. “Did they?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Bill casually. “I showed ’em the works when you were making coffee. We’re on the same side, yessirree Bob. Two men brave and true.”

  “Were you in the army?” she asked him.

  “The army is for wimps,” said Bill.

  He was a liar, but still he was a mystery she couldn’t fathom. Alone in her bedroom, she took out a pocket calendar and counted the days left to her birthday: eighty-one. “Diary, they are banded together in strange compacts. The police, Bill, and the FBI. They shut me out. Even logic is no defense against them.”

  The next morning Bill announced his intention to disband the reserves. They had had enough training, he said. “Anyway, let’s face it, we were just going through the motions, if they’re gonna be hurled they don’t need to be combat ready. Now do they?”

  Estée had lost her zest for humoring him. Evidently it was no master key to liberty.

  “Do whatever you want,” she said. “I’m tired.”

  Bill began to wait for the mail with avidity. Its delivery was the focal point of his day. He kept expecting a treaty of secession to arrive. He was convinced the Americans would let him go without a fight. He called the post office when no mail arrived to make sure the carrier had not been struck dead on his route. When, after a couple of weeks of waiting for the mail every day, he’d still received no communication from legislative or executive potentates, he started calling around to try to trace the progress of his request. He called Congress, gubernatorial offices, committees, the White House, the Pentagon, Fort Knox. He called the chamber of commerce in Washington, the Junior League, the Young Republicans at Georgetown University, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Secret Service, the Justice Department, even Fish and Wildlife. None of these establishments could offer any reassurance.

  “Red tape,” he grumbled.

  Since there was no end in sight, and she was getting sick of the monotonous passage of time, Estée typed up a brief note and mailed it from the local post office.

  “I knew it! I knew it!” rejoiced Bill, galloping into the dining room with his letter as she sat eating a lunch of soup and crackers. “Read this!”

  Estée knew what it said but cast an eye over it and nodded. She had gone for the gold and signed herself, The President. Bill did not trouble himself with postmarks. The note read simply, “Your request is granted.”

  “Congratulations,” she told him.

  “Hallelujah!” he cried.

  FOUR

  AFTER INDEPENDENCE DAY, BILL STABILIZED. HE WENT back to the crematorium, from which he’d been absent for months, and proclaimed an end to Betty’s rest cure. She returned from Fort Lauderdale in style, in a rented limousine. Bill had her old room ready for her. She took off her wig and showed Estée the beginnings of the new crop of hair, which rose in clumps from the moisturized scalp, many tendrils sprouting out of each follicle like hairs on the rubber head of a doll. They had cured her at the clinic, she said, of her chronic penchant for self-help. It was understandable, they had told her, that Bill had been displeased by the habit. For a man, they said—a husband—did not like to see being Done Right what he could Do Worse himself. “They taught me,” Betty confessed, “that self-stimulation should be done in private, if at all. I hardly ever do it now. I watch TV instead.”

  The Krafts would not forget their daughter’s birthday this year. Betty announced a gala celebration would be held: her relatives would be invited, and business acquaintances of Bill’s.

  “I don’t want one,” protested Estée, but Betty knew that no meant yes.

  Estée was busy planning for her future. With money pilfered from Betty’s purse she mail-ordered a strongbox, which she kept beneath her bed. She wore its key around her neck, with the key to her room. Into this box she loaded, when she had the chance, valuables she knew would not be missed, jewelry no longer worn by Betty, bills she found among her parents’ belongings. She tallied it up every week, though she could not accurately appraise the value of the merchandise. By mid-October she had a cash tally in excess of $1,200, though the other items were worth much more. She had labored under unfair conditions for years, for the meager recompense of room and board, in manacles and shackles. This was her retirement fund.

  Betty sent out invitations and was constantly on the phone to caterers and entert
ainers. Being an aficionado of country music, Bill had expressed a desire to hire Conway Twitty for the evening. When he learned that this would be impossible, he enlisted Betty’s aid in finding a country act whose performers would agree to sport Kraft bandannas and avoid all mention of God in their lyrics. “That’s the one problem with country music,” said Bill, “they’re a bunch of Protestant hillbillies, Jesus Loves Me till the cows come home. But you can’t tell artists what to do. They got their heads up their assholes.”

  Preparing for her departure, Estée took the five remaining reserves to a house down the street and left them on the doorstep in a cage. One hamster had died in a seizure. She counted her funds whenever she was alone and scoured the house daily for portable valuables. Betty’s gems could support her for a couple of years; Bill’s old watches would translate into food and rent. It was all in the waiting.

  “What would you like for hors d’oeuvres?” Betty asked. Estée said artichokes, saumon fumé, and caviar, but Betty told the caterers they wanted lobster on black rye, oysters, and crabs’ legs. Betty solicited her daughter’s input regarding the decor: “Would you like streamers in red, white, and blue? Or rainbow colors? Balloons with favors inside?” But when Estée said she’d rather not have streamers or balloons, Betty put in a special order for Christmas-colored crepe-paper curlicues and a tank of helium. The only tack to take was embezzlement, so Estée asked for a party dress and a series of makeovers and squirreled the money away in her box.

  The day approached slowly and Estée’s diary ran like an inventory. “October 13: earrings, seed pearl. Eighty dollars? October 21: cuff links, gold and onyx. One hundred dollars?” She prowled through closets, silverware drawers, the pockets of Bill’s suit jackets, the desk drawers in Betty’s bedroom as her mother snored. To make her escape route smooth, she memorized the number of a taxi company, the location of the Greyhound station, made a reservation at a Quality Inn, studied maps of the freeways into Los Angeles County, and sewed a money belt from scraps of fabric discarded by Betty.