THREE

BILL THREW BETTY OUT WITH THE BATHWATER. HE referred to it later as spring cleaning, though it took place at the beginning of summer, the year Estée labeled T-1 in her diary to signify approaching freedom. One afternoon she entered Betty’s boudoir to find it empty. The shrine had been dismantled, the bed stripped, the closets laid bare. An alcove formerly reserved for wigs housed a vase of fake flowers.

She confronted Bill in the dining room, where he was chowing down on a super-duper macaroni meal, his old standby.

“Where is she?”

“Your mother has gone on to a better place,” said Bill haughtily, orange powder on his chin. He ate the cheese powder straight from the package, without bothering to melt it.

“Where? What better place?”

“Details, details,” grumbled Bill, but coughed up the name of a clinic in Fort Lauderdale.

“It’s very nice here,” said Betty when Estée reached her by phone. “I get pedicures, and a specialist comes in to give me hair-replacement treatments. I highly recommend it. They have shuffleboard, but I don’t play.”

Estée broached the subject of postsecondary education, but Bill would not hear of it. He prevented her from applying by refusing to sign the forms stating she’d had a tutor. She dropped the idea and planned only on escape: eighteen in December.

“We are seceding from the Union,” Bill announced a week later.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“What I said,” said Bill. “I am starting my own country.”

“Don’t you have to have a revolution?” asked Estée. “You can’t secede just like that. We’re in California, not Texas.”

“I will use whatever means necessary,” said Bill. “It will make the tax situation difficult, but I will talk to the lawyers.” He appointed her his second-in-command.

“I do not wish to participate,” said Estée stiffly, to no avail.

The new regime, Bill decided, needed first a flag; next, a declaration; then citizens, laws, and a military force. Estée had a change of heart about involvement: she would play along, hoping he’d be remanded into police custody as soon as he crossed the line. She envisioned him sending armed patrols into the neighborhood, there to rob and pillage, and planned to bring in the authorities as soon as this occurred. She looked forward to the instant of triumph. With Bill incarcerated and Betty institutionalized, she could strike out for foreign parts.

Bill was not artistically inclined, so the flag was a stumbling block. He hit upon the notion of using the Velut arbor ita ramus banner, but dismissed it owing to the alien connotations of the moth language. “Aliens will not be allowed into the country,” he told Estée, “except as emissaries or slaves.” Eventually he decided to rely on the family name and had the word Kraft, cut off a mac & cheese box, silk-screened in bold hues onto a giant sheet of cloth. This he flew from the roof on a mast built onto the TV antenna. He forgot to tell the silk-screeners to customize the logo, so the flag read “Kraft” in blue block letters surrounded by a red border, and beneath this, to the right, ®^.

He put up a customs booth at the front gate, employed three security guards who wore Kraft crests on their breast pockets, and instructed them to halt all incoming traffic and demand passports. On the first day of this regime the maids were turned away; the next day Bill corrected the oversight by issuing special entry visas. These were Bill’s handiwork and consisted of a piece of paper stating, “Enter One Alien into the United State of Kraft, sined, Commander in Cheif Bill Kraft.” Bill’s orthography had not improved with his new status.

The maids did not read English and were under the impression, Estée learned from a guard, that the measures were purely for household security. Bill was delighted to have guards. He found himself well suited to be commander in chief. Drawing on stock capital, he expanded his forces, hiring eight additional security guards to live in full-time. They were his private army, well paid. They wore tailor-made Kraft uniforms, complete with Kaiser Wilhelm helmets. The helmets were heavy metal and hard to breathe in; the troops griped until Bill gave them salary hikes.

Estée watched Bill hold debriefing sessions in his war room and observed the men’s unconcerned silence. At the back, they exchanged the sports section under their seats; one did a crossword puzzle while another flicked dirt from beneath his fingernails. Corporal Martinez, Bill’s favorite, confided in Estée after a rigorous drill under Bill’s command, “I save up—¿cómo se dice?—for one dry-cleaning business with my brother, I clear out when I got enough. Is a secret, okay?”

Bill had given up science and embraced the political life. He eradicated every trace of the laboratory and the moths and concentrated on preparedness. He outfitted his army with weapons from his blooming homegrown armory and supervised target practice. The constitution took a backseat to might: “Before you know what to do, you gotta be able to do it,” he strategized to Estée.

She herself was busy with affairs of state, since Bill had nominated her for the post of United State of Kraft attorney general. She played the role of private secretary to the chief. Bill dictated letters to state senators and members of the House of Representatives in which he outlined his plan to secede. He stated that he was a property owner and entrepreneur: he owned his property outright, and should thus be allowed the privilege of self-government. “I bought up the place,” he dictated to her for the form letter, “it’s mine. No one owns it but me. Why does a guy pay taxes? So other guys can shuffle papers in Washington? I don’t need the service, so why should I pay for it? If war comes we in Kraft will defend ourselves to the hilt with no help from the U.S. of A. Let’s face it. You don’t need us, we don’t need you. This camper isn’t going to keep paying out one-third of his income just for garbage collection.” He announced his intention to discontinue the custom of paying out monies yearly to the Internal Revenue Service.

Sure, he conceded: while the matter of his secession was pending he would continue to disburse funds to the income tax pool. Once it was approved, however, he would expect a full refund from the treasury, including accumulated interest at the prime lending rate. In his letters, he included no return address, signing Bill Kraft with a magnanimous flourish.

“They’re not going to say yes,” Estée warned him.

“I’ll take it into my own hands,” stated Bill. Estée kept her smugness to herself, awaiting the rebellion that would settle his hash. She was careful with the letters she typed up and inserted, here and there, an occasional veiled threat of bloody uprising. Bill did not read over the communiqués sent in his name, so she had license to exaggerate freely, making frequent reference to Bill’s private army and reservoir of munitions. She became a clock-watcher, waiting for the bomb blast.

Commander Kraft, who decorated himself with five stars, was cautious when it came to stockpiling defenses. He moved his armory from a coat closet into a room in the basement that was hidden behind a concealed door. His guards were issued their guns and ammunition at 7:00 a.m., and after the armaments inspection at night the guns were impounded. Each round of bullets used in practice was counted. Guards who did not perform well at target practice were assigned special tasks and forced to shoot more often. Bill had standards.

He discovered Estée’s collection of salvaged rodents three weeks after he’d built his customs booth. She left her bedroom door unlocked when she went to the bathroom and when she got back Bill was squatting by the row of cages.

“What are these aliens doing here?” he asked.

“They’re from before,” she told him. “I keep them in reserve. In case their country needs them.”

“Hmm,” said Bill. “Unauthorized.” But he was not displeased. A country should raise its own livestock. “Self-sufficiency Esty. You don’t wanna pay for imports. Need a trade surplus there on your agriculture.” Since the hamsters, guinea pigs, and rabbits were not fit for breeding or herding, he would appoint them foot soldiers in the ranks of his reserves. “Uniforms, Esty. That’s what these men need.” He exited and returned with lengths of string and Kraft crests. “Hang these around the boys’ necks. Identification, Esty. Dog tags we call ’em.”

“They won’t stay on.”

“Inspection every morning at eight,” said Bill. “When you get up.”

Estée took hold of a struggling guinea pig and tied a string around its neck. It defecated.

“Hey Esty, see that? Its shit looks like its food.”

Next Bill decreed that she would be his information minister. Without information, how could they make laws? Kraft was a nation with only two human citizens, plus a third who was currently on foreign sick leave, and a standing army. Estée’s job was to gather facts for the purpose of establishing written statutes, as insurance against a future in which the citizenry might expand and grow disobedient. “You can see the news for two hours per day,” he stipulated, “and I will relay its message to the troops.” The Kraft triumvirate, including its honorary first lady in absentia, would serve as the liaison between the common men of the armed forces and the world outside.

“We will watch it together,” said Bill, thumbs through his belt loops, rocking back on his heels, “and I’ll say the important parts to you, and you can be my speechwriter. Every night after weapons detail I will address the rabble. I will give them the news of the day.”

Excited by the chance to expand her horizons, Estée agreed to the proposal.

“The United States consumed eighty thousand petajoules of energy this year,” related a toupeed newscaster.

“Write that down!” said Bill, clapping a hand on her thigh. Estée wrote it down.

“This is equal to the total consumption of Africa, South America, and Europe combined,” continued the newscaster, and turned to greet his co-anchor cheerfully.

Bill dictated his report on the item while counting bullets and reshelving .357s.

“The U.S. has consumed the energy of Africa, South America, and Europe,” he stated.

“What are you talking about?” asked Estée.

“You can’t say mumbo jumbo to the common people,” said Bill. “Got to make it easy on ’em. You heard the man Esty. That’s the news.”

The next day Bill delivered a speech on the importance of sound foreign policy. “We gotta do like they did in the Persian Gulf War,” he said. “You go out there, you take what you need. We call it assistance. I’ll keep you posted on future developments, boys.”

The troops listened slack-jawed and bored to these addresses, delivered by Bill from a podium in the war room. They snickered at the back, refused to participate in the Q & A sessions at the end of the lectures, and shuffled off to their quarters as soon as the last word was out of his mouth. Since they were an army of eight, their barracks fit nicely into spare bedrooms.

“Commander,” said Estée after their second demonstration of indifference, “don’t you think we could just install a TV in the mess hall? Then they could watch the news while they were eating.”

“Esty, Esty,” said Bill, “that would mean disaster. They’re not ready for that. We have to protect them.”

During a speech on Muslim holy wars, Bill admonished his troops kindly to steer clear of Arabs. “You got your Hussanes, your Godoffies, your I-told-ya Coemanies,” said Bill. “They’re the worst kind of aliens, next to your Papists, your Protestants, and your dirty Wops,” said Bill.

Murmurs of discontent arose from the fray and Corporal Martinez got up and left the room.

The next day Estée inserted into a letter from Bill to the secretary of defense the sentences “I am going to kill them all. I have many guns in my house, including assault rifles.” It was the hour for bold measures. She licked a Love USA stamp and stuck it firmly on the envelope, writing Bill’s return address in the upper left-hand corner in clear capital letters.

“The deployment of peacekeeping troops has been characterized as a strategic follow-up to the 1990 deployment in Saudi Arabia, which was the largest since Vietnam,” said a commentator. Bill sat forward on the couch beside her, eager as a Boy Scout. “Air force assets include F-15 fighters, F-16s, F-111s, and F-4s; also F-117A stealth fighters, B-52 strategic bombers, and A-10 tank busters.”

Bill donned his blue cap with gold braid, commanded Estée to summon the battalion, and addressed them in his war room. “The United State of Kraft will be sending you to Kuwait, where you will join American aliens in a project to siphon all oil out of holes in the ground and bring it back here,” he announced proudly. He was removing kitchen funnels from a plastic bag when there was a rustle of disturbance in the ranks.

“I’m quitting,” said Corporal Martinez, looking around at the others as he rose from his seat. “I had enough of this shit. You’re fucking crazy, man. I’m outta here. They should put you away.”

His brothers-in-arms, shaking their heads and muttering, also rose from their chairs. Kaiser Wilhelm helmets dropped and rolled on the carpet.

“Is this an insurrection?” sputtered Bill, clutching a funnel in his chubby fist.

“We’re quitting,” said Corporal Randall. “We want our paychecks for this week before we go.”

“A mutiny! You’re traitors,” said Bill, blinking rapidly, at a loss.

“You’re bullshit,” said Corporal Randall.

“You will return your weapons! And your uniforms!” squeaked Bill.

“We don’t want your fucking lame-ass uniforms, buddy,” said a corporal with sprouting facial moles, and spat on the carpet as he quit the room.

Estée stood by with arms crossed while slumping Bill, a study in defeat, watched the men file out.

“Napoleon wouldn’t stand for this, Esty,” he said. “You’re my attorney general. They can’t do this. You stop ’em!”

“There are always people to hire,” said Estée. “They have the right to quit.”

“Oh no, oh no,” said Bill. “They’re defecting! You can’t quit the army.”

Estée followed him as he scuttled out the door, clutching the plastic bag in his hand. He went upstairs to the barracks, where the men were throwing clothes into overnight bags, and ordered them to surrender their weapons. He waited, chafing his wrists nervously, till these were in a pile on the floor and then hefted one of the guns and waved it in the air.

“C-c-court martial!” he stuttered, high pitched as a choirboy.

“Fuck off, man,” said Corporal Randall, who had exchanged his uniform for jeans and a Budweiser T-shirt. He headed for the staircase, his compadres taking up the rear.

“Halt!” quavered Bill, and fired one shot into the ceiling.

Corporal Randall jumped at the noise and turned around.

“You can’t do that, asshole. What are you gonna do, hold us hostage? We’ll call the cops on you. Serge, go call the cops.”

Corporal Serge edged toward the dining room.

“Stop!” said Bill, and fired into the doorway. Serge stopped. “They have no jurisdiction here! This is Kraft!”

“Fuck off,” said Corporal Randall. “This is the U.S. of A., loony tunes.”

“You shoot again, loco,” said Corporal Martinez, “and you could have some serious trouble.”

“Commander,” said Estée, “why don’t you just let them go? What we need is brave, loyal men, which these are obviously not. We need soldiers worthy of the State of Kraft. We need to handpick them, not just call up some security company out of the yellow pages. It’s time to ring out the old, ring in the new, am I right, Commander?”

“What can you expect from aliens,” conceded Bill, though his hand still shook on the gun’s molded grip.

“I suggest we carry out an exhaustive search for non-aliens to serve in our military,” said Estée. “Get these guys out of here. What good are they doing? They were always layabouts. They were always slackers. Am I correct, Commander?”

“You may have a point,” said Bill. After a pause he hiked up his belt around the tent of his slacks and motioned the corporals toward the door with his gun. Estée watched from the front door as he followed them down the front walk, out along the driveway to the customs booth in the yard. Gun in hand, Bill watched them disperse down the street to their cars.

He was quiet for several days. “Diary, he’s left high and dry. He can’t mount the revolution now, which means I’m stuck with him. I folded under stress, afraid of casualties. I missed the chance to foil him. Another plan is needed to send him over the edge.” Bill’s mantle had been stripped off rudely, leaving him trembling. Restless, Estée gave him a pep talk.

“Remember, those were Americans,” she cajoled over a Pop-Tart breakfast. Bill was consuming the whole box. “Of course they want to undermine you. They might even have been spies. They were jealous of your kingdom. You have to rise above it, Commander.”

Bill poked pensively at a slab of microwaved bacon.

“My reserves,” he said. “The furry pigs and those rabbits. Are they also Americans?”

“Strictly speaking, no,” said Estée. “They are citizens of the world.”

“The problem with the reserves,” said Bill, “is they can’t bear arms. They can’t take orders Esty.”

“That’s true,” allowed Estée. “But not for lack of trying. I mean those reserves have their hearts in the right place, it’s just they don’t speak English and they don’t have opposable thumbs. They would if they could, I know that much.”

“As an interim army,” suggested Bill, “they might be all right. Don’t you think?”

“They would be fine,” said Estée. “Until you can find non-aliens, which might be a big job.”

“Big? Colossal. I don’t know one person besides myself who’s not an alien. You can’t trust anyone. Your mother’s not cut out for governing. She’s not a leader Esty.”

“You can trust me,” she said. “Can’t you?”

“Okay,” said Bill, pushing his plate away, pieces of Pop-Tart floating in bacon fat. “Please assemble the reserves, in full uniform, in the briefing room at ten hundred hours. That will be all.”

The guinea pigs and rabbits proved recalcitrant. They would not respond to leashes, so she carried them two by two to the war room, where she set them on chairs with food bowls in front of them. While waiting for Bill they gnawed at the green pellets and peed on the vinyl. Estée cleaned up with paper towels and kept the soldiers in their places. They wore their Kraft crests around their necks on string, but these were easily dislodged. She had to reattach the crests every few minutes, after surges in rodent activity.

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 Fruehauf. “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.