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to do a little cross-dressing, but you’ve done that. Like the show where you played me. Remember? The show where you had the audience rolling on the floor as you reenacted my only attempt at athletics? The show where you got up in front of people night after night and talked about your son, the hopeful little leaguer who stopped a line drive with his unprotected nuts. What did you call that show? Oh, yeah, I remember: Private Parts.
    Choices—
    The off-the-hook signal beeped in his ear and Border hung up the phone, glad he hadn’t actually dialed. Soon after the separation he’d figured out that it wasn’t smart to leave really disturbing messages. She panicked easily: Come for the weekend! We have to talk! His personal rule for family communication: Limit the bad news, limit the sarcasm. Keep it sweet, keep ’em happy, keep ’em quiet.
    He checked the clock and frowned. An hour to suppertime and it was his turn to cook. That’s how they did things. Any other way would be oppressive. His parents hated oppression, especially in a family. So they took turns. Cooking, shopping, taking out garbage, cleaning, school conferences—no, not that; they usually went together, even when they were no longer living together.
    Border suspected they had taken turns with love affairs, but he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t talked about, and not all the family’s private parts turned up in his mother’s shows.
    He checked the fridge for leftovers. “Bless ya Dad,” he said, spotting the cold pot roast. His father believed in taking turns, but he was realistic; his turn, he always made too much.
    Border sat at the kitchen table with cookies and milk, thinking back to the days when they didn’t have cookies and milk. No sweets, back then, and for a year or so, they were lactose-free. That was in Fort Collins, between Missoula and Albuquerque. Part of fourth, all of fifth, part of sixth grade. That’s how he remembered the places they’d lived: by the grades he was in.
    He hummed his father’s favorite, John Lennon: “… places I remember…” Fingers tapped. Playing the Beatles was always good for huge money. On the plaza in Old Town, he’d rip off a few Beatles’ songs, the sweet ballads, and the baby boomers would go wild. Pats on the head, bills in the hat. Whatta kick, they’d say, to see such a punk playing the Beatles. Isn’t he a sweet boy? Those days, if he could stomach an afternoon of Lennon and McCartney, Border would go home with near a hundred bucks.
    He turned on the TV. War news. No, prewar news. Today was it, the ultimatum deadline, and Saddam hadn’t pulled out of Kuwait. The reporter was interviewing an American general, who stared sternly at the camera and said something belligerent about needing the support of the American people. Border cringed, expecting the general to reach out of the TV and slam him against the wall.
    You son-of-a-traitor.
    “I am not,” Border shouted. “I’m the son of a…of a nurse!”
    “Who you shouting at, honey?”
    Border twisted in his chair, just as Connie walked into the kitchen. She tossed her keys and purse onto the counter and pulled open the refrigerator door. “You boys got any of that funny-flavored water?”
    “Did you knock?”
    “No. Should I? I will if you want me to. Paul says I should. He’s usually right. Who were you yelling at?”
    “TV.”
    “That’s useless.”
    “Feels good.”
    “So do a lot of things, hon, but that doesn’t mean it’s smart to do them. How was school?”
    Border hit the off button on the remote. “I got jumped.”
    She pulled out a chair and sat. “What?”
    “This guy called me the worthless son of a traitor, or maybe it was the son of a worthless traitor. The son of something. We had an assembly and it was pretty much a war rally. He was pumped up and I was in his way.”
    “Are you hurt?”
    “No.”
    “Did you tell the principal?”
    Border rolled his eyes.
    “I think you should, hon. She’s a sharp gal. I