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play bridge with her at the club. She’d do something. I think—”
    “Connie, have you ever been the new kid in school? Have you even been in a high school lately? I am not whining to the principal. And don’t you dare tell her. Or Dad. Sorry I even mentioned anything. Dead issue. What are you up to?”
    She thought a bit before answering, not wanting to change the subject. Then she sighed and shrugged. “Paul told me to get out of his way. He’s working and I’m a distraction.”
    “That’s good that he’s writing again.” Both Connie and Paul had worked for forty years at the local meat-packing plant, Porter’s Pork. Three months into retirement, Paul had gotten restless and gotten inspired. He started writing a novel, a murder mystery.
    Five years and four mysteries later, Paul Sanborn was a well-known author. There’d even been an article on his books in People magazine, one that included a photo of him standing in front of a life-sized illustration of his detective-heroine—Rosie Sticker, a lady golf pro at a country club.
    “He’s driving me crazy. If he gets started on this new book, we won’t be going anywhere this winter.”
    “You weren’t going anywhere anyway. He’s sick.”
    “I figured in four, five weeks, we could take off for some place warm. He’d be well enough then.”
    “You should buy him one of those portable computers, those notebook things.”
    “What do they do?”
    “They’re small and they work on a battery. They go anywhere. He could sit in the Cadillac and write while you drive.”
    Connie stood up. “Let’s go to Rochester. Think they sell them there?”
    “Probably. Of course, they cost a few thousand.”
    “Rosie Sticker will pay. Let’s go.”
    Homework…or a ride in the Cadillac.
    Didn’t need to flip a coin to make that decision.
    He left a note: Leftovers in fridge. I’ve run off with Connie.
    Road Trip —
    Connie drove fast. Border wasn’t surprised. She drove fast and she talked—about her long-gone first husband, about Paul, his new book, the women at the club where she played cards, her son and his family, about the impending war.
    “Everybody thinks this war with Iraq,” she said, “will be a friggin’ picnic. Don’t they know that war means dead children? And for what? Oil?”
    What would John Farmer say? “Saddam’s kind of a tyrannical bastard, Connie. World War Two happened because no one stopped Hitler, right?”
    “Listen to you! Funny, you don’t look like a Republican. Isn’t that the way, though: Kids always gotta do what drives their parents crazy.”
    “Maybe I believe it.”
    Connie’s voice was low and raspy, scratched raw from years of cigarette smoking. She had stopped when Paul first had signs of heart trouble, but the damage was done. Her voice sounded like the idling engine of a snowplow.
    And it rolled out, laughing. “Maybe you do. Oh, honey, maybe you do.”
    He wanted to ask her about the son that died. He knew the name—Tommy—but not much more. Do you ask people, he wondered, about their dead kids?
    The lady was a mind reader. “Now my son Tommy,” she said, “didn’t believe in much at all. Well, maybe he believed in a good party. I passed that much on to him, I guess. But he did what he had to do. He was a Marine, and Marines go to war. His country said fight, so he fought.”
    “Not my dad.”
    “That’s true enough. He did exactly what he wasn’t supposed to do.”
    “He ran.” Something he hasn’t given up. Toronto, Winnipeg, Detroit, Missoula…
    She shook her head. “Sweet old Gumbo, a draft dodger. Oh, how that shook us all up, I tell you.”
    “Weren’t you mad at him, Connie? I mean, after all, your son died in the war.”
    “Border, for thirty years I lived across the street from your grandparents. And while the kids were growing up, it was like it didn’t matter which house they slept in. Some days would go by and I swear I’d see more of your dad than my own kids, especially if