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school?”
    “We offer a four-week course on resume writing. Or the 12-week one on choosing your career is popular. You’ll get a $200 discount if you take both.”
    “Wait a minute,” I say. “What about taking some courses at the university? Maybe I could finish my degree in business administration? That might help pump up my resume.”
    “Aren’t you on the GI Bill?” the counselor asks.
    That’s it. I’m going straight over to the university to reactivate as a full-time student. VA will pay for it. I’m a veteran, after all, and time is running out for me to use up my benefit.
    I drive over to the university, park, and wander around looking for the registrar’s office. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on campus: there’re not only two new bars, but convenient shopping, too. Dingwall University boasts a gleaming student center complete with banking machines, a variety of retail outlets and a fast food court. The classrooms and library are now tucked well out of the way of hungry student shoppers looking for a quick bite to eat.
    Suddenly, I can’t wait to begin my scholarly lifestyle: challenging my intellect with cutting-edge treatises, the thrill of classroom discussion and debate, the stimulus of mind meeting minds, the on-campus bars.
    I am so last minute with registering for the summer semester, there isn’t much left to choose from: the Registrar said I was lucky tosnag my seats in Financial Management and Organizational Behavior. To fill up the rest of my slate I had to settle for Modern American Poetry, but at least it will be an easy A. And who could resist Feminist Interpretations of Drumming, and a seminar in Thigh Chi: Walking Meditation?
     
    Donald rolls in from work and greets me in his usual way, a quick peck on the cheek, looking completely innocent, as if nothing has happened. Of course, I have no way of knowing if something has happened by looking at him. If I confront him, he is likely to deny any wrongdoing. Bibienne advised me to lay low and watch out for more clues. For now, the card is stashed in my lingerie drawer.
    I don’t have a shred of a chance to talk to him anyway: Olympia leaps at Donald as soon as he sets down his briefcase. “Daddy,” she shrieks. “We have to plan my birthday party, remember?”
    I sit back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. After all, I won the camping bet fair and square; time for Donald to deliver. Besides, he’s never organized a kid’s birthday party before: it’s high time he took his turn.
    Donald opines that perhaps two little friends could pop by after dinner for a slice of birthday cake. “Half an hour is about right for these things, eh?” He looks at me for reassurance.
    I look away quickly: it’s critical to avoid eye contact in these situations; I wouldn’t want pangs of sympathy to cloud my judgment and mess up the thrill of witnessing his final undoing.
    Olympia is demanding a major theme party—say, pirates. With at least twenty-five friends. And lots of games. And feasting. And a sleepover. Like all the other kids’ parties.
    Donald is helpless in the face of birthday buccaneering. He’s reduced to begging me for guidance. I want to say, “Did you know there’s a dodgy note on a business card tucked under my trashy lace-up camisole at the back of my lingerie drawer?” Instead, I offer a hint to Donald that he could organize a backyard treasure hunt and perhaps Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Donald could be the donkey.
    Then, I add, cruelly, “Oh—and don’t forget to do the loot bags.”
    Donald gives me a blank stare. He’s doomed. My evil twin pipes up to suggest that he take Olympia to the mall to settle the selection of party hats and invitations.
    Olympia is requesting drums for a birthday gift. I’m thinking more in the way of a quiet little watch. I’m diverted from thoughts of quiet little watches by the sounds of a gunfight and explosives coming from the driveway. Peering through the