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—Don’t worry if you hit the nose. It’s been broken so many times I can’t feel a thing.

—This is permanent marker, I say.

—Nothing’s permanent, he says.

So I sign Lyn G. quickly and then I buy mine: five Irans, three Afghanistans, two North Koreas. It’s easy to feel horrible about this kind of purchase—being a pacifist and all—but if it’s going to happen anyway, I just want to make enough money so Allison doesn’t have to worry as much about my brother, Thad.

Next time I’ll probably spread out, hit more countries, but I’m certain Iran is the place for war, that Afghanistan’s a close runner up. Tommy, my seventh father, thinks so. He lives inside the newspaper, and we have a deal—we’re going to split the money if either of us wins, so he wouldn’t steer me wrong. They say the proceeds go to fighting terrorism here and abroad—well, at least 2 percent. So you could say we’re betting on death, or you could say it’s the other way around.

When I reach for the change, the clerk says, —You guys aren’t screwing with me, right? You’re the daughter of SEVEN Glads?

I shrug because of course it’s true, but when I hear it said aloud like that I think of weirdness, of odd attractions out in the desert where people pay a buck to see a live chicken without a head. It’s moments like this I wish I were finished being a daughter. But I know you have to be careful about what you wish for.

—Sick, he says, and winks at Allison.

I wait until we’re home, the last of the frozen items put away, which is practically all we buy now, except for razor blades, shampoo, and stuff. Six months ago Allison bought a mega freezer and ever since then she’s been down on fresh produce. And maybe there’s some consolation in knowing we can preserve everything we want till the end of time.

I watch her load the sink with the breakfast dishes now, the water running hard. She avoids the dishwasher, saying it wears out the plates.

—Can’t you just say I’m Tommy’s daughter? I ask.

—What are you talking about? she says.

—That guy at the store thought I was some freak of nature. He didn’t have to know I’m the daughter of seven gladiators.

—You take these things too seriously, Lynie.

—And you make me sound like I’m the product of seven types of DNA.

Allison is having a tough time getting the detergent to squirt out into the sink. She’s forgotten to remove the cardboard plug inside the cap. I watch her struggle until she gets the bottle open. Then she gives me this look, like all safety devices are my fault.

—I think people get the concept of stepfathers, she says, and looks out at her beloved garden. —I think people like knowing that a widow can remarry.

—And remarry and remarry, I say, raising my voice. —Not everyone is that interested in my lineage, Allison. And not everyone loves Glad culture the way you do.

Unwilling to negotiate the bottle another second, she throws it as hard as she can and the blue soap arcs across the kitchen, douses the linoleum, hits the dining room table, spatters the satin chairs, and soaks my legs. She’s been through a lot and I love my mother, but she can go off like a Roman candle. Like six months ago when we were driving out in Worcester, going 75 on a 45 mph road, and she kept needling me to talk about my plans for the future, and I finally had to tell her.

—I’m not planning on being a Glad wife.

She practically pulled underneath some guy’s rear bumper, as if she were begging him to make a sudden stop. Most of the time she’s not like that, and I think whiplash is largely a state of mind. And shortly after the anger subsided Allison went crazy with remorse. Sometimes she has full-blown panic attacks like she did that day and I had to take her to the ER, and pretty soon that whole business—my identity—was about her.

But I know what she’s suffered, so I help her clean up, and cleaning up soap is not an easy task because it keeps trying to clean the thing you’re trying to clean. I finally suggest that she go lie down and I’ll finish up. She stops crying