She slowly came to me then stopped and looked at my shoes, just before I picked her up."That's funny those look like the shoes I bought for my honeymo...n," she clucked."They are you silly goose," I said petting her neck."I'm not a goose," she said nervously."No, but you're a dead duck," I said snapping her neck and tossing her to the back of the cell.I watched her body cavort around for a bit not knowing it was already dead. I looked down at my hands. All that and I hadn't chipped a nail.I. When Eduardo and Katrina met, my mom was a Swedish foreign studenteager to reject the boring moral certainties of Stockholm. My fatherwas a refugee from Pinochet's right wing purge in Chile. They hookedup as grad students at Berkeley in the late seventies, radicalpolitics blended with wanderlust, spiced with cocaine- and Quaalude-laced Seventies disco fever.Twenty years and a generation passed. Their baby boomer cohort, onceskinny, radical hippies, had evolved, first into the. More

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