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  Dana finished and looked at him, too stunned to smile. “I guess this is probably your best day ever,” she said.

  Jacob came in, pulling off his bagger’s apron. “How much?”

  The manager joined them. “Counted it up?”

  “Five hundred dollars,” said Border.

  “Five-seventeen,” said his sister.

  Jacob whistled, the manager giggled. “Boy oh boy, son, if you can bag groceries half as well as you play, you’ve got a job here.”

  Border pushed all the money into the hat. “Jacob, give this to your mom, okay?”

  “Keep some, Border. No one would mind.”

  “No.”

  “At least take minimum wage. More. Take a hundred. Take fifty. Something.”

  “Give it to your mom.”

  Jacob protested, Dana said, “Let’s go out and celebrate,” the manager again offered a job.

  “I’m tired,” said Border. “I need to nap. But one thing, Jacob.”

  “Sure.”

  “I want the hat back.”

  Phone Call—

  He slept for three hours, woke up to an empty house and notes from his dad and sister.

  Dinner with Maggie. Again. Border smiled, remembering how Maggie had come to his defense with celery. Decided he was happy for the old man.

  Come to the McQuillans. We’re playing hearts.

  With how many sisters? Not tonight.

  He’d spent the day in a grocery store and hadn’t eaten a thing. His stomach rumbled, commanding action. He made a six-egg omelet. Wolfed it down, then drank lots of milk straight out of the container. Home alone, why not.

  Five hundred and seventeen dollars. Hard not to think about it. Five-seventeen, and just gave it away. Of course he’d only made that much because people were happy to give to the memorial fund. On his own, what would he make?

  Begging, Jacob had said.

  Better than bagging groceries. If he could just figure out where to play. Courthouse lawn? Probably not, Main Street was dead. Back at the Sav-Mor? Without a cause, he’d get kicked out fast. No begging here, kid.

  Almost seven hours of music. What a marathon. Stupid, really, to keep going that long. But he’d done it. He’d played and he’d played. After all, LICM needed the money.

  His fingers tapped out the melodic muddle running through his head. Brahms and the Jayhawks. Strauss and the Pixies. Border smiled. Maybe Dana was right: He had needed the music.

  The phone rang and he rose slowly. Egg crumbs fell to the floor, got squashed underfoot.

  “A collect call from Stephen Riley. Do you accept the charges?”

  Mental Rolodex flipped. Stephen Riley? Who?

  The electronic operator repeated, “Do you accept the charges?”

  Stephen…? Then, it clicked, almost too late. “Yes, I do. Wow, Riley!”

  A ten-minute conversation, he hardly got a word in.

  “Sorry to call collect, but you know, man, no one has a phone. Dayton’s got disconnected, and well, these pay ones need quarters. How you been? Lord, you leave for Minnesota, you fall off the earth. I was up there once, fishing or something with grandparents, and the mosquitoes were terrible.”

  “How is everyone? I miss Albuquerque.”

  “That’s the thing, you know. Not so good. Weber got busted. The cops stopped him and found two joints in his pocket. He’s only fifteen, so they couldn’t be too tough; they hadn’t done the bust right anyway, but his dad freaked and roughed him up. He took off. I see him now and then, but he’s too scared to show up very often because people are looking for him so they can send him back to get beat up again.”

  “How’s Celeste?”

  “You know what they did? They took her baby. She lost her baby, man. She’d moved in with this guy who was using, and her caseworker freaked, and out of the blue this other guy shows up and says he’s the father, says his parents want the baby. Celeste was so shook up by everyone telling her what to do, she just gave in. Now she has to go to Santa Fe to see it. They’ve got this big place up there, they’re rich artists, you know the type. It’s a crime that she’s gotta go begging at their door to see her own baby.”

  “How’s the burnt kid?”

  “He’s around. Never talks. Not a word, ever. It’s weird. And he always wears gloves.”

  “What about you?”

  “Okay, I guess. I’m busing dishes at the Frontier a couple days a week. My parents are busting my butt ’cause I don’t go to school the way they’d like. What’s the point, right? What I was thinking is, we miss you. We were sitting around today wishing that you would come back. On your own. You’re sixteen, right? If you did, some of us could get an apartment, then everyone would have a place to go. You could put out the hat and play, I’d bus dishes, Celeste…well, if she had a regular place, then she could get the kid back, then she’d start getting checks again. It would work.”

  “I never thought about doing anything like that.”

  “Think about it.”

  “I will. What about the others, are they okay?”

  “They’re around. Maybe not Patch so much. He was in rehab for a month, now he stays close to home. But Winky is here, he’d be in on it, too. The apartment, I mean. You will think about what I was saying, right?”

  Border said he would. He wrote down Riley’s address, promised to write, said good-bye.

  He hung up the phone and leaned against the wall, digesting eggs and news. The light overhead started buzzing. Fizz, spat—it went out. He stood there in the dark. Celeste and her baby, split up. Weber busted and roughed up. The burnt kid freaked. Patch shipped to rehab.

  Come on back, he heard Riley say. Let’s get a place.

  His friends, Albuquerque. All slipping away.

  Money—

  Money was a problem. Not in the way that it was for lots of people in the world, of course. Border only had to ask his father and he’d get it. Or some of it. Or write his mother. But he hated to ask for money, and he hadn’t had to ask for much since he started performing on the streets. He liked earning his own. No strings attached.

  He couldn’t get it out of his mind: five-seventeen at the Sav-Mor. Play, and they will pay. It had always worked in New Mexico, why not Minnesota?

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Jacob said when Border told him what he was thinking. “Maybe in a big city, but not around here.”

  “It worked at the store.”

  “For a cause, Border.”

  “Where’s the nearest big city?”

  “Hundred miles north. Get a job, Border. Tie on an apron and work like the rest of us.”

  Three times a week, Jacob and Dana tied on aprons and bagged at the Sav-Mor. Liz baby-sat and walked dogs for her money. Other kids he knew did other jobs, usually involving fries and hamburgers. Two girls in his math class shelved books at the library; a boy in history sold tickets at the movie theater.

  Border could do all that, if he wanted.

  He wanted to play. Wanted to set out the hat, offer music, let the cash fall at his feet. Wanted to do what he did best. He hatched a plan.

  The Plan, Executed—

  Border got lost in Minneapolis trying to find the University of Minnesota campus. The route on the map looked simple enough, but it hadn’t mentioned anything about delays due to construction. Or the accident that forced a detour. One way streets. Dead ends. Signal repairs that backed up cars at intersections.

  A new city, things to see, but he kept his eyes on bumpers and road signs. Clock ticked away, using up time. Home by four, that was his plan. He hadn’t told anyone what he was doing, just said to his dad, “I feel sort of sick today, think I might throw up. Can I stay home?”

  “Throw up? Okay, I guess. I’ll call you from work.”

  “No, don’t!”

  The old man got suspicious.

  “I want to sleep. That’s what I need, sleep. The machine will be on.”

  Lucky—Dana was working all day, extra hours, saving a
t last for college. Also lucky—she was on a fitness kick, biking to work, wouldn’t need the car. He figured he had until four at the latest to be back home.

  Once he was near campus he couldn’t find parking. Every lot was crammed, and the attendants waved him away. He circled the blocks, hoping.

  “Try the city ramp,” one attendant said, when Border stopped a second time to plead for admittance. The extra driving around the city, the idling in traffic, the circling for parking all drank up gas, and the gauge needle floated right above empty when he entered the ramp. Half a tank to get back to Red Cedar—eight, nine bucks at least. No problem; soon he’d have money.

  He pulled a ticket out of the machine, then noticed the charges. One-fifty an hour.

  No problem; soon he’d have money.

  Others were walking down the parking ramp and Border followed on foot. Everyone headed toward a cluster of orange brick buildings. Bicycles, in-line skaters, streams of kids with backpacks. Border’s spirits lifted. A campus. Already he could hear the music, hear the coins. He felt at home.

  Past orange brick on to a wide open space. A perfect spring day, and everyone was taking time between classes, filling the chairs, crowding the tables. Two bare-chested guys played Frisbee. A coffee cart was doing good business. Border got in line and thought about Mrs. McQuillan, as he ordered a large cup of Sumatran Royal.

  Border looked around, wondering where to set up. Not too close to the tables, he’d irritate people who were trying to study. But too far away, no one could hear. On the far side of the plaza there was a long bridge that led…where? More buildings at the far end. He’d heard it was a big school, and from here it seemed to go on forever.

  Border walked onto the bridge and got bumped by people who needed to get somewhere fast. Under the bridge, a river, the Mississippi, its fast current churning up caramel-colored froth. Border wondered if anything actually lived in the water. Probably three-eyed fish that glowed in the dark.

  Border backtracked and picked a spot where the bridge widened onto the plaza, not far from the chairs, upwind so the sound would carry. He set down his coffee, put out the hat, opened the recorder case. Fished in a pocket and pulled out three ones and a five. All that he had in the world. Set the ones in the hat. Played a few notes, went to work. Smiles, some applause, a few requests.

  One request, not so nice: Pack it up, punk; I’ve gotta study.

  At eleven-thirty he counted the money he’d made. Three-twenty. Mostly quarters and dimes. Keep playing, he needed more.

  He lost the sun at noon. A few students stayed, braving the gray, but most people packed up and moved inside. April in Minnesota, he decided, is only warm if the sun shines. Border kept playing. Applause from the stalwarts, a few quarters more. Twelve-thirty, almost everyone had disappeared and those that remained outside walked past quickly, heads down. He dug out his gloves, the ones with no fingertips. They helped; still, he was stiff and missed notes.

  A bum came by and lunged for the change in the hat. Border was quicker, but not by much. The bum growled, spat on the ground. Walked a few steps away, sat down, started to shout gibberish.

  Louder than Border. What could he do?

  Border gave up. Time to head home. A final count: four-eighty, plus his own eight bucks. His stomach knotted, and he shivered in the wind. He didn’t have enough to get home.

  He closed his eyes and wished himself back to Albuquerque, where it was sunny and warm. Where people knew how to fill a hat.

  He went into a building to use a bathroom, then sat for a while in a coffee shop. No need to hurry now because he would run out of gas and never get there anyway. He browsed through the school paper. Concerts and sports and tuition hikes. Tomorrow’s headline: Campus musician found frozen in car.

  At the parking ramp he was tempted to drive straight through the wooden arm. Bust out, speed away, beat the cops.

  APB: 1984 blue Volvo. Suspect is a male stegosaurus.

  “Four-fifty,” said the attendant. Border paid the fee.

  At the gas station he watched the pump numbers click and the total roll up. His stomach growled. Nothing to eat since breakfast, but he had no money for food. Next time he’d pack a lunch.

  Next time?

  He started the car, begging the gauge needle to go up. It did, to just under half-full. His spirits shot up. Close enough. He might get home. Twenty miles, the needle dropped to a third-full.

  Fifty miles, it fell to under a quarter tank.

  “Lousy mileage!” he shouted. Time for a tune-up.

  Seventy miles, the needle started bouncing on orange.

  Three miles north of Red Cedar, he ran out of gas. The car coasted onto the gravel shoulder, burped, and died. Border checked his watch. Three-thirty. “This could still work,” he said to himself. “I can hike home, bum some money from Dana, find Jacob, and come back with gas. The old man will never know.” He locked the car doors and started walking.

  One mile, it started to rain. Two miles, a hard wind. He tried his thumb, hitchhiking. A pickup slowed, eased over, then accelerated just before hitting a puddle.

  Deluge on Border.

  At the edge of town, he passed a gas station. Stupid, he should have saved a quarter for the phone. Never mind. He’d come this far, why bother to call?

  When he got home he saw his father standing at the window, looking out, probably watching for him.

  Then the door opened and there stood the old man, looking like a general for once in his life.

  “Where have you been? Where’s the car? Okay, Border, this had better be good.”

  Border stepped around him into shelter.

  “Border?”

  Dana was there. She made a slashing move across her throat and left the room.

  “This better be good.”

  Rain and wind, traffic and road construction. The chug, chug, sputter, then silent glide of a dying car.

  Border kicked off his shoes. Mud fell onto the floor. Waterslid off his hair down his neck. “Oh, Dad,” he said. “It wasn’t good at all.”

  Working—

  Was this the old lady who liked her eggs packed on the bottom? Border thought so, started to bag with the eggs. “What are you doing?”

  Wrong lady. Started again, left the eggs for the top. She growled her thanks when he finished and lifted the bag into her arms.

  Jenny, the cashier, clucked her tongue. “She’ll probably go straight to Mr. Pierce and complain.”

  “Some people like the eggs on the bottom. It’s more stable. Hello, sir,” he said to the next customer. “Plastic or paper?” Soup, soup, cat food, soup. After five weeks at the Sav-Mor, Border had achieved bagging perfection. Forty seconds no more—for an exquisitely loaded grocery bag, tip- and rip-proof. Something to be proud of.

  Corn, peas, salsa, tuna. Like the dwarfs, he whistled while he worked. Always his goal to finish the bags before Jenny handed over the receipt. Nice to have goals in life.

  He finished at five and picked up his check in the office. He frowned as usual when he saw the amount. “Street musicians,” he said to his sister, who was looking at hers, “don’t have withholding.”

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Quit your job. Drive to Minneapolis. Earn a fortune. Gosh, little brother, I forget, how did you get home the last time?”

  Funny.

  “Can I get a ride?” Jacob said.

  “Aren’t you working till six?”

  “I begged off. Mr. Pierce let me go. It’s kind of slow for a Saturday.”

  “Too nice outside. People are doing fun things.”

  “Let’s get pizza,” said Dana. “My treat.”

  “Great,” said Border.

  “I was talking to Jacob. You can come, but I’m not treating you.”

  “Let’s pick up Liz,” said Jacob. “She’s been baby-sitting all day, but she’s probably home now. And how about if we all treat the person on our left?”

  “Fine,” said Border. “But no pizza. Let’s go to that
new Chinese place.”

  “How about Italian?”

  “I wouldn’t mind red meat.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Subs, and let’s picnic somewhere.”

  “Saturday night in Red Cedar,” said Jacob. “Who said it couldn’t be fun?”

  Pooch—

  The windows of Jacob’s house were dark. “Mom and Dad and the girls are shopping in Rochester,” he said. “Liz should be home soon.”

  A quiet house. What was different?

  “Pooch,” Jacob called. “Time to go out. Do your thing, Pooch!”

  No woofing and howling, no seventy-pound barrel of dog bursting out of anywhere.

  “Pooch?”

  Liz appeared in the basement doorway. “Jacob, come here.”

  They all followed her down the steps. She switched on a light. Pooch was lying on her doggie bed in the corner.

  “I got home an hour ago and she didn’t come when I called. I found her here.”

  “Is she sick?” Border asked.

  “She’s dead,” said Liz.

  They all sat down by the dog. Border touched her. Cold. Stiff and cold.

  Dana tucked her hands under her arms.

  “She must have been dead all day,” said Liz. “All day alone, dead.”

  Jacob hadn’t said a word, hadn’t touched the dog. Just stared.

  “Call the vet,” said Border. “They know what to do.”

  “No,” whispered Jacob. He turned to Border, eyes narrowed. “You know what they do? They call a garbage truck.”

  Liz and Dana made noises.

  “I got Pooch for my sixth birthday,” said Jacob. “She’s not going out in a garbage truck.”

  “They can cremate, can’t they?”

  “She’s not getting burned up.”

  “Okay, we’ll find a pet cemetery,” said Border. “I’ll go upstairs and call.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Liz. “Our neighbor paid hundreds for her dog’s plot. And it was a small dog. Mom and Dad were amazed. They’d never pay.”

  “Then check with the vet,” said Border.

  “I know what they do,” said Jacob, “and they aren’t doing it to my dog. Pooch gets a grave. I’ll dig it myself.”

  “We’ll help,” said Dana.

  “If Mom and Dad get home first,” said Liz, “they’ll call the vet. We’d better hurry up.”