Hometown Page 3

  Border didn’t want coffee and didn’t want to talk. He stayed outside, leaning against the shovel and looking at the street. Four blocks of nearly identical houses, each with a tidy, snow-covered yard. His was punctuated in the center by a single tree. Snow around it was unmarked, pristine. Perfect for snow angels. He dropped the shovel and stepped into the snow. The crust held him for a moment, then gave way on his third step and he tumbled forward. He felt the cold snow slide into his shoes and shoot up his wrists. A passing car loaded with kids honked. He could see the driver peering, the riders pointing and laughing.

  Border scooped up snow and formed a ball to fling at the car. Childish, but satisfying.

  When it smacked the taillight, the car slowed, the window reeled down, and curses were hurled. Then it gunned and sped away. Border felt stupidly pleased.

  Shopping—

  Border followed Connie around the grocery store. She had insisted on taking him shopping while his father unpacked. Only it was pretty clear she had no interest in groceries. She was too busy talking—to the deli workers, the cart collectors, every third person in the aisles. While she chatted and laughed, he selected food from the shelves and put it in the cart.

  When he was introduced to someone, he’d nod and then stand still while the person studied his face, his clothes, his height. Border on display, just like a sale rack of cookies.

  “…Gumbo Baker’s boy. They’ve come to live in town, you know,” he heard Connie say every five minutes. Then a fresh inspection began. He was civil. Some people harrumphed and turned away, some hugged his shoulders. One lady, who seemed to be a particular friend of Connie’s, clapped her hands on her rosy cheeks and shook her head. “I knew your grandma so well,” she said, and Border wished he’d paid attention to her name. “She put up with so much crap from your grandpa, and it just killed her to have her boy living so far away. We offered—didn’t we, Cons?—we offered to drive her to Canada to see your dad, but she was the good wife, always the good wife, your grandma, in spite of all the BS she took from him. She was just paralyzed, wasn’t she, Cons?”

  Connie nodded.

  “Oh, those were wicked times.”

  Border set some salsa in the cart. So he had a family with a past. Well, he’d always known that, but all these people in this grocery store seemed to know a lot more about it than he did.

  The strange lady with red hair (Border wondered about the color of her car) got a little choked up. “Gol darn it,” she said, “if she weren’t dead already, why it would just kill her to see you, all big like this, and those years you were little just gone and lost.”

  Lord, tears. And these were worse, coming from a stranger. Border reached for soup cans, two for $1.99, but he didn’t make it; instead, smack in the center of aisle five, he got hugged hard by a nice-smelling, red-haired lady.

  A Boy and His Car—

  It didn’t take long to settle in because they hadn’t brought many belongings. After all, the house was fully furnished. It even came with a late-model Oldsmobile in the garage.

  “You love the Volvo, so will this car be mine?” Border asked, hopeful. He pictured himself driving the Olds with a load of friends along, cruising down Central in Albuquerque, or heading out to the hills. A road trip to the Grand Canyon. Who wants to go? Hop in!

  He frowned. They’d need a special seat for Celeste’s baby.

  Border ran his hand over the hood, over the gleaming maroon surface.

  Of course! He would do what Connie did: He’d color his hair to match his car. Perfect.

  “Your car?” his father said. “Are you crazy?”

  First Night—

  Border was in bed by ten—nothing else to do—but he didn’t sleep because his father was making too much noise prowling around the house. Around eleven he heard him talking on the phone.

  “It’s all so weird, Jeff. You warned me…”

  Border sighed and rolled over so that he could look out a window. When his father got talking to his old friend Jeff, Connie’s kid, sometimes they didn’t let go for an hour. He wondered if he’d have an old friend to call when he was pushing forty. Doubted it. What with all the moving around, the closest he’d ever come to having a best friend was this past year in Albuquerque, when he met Riley and the others. He couldn’t imagine calling any of them when he needed to talk. Hard to reach any of them by phone, of course. And then it had always seemed to work the other way; they called him.

  Border, I’m at the shelter, it’s a bad scene, come get me.

  I’m in labor, Border, and my mother’s too drunk to drive me to the hospital.

  Would you loan me ten bucks?

  He could call Dana. Awful, really, to think that he’d turn forty someday, and his sister would be his one friend. His sister.

  His father finished talking on the phone and, cheered, whistled as he closed down the house for the night. He paused at Border’s door, knocked, and peeked in.

  “You aren’t really asleep, right?”

  “Not now.”

  “I’m feeling okay about this. Are you feeling okay?”

  Dad, puh-leez. “Can I answer that later?”

  “Good night, Border.”

  Border burrowed into the bedding. Okay with this? With bedtime at ten, spruce green curtains, Minnesota?

  Puh-leez.

  First Day—

  His father took the Olds to work.

  “Wait,” Border said, before he backed out of the garage. And he ran inside, found the camera, and returned to the garage to take a picture. “Mom should see this,” he said as he snapped. “You in a big new car.” His father didn’t think it was funny and made a face in time to be recorded by the camera.

  “Good luck,” Border said.

  “Go to school,” his father replied.

  Border went out for breakfast. Trying to remember the route he’d taken with Connie, he drove around town for half an hour, looking for the grocery store because he remembered it had a coffee shop. He didn’t find it, which was no easy trick; it was a small town.

  He did find the main street, and there was a restaurant across from the courthouse.

  Border walked in and people looked up. He sat in a booth, greeted the waitress, and ordered eggs.

  Two old men wearing denim jackets and caps swiveled around on their counter stools. Red Cap spoke. “Skipping school?” They laughed, the waitress too.

  “Eating breakfast,” he answered.

  “Eating breakfast, then skipping school?”

  A cop walked into the cafe, slung his jacket on a hook, took command of a stool. The old men greeted him and both pointed at Border.

  “Got a truant for you,” said Blue Cap.

  Cop raised an eyebrow.

  Border, picturing a police escort to school for his first appearance, thought fast. “Doctor’s appointment.”

  Cop lost interest, turned to the coffee the waitress was pouring for him.

  “Something serious?” asked Red Cap, looking concerned.

  Border thought of make-believe, shut-you-up answers: AIDS, cancer, girlfriend’s obstetrician. “Dermatologist,” he said.

  The old men and the waitress talked then about their grandchildren, and the flaws they possessed—mostly bad complexions and bad driving records.

  Border didn’t hide that he was listening. “I’ve never had an accident,” he said. “Unless you count the time I hit a pigeon.”

  Ha, ha, they liked that.

  “So long, big fella,” the waitress said when he paid his check. “And they’ve got real good stuff for your problem now. Just you see.”

  Good stuff for his problem? Like an Oldsmobile, a gas credit card, a clear road to the Southwest?

  He found the high school and drove around it twice, thinking, This is it, the scene of my new life. It was an old building, three stories of red brick spread over two blocks. Pausing at a stop sign, he glanced up and saw a boy looking out a school window. The boy spotted Border, waved, then pressed his
body against the glass, arms spread, mouth open.

  “Let me out of here!” Border shouted for him.

  Chicken, Dad—

  He spent the afternoon at home fixing a big meal for supper. His dad’s first day at work; the old man should be rewarded. He made cookies, he roasted chicken, he mashed potatoes, he tossed a salad.

  His father was late. Border ate alone.

  When he did arrive, his father was apologetic. “I didn’t know you’d do this. It was hard to get away.”

  “How did it go? Did anyone remember Gumbo the draft dodger? Did they give you trouble?”

  “They gave me a cake. It had red roses and ‘Welcome Home’ on it. I knew three of the nurses and the x-ray tech from high school. They’ve never left town. Amazing.”

  “No trouble at all?”

  His father shook his head slowly. “It was a great day, Border. How was yours? How was school?”

  “I went to the school.”

  “What?”

  “I drove around a few times, then came home. Don’t be so glum. I wanted to make a good supper for you. That takes time.”

  The old man’s great day was over. He sat wearily in a kitchen chair, alternately looking at his son and the television. A reporter in Saudi Arabia had surrounded herself with eager and happy soldiers, all of them waiting to take on Saddam Hussein.

  “I am just so proud,” one shouted into the reporter’s microphone, “to be an American soldier.”

  “Turn it off and eat, Dad,” Border said. “Have some—” Oops.

  His father looked at the leftovers on the table, then looked at his son. A smile returned to his face. “Some what, Border?” The small kitchen was filled with TV noise, with the whooping and cheering of American soldiers five thousand miles from home, proud and ready to fight a war. “Chicken.”

  Time Runs Out—

  Border procrastinated. He stalled. He faked sick. He did everything he could think of to avoid going to school. He had to, because whenever he thought of walking into a classroom for the first time, his stomach roiled, his head reeled, and he wished himself dead.

  His father allowed this. Bent over backward to be sympathetic and understanding. “When you’re ready,” he said. Border recognized guilt, and he let it simmer.

  Paul and Connie came for supper one night. They drove over, backing up to the garage. Border cooked polio en adobo, and Paul watched the final preparations, nodding approvingly when he let loose with the chilis.

  The food was good, and it was impossible not to laugh with Connie around. Paul and the old man wanted to watch news. The deadline for the UN’s ultimatum to Iraq was approaching. Connie would have none of it. “The last war took enough out of me,” she said. “I’ll have nothing to do with this one.”

  Her oldest son had died in Vietnam, a Marine. Border wanted to know what she thought of his father, the draft dodger. He swallowed the question. He’d ask another time.

  Paul pushed back from the table. “Gumbo,” he said, and Border saw his father wince; the old nickname grated. “If Border were my son, tomorrow morning I’d grab him by the neck and march him to the high school.”

  Border looked around, saw Connie nodding, saw his father blush, saw Paul reach for more rice. He knew then he’d be back in school tomorrow.

  “That’s the last time I cook for you, Paul,” he said.

  “Then we’ll eat at my house,” Paul answered. “Sunday?”

  School—

  Border shook hands with the guidance counselor, who was gung ho. A grinning boy came up to him. “I’ll be your guide,” he said. “I’m a sophomore, too. We have homeroom and two classes together. Do you play hockey? Football? With your size, you’d be great.”

  Border thought, You’re why I hate high school. He spoke, “I play recorder.”

  The boy smiled. “Cool,” he said.

  Homeroom hell. Thirty faces looked up, thirty minds came to conclusions. Thirty-one: Border decided he hated them all. While the teacher checked over the papers Border handed her, he looked out the window. Snowy yards, slushy streets, big American cars crawling toward the small downtown.

  Border closed his eyes and was on the campus at UNM, playing for money while Riley and Weber and the others joked, tossed a ball, and Celeste fed her baby.

  He took a seat and stretched his legs. He rubbed a hand over the sandpaper-roughness of his pimpled face. He pretended no one was looking.

  “Border Baker, welcome to Red Cedar High School,” the teacher chirped.

  She was young and eager. Border didn’t smile.

  She said, “Tell us something about yourself!”

  Border stiffened. Felt his neck go red, felt his zits bulge. But he sensed he could sit silently forever, and she’d wait. So he spoke: “I don’t want to be here.”

  She was shocked, she was speechless. Not the students. No—they roared, they clapped, they shouted and stamped. Border, surprised, smiled and looked around while his fingers tapped frantically on his thighs.

  First hour was a mental muddle. Second hour a blurry nightmare. Third hour Border got hungry, realized then that he’d forgotten to pack a lunch and neglected to take lunch money. By fourth hour he was gnawing on pencils—nervous work for his jaws. A boy noticed and called him Woodchuck; then others picked it up and by seventh period he couldn’t walk down the hall without some guy dipping his head in greeting and saying, “Hey, Chuck.”

  “Day one, and I survived,” he said to himself as he made a fast, head-down exit to his car the instant the final bell rang. “I’ll have to tell my mother.”

  And he did. Went straight home, wolfed down a snack, and called his mother. Not that he expected her to be home. Two-thirty in Santa Fe, she’d be at the lab—his favorite time to call. He liked talking to her machine. It never asked questions.

  Message—

  Okay, here’s an update. You will be glad to know I finally went to school. It was pretty special. Did you love high school? You’ve never told me. I bet you didn’t. I bet most people don’t, which makes me wonder why adults get thoroughly freaked when their kids don’t like it. But maybe you did. Maybe you were just the most popular kid in school and you never told us. Were you ever prom queen, or anything? Is that a secret you don’t want your kids to know? C’mon, Mom, tell me.

  Heard from Dana? Tell the rat to call.

  It’s snowing again and it’s cold. Thought you’d want to know.

  New Boy—

  Day two didn’t go any better, though he remembered to bring a lunch. A hometown hero was visiting and there was a special assembly. The hero was introduced as a brilliant student, Red Cedar’s best ever, with a track record that included Yale, Cambridge, and Columbia. Now he was a top aide to some state department honcho. But not too important to come back for his grandmother’s funeral and talk to the kids at his old high school.

  “George Bush is the greatest leader in the world!” the hero crowed. “And watch out, Saddam—we are going to kick your Iraqi butt!”

  While the auditorium erupted, Border sat quietly, wondering about the value of an expensive education.

  They had a pop quiz in history. Border stared at the sheet of questions a full minute before raising his hand.

  “Hmm, yes, New Boy?” the teacher said, frowning.

  “I just got here, sir, and my old school was covering different stuff.”

  “Hmm, try your best.”

  He blew it. He confused the Preamble of the Constitution with the Declaration of Independence. Ten points. He couldn’t identify names on a list, couldn’t tell who was a general or who was a delegate to the Constitutional Convention or who was an explorer. Another ten. He thought the Articles of Confederation had something to do with the Civil War. The Confederacy, right? Six points.

  It added up to a big fat F.

  That was all he was seeing and thinking about when he left history. Which was why he didn’t see the boy lurking by his locker, why he was surprised when suddenly there were hands
on his shoulders and he was slammed against the gray steel door.

  The big fat F in Border’s eyes dissolved into the boy’s face.

  “Yeah?” said Border.

  “Your dad’s the draft dodger, right?”

  “You got a name?”

  “My name, you stinking son of a worthless traitor, is Bryan. Welcome to Red Cedar. My uncle used to be in school with your dad, and you know what he says? He says your dad fried his brains with drugs. Says he was called Gumbo because that’s what his mind was like, after all the stuff he did. He says your dad oughta be forgiven for running from the draft ’cuz he was so drug-soaked, he didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “He knew.”

  “That’s what I think. I also think that when we start dropping bombs on Saddam, you know what we oughta send along?”

  “Tell me, Bryan.”

  “The brainless, gutless body of every draft-dodging cowardly traitor.”

  “You want to talk brains, Bryan?” Border said cheerfully. “Well, I bet yours wouldn’t fill a nut cup.”

  Border moved first, so Bryan’s fist and knee collided with the locker.

  Message, II—

  Hello, all you residents of 1010 Baldwin. Residents and drifters, lovers and friends. I suppose there are a few of all those hanging around. So what else is new? Whoever gets to this first, please tell my mother that her son got clobbered in school today. Cool, huh? This beefy gorilla just had to tell me what he thought about my father the draft dodger. I suspect this is not the first time a student in an American school has had a violent encounter with a steel locker. Maybe they should make those things out of something else. I’m fine. But I thought you might want to know, Mom. Maybe put it in a show. Get to the heart of it when you’re on stage. I even have a title for you: Sins of the Father. Of course, you’d have to do a little cross-dressing, but you’ve done that. Like the show where you played me. Remember? The show where you had the audience rolling on the floor as you reenacted my only attempt at athletics? The show where you got up in front of people night after night and talked about your son, the hopeful little leaguer who stopped a line drive with his unprotected nuts. What did you call that show? Oh, yeah, I remember: Private Parts.