Hometown Page 4

  Choices—

  The off-the-hook signal beeped in his ear and Border hung up the phone, glad he hadn’t actually dialed. Soon after the separation he’d figured out that it wasn’t smart to leave really disturbing messages. She panicked easily: Come for the weekend! We have to talk! His personal rule for family communication: Limit the bad news, limit the sarcasm. Keep it sweet, keep ’em happy, keep ’em quiet.

  He checked the clock and frowned. An hour to suppertime and it was his turn to cook. That’s how they did things. Any other way would be oppressive. His parents hated oppression, especially in a family. So they took turns. Cooking, shopping, taking out garbage, cleaning, school conferences—no, not that; they usually went together, even when they were no longer living together.

  Border suspected they had taken turns with love affairs, but he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t talked about, and not all the family’s private parts turned up in his mother’s shows.

  He checked the fridge for leftovers. “Bless ya Dad,” he said, spotting the cold pot roast. His father believed in taking turns, but he was realistic; his turn, he always made too much.

  Border sat at the kitchen table with cookies and milk, thinking back to the days when they didn’t have cookies and milk. No sweets, back then, and for a year or so, they were lactose-free. That was in Fort Collins, between Missoula and Albuquerque. Part of fourth, all of fifth, part of sixth grade. That’s how he remembered the places they’d lived: by the grades he was in.

  He hummed his father’s favorite, John Lennon: “…places I remember…” Fingers tapped. Playing the Beatles was always good for huge money. On the plaza in Old Town, he’d rip off a few Beatles’ songs, the sweet ballads, and the baby boomers would go wild. Pats on the head, bills in the hat. Whatta kick, they’d say, to see such a punk playing the Beatles. Isn’t he a sweet boy? Those days, if he could stomach an afternoon of Lennon and McCartney, Border would go home with near a hundred bucks.

  He turned on the TV. War news. No, prewar news. Today was it, the ultimatum deadline, and Saddam hadn’t pulled out of Kuwait. The reporter was interviewing an American general, who stared sternly at the camera and said something belligerent about needing the support of the American people. Border cringed, expecting the general to reach out of the TV and slam him against the wall.

  You son-of-a-traitor.

  “I am not,” Border shouted. “I’m the son of a…of a nurse!”

  “Who you shouting at, honey?”

  Border twisted in his chair, just as Connie walked into the kitchen. She tossed her keys and purse onto the counter and pulled open the refrigerator door. “You boys got any of that funny-flavored water?”

  “Did you knock?”

  “No. Should I? I will if you want me to. Paul says I should. He’s usually right. Who were you yelling at?”

  “TV.”

  “That’s useless.”

  “Feels good.”

  “So do a lot of things, hon, but that doesn’t mean it’s smart to do them. How was school?”

  Border hit the off button on the remote. “I got jumped.”

  She pulled out a chair and sat. “What?”

  “This guy called me the worthless son of a traitor, or maybe it was the son of a worthless traitor. The son of something. We had an assembly and it was pretty much a war rally. He was pumped up and I was in his way.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell the principal?”

  Border rolled his eyes.

  “I think you should, hon. She’s a sharp gal. I play bridge with her at the club. She’d do something. I think—”

  “Connie, have you ever been the new kid in school? Have you even been in a high school lately? I am not whining to the principal. And don’t you dare tell her. Or Dad. Sorry I even mentioned anything. Dead issue. What are you up to?”

  She thought a bit before answering, not wanting to change the subject. Then she sighed and shrugged. “Paul told me to get out of his way. He’s working and I’m a distraction.”

  “That’s good that he’s writing again.” Both Connie and Paul had worked for forty years at the local meat-packing plant, Porter’s Pork. Three months into retirement, Paul had gotten restless and gotten inspired. He started writing a novel, a murder mystery.

  Five years and four mysteries later, Paul Sanborn was a well-known author. There’d even been an article on his books in People magazine, one that included a photo of him standing in front of a life-sized illustration of his detective-heroine—Rosie Sticker, a lady golf pro at a country club.

  “He’s driving me crazy. If he gets started on this new book, we won’t be going anywhere this winter.”

  “You weren’t going anywhere anyway. He’s sick.”

  “I figured in four, five weeks, we could take off for some place warm. He’d be well enough then.”

  “You should buy him one of those portable computers, those notebook things.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They’re small and they work on a battery. They go anywhere. He could sit in the Cadillac and write while you drive.”

  Connie stood up. “Let’s go to Rochester. Think they sell them there?”

  “Probably. Of course, they cost a few thousand.”

  “Rosie Sticker will pay. Let’s go.”

  Homework…or a ride in the Cadillac.

  Didn’t need to flip a coin to make that decision.

  He left a note: Leftovers in fridge. I’ve run off with Connie.

  Road Trip—

  Connie drove fast. Border wasn’t surprised. She drove fast and she talked—about her long-gone first husband, about Paul, his new book, the women at the club where she played cards, her son and his family, about the impending war.

  “Everybody thinks this war with Iraq,” she said, “will be a friggin’ picnic. Don’t they know that war means dead children? And for what? Oil?”

  What would John Farmer say? “Saddam’s kind of a tyrannical bastard, Connie. World War Two happened because no one stopped Hitler, right?”

  “Listen to you! Funny, you don’t look like a Republican. Isn’t that the way, though: Kids always gotta do what drives their parents crazy.”

  “Maybe I believe it.”

  Connie’s voice was low and raspy, scratched raw from years of cigarette smoking. She had stopped when Paul first had signs of heart trouble, but the damage was done. Her voice sounded like the idling engine of a snowplow.

  And it rolled out, laughing. “Maybe you do. Oh, honey, maybe you do.”

  He wanted to ask her about the son that died. He knew the name—Tommy—but not much more. Do you ask people, he wondered, about their dead kids?

  The lady was a mind reader. “Now my son Tommy,” she said, “didn’t believe in much at all. Well, maybe he believed in a good party. I passed that much on to him, I guess. But he did what he had to do. He was a Marine, and Marines go to war. His country said fight, so he fought.”

  “Not my dad.”

  “That’s true enough. He did exactly what he wasn’t supposed to do.”

  “He ran.” Something he hasn’t given up. Toronto, Winnipeg, Detroit, Missoula…

  She shook her head. “Sweet old Gumbo, a draft dodger. Oh, how that shook us all up, I tell you.”

  “Weren’t you mad at him, Connie? I mean, after all, your son died in the war.”

  “Border, for thirty years I lived across the street from your grandparents. And while the kids were growing up, it was like it didn’t matter which house they slept in. Some days would go by and I swear I’d see more of your dad than my own kids, especially if your grandpa was in one of his moods. Lord knows I fed them all often enough. Then those little boys grew up. Tommy was killed. Jeff and your uncle managed to escape the draft, but not Gumbo. They called his number, and he couldn’t face it, so he ran. Oh, I was worried for him, but I wasn’t mad, Border. It was a war you couldn’t believe in; one boy dying was enough.”

  She p
ressed two fingers to her lips and inhaled, breathing in a ghost.

  Connie quit talking and played music. The Cadillac had a good sound system and she had a library of tapes. “Enough to get us to Florida and back without repeating a single one,” she told him. She popped in Aretha Franklin and let it blast.

  “Maudie bought me this,” she shouted over the music. Maud was her son’s wife. “She and I took a trip to the Ozarks last summer, just the two of us, and she didn’t like any of my tapes, so she made me stop in Kansas City to buy something she did like. Now I think it’s my favorite.”

  Border leaned his head against the leather seat and let his fingers tap while Connie sang along with the Queen of Soul.

  He thought about how every child has four grandparents. Odds were a kid would know at least one. He hadn’t. All four dead. Two before he was even born, the other two before they’d admit him into their lives. He closed his eyes and conjured up grandparents. What would they be like? Maybe one would look a little like Colonel John Farmer. Maybe one was an artist. Maybe one…

  Stupid. His family was his family. What they were, that’s all he had.

  He opened his eyes and saw that it was snowing. Connie drove on, oblivious, doing eighty. He shifted in his seat, and she turned her head, caught his eye, and winked.

  Driving in the Car with Connie—

  The computer salesman couldn’t believe his luck. Connie took five minutes to find what she wanted, another five to be persuaded to buy an armload of accessories, five more to pay. In under twenty minutes, she was back in the car with a four-thousand-dollar surprise for her husband.

  “Hope he likes it,” Border said.

  “He’d better. I’ll give it to him tonight, but I’ll call it a birthday present. His birthday is in two weeks. Now I don’t have to get him that rototiller. Oh my gosh, look at this snow. When did this start?”

  “On the way here. You didn’t notice?”

  “You had me thinking too hard, hon. Rats. I thought maybe we could stop somewhere for a nice steak. It’s not much of a town, but they do have some decent restaurants that know how to grill a chunk of beef.”

  “Maybe we should head home. Dad might be worried. And Paul might want to use his new toy.”

  She paused before inserting the ignition key. “I might be wrong about this. He might never get out of that chair now. Just sit in the recliner in his pajamas with this machine on his lap and crank out his sexy mysteries.”

  “Are they sexy?”

  “You haven’t read one of Paul’s books?”

  “I don’t really like mysteries.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Border. I’ve only read one. Part of one, really. When I came across the very first bedroom scene, I said to myself, I don’t want to know this. Don’t want to know what my husband is about to tell the world.”

  He couldn’t quite imagine her caring and was about to say so, but she pulled the mind-reading trick again.

  “I don’t talk about everything.”

  She didn’t talk at all on the way back to Red Cedar. Border felt chatty, and it seemed like a good chance to hear about his dad’s family and childhood, but he was good at reading adult signals, so he kept his mouth closed. Another time.

  Border hummed a tune, an original, tapping it out. Da-da-da-da-da-da-DE-da.

  Driving in the car with KA-nee.

  Better than playing pyroball.

  Bombs Away—

  On the fridge, a note for Border: Paul made chili. I’m at his house. The war has started and we are watching. You are welcome. Your mother called twice, you might want to call her. Dana has disappeared.

  III

  War

  Missing—

  Border was hungry, but he wanted information. He called his mother, got her machine.

  Hi, this is Diana. Please leave a message, especially if you are my daughter. Is this a joke, Dana? Where are you? I’m at Lee’s. Call me there.

  Lee was the new lover, not a favorite of Border or Dana. He wouldn’t call her there; doubted if Dana would. He left a message: She’ll turn up, Mom.

  Would she?

  “Do you know anything, Dad? What did Mom tell you?” he asked as soon as he walked into Connie and Paul’s living room. The men had finished eating, but Connie was just sitting down to a bowl of chili. Paul was examining the new computer. Border tossed his jacket onto a chair.

  His father shrugged. “Not much. Her grandparents put her on the plane in South Carolina, she had to switch in Atlanta, and she didn’t get off in Albuquerque.”

  “So she’s in Atlanta,” Border said.

  “I refuse to be worried,” said his father.

  “Gumbo!” said Connie.

  Paul tapped at the computer on his lap.

  “Maybe he’s right,” said Border. “My sister is smart; no one could hurt her.” He sat next to his father on the sofa. “She bites.”

  Connie made a face. “Don’t joke. Do you really think she just took off because she didn’t want to go home?”

  Border and his father exchanged looks, then both smiled. “Yes,” said Border.

  Connie sighed. “Then I won’t worry, either.” She sank back in her chair.

  “Chili’s in the kitchen,” said Paul. “Help yourself.” He didn’t look up. Tap tap, tap tap.

  Watching the War—

  The chili was good and Border had seconds. Just as he was refilling his bowl, he heard his father swear, then moan. Must be the president, thought Border, or he’s thinking of Dana. He turned around to look at the TV screen through the kitchen doorway and sure enough there was George Bush, his somber face filling the screen.

  The president looked straight at the camera, at the American people, and made promises that first night of war. He said the liberation of Kuwait would not be another Vietnam, and Border’s father groaned. He said he had not, would not, tie the hands of the military leadership in carrying out the war. He said he thought it would not last long, nor would there be many casualties.

  “American,” said Border’s father. “He means American casualties.”

  He and Connie began a gentle argument, but Border didn’t pay attention because the war was more interesting. CNN had reporters in Baghdad, where the missiles were hitting. The target area, all the grim analysts and generals on the screen called it.

  One reporter, trapped in Baghdad, called it something else: the center of hell.

  Paul, too, was more interested in what was on TV than in arguing, though he wasn’t so mesmerized that he stopped typing on the new computer.

  “Huh!” Connie said and rose from her chair. “I’ve heard enough from you, Gumbo. Who needs a drink?”

  “I do,” said Border. “Scotch and soda.” He was ignored.

  “One more thing,” said his father, “just one more thing, Connie.”

  “What?” she snarled. Border frowned—not so gentle an argument, after all. “Are you going to tell me Hussein isn’t evil? Are you going to tell me that the whole United Nations is wrong? Bloody hell, Gumbo, never before, not once, have the countries on this planet been so unified. That’s wrong? Are you going to say that?”

  “I’m going to say,” the old man said slowly as he scrunched his soda can in two, “that I wish you wouldn’t call me Gumbo. I haven’t used that name in years.”

  Connie leaned against the door jamb. “Since when?”

  “Not for years.”

  “Pierre? Do you want me to call you that? Your first name?”

  Border rose. “He uses his middle name.”

  “Crosby?” she said after a moment.

  “Yes,” said Border’s father.

  Paul shifted and his thigh rolled onto the TV’s remote control. The channel abruptly switched, and all eyes jerked to the set as a dark picture from the local access station filled the screen. Where there had been a war, now little girls danced in recital.

  “Crosby,” whispered Paul.

  “Oh, honey,” Connie said. “For almost
forty years I’ve called you Gumbo.”

  “Jeff and Maud call him Crosby,” Border said. “And how about that Scotch?”

  “Not when they’re talking to me,” said Connie, ignoring the rest. “Forty years. Why you got that name when…when…I can’t even remember.”

  “I’ll fix the drinks,” said Border. “How do I do it?”

  Paul shifted again, thigh on remote, and the war resumed.

  “Whatever,” Border’s father said. “I guess I don’t care.”

  Connie leaned over and kissed his head. She straightened. “Can’t believe how much gray hair you boys have.” The gray-haired boy, not her own, stood and they hugged.

  “Time will tell about this war, I guess,” he said.

  “Hope for the best.”

  “Crosby,” Paul whispered again. “What a great name.” He tapped rapidly on the keyboard.

  Border went into the kitchen and helped Connie fix cocoa.

  Protest—

  The next day a demonstration began during fifth period, but Border didn’t know anything was happening because at that moment he was in the nurse’s office, sitting in his briefs and staring at a poster on infant nutrition while the nurse, Mrs. Neelon, swabbed ointment on his left thigh. Fifteen minutes earlier, in the middle of science lab, Michaela Engle had spilled acid.

  “Oops,” she’d said as she stumbled and the clear liquid sloshed out of the vial onto Border’s thigh, where it sizzled and smoked and burned holes through the denim.

  He watched the burning, speechless, his eyes getting wider when the acid reached flesh.

  “Geez and crackers!” he groaned at last.

  “Sorry,” said Michaela. “At least those are old jeans.”

  “True,” Border said stiffly. “But it’s a new leg.”

  *

  “Maybe I should just go home,” he said to the nurse.

  “Can’t do that,” she answered cheerfully. “I had Joyce wash the acid off those pants and now they’re in the dryer.”

  “You have a dryer in school?”

  “You bet. A washer, too. We’re always cleaning up kids. Vomit, mostly. This is the first time we’ve done acid.” She straightened, turned away, froze. “Oh my goodness, look at that! What’s going on? Joyce, come here!” Her aide ran from the outer office and the two women looked out the window while Border sat in his underwear.