Hometown Page 9

  He loosened up with a few folk songs. She’d never liked rock. Then some Mozart. That stopped him for a moment, thinking, How many sixteen-year-old guys can blow a rondo?

  He called the lab. Her assistant was snooty; Border was firm. Just get her, okay?

  “Happy B-day, Mom. Now sit still. Give me five minutes.” He played for that long.

  “What a perfect present,” she said.

  Her voice was rigid. Controlling tears, he guessed. Weird, Mom—you go naked on stage, but darned if you’ll cry at the lab. “Give my best to Lee.”

  “I will. Thank you for that, too. Love you, darling. Miss you.”

  “See ya, Mom.”

  Duty done. What a sweet boy.

  Bad News—

  Dot Tully’s great-nephew was killed in the Gulf during the first day of the ground war. For five weeks there had been planes and bombs; now the soldiers and tanks and guns were involved. Border had watched the start of the ground war on television, watched the tape of tanks rolling across the desert, watched the allied armies chase down and overtake exhausted Iraqi soldiers. Like everyone, he knew as he watched that the war was as good as over. Over and won.

  He watched everything, cheering them on, unaware of course that someone related to someone he knew was getting killed.

  Dot’s great-nephew was twenty years old. Border learned that when he showed up at the church the next night. He had two papers to write, but he’d promised to stamp several hundred balloons. They had two rubber stamps he could use: COME HOME SOON and SUPPORT OUR SOLDIERS.

  He walked into the church basement and right away saw that something was wrong. No one was working. All eyes were on Dot. Her face was pale, her voice was tight. “He was twenty years old. Just twenty. He was the one who gave Susan, my niece, so much trouble when she nursed him.”

  All the women nodded, as if they’d actually known.

  Dot’s great-nephew had never even visited Red Cedar, but people in the church basement decided to have a memorial service for him anyway. Right away, someone said. Before it’s all over, before people forget.

  “Will you go?” Liz asked Border later, when they were in the kitchen washing up coffee cups.

  “Sure. I like Mrs. Tully.”

  “Will it be your first time in church?”

  “Yes.”

  Liz gave him the once-over. Border looked down. Torn jeans, stained shirt, broken shoelaces, mismatched socks.

  “Different clothes, huh?”

  She plunged her hands into hot water. “I didn’t say a thing.”

  New Clothes—

  “Four hundred bucks?”

  “The suit I really liked was five.”

  “You’re still growing. I don’t spend that much on my suits.”

  “It shows, Dad.”

  “Stay out of this, Dana.”

  “I think he looks great.”

  “Look at yourself, Border. Who do you think you are? Someone applying for business school?”

  “I think I look good.”

  “He needs a haircut,” said Dana, and she rubbed his head with her fist.

  “The clerk said I was a perfect size forty.”

  “You’re a perfect something. Four hundred bucks.”

  “You may as well know, Dad, that the shirt and socks and tie and belt were extra. But I didn’t get shoes. My sneakers will do, I think. They’re black, after all.”

  “How much extra?”

  “Eighty-five.”

  “When you asked for the Visa to go shopping, I thought you meant to buy boots.”

  Border snapped his fingers. “Forgot those.”

  God and War—

  A packed house. Border sat squeezed in the pew between Dana and Liz. He stared at the hair and hats ahead, knew people behind were looking at him. Glad he’d gotten a trim.

  Hymns and prayers, sobs from the front where Dot Tully sat. It went on for an hour. The minister hadn’t known the soldier so after a few words about the deceased’s life, he began to preach about war.

  With four hundred bodies, the church heated up. Border felt a little dopey and was glad when the minister finished and the action resumed. Stand up for the singing, bow head for the prayers. Amen here, Amen there. Everyone, even Dana, always seemed to know what to do. Border followed, a beat behind.

  “Lovely, lovely,” people murmured after the final hymn.

  “I need to get out of here,” Liz whispered.

  “Too hot?” Border asked. “I was feeling a little groggy.” He followed her through the slow-moving crowd, out the door and onto the broad front steps. The cold night air jerked him awake.

  Liz banged the stair rail. “I cannot believe that he actually used the word ‘infidel’.”

  Border frowned. Infidel? Missed that. Maybe he had fallen asleep.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, “how one human being can stand up in front of other equally intelligent human beings and actually claim that he knows what God is thinking. How can he do that?”

  “That’s his job.”

  “Some job.”

  “You surprise me, Liz.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I know you’re pretty religious—”

  “I am, but don’t make assumptions. Don’t you dare make assumptions about what that means.”

  Whoa. Oh-kay. Wouldn’t think of it. He gestured toward the door. “I thought you liked this. That’s my only assumption.”

  “I love the singing, Border. I love the people. I love to pray. I believe in…things. I hate preaching.”

  “Generally, or just tonight?”

  “Generally. The whole idea of it.”

  “I liked it.”

  “You were asleep.”

  Possibly. “I was not. It was my first time, and I enjoyed it. I liked the way everyone knew what to do. When to sing, what to say.”

  “Auto-pilot religion.”

  “It didn’t feel that way. It felt like…belonging. I liked that.”

  “Sure,” Liz said. “You’re free to belong. You’re welcome. You’re not an infidel.”

  “I think you’re being too critical. I think—” He caught himself. Why was he defending her church?

  Liz smirked and started to speak—something sharp, with barbs. He could feel it coming.

  The church door opened and Liz zipped her lips. Border smiled. Saved.

  “Sneakin’ smokes, kids?”

  Border and Liz looked around and stood up straight.

  “Hello, Mrs. Zipoti,” Liz said. “We’re just cooling off.” Border remembered two late assignments and sagged in his new suit.

  “Too much fire and brimstone, eh? Can’t say I disagree. Have you kids met Mr. Zipoti? Probably not. I only let him out once a year.” She—alone—enjoyed the joke while Liz and Border acknowledged the man behind her. He paused long enough from his pipe-lighting to nod.

  “Liz, you did a wonderful job on that reproduction assignment. This sex unit is a tough one, but it looks like you’ll pull off your usual A. Border, I don’t think I saw a paper from you.”

  He ran a hand nervously up a four-hundred-dollar lapel. When in doubt, make a joke. “Gosh, Mrs. Zipoti. I didn’t think I should write it until I tried it.”

  Mr. Zipoti laughed, but then sucked air at the wrong moment and took in smoke. Ha ha, hack hack. His wife swatted him on the back. He recovered.

  “Thanks, dear. I’d be a dead man without you.”

  “Glad you admit it.” She turned back to Border. He felt the heat of her gaze. Why didn’t the snow melt?

  “Funny boy, Border, but have it on my desk by Friday, or zero points. Can you afford zero points?”

  “No, Mrs. Zipoti.”

  “Well, then.” She slipped her arm through her husband’s. “Look at these steps, Caleb. We Methodists are much better at shoveling, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Midge.”

  Liz and Border watched them walk carefully down the steps. “Let’s go in,” she said,
after the couple had walked away. “I don’t want to meet any more teachers and I’m done complaining.”

  Border didn’t move.

  “My toes are freezing.”

  Nothing.

  “What’s the matter? Worried about those zero points? Just write the stupid paper.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What?”

  God and war? Hymns and prayers? Death and infidels? He’d been full of it five minutes ago, but it had all slipped away. His own toes curled from the cold, while his head rattled with the thought that had stunned him.

  “C’mon, Border. What?”

  He turned to his friend. “Her name is Midge?”

  Cease-fire—

  The war was over. The announcement came from the president right when the people in Red Cedar were honoring Dot Tully’s great-nephew.

  Border stayed up late, tuned to the news.

  Victory is ours! cried the politicians.

  An honorable end, the president said.

  Saddam is destroyed, claimed a general.

  The next day even more flags and ribbons appeared at school. Border sneaked out during his lunch hour, ran six blocks to the church, found what he wanted in the basement, and returned to school. During study hall, seventh period, a senior he barely knew passed the carrel in the library where Border was working and said, “Cool idea. I’ll help.” Other students joined in. The librarian heard the noise, caught sight of the mess, came to see. He nodded approval and went away. They all worked for an hour, huffing and puffing till nearly everyone hyperventilated. Then, just before three o’clock, they opened the windows. When the final bell rang, they stuffed, pushed, let go.

  Three hundred yellow balloons caught the wind and sailed.

  IV

  Peace

  Boots—

  The war was over but winter dragged on. An early March storm dumped ten inches of snow. Connie and Paul got fed up, got in the Cadillac, and left town. Border took in their mail and papers, and shoveled their driveway after the next three storms. Every few days he got a post card from them. St. Louis, Dallas, Houston, New Orleans, Mobile. He pinned the cards up in his room by his bed. He liked to look at them and think about a trip, his own trip. Where would he go, if he could go?

  If he could go, would he?

  They came back in the middle of the biggest storm. Border was hauling garbage cans down to the curb (“It’s Minnesota,” his father had said, “and of course they’ll pick it up in a blizzard, so would you please just do it?”). He saw the Cadillac drive slowly up the unplowed street. It fish-tailed, then straightened. Snow shot up as Connie accelerated to make the turn into their driveway. Paul waved, then covered his eyes as the car skidded, spun, slid backward into snow. A car door opened. “Hi, hon,” Connie called. “We’re home.” Border got his father and sister and they pushed the car free.

  It snowed for one more day and night, and the wind blew for another day, then it snowed again. When it was calm, Border looked out the window at his driveway, all filled in and hidden by snow. Time at last, he decided, to buy boots.

  He had to ask for money, of course. Did it carefully. Cooked a nice meal, did three loads of wash, vacuumed. His father noticed. “What do you want?” he said.

  “Boots,” replied Border. The money was handed over, maybe with some extra thrown in, but Border wasn’t sure; he didn’t know how much boots cost.

  Next day after school he found a shoe store on Main. There weren’t too many stores left on the street; they’d all gone to the mall. A florist, a gift shop, one menswear, a sporting goods, three beauty salons, the shoe store. The shoe store was on the block next to the courthouse. Border parked by the banner announcing the memorial. One corner had blown loose and he stopped to retie the cord. A gust of wind snatched it out of his fingers and the nylon rope whipped up, hitting his face. Yow! He touched his cheek. Blood? No, just pain.

  The shoe store was deserted except for a clerk, an old man, who sat smoking a cigar. Border nodded and browsed. Not much to see, unless he wanted wingtips.

  “I don’t carry tennis shoes,” the man said. Puff, puff. “You boys only ever want tennis shoes.”

  “I want boots. Warm ones.”

  The man rose, looked at Border’s feet, then walked to the back of the store. Border inhaled. He liked the cigar smell. Maybe he should take it up. He sat down and leaned back, imagining. Puff, puff.

  The man returned and dropped a box at Border’s feet. “Try these.” He stepped back, crossed his arms. Border got the message: Help yourself.

  Beautiful boots, just what he wanted. Leather laces, felt liners, thick rubber soles. He slipped one on and tied it up. Perfect. “You just looked at my foot and knew the size?” he asked the man.

  “Yes. Do you want them or not?”

  Main Street, the friendly street. Border thought about saying no, debated walking out. Imagined grabbing the cigar and shoving it somewhere. An eyeball? The gut? A wingtip?

  He wanted the boots, he said. The man kneeled down, knees cracking, undid the lace with a pull and yanked the boot off. “I’ll ring these up.”

  At the register, Border counted through the tens his father had given him, happy to see two left over after he’d paid. Twenty bucks. He’d make it last.

  “How’s your father doing?” the man asked, voice as crisp as the bills he was handling.

  Border glanced down at his jacket. Had someone pinned a note? Gumbo’s boy. He touched the back of his head. Maybe the barber had shaved it into his hair. “Dad’s fine. He’s pretty happy to be back in Red Cedar.”

  “Some people aren’t real happy he’s here.” The man slammed the register drawer closed, trapping Border’s money. “Some people think he should have stayed in Canada.”

  “He hasn’t lived in Canada for over ten years.”

  A detail, and it didn’t matter to the shoe man. He just stared, cigar rolling in his mouth. Puff puff, puff puff.

  Seeing Red, Eating Pink—

  “I should have walked out of there. I should have dumped the boots on his head. I should at least have yelled at the guy.”

  “Like you’re yelling at us, hon?” Connie asked.

  “Sorry. But the guy just burned me, and all I did was smile and hand him forty bucks.”

  “I gave you sixty,” said the old man.

  Oops. “Laces were extra, Dad.”

  “Sure.”

  “You want it back?”

  “No. Consider it compensation for rising to my defense. I appreciate it.”

  “I didn’t rise to anything, that’s what’s bugging me. And what really steams me, Dad, is how come it’s always me that gets the mudslinging? You’re the one they’re mad at, but I get my butt kicked. All you’ve gotten is a cake. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of living in this two-bit town where I can’t even buy boots without offending someone. Has anyone said anything to you? Once, just once, have you caught crap for what you did?”

  “Save it for home, Border. We’ll discuss this later.”

  “Keep going,” said Connie. “I think it’s interesting.”

  “C’mon, Dad, what’s the worst? Been jumped? Kicked? Hounded in the grocery store? What?”

  “Actually, no one has said a thing.”

  Border swore.

  “That’s not interesting,” said Connie.

  “Ha! And your mouth is always so elegant?” Border said and wished right away he hadn’t.

  Paul appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Time to eat. You can fight later, but not over my cooking.”

  Dana had helped Paul with supper. He needed a hobby for a character in his new book. He’d ruled out bell ringing and hang-gliding and was now considering cooking. He was experimenting with recipes.

  “Tomato and basil linguine,” Dana announced as they all sat down. “And I warn you, this might be the perfect pasta.”

  Border looked at his plate and his day went from bad to worse. “Oh, man,” he groaned. Pink noodles.

&n
bsp; Talk Time—

  Border wasn’t surprised when his father knocked on the bedroom door that night. Talk time. He supposed he had asked for it.

  The old man didn’t waste any time. “What you said to Connie was inexcusable.”

  “I apologized later. Yes, it was wrong.”

  “I don’t ever want you saying anything to Paul or Connie that needs an apology. Ever.”

  “I don’t want to either. Things slip out. They handle it better than you.”

  “And I’m sorry you’ve had trouble since we moved to Red Cedar.”

  Just as he thought, the real subject. Connie was a warm-up. “I’m the new kid in town, Dad. Again. For the millionth time in my life, I’m the new kid in town. Did you ever think about what it would be like for me before you decided to move us?”

  “I knew it wouldn’t be easy for you.”

  “Perceptive.”

  “But I knew I had to get you out of Albuquerque. The house was here and it seemed like the perfect chance to get away. I’m sorry it hasn’t been better for you.”

  “What was so wrong with Albuquerque?”

  “Do I really have to tell you? Border, the things you were doing just—”

  “What was I doing? I wasn’t doing drugs, Dad. I wasn’t sleeping around, Dad. Tell me, Dad, just what was I doing?”

  The old man rose from the bed, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You were slipping away.”

  “Slipping away? What’s that? Some new category of teenage sin?”

  “It was scary, is what it was.”

  “I don’t remember it that way, Dad. I miss it.”

  “Our memories differ. Good night, Border.”

  Memory—

  I remember meeting Riley in a comic book store. I had ditched school because the weather was nice, and I wanted to be doing something worthwhile. I decided to track down some back issues of Elfquest, my favorite comic. I especially wanted to find #8, “Hands of the Symbol Maker.” I took the bus down to UNM, figuring the stores around campus might have what I wanted. One place looked promising. A kid was standing by the counter when I asked the clerk about back issues. The clerk said they didn’t have any Elfquest that old, and right away the kid said, “I know where you can get it. C’mon.” I followed him out and down the street. When we passed a restaurant, the kid stopped. “You got any money?” he asked. “Sure,” I answered, and we went in and ordered. He was hungry and ordered lots, steak and eggs. I got pie. Other kids came in and talked to him. I learned his name, Riley. Told him mine. A pregnant girl came in, sat next to Riley, laid her head on his shoulder. “Would you get her some food?” he asked. “She’s eight months along, she’s gotta eat.”