Hometown (11 page)

“A maestro. Play while I read, Border. These poems need music.”

“I’m rusty.”

“You’ll be fine. Play that song you do by Boiled in Lead.”

“Dana, I don’t want to.”

The old man appeared. “I’m going for groceries.”

“I’ll come and help,” said Border.

“I’m probably needed at home,” said Liz.

Dana and Jacob stayed behind, getting acquainted.

Shopping
—

Shopping with his father was like shopping with Connie—the old man was too busy talking to be of any help. Border pushed ahead with the cart, filling it with stuff his father would never buy. Maybe he’d notice at the checkout, but then it would be too late.

Fudge Mania or Pralines n’ Chocolate? Border mulled, decided to get both.

“Is that how you got so tall, eating ice cream?”

Border turned around, smiled at a man.

“Like father, like son.”

Where was his father? Border looked around, saw a store full of strangers.

This one was chatty. “I once saw your dad eat a whole Lollapalooza sundae—fifteen scoops of ice cream, three toppings. He ever tell you about that?”

“No.”

“Probably not. He was under the influence, you might say. Talk about having the munchies! Back then your dad sure lived on a different planet. A walking drugstore, old Gumbo.”

Border pushed the cart along. The man followed. “Never figured Gumbo Baker would survive the sixties, what with all the junk he put in his body.”

Border glanced at the stranger, noted the plump hands holding several frozen pies.

“When I heard he’d gone to Canada, I figured it was a mistake. Guessed he meant to go to Mexico, score some dope, but he was so messed up he went the wrong way.”

Border stopped the cart, gripped the handle. “I’m not really interested, sir.”

“I was in ’Nam when I heard about him taking off to Canada. Serving my country. I couldn’t believe it when I found out he came back. We don’t want him here.”

“Look, mister, he’s over in aisle two or some place. Maybe the deli. Go tell him, okay?”

“Smart-ass, aren’t you?”

Did he dare? Yeah, why not. “Better than being a dumb-ass.” He rolled the cart away, double-time, picturing the headline in the local paper.

Pies hurled at Border.

He saw the man again in produce, talking angrily to a woman. Border eyed them while selecting oranges, stood straight when he saw the woman raise her arm and whack the man in his gut with celery. She wheeled her cart around and pushed it toward Border.

He wished he were at the house, even if it meant listening to his sister’s poems and watching Jacob fall in love. Anything would be better.

The woman confronted Border. “That guy’s a jerk,” she said.

“He doesn’t seem to like my dad.”

“Don’t believe anything he said to you. His opinion is nothing, worse than nothing. Your dad was the sweetest guy, the best guy. If I’d been smart and been interested in him instead of the losers I did go with in high school, then maybe my life wouldn’t have been so messed up.”

Border was bumped from behind. He turned and smiled at a toddler pushing a toy cart. He headed toward the potatoes. The woman followed.

“He was nice to me when no one else was.”

“That’s good.” Five pounds or ten? Dana loved ’em mashed; better get ten.

“Not interested in talking about him, I guess. Can’t really blame you. Probably been hearing plenty about good old Gumbo since you came to town.”

“That’s true.”

“And I’ve heard plenty about you.”

Border lifted a banana bunch. Too green?

“I’ve heard that you’re quite the little patriot.”

“What?”

She moved her cart, making way for an elderly couple pushing through the aisle. “Someone told me that last week you were with all the folks at Christ Fellowship, packing up boxes for the soldiers.”

This town. Suspected he couldn’t pee without it being reported.

“I went to help friends.”

“The old ladies loved you, that’s what I heard. Someone said—Oh my gosh, Gumbo!”

Border stepped back as his father joined them. The two adults grinned at each other.

“Wow, Maggie, you look great. Last time I saw you, you were…oh, I don’t know…
”

Border looked around, spotted twenty or thirty carts between the potato bin and freedom. Should he make a break?

“I was seventeen and pregnant and about to be run out of town. Would you believe it, Gumbo, now I’m a grandmother!”

“Dad, the ice cream’s gonna melt. We should go.”

“Are you living in town, Maggie?”

“Since November. My mom died and Dad got sick and then he decided maybe I wasn’t so evil. I finally felt I could come back. I’m a secretary for some lawyers. It’s okay.”

“Married?”

“Divorced. Again.”

“At least give me the checkbook, Dad. I’ll go pay.”

“Maggie, your story sounds like mine. Buy you a drink sometime and let’s talk.”

“Make it coffee.”

If he screamed, would he be heard?

“Make it dinner. When?”

Border lifted his father’s hand and clamped it onto the shopping cart handle. “You’re in charge, Dad.”

He walked away, dodging carts and shoppers. Headed home on foot.

Walking
—

In Albuquerque last summer, Border had once walked all night. It was the first cool evening after four deadly hot days and nights. His father was due at the hospital early the next morning and had gone to bed. Border didn’t want to go to bed, so he’d gone out for a candy bar at the store around the corner, but before he got there he saw cop cars and ambulances a few blocks away. The flashing lights and gathered crowd attracted him, so he went that much farther.

There was a death, one so fresh that the covered body was only just disappearing into an ambulance as Border approached.

The sight dazed him. A death, a dead body. Just a boy, people were saying. Border didn’t want to see any more, so he kept on walking.

The street was busy with cruisers—an endless stream of cars loaded with kids, who were loaded with beer, or other stuff. In the parking lot of the store where he finally stopped for the candy bar, there was a fight—not too serious, just pushing and shoving, creative name-calling. Border came out of the store and didn’t respond to a taunt that spilled over from the fight to him. Three boys piled into a car and followed. Too far from home, no bus in sight, what could he do?

Border hurried up. Things whizzed by his head as the boys followed, shouting and jeering from the car. He felt something hit above his ear, reached and pressed gum into his long hair. He touched it for only an instant, but he could feel it smear and spread, soft gum, still wet with saliva. He knew it was stuck and he’d have to cut it out. Cut the hair short; the gum was mashed to the roots. Okay, he’d shave it, but only that side.

Eleven P.M. Any barbershops open?

Something heavier whizzed by on his left and he turned to the right, following a side street. The car came too, brakes squealing as it made the turn. Up ahead, the street rose, crossing over an arroyo. Border speeded up, so did the car, then he ran down the slope, skidding and slipping on gravel, catching himself, scraping his hand. He hopped over boulders and landed on concrete. The car roared by overhead, while Border caught his breath.

Maybe they’d be too lazy to get out of the car and follow him into the drainage ditch. He could hope, but he better keep moving.

The arroyo was flat on the bottom, wide as a sidewalk, with high sloped walls. Border’s feet scraped along dry concrete. There’d been no rain for days, but he knew even the shortest shower could fill it up with a dangerous current. A bad place to fall asleep.

Keep moving, Border.

He turned right and went south. The arroyos channeled water all the way to the Rio Grande, on the other side of the city. Could he walk that far?

Midnight, his feet started hurting. Stopped and sat. A spotlight from someone’s back yard shone down, then went off. Bedtime. He hoped his father was still sleeping.

Hard to see with no light. Right in front of his face his hands were black patches. He moved them around, shadowy contortions.

One A.M., walking along, not sure where he’d be if he climbed to the street. He stumbled over trash. It was hard to see.

“Hey fella,” said a voice, “got a dollar?”

Border stopped, looked around, and saw a shadow sitting a few feet on down.

“Got a dollar for some coffee?”

Border remembered the change from the five he’d used when he bought the Snickers.

“Just a dollar, you bastard. Just one.”

“No money.”

“Got a smoke?”

“No.”

“Then get out of here. This is my place. You’re big but I could still hurt you.”

Border believed it and hurried on.

Two A.M. The lights above got bright, a wide yellow haze. He crawled up to the top, slipping once, scraping his hands again. Two blocks away, a cop car cruised through the parking lot of a shopping center. Border knew where he was. Nowhere close to home.

He felt raindrops and decided to stay out of the ditch. Walked along, looked up at the sky, but no more rain wet his face. Puzzled, until he noticed he was near a bank, and a sprinkler was watering grass. The drops made him thirsty. He knew about an all-night restaurant nearby and he headed that way.

Border ordered coffee, his first cup ever, and he made a face when he sipped. As soon as the waitress breezed by, he called out for a Coke, but by the time she brought it he’d gone back to the coffee and finished the cup.

Two older girls sat in the booth behind his. The girl closest to Border turned around and said, “You’ve got gum in your hair.”

“God, that’s great hair,” said the other. “I could spend forty dollars at the shop and never get a blonde that rich. Is it natural? I bet it is.”

The first one kneeled on the bench of her booth, right behind Border. He hadn’t said a word, but she picked at the gum with one hand. The other hand rested on his neck.

Border sipped his Coke.

“Can’t get it,” she finally said. “It’s really stuck.”

“Thanks for trying,” he said, without turning around.

“What else can I do for you?”

He dug money out of his pocket, set it on the table, and left. He could hear the girls laughing.

He walked east toward home, and got there as the sky lightened behind the Sandias. Silhouetted by the sunrise, the mountains resembled a gray slumbering beast hovering over the city.

Just as he crawled into bed his father rose. The light in the hall went on; the bathroom door closed. Whistling in the shower. A new day, get on with it, go to work.

Border slept.

Already?
—

His father was home with the groceries by the time Border reached the house. Cold hands, numb feet. Chided himself about buying boots. Do it, just do it, he commanded.

Dana came out with Jacob, and they stood holding hands in the driveway.

Already?

They didn’t see Border until he called. Jacob took a step from Dana; their hands slipped apart.

“Where have you been?” his sister asked.

“Walked home from the store. Is Dad angry?”

“Sort of. But not at you.”

“At you?”

“The grocery bagger. Eggs were broken. I’m going to Jacob’s to meet his family.”

Already?

Inside the house, Border kicked off his shoes and leaned over to rub his feet. His socks were wet, and he pulled them off. His toes flamed red.

Sweet Boy—

He recovered his car keys and all privileges. There was no formal declaration; his father just asked him to do an errand the next day, tossed him the keys, and didn’t ask for them back. Border resumed driving to school, and he always came home to find Dana on the sofa, watching TV.

“You’re not a real good advertisement for early graduation,” he commented.

“I have two fathers and don’t need a third.”

She bestirred herself enough to visit Jacob’s house a few times, and often went with Border to the basement of Christ Fellowship.

“The old ladies like
you
almost as much as they like me,” said Border one night after they’d been to the church.

“Not so, they like me best.”

“Me.”

“Me.”

“Me.”

“It
would
be you,” said Dana, “if you’d play for them. Why don’t you ever play anymore? I never hear you practice.”

“Lost interest, I guess.” Not the truth, exactly. What the truth was, he didn’t know.

Next day, after school he did play, the first time in days. Pulled the recorder out of the case, warmed it up. It was his mother’s birthday. Too poor to buy a present, hadn’t even sent a card. Guilt roiled his conscience. Dana had sent a gift and offered to add his name, but Border said, Thanks, I’ll come up with something.

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?