Hometown (14 page)

“No, I don’t,” he answered, and made a face at her. She ran out of the room.

“I don’t believe this,” Mrs. McQuillan said.

“No money?” Liz asked.

“Worse. We’re ninety dollars overdrawn. The bank must have covered it for us, but we’ll have to repay. I didn’t see a notice from the bank. How did I let this happen?”

“What will you do, Mom? Get people to chip in?”

“We did that at the last meeting. I can’t ask for more money. This is my mistake; I didn’t watch expenses carefully enough. All that postage. Sure, we said, let’s write to a thousand soldiers. Two thousand. Sure, let’s buy the balloons. Oh, geez.” She lowered her head in her hands and rubbed her forehead.

“We can pay. Ninety bucks won’t kill us,” said Liz.

“I know that. I’ll cover it. The bad part is that the group doesn’t have anything to donate to the memorial. People will be disappointed.”

Pooch yawned and rolled, pinning the other foot. Border sipped his coffee and helped himself to a donut from a plate on the table. Munched and thought. He had an idea.

New Hat—

First, he needed a hat.

“Where can I buy a hat?” he asked Liz.

“What kind of hat?” He explained, then she asked, “Wouldn’t a coffee can do?”

“No, I definitely need a hat. It doesn’t work without one. I can’t work without a hat.”

Not until Tuesday did she come up with an answer. She passed him a note in Resources, evading Mrs. Zipoti’s predator eye.
Salvation Army thrift shop is open today. Or try Wayne’s Western World in Hayfield.

The thrift store had nothing he could use, so on Wednesday he went to Hayfield. Liz, Dana, and Jacob went along. “A road trip,” Border said.

“Not really,” said Jacob. “It’s only twenty miles.”

Right in the middle of Minnesota farm country, a western store. Feed, saddles, bridles, and blankets.

And hats.

He found a perfect one on sale for thirty dollars. A display hat, it had scratched leather and a frayed band, but the style and shape were just what he wanted. He tried it on. “Border,” Liz said. “Your hair!”

“Looks good,” said his sister.

When he took it off, the spikes were bending in every direction. “I like it,” Border said. “Too bad I only have twenty bucks.”

Dana went up to the clerk, who’d been watching them. “Can I help you, girl?” the woman said. Dana ran her hands through her bright green hair, then tugged on a gold loop, not the one in the nose. “Yes, you can, Ma’am. Wow, I like that tattoo.” The clerk lifted her hand, rippled her fingers. Border saw a bucking horse move by the knuckles.

Dana explained why they wanted the hat. “And one of the moms that’ll be honored is a friend,” she said, finishing up. “It’s a real good cause.”

“Shoot, kids, that’s an old hat anyway. Practically every little kid that’s been in the store the last two years has tried it on. You can have it for nothing.” She punched at the register and the drawer shot open. She pulled out a bill. “And here’s a little seed money. But promise me one thing, boy,” she said, looking at Border.

“He promises,” said Dana.

“Play a little country. Play a song for me. My name’s Arlene.”

Town Square
—

Border licked his lips. Saturday morning, nine A.M., he should be in bed. Rolled the recorder in his hand. Had he practiced enough?

The manager of the Sav-Mor came by. “It’s too cold today for you to stand in the entry. Let’s move you over by the deli. Someone get that poster, wouldja? Tape it right over this sale sign.”

Dana obeyed, and MUSIC FOR THE MEMORIAL, SPONSORED BY LICM covered up EGG ROLLS, 2 FOR $1.49.

“Son, we’re turning off the Muzak, but I gotta warn you that on the half hour, I get on the intercom to announce the manager’s specials.”

“No problem. We just appreciate everything,” Border said.

“It’s a good thing, what you’re doing. Play away.”

Border set down his hat. He pulled Arlene’s five-dollar bill out of a pocket and tossed it in. He’d learned long ago that you never start with an empty hat. People don’t want to be the first to give. Money only flows if others are giving too.

He calmed himself with deep, even breaths, keeping his eyes on the speckled gray floor. He could tell that people passing by with their carts and lists were looking at him. First song was always the hardest.

It had been so long. It was never easy.

Memory
,
II—

The very first time I ever set out a hat and played for money, I was thirteen years old. We’d just moved to New Mexico. That time I used a Minnesota Twins baseball cap from 1987, the year they won the World Series. The cap was my dad’s, a birthday present from his friend Jeff.

I’d sneaked the cap and sneaked out. Going to the library, I told them. Oh, books, they probably thought; books are good. See you later, son. Neither one noticed I took my recorder.

Did I know what I was doing? Hardly. I barely even knew my way around the UNM campus. It’s where my mom was working on a Ph.D. I’d been there to visit her office a few times, and I’d seen and heard guys play guitars for spare change on the campus mall. The seed was planted then, you might say. Blossomed, you might also say, the day my paltry allowance was withheld for mysterious reasons. Okay, not so mysterious: my little accident with a can of soda and the VCR.

Homecoming Saturday, the campus was crawling with parents and other adults. They all had money in their pockets. I found a spot in front of some pampas grass near the student union. I was skinnier and shorter back then. Too cute to think about. I closed my eyes and played. The money flew into the hat.

I might have gotten away with it except I forgot to take the money out of my jeans and Dad collected clothes for laundry the next day before I was up.

“Where’d this money come from?” he wanted to know.

“You were doing what?” said my mom.

“My autographed Twins hat?” said Dad.

“How much did you make?” asked Dana.

Forty bucks, that time. Not bad.

But I must have sounded pretty bad, though Mom insists I could play beautifully the first time I picked up a recorder. That was in fourth grade, back in Fort Collins. That year they handed out plastic ones, and we practiced for weeks, finally performing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” for the spring concert. The music teacher gave me a solo, “You Are My Sunshine.” I guess it went well, but I only remember being scared. That’s when I learned to get through it by closing my eyes and ignoring the world. Shut it all out—my personal secret of success.

Showtime—

Border closed his eyes and played. First song, he was a little stiff, but it was a march, “Stars and Stripes Forever,” so it went okay. When he finished, people clapped, and he heard a few coins hit the hat.

Dana was there and she hawked for him. “All donations go to the construction of the county war memorial. Give to the memory of those who gave everything!”

Border opened his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be bagging groceries?”

She tied on her store apron. “You’re on your own.”

A grocery store is a noisy place. People come in talking, start banging carts, yell at their kids. The deli was a few yards into the store and by the time people reached Border, they were focused, ready to shop. Rolls, milk, Cheerios, sliced ham…hey, what’s this?

So many people stopped to listen that the manager came and moved displays to make room. Border played on.

Ten o’clock, he took a break, counted the money. Sixty bucks, not bad. He started putting it in his pocket, but just then Dana came by and said, “Don’t do that. If people see you, they’ll think you’re keeping it.” She left a few bills in the hat and took the rest back to the store’s office.

Right before noon Mr. and Mrs. McQuillan arrived with two of their girls and a couple of extras, friends of the girls. Border was between songs, drinking juice to cool a parched throat.

“That’s the one,” the youngest daughter said.

“Weird hair,” said one of the extras.

“Looks just like a stegosaurus.”

He set the recorder between his lips.

“He’s the one who loves my sister.”

Huh? Border blew a bad note and lowered his recorder.

“And his sister loves my brother.” The girls studied Border. Mrs. McQuillan made an apologetic noise. Her husband grinned. One of the extras opened and closed her mouth. “Sisters and brothers? That’s against the law,” she announced.

Border resumed playing. The Replacements, “My Little Problem.”

Early afternoon, the crowds got heavy, and money filled the hat. He finished a song and opened his eyes. Connie was right in front. She didn’t say a word, but set down a bill and turned to go.

A fifty. “Connie, no!” he called. “Take it back.” She didn’t stop, just waved him off as she wiped away tears.

Two o’clock, he was dead, playing on automatic, playing the simplest music he could remember. When he got the tenth request for “Amazing Grace,” he knew he’d have to quit.

Then Arlene from Wayne’s Western World came in. “Well, it’s true. My husband said I was a fool, but I said no, those kids were for real. How about my country tune?” Border thought for a moment. Country, he was weak on that. But he had one.

Four bars into “Stand By Your Man” he had to open his eyes when he heard Arlene whoop.

“How’d he know that was my song?” She grabbed the girl next to her (Border hoped it was her daughter) and danced a little.

By three o’clock he’d seen everyone he knew, including his dad, who was shopping with Maggie. Kids from school, teachers, his barber, even the shoe man.

He quit at four, packing up his recorder to applause.

In the office, Dana helped him count the money. As the figure grew, he sat back and let her count.

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.”