Hometown (6 page)

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—

B
order 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.

“Whatever are they doing?” Joyce said.

“Border, come look.”

“Uh, Mrs. Neelon…”

She gave him a paper sheet. Border wrapped it around his waist and joined them at the window.

Two stories down and across the street a group of students had gathered on the lawn of a house. A stream of kids flowed out of the high school, straight below the nurse’s office. A few held hand-lettered signs, and Border saw three girls unroll a long banner: NO GUNS FOR OIL, it said, and was decorated with peace signs and flowers. He frowned. Bad artwork.

“Shameful,” Joyce said, and the nurse agreed.

“Though,” she responded, “they have the right to their opinion.”

“Not in wartime,” Joyce said crisply. “That’s the same as treason. They should be suspended. Walking out and doing this!”

“Did you hear the president last night?”

“He was wonderful!”

They exited to the outer office and Border stood watching alone. Maybe thirty kids out in the cold. Shouting, chanting, smoking, kicking at chunks of snow. A car pulled up and parked. Men got out. Cops?

VET FOR PEACE, their poster said; everybody cheered and high-fived, slapping palms reddened from cold.

One girl lounged against a tree trunk and flashed “V” with her fingers whenever a car drove by. The girl sort of looked like Dana, dressed like Dana. Border shivered. His thighs, bare under the sheet, popped goose pimples. He hoped his sister, wherever she was, was wearing more than paper.

The protest continued for the rest of fifth period and most of sixth. No cops came by, no school officials came out, and finally it broke up. A few kids lingered, smoking.

Border watched until Mrs. Neelon brought his dryer-hot jeans. He slipped them on and headed straight for the library. Study hall next period, why bother with geometry for fifteen minutes?

The library was deserted and he found a carrel next to the sci-fi and fantasy collection. The lurid cover of one book faced out and caught his eye: a voluptuous babe with her hand on the hero’s hunky chest.
Canyons of Istabar.
Border pulled it off the shelf and began reading.

After-School Activity—

“You have some nerve, Baker, hanging around after that little show. You dumb-ass traitorous son of a bitch, son of a dope-brained coward.”

Border’s books had scattered in the snow. He spotted
Canyons
soaking up moisture as it lay in a slushy tire track. He’d finished seven chapters in the library, wanted to know the end. Probably unreadable now.

He blew out his nose and watched blood splatter on snow. Then he coughed, a quick succession of sharp gagging hacks, until the bloody phlegm was forced up into his mouth. He spat it out.

“A few punches,” Bryan whined. He turned to his companions. “I didn’t even hit him that hard.” His friends murmured agreement. “I should have known he wouldn’t fight back. Chicken.”

Border pushed up and inched back until he could rest against his car. “You’re too tough for me, Bryan.”

A wad of spit landed on Border’s shoe.

Border closed his eyes, tapped on his thighs. “Why are you doing this? I got your message yesterday. You don’t like me. I understand.”

“I wanted you to know what I think of your little demonstration today.”

“Huh?” he honked. “I wasn’t there.”

Bryan frowned. “I heard you walked out during fifth period, the first one to leave. You weren’t in geometry, I know that.”

Border started to speak, then shut up. He owed the bastard nothing.

Bryan nodded. “Just what I thought.”

“You know, Bryan, until about two minutes ago I didn’t hate you, even after you jumped me yesterday.” He shifted, stifled a moan. Man, his jaw hurt. “After all, your jokes in class aren’t half-bad. Whoa, easy now, don’t kick me. Are you going to kick me?”

Bryan squinted. “I should. I should kick you back to New Mexico.”

Something dripped across Border’s lips. He wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear on light gray gloves. “Gosh, Bryan, I doubt if even a fine athlete like you could do that.”

The kicks came hard, and Border crumpled over, thinking as his head hit ground,
I am so stupid.

“Stop it,” one of Bryan’s friends whispered. There was murmuring, then footsteps in snow, and Border was alone.

He rose slowly and leaned against the car, sorry for himself. Dark sky, dirty snow, sharp wind, foul mood.

Get in the car, drive home. New Mexico. What was stopping him?

Border looked at his bloody glove. Life with mother, that’s what. Life with someone who puts that life on stage. What would she do with this? Hold him and clean the blood?

“Nope,” said Border aloud. “She’d put it in a show. She’d start writing. She’d—”

He wasn’t alone. Another boy stood watching, ten feet away. Border raised his arms. “Go ahead, kick me.”

“Is that what happened? You’re a mess. Who did it?”

Border brushed snow off his jacket. “Pack of little girls, seven or eight of them. Vicious things. Beat me with their Barbie dolls.”

“Think you need to see a doctor? The hospital—”

“No!” Right into his father’s lair? No. “I’m okay. It’s probably just a bloody nose.”

“I live a block over from your house. I could use a ride home.”

Border frowned. Did everyone know who he was?

“I work at the grocery store and I saw you shopping with Mrs. Sanborn. I’ve cut her lawn for years.”

Border tossed his keys to the boy. “I’ve got blood caked on my eye and my head hurts. You drive.”

A cautious driver; Border got impatient. Tapped on his thighs.

“What are you doing?”

“What?”

“With your fingers.”

“Watch the road. Gosh, people drive slowly in this town.”

“No place to go, why go fast?”

“What’s your name?”

“Jacob McQuillan. Not Jake.”

“Border Baker, but you know that. I play recorder. Sometimes I get songs in my head and the fingers move. Habit.”

“My sister’s birthday was yesterday. There’s leftover cake. Want some?”