Hometown

by Marsha Qualey

  I ordered and paid at the counter, returned with more steak and eggs. She only ate toast. Riley finished the rest.

  We sat for three hours, talking. No one chased us out of there. Three hours, too much tea. I went to the bathroom. When I returned, they were gone. A napkin was propped against a glass. A note.

  Riley and Celeste cordially invite you to a party, Friday night at 308 Nassau, Apt.4. The host’s name is Bruno.

  I got on a bus to go home. No comic book, but happy. The next day was Friday and now I had something to do.

  Present from Connie—

  “What should I do about this, hon?” Connie handed Border a letter, then opened the freezer. “You kids have any ice cream? Oh good, Eskimo Pies. I have to sneak ice cream, you know. Paul can’t have it.”

  “He sneaks it, too. Every time he comes over. Don’t tell him I told you. What is this?” Border opened the letter.

  “That memorial committee wants to honor Vietnam War Gold Star mothers at the groundbreaking ceremony. There are two of us, Midge Zipoti and me.”

  “Mrs. Zipoti?”

  “Uh huh. Her oldest boy, Gregg, was killed in seventy-three, right before the cease-fire, if you can imagine. Midge’s older sister is a buddy of mine, and I was playing cards with her at the club the night the family got the news. Deja vu all over again.”

  Border read the letter. “This sounds nice. You should be honored. Even if it is twenty years later.”

  “Twenty years and another war later. Somehow I feel kind of used. Like maybe they’re including me because it might help them raise money.”

  “They’re including you because it’s right.”

  “Maybe. Where is everybody? Dana’s with Jacob, I suppose. They look pretty serious, I must say. Is your dad worried? Does your mom know?”

  “Dana’s working. It’s her first day at the Sav-Mor. I heard her tell you about the job. As for your other questions, Connie, you’ll have to ask my parents.”

  “Huh. And where is your pop? I brought you all something.” She pointed to a box by her purse on the counter. “Well, mostly it’s for you and him, but Dana’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “Dad’s at a meeting. He’s been elected president of the hospital nurses’ group, and now he’s got meetings once a week. You knew that, too.”

  “Between meetings and Maggie, bet you hardly ever see him.”

  “You’re really fishing for information tonight.”

  She feigned insult. “Fishing? Kiddo, I don’t fish for information.” She pressed empty fingers to her lips and inhaled, then exhaled and smiled. “I go digging with a backhoe.”

  “What’s the present?”

  “Pictures. Your grandma couldn’t bear to throw them out like your grandpa said she had to, so she gave them to me. Forgot I even had them until I went to the basement this afternoon to put away the pasta maker. Eighty bucks and he used it twice. I’ve gotta go. If I stay any longer, Paul will know I’ve been eating. Enjoy the present. Good night, hon.”

  Border saw her out, then picked up the box she’d left and took it to his room.

  Pictures, all right. Big ones, little ones, black and white, a few in color. His father was in every one. His father little and chubby, in a striped T-shirt and coonskin hat. His father in a Superman costume, lifting the cape. Holding a BB gun. Smiling, gap-toothed, over a crooked bow tie. Punching a baseball glove. His father taller, no longer chubby, face peppered with pimples. Holding a golf club. Family shots—his uncle, two people he supposed were his grandparents. His dad with Connie and her boys. Picnics. Christmas.

  Pictures. Some had been torn. Border fingered a rough edge on one, imagining his grandfather ripping it out of the family album. He found a formal portrait of the family, and studied his grandfather. Tall and bald. Border rubbed his head, hoped it wasn’t genetic.

  Birthday parties, backyard football. His father and his uncle holding a stringer of fish. Their father standing to the side, so proud.

  Did it work for him? Did the outraged housecleaning help him forget? Help him wipe away the memory of his son the draft dodger, his son the traitor. His son the fisherman. On a long winter night, when there was nothing to do but sit in a chair and look out the window, did he ever once think about, remember, miss his son?

  Border put the pictures away and set the box on the floor. Lay on his bed and thought, Did he ever wonder about me?

  Pinned in Place—

  “Don’t take long, Dana,” Border said. “You have to get to work and I have an appointment at Tire Town.”

  “It’ll just be a minute. I want to see if Jacob’s feeling better, and I want to give him grief for being sick on my first two days of work.”

  “You could have called.”

  “I haven’t seen him in three days. Just for a minute.”

  “Five bucks if it’s any longer and fifty cents every minute extra.” Border stayed in the car and timed her. The instant the McQuillans’ door closed behind her, he began counting the seconds. One, two…fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty. Kept counting. One minute, two, three. Pew—carbon monoxide. He turned off the ignition. She was slow, he was cold.

  Border went to the door, knocked, and walked in. He was greeted by Pooch and little girls, sisters. He was pretty sure it was Pooch who drooled on his hand.

  “Where’s Dana?” he asked. “She’s supposed to be at work in fifteen minutes.”

  Liz was loading the dishwasher. “She’s downstairs with Jacob.”

  Mrs. McQuillan was on the phone and waved a greeting. “Border Baker just walked in,” she said. His name, he could listen. “I’ll ask him, Dot. You call the others. If we get an okay from enough regulars, let’s just go ahead. I’ll check the figures and see what money we have left and get back to you.”

  Border saw coffee, poured himself a cup.

  “Make yourself at home,” a sister said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Your hair is weird today,” she added.

  Border nodded. “Good. That’s how I like it.” When he’d gotten his last trim, he’d told the barber to shave it on the bottom and let it grow on top. This morning he’d groomed the top into four spikes, all in a row.

  “It’s like a stegosaurus,” she said. Liz whacked her sister’s rump with a towel and she ran out of the kitchen.

  Mrs. McQuillan hung up the phone and looked sternly at him. “I’ve noticed,” she said, “that you and your sister drink an awful lot of that stuff. I didn’t start until I was in college.”

  “Big-city habit,” he said. “Picked it up hanging out in coffee shops.”

  “It’s a habit all right. I picked it up hanging out at church. Border, I need your vote on something. Have you heard about the new war memorial?”

  “Sure. And the ceremony and everything. Connie—Mrs. Sanborn—was invited to be part of the dedication.”

  “It’s about time they do something for her. The committee for the memorial is soliciting money for the monument. They’ve asked all civic groups to contribute, including LICM. Dot Tully and I were just talking, and now that the project is done we thought we’d contribute any leftover money.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “That’s another yes vote. A few more and we’ll go ahead.”

  “You didn’t ask me,” said Liz.

  “One vote per house. Where’s the darn checkbook?” She opened a drawer, pushed around clutter. “Aha, here we go. Calculator? Yes.”

  Mrs. McQuillan sat at the table punching numbers. Border sat and sipped coffee. Pooch came into the room, turned in a circle, lay down on Border’s left foot. Pinned in place, he couldn’t hurry away.

  One of the little sisters returned. Border always got confused about their names. “Don’t you have to get home?” she asked. “Don’t you have chores?”

  “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.

&nb
sp; “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.