“Besides,” Border whispered to his sister, “she might start to smell.”
Last Ride—
Put that other bag over her head. Is it tied? Get the shovels. We only have two. We’ll stop at our house, I think we have one. Geez she’s heavy. Dead weight. Don’t joke. Take her rubber duck, she loved that. Does rubber decompose? Watch it, I hit the table. Sorry. I’ve got the heavy end. She’s slipping. This plastic is hard to hold onto. We should’ve used those bags with handles. Let me do this alone, just get the doors. Keys, please. Not in the trunk! Pooch always loved car rides. Who’s got the shovels? Can I put those in the trunk? I’ll sit with Pooch. She loved it with the windows down. Roll down the windows, it’s her last ride, after all. Take her out of the bag, why don’t you, and prop her head up in the window. Cut it out, this is sad. This is weird. Don’t turn so fast, she’s sliding off the seat. Hold on. I am, but the bag’s ripping. Oh gosh I see an eye. Is that what you call a rolling stop? Don’t do anything to attract a cop. Is this illegal? Oh gosh I see a paw. There’s Connie. Maybe she won’t see us. Fat chance. Everybody wave. Don’t come over, please don’t come over. She’s coming. Forget the shovel, back up. Everybody wave again. Where are we going?
Good-bye Pooch—
“Preserve your pets at Porter’s Park Preserve,” said Border. He laughed alone. He said it under his breath three times fast, lips moving slightly.
“Stop it now,” Dana hissed. “This is not a joke.”
The parking lot of the preserve was empty.
“No one else here—that’s lucky,” said Border. “I don’t know how we’d explain what’s in the bag if anyone saw us.”
“It’s getting dark,” said Jacob. “Let’s get started.”
“Now wait,” said Border. “I don’t want to seem insensitive—”
“You don’t seem,” said Dana. “You are.”
“It’s just that I don’t want to walk around with a dead dog on my shoulders while we look for a place to bury her. Let’s find it first, then I’ll come back for Pooch while you guys start digging. Okay?”
“Good idea,” said Jacob.
“Okay,” said Liz, “but lock the car doors.”
Jacob thought the forest trail would be best, but Liz wanted the prairie land. Border flipped a coin and prairie won. They followed a trail for a quarter mile, then started walking over grass. “The creek is this way,” said Liz. “That’s good,” said Jacob. “Pooch loved water.”
Fifteen minutes through grass and mud. The ground got even soggier when they reached a grove of trees and bushes. “This might work,” said Border.
“Too close to the trail,” said Liz. The others agreed. They kept on walking. More grassland, more mud.
Another grove. When they sat and rested on a fallen tree, they could hear water. “This is it,” said Jacob. His sister nodded.
“Are you sure?” asked Border. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and move while I’m getting the dog? It’s pretty dark, and I have to be able to find you.”
“This is it. This is a good spot. I owe you, Border.”
“Yes, you do, Jacob. Supper, at least. And I pick Chinese.”
Border was strong, but hiking off-trail with a stiff, dead dog on his shoulders was hard to do. He rested often, which slowed him down, and he fell once, tripping over a stump. His right arm slid into mud up to the elbow. When he got up, he wasn’t sure which way to go, so for a while he was certain he was walking in circles.
He heard voices and headed toward them. Hoped it was his friends, but he knew it could be anyone. A Saturday night party under the stars; who’s bringing the beer? He thought how freaked the partygoers would be when he stumbled in, mud-covered, dead dog on his back.
Madman of Porter’s Preserve. He’d be a legend.
“Border, over here!” Liz’s voice reached out and grabbed him. He stumbled again. Under his hand the plastic stretched, pulled, ripped open. Pooch slid out.
“Sorry,” said Border, “but I’m tired.”
They had dug a hole several feet from the stream. Pooch fit perfectly.
“Hope it’s deep enough,” said Border.
“We hit rock,” said Liz. “It will have to do.”
Liz started shoveling in dirt. “Wait,” said Jacob. And he pulled the duck from his jacket pocket. “I don’t care if it doesn’t decompose. Pooch loved this duck.”
Dana slipped her arm through his. He tossed the toy into the hole.
No one talked on the way back to the car. Dana and Jacob walked quickly and were out of sight when Liz and Border arrived.
“Think they’re gone for good?” he asked.
“My brother is lazy. He won’t walk home.” They stowed the shovels and bags in the trunk.
“What will you tell your parents?”
“I have no idea.”
“They won’t make us dig her up, will they?”
“I doubt it. We’ll just say we buried her somewhere. They probably won’t want to know more. Want to go climb the rock?”
“Red Cedar’s mountain? No thanks. I’m kind of tired.” They walked that way anyway, strolling slowly in the dark. They bumped, then each stepped away. Liz stopped. He turned around and looked at her.
“Border Baker,” she said, “you really are different.”
“My hair, right?”
“I want to tell you I appreciate the fact that, well. .. most guys would take this opportunity to make a move on a girl. I mean they’d go ahead and assume it would be welcome. Not you.”
He slid his hands into his back pockets. “Sounds like you’ve got some experience.”
“You know what else? It just bugs me when people see a guy and a girl together and leap to conclusions.”
“Who’s been doing that?”
“Girlfriends.”
“And sisters?”
“Especially them. Wait—have they said anything to you?”
“Not really. I think maybe you give me too much credit, Liz. I am perfectly capable of making a move on a girl. It just hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Hey—don’t hurt my self-esteem!” They both laughed. “When I came to town,” said Border, “I didn’t know anyone. And these past few months I think I’ve just needed a friend more than a girlfriend.”
“You don’t have to explain. I told you I appreciated it.”
“So did I crush the self-esteem?”
“It’s just fine, thanks.”
They reached the boulder. Liz ran her hands over the letters on the metal plaque. “Do you still feel like you don’t belong?”
Border heard sounds from nearby—Jacob, maybe swallowing sobs, Dana’s soft voice.
She tapped his shoulder. “Still think you’re a glacial erratic?”
“I’m erratic all right.”
She turned and leaned against the rock. “If you don’t belong here, then where?”
Good question. In Red Cedar, bagging groceries and burying dogs? Or in Albuquerque with his friends, supporting a baby?
Something itched, and Border rubbed his chin. Dried mud crumbled off his fingers. “The only place I belong,” he said, “is in the shower.”
Things Change—
Did he smell? Dead dog, sweat, and mud—no way he couldn’t. All during dinner (where he devoured his chun gar fook and most of his sister’s lemon chicken) he imagined that other diners were sniffing suspiciously.
When Border got home he took a hot shower. He stood under the stream until the water wasn’t hot, then he dried and dressed fast, racing the chill.
Straight to bed; he was tired. Would he dream about dogs? Knock, knock.
“I’m asleep,” Border shouted. “Go away.”
The old man opened the door. “Sorry,” he said. “I saw your light go off when I drove up. Hadn’t seen you all day and I wanted to say hello. Where were you guys tonight?”
“At the preserve with Jacob and Liz.”
“It’s nice out there.”
�
�Uh huh.”
“Son…”
Son? Oh-oh. Talk time.
His father switched on the light and held out the box of photos. “Where did these come from? And I wasn’t snooping, so don’t accuse me of it. I was collecting laundry this afternoon and found the box under your bed.”
“I totally forgot. I’m sorry. Connie brought them over a few weeks ago. They belonged to your parents, I guess, and she kept them after they didn’t want them anymore.”
“Oh.” He sat on the bed.
Border pulled up his legs to make room. “You were pretty cute when you were little.”
The old man opened the box, pulled out a photo. “This is me.
“I could tell. That’s Uncle Brad, right? And that’s Jeff, and his brother, I bet. You know what’s funny—Connie had weird hair even back then. Actually, you all had weird hair.”
“You’re the expert. Look at this one—my tenth birthday. I got that gun for my tenth birthday.”
“Striped shirts were really popular in the fifties, I guess.”
“Davy Crockett hats.”
“You had a potbelly, Dad.”
“Whoa, look at this—I had no teeth.”
“These are your parents, right?”
“Yep. Looks like a happy family, doesn’t it?”
“I bet you were.”
“Mostly. Usually. Here’s a good one—Brad’s graduation from law school. This was taken about six months before I left. Last time we were all together.”
“Were you surprised how angry your dad was when you went to Canada?”
“Not at all. I knew he’d be furious. We’d been arguing about the war for months. It didn’t matter. I had to leave. I knew he’d be outraged, but I hoped one day he’d calm down. Hoped one day he’d be willing to talk.”
“Never did talk, right?”
“Never. One day he died. End of story.”
“No regrets?”
“Not about what I did. I avoided Vietnam and found your mother. And Dana. Then we had you.” Voice dropped to a whisper. “Best thing I ever did.”
“Don’t get maudlin, Dad.”
“I’d better leave then.”
“Sorry about the photos. I did mean to give them to you. Can I have a few? This one would be cool.”
“Yuk. It’s the worst one. That was taken for my confirmation. Ninth grade, right about when I hit six feet. I couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. And just look at my face. What a mess.”
“That’s why I like it.”
His father closed the box and rose from the bed. “One more thing, Border. I haven’t said this in a long time, but now I have to.”
More mush, he could feel it coming. Covered his head with a pillow.
“Clean your room.”
Alone again. He tacked the photo of his father on the wall, by Connie and Paul’s post card from Dallas. It really was an awful picture—goofy grin, gangly body, pimpled face, tight white pants, tight white shirt. An inspiration. A beacon of hope. After all, these days the old man wasn’t that bad-looking. For an old man.
Things change.
V
Hometown
Memorial Day—
Suit and tie, white shirt, new sneakers.
“You’re going like that?” said his father.
“The shoes, right? Do you think I should wear my old black ones?”
“It’s a holiday, Border, and there’s a picnic later. Get rid of the tie, at least.”
“Maybe you should wear it. You have to get on stage when you hand over that check.”
“I refuse to wear a tie on a holiday. Dana, let’s go, it’s late! Where’s the check?”
“You put it behind the sofa.” Border lifted a large rectangular piece of cardboard and turned it around. “Hospital Nurses Association, Crosby Baker, president. Wow, two thousand bucks!”
“Wasn’t my idea. I wanted to give the money to the battered women’s shelter. Dana, hurry up!”
They had to park several blocks away from the courthouse, and the crowd there was already so heavy that the three were quickly separated. Border used his height to look around and used his size to edge toward the front. There was a stage on the lawn, with two rows of chairs. Connie and Mrs. Zipoti were in the front row. The Gold Star moms, guests of honor. Connie saw him and waved both hands. Mrs. Zipoti looked stern. Border saw his dad climb to the stage and sit with other people who were holding big fake checks. Mrs. McQuillan saw Border and lifted her cardboard to give it a shake.
Loudspeakers crackled and the speeches began. Connie and Mrs. Zipoti were given plaques. They stood to receive them, and the applause went on and on. Maybe forever, it seemed to Border, but just then Mrs. Zipoti raised her hand and it stopped.
Yes, Mrs. Zipoti.
She nodded approval. The women sat down. Border saw Connie run her hands slowly over the plaque, touching the letters.
More speeches, a few tunes from the school band. Border took off his tie. The sun was high overhead, and he was too warm. Wished he’d worn something else.
“We have a wonderful surprise,” he heard the mayor say. “Two of our own have just returned from the Gulf!” A couple of guys in uniform ran up on the stage, each waving a flag. The crowd went wild, worse than before. The high school band played two more pieces, while the soldiers soaked up the applause. Border clapped for a while, then looked at his watch. One more hour at least, then they’d picnic at Connie and Paul’s. Man, he was hungry.
The soldiers were given chairs on stage. Another tune from the band. Border tapped on his thighs.
“On to our next order of business,” said the mayor, and the program moved along. Border looked around, saw Dana and Jacob. Then he spotted Paul, standing with Connie’s son Jeff and Jeff’s family, all eyes on the stage.
Presentation of checks. “These will be on display for the next month in the courthouse atrium,” said the mayor. There was the old man, waiting his turn. Mrs. McQuillan went forward, handed over her cardboard, shook the mayor’s hand. “Representing the hospital nurses, Crosby Baker.”
Right away Border heard grumbling, a low, troubled swell. It caught him by surprise. But why, why be surprised?
Out of the grumbling, clear voices.
“Get the traitor off the stage!”
“Dumbo Gumbo, go back to Canada!”
“Who let him up there? Get him off, get him off!”
“He shouldn’t be on the same stage as real soldiers!”
“Shouldn’t be on the same planet!”
The grumbling got louder, rolled into a snowball of boos, hisses, and shouts.
The old man stepped forward with his check.
Splat! Someone threw a snow cone. Purple ice hit his shoulder and splashed up on his face. People cheered at that. The mayor froze; time for a leader. What to do?
Border’s dad stood smiling while the calls continued. Stood there, taking it. Just taking it. His eyes looked over the crowd; at last he found Border. Bigger smile, eyebrows raised.
Border got the message: Now it’s my turn.
The old man took a breath and straightened his shoulders. A clump of grape ice fell out of his hair and slid down his face. People laughed—now he was a traitor and a fool. He wiped his face, wiped his shirt, wiped his hands.
A single clear voice: “It’s coward’s blood on his shirt!” Border pushed forward. Good to be big; people got out of the way.
Straight to the stage. “What’s this?” said the mayor.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Border. “Hey, Dad,” he called and took off his suit coat, unbuttoned his shirt, handed them both to his father. “Here, take mine.”
Standing bare-chested, he heard the first whistle, then there were more. Catcalls, yoo-hooing. Finally, his name: “Yeah, Border!” He looked at the crowd. Did he dare?
Yes.
Border lifted his arms and flexed.
Almost a riot. Cheers and applause exploded into a roar. Border grinned, looked aro
und.
Hey, miracles happen: Mrs. Zipoti and Connie—struck dumb.
The noise continued until the shirts were exchanged and rebuttoned. Border leaned and whispered to his father. “They love us, Dad.”
The old man shook his head and smiled. “They love you.”
Family Picture—
Party at Connie and Paul’s. Border’s the last one there. It was hard leaving the courthouse because so many people wanted to talk, shake his hand, slap his back. Ha, ha, kid, you shut up those bums. Then he had to go home to change. Jeans and a T-shirt. It’s a holiday, after all.
In the kitchen, the phone machine blinks, a message from Mom. He’ll call back later, share the story. Okay, so you no longer love him, he’ll tell her, but the way he just took it—you would have been proud.
Across the street, the yard is crowded. Music playing, people dancing. Border’s stomach growls. Where’s the food?
He sees Paul and Dana putting platters on a table. She turns, gives an order to Jacob, who’s right there. Liz leads her sisters through the crowd and deposits them with her parents before walking away. Mrs. McQuillan hugs one of the girls. Border sees his father standing against a tree, talking to Connie’s kid, who has his arms around his wife. The old man slips a hand into Maggie’s.
The music gets louder. Border grins. Connie’s favorite tape, her traveling songs. Everyone laughs, the mob in the yard shifts, and for a moment he sees Connie and Mrs. Zipoti dancing. Arms raised, hips rocking, while Aretha sings on.
“There you are,” Dana says. “You took so long. Everyone’s here. We were going to take a family picture, but the coals were ready and we couldn’t wait. Oh, Jacob, we need the cooler!” She rushes off, Jacob follows.
Family picture? And who’s in it? Border frowns. He’s never agreed with his mother and her friends, who preach that a family is born any time people live together. Leave one, start another. Too easy, Mom.
All these friends, though. It’s something.
There’s a crash and all eyes turn to the house. An embarrassed face grimaces behind the door’s glass.
“Open it first!” someone shouts.
“Just like my dog,” someone else says.
Border laughs in agreement. Just like old Pooch. Catches his breath. Yeah, that’s it. That’s what it is. Everyone here, okay, they aren’t his family. Take any picture you want, but don’t call it a family picture. Still, it’s something. Something like Pooch must have felt, what went through her mind, her little dog brain, when she heard everyone come home at the end of a day. Charge the door, welcome them back. Woof woof, woof woof, ah-rooo.
Hometown Page 12
