Hometown (7 page)

Border’s stomach responded. “Cake would be good,” he said.

Jacob parked in the driveway of a small house similar to Border’s, but painted white. He gave Border the car keys, then leaned over and looked at the wound on Border’s face. “What a mess.”

“Are the cuts bad?”

“No cuts at all. I think you were right—the blood came from your nose.” He shifted closer, looking.

“Whoa, Jacob. Another inch and I’ll have to kiss you.”

First Friend
—

Pandemonium at the door. Seventy pounds of Labrador pounced. Border cringed, the dog leaped, ran in circles, barked, then sat on its haunches and howled:
Ah-rooo.

“She’s glad to see us,” said Jacob.

“I guess,” said Border.

Jacob held open the door. “Out, Pooch. Go do your thing.”

They ate cake straight out of the pan, holding it between them, two forks digging in. Pooch returned, put her paws up on the door and licked the glass until Jacob let her in.

They ate and talked. Jacob was a junior. Had played hockey until knee surgery. Worked on the school paper. Parents were teachers. Five younger sisters.

“So I was ready to believe you,” he said, “when you told me about the Barbie dolls.”

Border talked less, holding back. Jacob knew most of the story anyway. After all, he’d cut grass for Connie.

He didn’t know about Dana.

“We’re not too worried,” said Border. “It’s sort of like her to do something like this.”

“But what if she’s been hurt?”

“Then we’ll be sorry.”

They finished the cake and Jacob set the pan down for Pooch. She licked furiously, pushing it around the floor, nose stuck in the corners, searching for crumbs.

Three sisters came home, two of them fighting. They carried the fight through the kitchen and into their bedroom. The oldest sister stopped, dumping books on the table.

“What happened to you?” she asked Border.

“Liz, meet Border. Border, meet Liz,” said Jacob.

“He’s in three of my classes. What happened?”

Border needed a moment. Three classes? He couldn’t think of one.

“Geometry, Resources, History. What happened?”

“Some guys jumped me. Really only one guy, I guess, but the others were watching.”

“What guy?” she asked over her shoulder, as she stood at the fridge and poured milk.

“He’s not telling.”

He told. “Bryan someone.”

Liz and Jacob groaned. “Bryan Langtry, I bet,” she said. “Figures. Stupid. Stupid guys. Hey, where’s the cake?” Pooch flicked a paw and the pan skidded across the floor. Liz scowled at her brother and picked up the pan. “This was my cake,” she said.

“Sorry,” said her brother.

“Happy birthday,” said Border. “A day late.”

“Guys,” said Liz as she left the room, “are such jerks.” The fighting sisters returned to the kitchen. The short one looked at Border. “Gross,” she said. The other one nodded.

“Time to go,” said Border. Jacob and Pooch walked him out to the car. “Do you like hockey?” Jacob asked. “There’s a home game Friday.”

“I’ve never seen a hockey game.”

“Lotta fun. Around here it’s bigger than basketball. Whole town goes.”

Bryan and his buddies? “I don’t know.”

“Think about it.”

In the car, Border rolled down the window and leaned out. “Thanks for helping.”

Jacob flipped his hand. “I needed the ride.”

Home Alone
—

He went straight to the phone machine. Nerve center of the family. Light flashed. Word from Dana? No, just Dad.
Dinner with friends, then some tennis. Home by ten. Here’s something to think about: Should we join the Y?

Y not?

He called his mother’s machine, spoke to it: Any news? I haven’t heard anything.

Family life, the nineties.

He washed and changed clothes. Checked his wounds. Bruises on a thigh and hip. Face wasn’t too bad, which was good: no cuts, no gashes, no questions. His dirty shirt was blood-stained and he threw it away, shoving it to the bottom of the trash. His hand came up smelling like old spinach. Washed again.

Supper alone, watching the war. Fiery skies, tense reporters, gas masks, sirens.

Border muted the sound and played his recorder. Rolling Stones, an oldie, “Sympathy for the Devil.”

Telephone call for Gumbo. “He’s playing tennis,” said Border.

“The party’s set for Saturday. Let him know.”

Border promised, said good-bye.

Zzzip flash, zzzip flash, missiles over the Middle East. Pyroball, bigtime. Border played Mozart. Too pretty.

Telephone for Gumbo. “Did he hear about the party?”

“He will,” Border promised.

Zzzip flash. Border touched his tender face. Telephone for Gumbo, did he hear about the beating? Telephone for Gumbo, did he hear about the kicking? Telephone for Gumbo, did he hear about the bleeding?

Brahms? No, still too pretty. Border whacked the recorder against his palm. Stupid instrument, really. Drums would be better. A big kettledrum, a bass drum. Nothing pretty, no melody, no song, no oldies. Just hit it and hit it and hit it.

Red, White, and Blue—

Flags everywhere. After just a few days of war, they had sprouted all over town. Front porches, car antennas, picture windows. On Sunday afternoon Border erected a pole for Connie and Paul outside their house. Fifteen feet of aluminum weighted down in a barrel of sand. An hour in the cold—red hands, numb toes, ringing ears—but finally the flag ran up the pole and flapped.

“Looks good,” said Paul.

“Perfect, hon,” said Connie.

“You could’ve worn gloves,” said the old man, who hadn’t helped at all but joined them in time for cocoa.

“Good advice, Gumbo,” said Border. And out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father stiffen. Got the message: Not funny.

Didn’t mean to be.

At school on Monday, more flags. Classrooms and hallways, tables in the lunchroom, backpacks and buttons. Someone had slapped a flag decal on Border’s locker. He spent too much time trying to scrape it off and was late for math class. It didn’t matter; no one noticed. When he walked in, people were crowded around a desk in the back.

Border slipped into his. Dug out his homework.

“Here, here,” barked the teacher. “Order!” People sat down, still talking. “Quiet, or we have a quiz!” That worked.

The teacher clasped his hands. “So that we might all fully appreciate the patriotic effort of your classmate, why don’t we ask Chandra to model her outfit?”

Border twisted in his seat—hard to do, he filled it up—as a girl in the back rose and walked down the aisle, displaying a short skirt and top she’d made out of a flag. The class cheered and whooped, clapped and snapped a rhythm for her walk. Border frowned, puzzled. Thought about the old man’s stories from his days in high school when people were going nuts over the Vietnam War. Back then it was the protesters who wore the flag. And caught hell for it.

But now, 1991, some girl was sashaying through rows of desks wearing a flag over a black leotard. The class went wild. The teacher beamed. Border checked his homework.

Mrs. Zipoti—

“Hummus!”

Everyone came to attention. But then, as Border had learned his first day in school, everyone was always at attention in Mrs. Zipoti’s class, Resources for Living. One slip, one slight drift toward daydream, and those eyes would zero in and that broad rock of a bosom would hover, extinguishing light and, very possibly, life.

“Does anyone know what hummus is?”

Gulag Zipoti, he’d learned to call the class the first day. And in any other class but the Gulag, Border suspected the usual jokes would have been whispered: Hummus a tune; Hummus is that doggie in the window?

Not a word. She licked her lips in satisfaction, having once again proven that students were dumb, dumber, dumbest.

“Hummus is a staple food of the Mideast. Today we will make hummus.”

They made hummus. There were several Middle Eastern restaurants in Albuquerque, and Border had eaten hummus often, but he could tell the other kids hadn’t. As everyone’s bowls of gloppy beige paste developed, the groans and gagging started. Mrs. Zipoti beamed satisfaction from behind her counter.

“Through food,” she intoned, “we can gain understanding, appreciation, and empathy for other cultures.” Her chest heaved. “Even as we destroy them.”

A whisper from the back: “People who have to eat this crap should beg to be bombed.”

Mrs. Zipoti found the voice. She glided from her counter to where a girl slouched in a seat. Mrs. Z didn’t say a word, just glared, breathed deeply, returned to her mount.

Border and the others could read her mind.

Big fat
F.

Escape—

The next day Border ditched school. Between classes he caught Bryan eyeing him a few times, not friendly, and decided, Why wait for trouble?

It felt so good sitting in the car, out of the school, free to go. He drove away fast, headed nowhere.

He cruised Main. Still only morning, and there was no one to see but slow-moving senior citizens crossing the street at a crawl. Border stopped for one who paused in the middle of the street to search his pockets.

Honk, maybe, just to move him along? Better not—might scare ’im to death. Border tapped on the steering wheel, looked around. On the courthouse grounds two men were tying a banner to trees. FUTURE SITE OF… The plastic flapped.

The car behind Border’s honked. The old man quit his pocket search, looked up and scowled at Border, then raised a mittened fist before plodding on.

He drove the Volvo around the courthouse, parked, and got out to read the sign.

FUTURE SITE OF WALTHAM COUNTY WAR MEMORIAL.

GROUNDBREAKING: MEMORIAL DAY, 1991. The banner included a drawing of the future monument—a plain stone wall, with room for names. Someone joined Border. “Sort of copying the Vietnam Memorial,” Border said aloud, not looking at his companion.

“They could do worse than that.”

“True.” He turned to look and was eye to eye with a stern man in a uniform. A sheriff’s deputy, according to the badge.

“Shouldn’t you be in school, son?”

Yes, he should. “Going that way, after…” After what? A nap? A few hours of TV? “…the dentist.”

The deputy smiled. “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

“No sir. Two fillings.” Border nodded and walked to his car, sucking back a smile. Sometimes the lies came so easy.

Next morning, he slept until ten and woke up thinking,
I should be in school.
Fell back asleep.

Habit. Back home it was easy to ditch, they never checked. Two thousand kids in a school, who noticed?

This time, his father.

Discipline—

They called me at work, Border. Three surgeries scheduled, the place is wild, and I have to deal with a school secretary.

Nice lady.

I called three times this morning. Where were you? What did you do all day?

Slept.

I’m busting my butt earning a living for us and you’re home sleeping.

Teenagers need sleep. Lots of it.

Give me your car keys.

What?

Punishment, Border. Consequences. You do not skip school.

Ground me or something, but let me drive.

Keys, please.

How do I get to school? Do you want me to stay home and sleep?

It’s yellow. It stops at the corner. It’s called a bus.

No!

Yes! Keys?

It’s crowded, Dad. It’s got
junior high
kids on it.

I don’t care.

That’s obvious. For how long?

Two weeks. You’re not grounded, but you’re not driving.

Two weeks without a car? You’re kidding!

Dead serious.

No way. I won’t.

You will. Know why? Because I can make things even worse. This house isn’t a democracy. I’m the father, you’re the kid, and I’m in charge. Keys, please.

Good News
—

After that, nothing to do but stay away from each other. Nothing to do but go to bed. While he brushed his teeth, Border remembered the phone machine. The old man said he’d phoned in the morning, but there had been a call in the afternoon. He’d heard the ringing from his room and hadn’t bothered to play any messages later, certain they were all from his dad.

Sure enough—one from the school secretary, then three calls from his father.

Beep number five and his head jerked with the hello.

Hello, gorgeous guys. I bet you don’t have any idea where I am. I’m not so sure I do, exactly speaking, but I do know I’m having an adventure. Here’s what happened: I got off the plane in Atlanta, right? And there was this sign that said “Welcome to Atlanta. Visit the World of Coca-Cola.” Coke is my poison, you know that, so I figured, what the heck, New Mexico can wait. I got a cab and took the tour and saw how they made the stuff. Only it wasn’t the real factory, just a fake one for the tour, but it was still pretty neat. And there were these women on the tour—you know the type, Old Town tourists with white hair, jogging suits, sneakers
—
and they said the World of Coke was almost as good as the Hershey chocolate plant in
—
where else?
—
Hershey, Pennsylvania. So I figured I oughta see that. My grandparents
—
oh boy, Border, wait till you hear about them—gave me all this money, so don’t worry about me, Dad. Anyway, wait, I need to stuff a few quarters…