Hometown (3 page)

His hat. He stopped midnote.

Riley also had his hat.

The Story
,
III

There’s more, of course. There are the years of silence between my father and his parents, years of moving, different schools, new apartments, countless strangers who became family friends, political protests and political performances. Lots of cats.

Dana and I grew.

Mom and Dad grew apart. Isn’t that what’s always said? But that’s their story. I don’t know it. I can only imagine.

Another Departure
—

In the morning Border carried John and Lil’s suitcases to their car. The snow had stopped and the plows were out. John was confident the roads would be clear enough, headed south and west.

“They’ll be worse going your way,” he cautioned. “You’re chasing the storm.”

Border nodded. How true.

Others were leaving and good-byes were said, and the parking lot was as cheery and loud as the lobby had been the previous day. Border was hugged several times.

Twice by John, who said, as he pulled away from the first hug, “Your father is a brave fool. I grew up in a town like his hometown. I know how those places are. We’re about to get our butts kicked into a war and that’s a crazy time for a draft dodger to go back home. Crazy. Every loudmouthed, know-it-all patriot will be after his balls.”

“Farmer, stop,” said his wife.

Border’s eyes widened. “He told you?”

“He and I had lunch together yesterday,” John said. “It’s a talent of mine, getting people to talk. Though it appears I needed a bit more time to work on you.”

Lil opened a portfolio and handed Border a drawing. The paper was white and it caught the sun, and he was blinded until he shielded his eyes.

“Pencil isn’t my favorite medium,” she said, “but it was all I had at hand.”

Border and Recorder,
she had written on the top of the sheet. And that’s what it was, a picture of him playing. “Please send it to your mother,” Lil said.

“She might like to see the haircut,” added John, then he moved in for the second hug.

Border waved as they drove away, and just before he turned to go back into the motel, he saw a car window roll down.

“One more thing,” John called. “Take your father to a barber.”

Border saluted.

Lil accelerated, snow shot out from under car tires, and their long, black Buick joined the procession of huge American cars leaving the motel parking lot, southbound.

Another Haircut
—

Traveling in the wake of the blizzard, Border marveled at its power. Starting somewhere in New Mexico, it had blown across Texas and Oklahoma, caught them in Missouri, then surged ahead up into Iowa.

The whiteness was vast, though not exactly flat, the way he’d expected, because the snow had drifted and duned.

Border drove after Des Moines, and while keeping his eyes on the road ahead, he thought back to home. Wondered what Riley and the others were doing. Wondered about the burnt kid. Wondered if Weber would go ahead and pierce his tongue. If Celeste would contact the baby’s father. If Riley had sold his hat.

Border ran his palm over his buzzed head. Would the hat fit now?

He exited at Mason City, the sign said, and turned west to Clear Lake, the sign said. His father said, “Hey?”

Border didn’t speak until they found a downtown. He parked, looked the stores over, then pointed. “Your turn to get a haircut.”

“Hey?” his father said again.

“John Farmer might be right, about being an easy target.”

While his father got cut and shaved, Border sat in a chair and paged through a
Playboy,
wondering.

He listened to his father joke and trade stories with the barber. Two men with time on their hands came into the shop and joined the conversation.

Hospital stories. Border had heard most of them, so he listened mostly to the sound of the voices, to the odd little noises the men made while listening to his father. Over the edge of the magazine he observed the looks they exchanged, the smiles they bestowed on the stranger.

When they left he knew that the barbershop men would feel they’d had a good afternoon, and would tell others about this dang man who came in, a nurse wouldja believe?

Border, in the car, listened as his father shouted goodbye to the men, and, funny, just then it felt okay to be his kid.

II

Arrival

Hometown
—

“It’s an ugly town, Dad.”

“Nothing’s changed,” his father whispered.

“Then it’s always been ugly?”

No answer.

“I realize most towns are ugly from the highway, but this seems especially bad. It’s so flat.”

“Welcome to Minnesota, Border.”

“Aren’t there supposed to be lakes? Isn’t there
anything
to look at? Oops, there’s a mall.”

His father turned to look. “That’s new.”

Five more minutes to the exit, a few more while they drove down streets lined with small houses, and his father must have said “Nothing’s changed” twenty times. Border was tempted to scream at him to quit, but he let him have his time of wonder.

The chant changed. “That’s it. That’s it. That’s it,” the old man said, pointing to a blue house.

“Welcome home, Dad.”

Border carried bags into the house. He kicked off his shoes and wandered through the rooms. The neatness tickled him. Of course, no one had been living here since his grandfather’s death. And his uncle had taken some things, he knew, and the clothing had gone to Goodwill, and there’d been a cleaning lady. All these details had been discussed in long conversations between his father and uncle, who lived in Chicago.

“You want the big bedroom?” Border asked.

“Of course.”

Border chose a room for himself. He supposed it had been his father’s. Twin beds, two dressers. Spruce green covers on the bed, matching curtains.

No posters or pictures. He didn’t know why he expected some. It had been twenty years since a child had lived there, and the last one, his father, had been wiped from the family’s record as if he’d never been alive.

Border had never lived in a house before. Always it had been apartments, some so large that there were hidden rooms, some so small he couldn’t step out of bed without being in the kitchen or the bathroom or—the worst—his parents’ bedroom. This house wasn’t big, but there were lots of rooms. He found a workshop and a sewing room. Two bathrooms. Three televisions. He opened a door and discovered a washer and dryer. He smiled. No more trips to the laundromat.

“We’ll need food,” he said to his father when they met in the kitchen. His father nodded, then sat down and looked around the room.

“Seems pretty weird, I suppose,” Border said. “To be here and all.”

His father nodded again, then closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

Border shrugged. He put on his jacket and went to the garage. The walks and driveway were loaded with snow. He foraged in the garage, found a shovel, and started clearing the driveway.

He had never shoveled snow before. As apartment dwellers, they’d always left it to the landlord. It was strangely satisfying work. Every few feet he paused and admired what he’d accomplished. He was leaning against the long-handled shovel, surveying the length of black driveway he’d exposed, when a garage door immediately across the street started rising slowly. Before it had risen to its full height a car backed out, just slipping through the opening.

It was a copper-colored Cadillac convertible, with a raised black top. The driver honked twice, then accelerated and backed straight across the street onto Border’s driveway. The car stopped a few inches from the garage door.

The driver stepped out. It was a lady, and Border saw right away she had copper-colored hair. She matched her Cadillac.

Staredown. Border refused to speak, and he saw that the lady couldn’t. His dad came out of the house then, and she ran forward, hugged him, then waved hands in front of her tear-streaked face.

“Too much,” she said finally. “It’s all too much. How long has it been, Gumbo?”

Border smiled at hearing his father’s childhood nickname.
You’re home now, Dad,
he thought.

“Hello, Connie,” the old man said.

He should have known; he could have guessed. Connie. The mother of his father’s oldest friend, the woman who always kept track of where they were living and what they were doing and never failed to send at least a Christmas letter full of news from the old hometown.

“Wave to Paul,” she commanded. “He’s sitting by the window. He had his bypass surgery two weeks ago and he’s not moving much yet.”

They dutifully waved to the unseen husband.

“Border, baby.”

He cringed and braced himself for a hug.

It was a good one, a real lung crusher. When she pulled back she inhaled and spoke at the same time. “I can’t believe it. Gumbo’s boy.” Exhaled. Her eyes widened, smile broadened. “Border, sweetheart, I just have to tell you I saw your mother perform.”

People always had to tell him that.

“She came to Minneapolis, you know, right before Thanksgiving. The kids came down from up north and we met in Minneapolis and saw the show.” She pressed two fingers against her lips and inhaled. A ghost cigarette.

“I’ve wondered a few times since,” and her smile turned wicked, “if her show had anything to do with Paul’s heart failure!”

“We’re unpacking, Connie,” Border’s father said wearily. “Tomorrow I start work.”

“I know you do. The hospital called me because they wanted to know if you were here yet. They hadn’t heard. Lots of people have called, Gumbo. There’s plenty of folks who want to see you—you’d be surprised how many are still here from your class. And your wife even called. Twice.”

“She’s not my wife, Connie. Not for a year now.”

“I know that, but let me say, we had a
very
interesting conversation. Let’s go in and have some coffee and I’ll tell you.”

“The cupboards are bare.”

“They are not. I brought a few things over on Monday. I have a key, you know. I’ve had it for thirty years, boys, I’ve never hesitated to use it, and I don’t see the reason to change. C’mon Gumbo, let’s make coffee, and we can talk.”

Border didn’t want coffee and didn’t want to talk. He stayed outside, leaning against the shovel and looking at the street. Four blocks of nearly identical houses, each with a tidy, snow-covered yard. His was punctuated in the center by a single tree. Snow around it was unmarked, pristine. Perfect for snow angels. He dropped the shovel and stepped into the snow. The crust held him for a moment, then gave way on his third step and he tumbled forward. He felt the cold snow slide into his shoes and shoot up his wrists. A passing car loaded with kids honked. He could see the driver peering, the riders pointing and laughing.

Border scooped up snow and formed a ball to fling at the car. Childish, but satisfying.

When it smacked the taillight, the car slowed, the window reeled down, and curses were hurled. Then it gunned and sped away. Border felt stupidly pleased.

Shopping
—

Border followed Connie around the grocery store. She had insisted on taking him shopping while his father unpacked. Only it was pretty clear she had no interest in groceries. She was too busy talking—to the deli workers, the cart collectors, every third person in the aisles. While she chatted and laughed, he selected food from the shelves and put it in the cart.

When he was introduced to someone, he’d nod and then stand still while the person studied his face, his clothes, his height. Border on display, just like a sale rack of cookies.

“…Gumbo Baker’s boy. They’ve come to live in town, you know,” he heard Connie say every five minutes. Then a fresh inspection began. He was civil. Some people harrumphed and turned away, some hugged his shoulders. One lady, who seemed to be a particular friend of Connie’s, clapped her hands on her rosy cheeks and shook her head. “I knew your grandma so well,” she said, and Border wished he’d paid attention to her name. “She put up with so much crap from your grandpa, and it just killed her to have her boy living so far away. We offered—didn’t we, Cons?—we offered to drive her to Canada to see your dad, but she was the good wife, always the good wife, your grandma, in spite of all the BS she took from him. She was just paralyzed, wasn’t she, Cons?”

Connie nodded.

“Oh, those were wicked times.”

Border set some salsa in the cart. So he had a family with a past. Well, he’d always known that, but all these people in this grocery store seemed to know a lot more about it than he did.

The strange lady with red hair (Border wondered about the color of her car) got a little choked up. “Gol darn it,” she said, “if she weren’t dead already, why it would just kill her to see you, all big like this, and those years you were little just gone and lost.”

Lord, tears. And these were worse, coming from a stranger. Border reached for soup cans, two for $1.99, but he didn’t make it; instead, smack in the center of aisle five, he got hugged hard by a nice-smelling, red-haired lady.

A Boy and His Car—

It didn’t take long to settle in because they hadn’t brought many belongings. After all, the house was fully furnished. It even came with a late-model Oldsmobile in the garage.