“How’s your father doing?” the man asked, voice as crisp as the bills he was handling.
Border glanced down at his jacket. Had someone pinned a note?
Gumbo’s boy.
He touched the back of his head. Maybe the barber had shaved it into his hair. “Dad’s fine. He’s pretty happy to be back in Red Cedar.”
“Some people aren’t real happy he’s here.” The man slammed the register drawer closed, trapping Border’s money. “Some people think he should have stayed in Canada.”
“He hasn’t lived in Canada for over ten years.”
A detail, and it didn’t matter to the shoe man. He just stared, cigar rolling in his mouth. Puff puff, puff puff.
Seeing Red, Eating Pink
—
“I should have walked out of there. I should have dumped the boots on his head. I should at least have yelled at the
guy.”
“Like you’re yelling at us, hon?” Connie asked.
“Sorry. But the guy just burned me, and all I did was smile and hand him forty bucks.”
“I gave you sixty,” said the old man.
Oops. “Laces were extra, Dad.”
“Sure.”
“You want it back?”
“No. Consider it compensation for rising to my defense. I appreciate it.”
“I didn’t rise to anything, that’s what’s bugging me. And what really steams me, Dad, is how come it’s always me that gets the mudslinging? You’re the one they’re mad at, but I get my butt kicked. All you’ve gotten is a cake. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of living in this two-bit town where I can’t even buy boots without offending someone. Has anyone said anything to you? Once, just once, have you caught crap for what you did?”
“Save it for home, Border. We’ll discuss this later.”
“Keep going,” said Connie. “I think it’s interesting.”
“C’mon, Dad, what’s the worst? Been jumped? Kicked? Hounded in the grocery store? What?”
“Actually, no one has said a thing.”
Border swore.
“That’s not interesting,” said Connie.
“Ha! And
your
mouth is always so elegant?” Border said and wished right away he hadn’t.
Paul appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Time to eat. You can fight later, but not over my cooking.”
Dana had helped Paul with supper. He needed a hobby for a character in his new book. He’d ruled out bell ringing and hang-gliding and was now considering cooking. He was experimenting with recipes.
“Tomato and basil linguine,” Dana announced as they all sat down. “And I warn you, this might be the perfect pasta.”
Border looked at his plate and his day went from bad to worse. “Oh, man,” he groaned. Pink noodles.
Talk Time—
Border wasn’t surprised when his father knocked on the bedroom door that night. Talk time. He supposed he had asked for it.
The old man didn’t waste any time. “What you said to Connie was inexcusable.”
“I apologized later. Yes, it was wrong.”
“I don’t ever want you saying anything to Paul or Connie that needs an apology. Ever.”
“I don’t want to either. Things slip out. They handle it better than you.”
“And I’m sorry you’ve had trouble since we moved to Red Cedar.”
Just as he thought, the real subject. Connie was a warm-up. “I’m the new kid in town, Dad. Again. For the millionth time in my life, I’m the new kid in town. Did you ever think about what it would be like for me before you decided to move us?”
“I knew it wouldn’t be easy for you.”
“Perceptive.”
“But I knew I had to get you out of Albuquerque. The house was here and it seemed like the perfect chance to get away. I’m sorry it hasn’t been better for you.”
“What was so wrong with Albuquerque?”
“Do I really have to tell you? Border, the things you were doing just—”
“What
was I doing? I wasn’t doing drugs, Dad. I wasn’t sleeping around, Dad. Tell me, Dad, just what was I doing?”
The old man rose from the bed, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You were slipping away.”
“Slipping away? What’s that? Some new category of teenage sin?”
“It was scary, is what it was.”
“I don’t remember it that way, Dad. I miss it.”
“Our memories differ. Good night, Border.”
Memory
—
I remember meeting Riley in a comic book store. I had ditched school because the weather was nice, and I wanted to be doing something worthwhile. I decided to track down some back issues of
Elfquest,
my favorite comic. I especially wanted to find #8, “Hands of the Symbol Maker.” I took the bus down to UNM, figuring the stores around campus might have what I wanted. One place looked promising. A kid was standing by the counter when I asked the clerk about back issues. The clerk said they didn’t have any
Elfquest
that old, and right away the kid said, “I know where you can get it. C’mon.” I followed him out and down the street. When we passed a restaurant, the kid stopped. “You got any money?” he asked. “Sure,” I answered, and we went in and ordered. He was hungry and ordered lots, steak and eggs. I got pie. Other kids came in and talked to him. I learned his name, Riley. Told him mine. A pregnant girl came in, sat next to Riley, laid her head on his shoulder. “Would you get her some food?” he asked. “She’s eight months along, she’s gotta eat.”
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?”