“Morning, Border.” His father’s voice.
Border turned around and nodded, then resumed staring at the TV.
“Well, I’ll be whipped,” John Farmer said. “This is your father, I’ll bet.” He looked back and forth between father and son, measured the silence, and chuckled. “Good enough. We’ve got a long, snowy day ahead. Soon I’ll know the story.”
The Story—
If I felt like it, Colonel John Farmer, I guess I could tell quite a tale.
Family stories go back too far to see, so I’d have to say ours began when he ran.
My father was only nineteen when he ran from the United States to Canada. It was 1970 and he had received his draft induction notice. Vietnam waited. But my dad looked into his soul, or into his gut, and decided he couldn’t do it. He stole money from his parents, stole his mother’s car, and left the country.
A draft dodger.
He made his way to Toronto where he found plenty of other dodgers and deserters.
Still want to smile at him? Clap your hand on his back?
He found my mother there, too. She’s from the U.S., but she had drifted into Canada, following a guy she thought she loved.
They met at a party back in 1973. One night in an apartment where dodgers were welcome to crash, someone spun out on bad acid. The trip got violent. Tables turned and glasses broke. People screamed and fled. My mother was unable to get out of the low sofa where she was nursing her baby, my half sister, Dana. She looked up into the mad face of the deranged deserter. She looked up at a knife.
It was my father who talked him down. In smooth, low tones, he brought the drug-bombed brain back to earth. He took the knife, handed it over to be put away, then took the man outside for a long walk and talk.
My mother remembered. And a month later when my father came looking for work at the bookstore she managed, she hired him, certain that he was a useful, reliable man.
They married twelve months later, after I was born.
Then, a succession of shared apartments with other dodgers and their women and kids. Jobs that never paid much. Toronto, my parents decided, was getting too hard on Americans. Too mean. They moved to Winnipeg and breathed easier on the plains.
Jimmy Carter became president down in the States and the first thing he did was pardon the draft dodgers. You can come home, he said.
My father couldn’t. His father had closed the door, hard and fast. My grandmother tried once, secretly, to whisper through to her son and grandson, to the girls she would’ve happily claimed as daughter and granddaughter. But the old man, a twice-wounded World War II veteran, proud, heaved his weight against that door. It stayed closed.
They lived in Minnesota. Detroit was almost a thousand miles away, and we went there. Dad went to school, became a nurse. My mother worked in bookstores, wrote and read her poems in coffeehouses. She took her turn at school, studied chemistry. She’s never considered herself a scientist, though, always a poet. Over the years her poems became longer, monologues. Her monologues became flamboyant, performance.
Soon, Detroit was too crowded for them. We moved to Montana, where it was easier to breathe in the mountains.
Then, Colorado. Then, New Mexico. Now, Minnesota.
He hasn’t been back in twenty years. Not even for his mother’s funeral four years ago, or for his father’s last summer. His old man died without a will so everything went to my dad and his brother. Maybe it was my grandfather’s way of saying, Come back.
Or, maybe, bad financial planning.
Either way, my dad now owns a fully furnished house in Red Cedar, Minnesota. And after years of dragging me around—two countries, six states, seven cities, and how many schools?—he’s been inspired to hold me prisoner and force-feed a hometown.
Haircut—
By noon most everyone had migrated to the indoor pool. The water and lounge chairs were filled with bodies. Toneless wrinkled flesh, no shame.
Border sat on a stool in the middle of the lobby while the man with the thin mustache worked on his hair.
CNN droned on: “Border tension remains high…” Snip. Snip. Snip.
“Buzz the rest, please,” Border said to his personal barber. “Make it just like his,” and he pointed to Colonel John Farmer, retired.
Border’s father watched with a few others as his son’s hair fell onto the floor. He tugged on his gray ponytail. Mystified.
The Story, II—
My name, that’s a story right there. And it’s one I’ve heard often enough.
No one knew what my father was going to do when he ran, back in ’70. He was alone and scared. He was breaking the law, breaking hearts.
“But the minute I crossed the border,” he always says when he tells the story, “I was safe and happy and certain I’d done the right thing. Just how I felt when I first held you.”
Sweet, Dad. Sweet.
Might have been worse, though. He could have named me for the border crossing, for the first solid ground of Canada. Might have called me, oh…Pigeon River.
Mozart and Midnight Oil—
The barber refused money. “Happy to do it,” he said. “I wasn’t going anywhere.” He flipped a hand at the lobby window. Snow fell relentlessly.
Still, it wasn’t blowing so much, and a large group decided to walk three blocks to a restaurant. Everyone was tired of donuts. Border’s father went along and brought back three grilled cheese sandwiches for his son.
Border took the sandwiches to their room. While he ate he decided to call his mother. Time to check in, but where would she be? At work or in jail?
“She’s home sick,” said her lab assistant.
“Not in jail?”
“I guess she never made it to the protest. She woke up that morning with a raging fever and a terrible sore throat.”
“There’s a virus stronger than her convictions?”
“Don’t say that to her,” the assistant cautioned.
He decided against calling her at home. She’d be bummed about missing the protest and, besides, she got really grumpy when sick.
Border watched television, then fell asleep. He woke up hungry and left the room to find food. Bagels and juice would do.
Late afternoon—no one in the pool, but the lobby was crowded. Right away Border could tell that people were tired of each other.
News from the Gulf didn’t help. People argued—men with men, women with women, Border noticed, wondering about that. Colonel John Farmer was especially angry.
“No guns for oil,” he said.
Border grinned. He’d heard that often enough. “Don’t you think we should start a war with Saddam?”
Lil smiled.
John scowled. “I’m a soldier, Border, and a soldier obeys his commander. If our country goes to war, I will support it. And you have to admit, Saddam is one crazy tyrant. If we don’t stop him…” He shook his head. “It was so clear, so clear, back in forty-one.”
When the arguing threatened to get personal, Border slipped away to his room and returned with his recorder. He started playing softly in the corner by the coffee pot. At first only Lil listened, but as soon as John Farmer heard the music he bellowed a command for silence, and Border had everyone’s attention. He played beautifully, he always did. Practically a prodigy, he thought as his fingers tapped along the sleek wooden stem.
The crowd favorite was “Red Sails in the Sunset”—his Midnight Oil medley, not the old ballad, though he played that too. Then he played his own Mozart arrangements, wishing all the while he dared put out his hat for contributions. A crowd like this would be good for forty, fifty bucks. Better than a crowd of tourists in Old Town.
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 polit
ical 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.”
Hometown Page 2