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