Hometown by Marsha Qualey

last, Border. Glad you came. Your father didn’t mind?”
    “He wouldn’t.” Not exactly, that is. If he knew, which he didn’t. Border hadn’t told him, hadn’t even seen him.
    “You mean he doesn’t know you’re here?”
    “He was doing something tonight, so I couldn’t ask.” Mrs. McQuillan frowned. Border smiled. “How can we help?”
    Heavy labor, they were good for that. Border and Jacob set up tables and chairs, then unloaded donated goods from a van. They carried a full coffee urn out of the kitchen. It leaked on Border’s jeans.
    A gray-haired woman, tall as Border and many pounds heavier, swooped up to the refreshment table. “Just what I need! Here boys, do something with this while I get myself a cuppa Joe.” She handed Jacob a cloth-covered pan. He lifted the cloth and smiled. Chocolate torte.
    By the time they took a break, the room had filled with people. Border and Jacob carried their plates and glasses and sat where they could give advice to Liz, who was working with five women assembling mailing boxes.
    “Get to work,” she said. “We have a thousand of these to tape together.”
    “We’ve been busy,” said Border.
    “Men’s work,” said Jacob.
    “Nothing that needs brains!” quipped one of the women, and her companions laughed.
    “Gotcha,” said Liz.
    “Saw your dad on the news last week,” another woman said to Border. He frowned. How did she know him? Had they been introduced?
    “I’m Dot Tully. His pop’s that Vietnam draft dodger,” she said to the others. One or two nodded.|
    “Fred and Maureen’s boy?” a woman next to Border asked. “He’s back in town?”
    “Living right in their own same house,” Dot Tully said. “Let me tell you—what’s your name, exactly? Boomer, something like that?”
    Jacob and Liz chuckled.
    “It’s Border.”
    “Well, Border, listening to your pop on that news show was a revelation. It was the first time I thought that what he did made sense. Not that I think going to Canada was right, but I understand it now. Understand him is maybe what I mean.”
    “Vietnam,” said the woman next to Border, “was a mistake.”
    “Be careful what you say and how loud you say it,” another woman answered. “Look around. Why, I bet almost every man in this room is a veteran of World War Two.” Heads turned, eyes scanned.
    “That was different. That was Hitler.”
    “Time sure changes how you look at things,” a woman said.
    “True,” said Dot. “Still, I was a bit surprised,” she said to Border, “to see you here helping.”
    “He’s not helping,” said Liz, and she took his plate and exchanged it for some box flats and tape. “Be useful, Boomer.”
    “Why were you surprised?” Border asked Dot Tully. Be pleasant, he ordered himself.
    “Well, you being the son of your father. What would you expect?”
    Expectations—
    Expectations. He lived with them; everyone did. He knew that. Border never felt sorry for himself or anything. Not really. But it was tiresome.
    Guy your size, what sports do you play?
    A musician? Got a band, right? Smash guitars, that sort of thing?
    You don’t skateboard?
    Dana’s brother? You smart?
    Diana’s son? You write?
    Gumbo’s boy? Run, chicken, run!
    Closing Up —
    “Four hundred packages!” Mrs. McQuillan said. “That’s twice as many as we’d hoped to get done tonight. We’ll finish the others next week, then start our letter-writing project.”
    “Why wait until next week?” Dot Tully asked. “Let’s meet again on Thursday—let’s come twice a week. Everybody, whatcha think?”
    A quick vote was taken, and it was agreed to meet Mondays and Thursdays; then it was also decided with a show of hands to have a few people plan future projects.
    “We need a name,” the chocolate torte woman said. “We need a checking account, too, for contributions so people don’t end up paying out of their own pockets.”
    Names were suggested, but nothing appealed to everyone. Then,