Hometown by Marsha Qualey Page A

“I’ve got it,” said the torte woman. “Local Involvement in our Country’s Military.”
    People grumbled.
    “Don’t you get it? We’d be L-I-C-M: Lick ’em!”
    Oh… Yeah! The name was approved.
    Border frowned. Lick ’em. Sounded a little obscene.
    He and Jacob loaded the finished care packages into a van and stowed supplies in a closet. Tables put away, dishes cleared and washed. Still, people didn’t rush home. Someone turned on a TV and people pulled up chairs around it. Talking, mostly, with minimal attention to the screen. Border wished he had his recorder and his hat. He was so broke. Would they think it weird? His fingers tapped.
    “Music again?” said Jacob, sidling up.
    Border started to explain what he’d been thinking about playing for money. Would they cough anything up, he wanted to know.
    “Isn’t that sort of like begging?” Jacob asked.
    Border shrugged. “I guess. I didn’t really mean it.”
    A soap commercial gave way to news from the Gulf, and people stopped talking. The big, bald general appeared. He spoke precisely and calmly about the war.
    Border was as enchanted as the others. The general was a mesmer. Cool, competent, manly. The perfect father.
    Discipline, Interrupted —
    I don’t like being disobeyed.
    I didn’t.
    What are you saying? I come home at ten and you’re not here. You’ve been grounded, kid, what do you think that means?
    You set the rules; I was following them.
    Where the hell were you?
    Do you have to yell? Schwarzkopf doesn’t yell, Dad, and he’s running a war.
    Don’t get smart, Border. Where were you?
    I was helping. When you grounded me, there were two exceptions: school and helping. I was helping.
    You weren’t at Connie and Paul’s. I called and got them all worried.
    I was at church.
    What?
    Making care packages for the soldiers. Helping. Got it? Helping the war effort, Dad. Proud of me? Everyone there knew you, Dad. The Vietnam draft dodger.
    What’s going on, Border? Is this some little revenge game? You tell me.
    I should…I oughta…
    Hit me? Course not. Send me to Santa Fe?
    I’ve thought about it.
    Would you be happier then? Dump me on her? Just get rid—
    “Would you two shut up! I was sleeping.”
    Then There Were Three—
    “Dana!”
    Border stood still, while the old man lurched forward and hugged her. “You could have let us know you were coming,” he said, still holding her.
    She wiggled loose and turned to her brother. “I can’t believe your hair. It’s gone!”
    “Lost it in Missouri.”
    “Gawd, Border, it’s so sexy.”
    “Great. Just what I want to hear from my sister.”
    “Where have you been?” his father asked.
    “Didn’t you get the message I left?”
    “We did,” said Border, “but that was over a week ago.”
    “Battle Creek, Michigan. I love Corn Flakes, right? So after I toured Coke and Hershey, I thought it’d be cool to see how they make my favorite breakfast food. It was pretty amazing; they give away these toys on the tour, like the kind they put in cereal boxes.”
    “Have you called your mother?”
    “Should I? I suppose. I’ve been on the bus for days. Weeks, really. I took some side trips. I got held up in some small town in Michigan. This punk took fifty bucks off me. I couldn’t believe it; he was a pip-squeak, no more than five-five or something. I mean I had at least six inches on him, and he just sneaks up outside the bus station and twists my arm and feels me up until he finds money. That’s when I knew I was tired and wanted to get off the road. No way, with enough sleep, that I’d let some punk roll me.”
    “How did you get in the house?” asked Border.
    “The lock is feeble, guys. I did it with my driver’s license. Just slipped it in the door frame and, zip, I was in.”
    “How long are you staying?” he asked.
    “I’m not staying here.” Dana opened the fridge. “I’m living here.”
    Border didn’t need to look at his father to know he had