Hometown by Marsha Qualey Read Free Book Online

disappeared .

III
    War
    Missing—
    B order was hungry, but he wanted information. He called his mother, got her machine.
    Hi, this is Diana. Please leave a message, especially if you are my daughter. Is this a joke, Dana? Where are you? I’m at Lee’s. Call me there.
    Lee was the new lover, not a favorite of Border or Dana. He wouldn’t call her there; doubted if Dana would. He left a message: She’ll turn up, Mom.
    Would she?
    “Do you know anything, Dad? What did Mom tell you?” he asked as soon as he walked into Connie and Paul’s living room. The men had finished eating, but Connie was just sitting down to a bowl of chili. Paul was examining the new computer. Border tossed his jacket onto a chair.
    His father shrugged. “Not much. Her grandparents put her on the plane in South Carolina, she had to switch in Atlanta, and she didn’t get off in Albuquerque.”
    “So she’s in Atlanta,” Border said.
    “I refuse to be worried,” said his father.
    “Gumbo!” said Connie.
    Paul tapped at the computer on his lap.
    “Maybe he’s right,” said Border. “My sister is smart; no one could hurt her.” He sat next to his father on the sofa. “She bites.”
    Connie made a face. “Don’t joke. Do you really think she just took off because she didn’t want to go home?”
    Border and his father exchanged looks, then both smiled. “Yes,” said Border.
    Connie sighed. “Then I won’t worry, either.” She sank back in her chair.
    “Chili’s in the kitchen,” said Paul. “Help yourself.” He didn’t look up. Tap tap, tap tap.
    Watching the War —
    The chili was good and Border had seconds. Just as he was refilling his bowl, he heard his father swear, then moan. Must be the president, thought Border, or he’s thinking of Dana. He turned around to look at the TV screen through the kitchen doorway and sure enough there was George Bush, his somber face filling the screen.
    The president looked straight at the camera, at the American people, and made promises that first night of war. He said the liberation of Kuwait would not be another Vietnam, and Border’s father groaned. He said he had not, would not, tie the hands of the military leadership in carrying out the war. He said he thought it would not last long, nor would there be many casualties.
    “American,” said Border’s father. “He means American casualties.”
    He and Connie began a gentle argument, but Border didn’t pay attention because the war was more interesting. CNN had reporters in Baghdad, where the missiles were hitting. The target area, all the grim analysts and generals on the screen called it.
    One reporter, trapped in Baghdad, called it something else: the center of hell.
    Paul, too, was more interested in what was on TV than in arguing, though he wasn’t so mesmerized that he stopped typing on the new computer.
    “Huh!” Connie said and rose from her chair. “I’ve heard enough from you, Gumbo. Who needs a drink?”
    “I do,” said Border. “Scotch and soda.” He was ignored.
    “One more thing,” said his father, “just one more thing, Connie.”
    “What?” she snarled. Border frowned—not so gentle an argument, after all. “Are you going to tell me Hussein isn’t evil? Are you going to tell me that the whole United Nations is wrong? Bloody hell, Gumbo, never before, not once, have the countries on this planet been so unified. That’s wrong? Are you going to say that?”
    “I’m going to say,” the old man said slowly as he scrunched his soda can in two, “that I wish you wouldn’t call me Gumbo. I haven’t used that name in years.”
    Connie leaned against the door jamb. “Since when?”
    “Not for years.”
    “Pierre? Do you want me to call you that? Your first name?”
    Border rose. “He uses his middle name.”
    “Crosby?” she said after a moment.
    “Yes,” said Border’s father.
    Paul shifted and his thigh rolled onto the TV’s remote control. The channel abruptly switched, and all eyes