Hometown by Marsha Qualey

Author:Marsha Qualey [Qualey, Marsha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Young Adult
Publisher: Untreed Reads
Published: 2014-08-20T16:00:00+00:00

IV

Peace

Boots—

The war was over but winter dragged on. An early March storm dumped ten inches of snow. Connie and Paul got fed up, got in the Cadillac, and left town. Border took in their mail and papers, and shoveled their driveway after the next three storms. Every few days he got a post card from them. St. Louis, Dallas, Houston, New Orleans, Mobile. He pinned the cards up in his room by his bed. He liked to look at them and think about a trip, his own trip. Where would he go, if he could go?

If he could go, would he?

They came back in the middle of the biggest storm. Border was hauling garbage cans down to the curb (“It’s Minnesota,” his father had said, “and of course they’ll pick it up in a blizzard, so would you please just do it?”). He saw the Cadillac drive slowly up the unplowed street. It fish-tailed, then straightened. Snow shot up as Connie accelerated to make the turn into their driveway. Paul waved, then covered his eyes as the car skidded, spun, slid backward into snow. A car door opened. “Hi, hon,” Connie called. “We’re home.” Border got his father and sister and they pushed the car free.

It snowed for one more day and night, and the wind blew for another day, then it snowed again. When it was calm, Border looked out the window at his driveway, all filled in and hidden by snow. Time at last, he decided, to buy boots.

He had to ask for money, of course. Did it carefully. Cooked a nice meal, did three loads of wash, vacuumed. His father noticed. “What do you want?” he said.

“Boots,” replied Border. The money was handed over, maybe with some extra thrown in, but Border wasn’t sure; he didn’t know how much boots cost.

Next day after school he found a shoe store on Main. There weren’t too many stores left on the street; they’d all gone to the mall. A florist, a gift shop, one menswear, a sporting goods, three beauty salons, the shoe store. The shoe store was on the block next to the courthouse. Border parked by the banner announcing the memorial. One corner had blown loose and he stopped to retie the cord. A gust of wind snatched it out of his fingers and the nylon rope whipped up, hitting his face. Yow! He touched his cheek. Blood? No, just pain.

The shoe store was deserted except for a clerk, an old man, who sat smoking a cigar. Border nodded and browsed. Not much to see, unless he wanted wingtips.

“I don’t carry tennis shoes,” the man said. Puff, puff. “You boys only ever want tennis shoes.”

“I want boots. Warm ones.”

The man rose, looked at Border’s feet, then walked to the back of the store. Border inhaled. He liked the cigar smell. Maybe he should take it up. He sat down and leaned back, imagining. Puff, puff.

The man returned and dropped a box at Border’s feet. “Try these.” He stepped back, crossed his arms.

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