Miriam Toews - A Boy of Good Breeding

“Ho! You scared me. How are you, Knute?”

“Fine, thank-you. How are you?”

“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, very busy,” said Hosea, making chopping motions with his hands. “All over town. In fact, I’ve gotta fly.”

“Okay …” said Knute. She wasn’t sure what she should be doing. Staying. Going. She could see this job shaping up to be another one of her colossal failures at meaningful employment.

“All you have to do, Knute, is answer the phone, take messages, maybe think of ways to spruce up Algren: flowers along Main Street, new lettering on the water tower, some new blacktop, maybe check into the price of a new Zamboni, that sort of thing. Okey-dokey? At about noon you can go and get my mail from the post office. Just tell ’em who you are. Fair enough?”

“Okay,” she said again. She nodded and smiled. She was about to ask Hosea if she could smoke in his office, in their office, in the office, but he was gone.

Hosea Funk hurried up the steps of the Charlie Orson Memorial Hospital. The hospital was perched on top of a small hill, and from its front doors Hosea could just see the smoke coming out of the chimney of his house, a block away. Man’s life’s a vapour, full of woes, he thought, seeing the smoke twist in the sky and disappear. He cuts a caper and down he goes. But then he remembered his beloved Lorna, probably still asleep, warm and soft, her hands curled up like a baby’s beside her head, her dark eyelashes … and Hosea’s thoughts flip-flopped from one end of the spectrum to the other in a matter of seconds: from life’s woes to passion’s throes. Then, looking once again at the smoke escaping from the chimney, his thoughts tumbled back towards the woes, lodging themselves somewhere in the humdrum middle of the spectrum with thoughts of Knute and his work, and Knute’s ripped jeans in conjunction with his mayoral status, and would it all work out — should he mention the jeans, should he not?

“Ello, Hosea, you’re looking … sound.”

“Good morning, Dr. Bonsoir, I’m feeling … sound.” Hosea smiled.

“Well then,” said the doctor. “If you are so sound, what can I possibly do for you? I am a physician. Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re here to check up on my patients. On my quality of care? Perhaps you could check Mr. Hamm’s IV levels, or inspect Mrs. Epp for signs of dilation, or maybe you would like to discuss the radical new treatment for enlarged polyps recently making its debut in the New England Journal of Medicine , eh? Mr. Hosea Funk, why do you feel you have the right to ‘check in’ as you call it, on my patients? You are not a priest or a funeral home director. You are not family. You are not an intern practising for the real thing, you are not a hospital administrator or the CMA. You are not even a florist or a pizza delivery person, not that our patients order pizza every day. So, what do you want? Mayors do not, as far as I know, make hospital rounds every few days. It is not part of their job and you are irritating the hell out of me, do you know that?”

“Well, Dr. Bonsoir, I—”

“And my name is not Bonsoir, it’s François. Bon soir, for your information, means good evening. Dr. Good Evening? Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? Think about it. Would you like me to call you Mayor … Hello? Hello, Mayor Hello. Or Mayor Good Night?”

“Well no, gosh, I’m sorry, Doctor … Doctor—”

“François!”

Hosea looked around the room, then down at his shoes. His hand went to his chest, but instead of tugging he flattened his hand over his heart.

“What? Are you having chest pain, Hosea? Sit down there, in that chair. Come on. I’m sorry. Clearly I’ve upset you. I apologize. Here now, let’s loosen your coat.”

“Dr. François, I’m sorry, I—”

“Shhhh, I’m taking your pulse. I need to count. Please, shhh.” The doctor bent over Hosea, holding his wrist between his thumb and forefinger, looking sternly at the second hand of his watch. Hosea sat there, feeling foolish. His heart was fine. How could he tell the doctor he had a nervous condition, not a heart condition? Hosea felt bad for the doctor, who was feeling bad for Hosea. He looked at the curved back of the doctor, at his dark brown hair just grazing the back of his collar. Such care, such professionalism. For a moment Hosea wished the doctor was his own son. Lorna would have a delicious lunch prepared. He and the doctor would enter the warm kitchen slapping each other on the back, each kindly ribbing the other and gazing at Lorna with mutual tenderness.

The doctor let go of Hosea’s wrist and stood up.

“You’ve got the pulse of a nine-year-old girl, Hosea. Nothing to worry about.”

“Thank-you, Dr. François. I’m sorry I irritate you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I realize there isn’t that much for you to do, a small town like Algren isn’t exactly—”

“But that’s not true, Doctor,” said Hosea. He stood up.

“I have a lot of work to do. Algren isn’t just a small town, it’s the smallest. You know, just today I’ve hired a girl — a woman — Tom McCloud’s daughter, Knute, to take care of some of the details so I can work on the bigger projects. I’m sure your work is never done even though you work in a small hospital and not one in the city.”

“Well, I suppose so. I didn’t mean to offend you, Hosea, I was simply trying to shed some light on the subject. Listen, everything is very much as it was three days ago when you were last here. Monsieur Hamm is very ill. His organs are shutting down. He has begun to hemorrhage internally. It is very difficult to find a vein in which to insert his IV tubes. The members of his family are coming around to say good-bye. Unless you are a good friend, I would suggest you maintain a respectful distance. As far as Mrs. Epp goes, if she does not go into labour soon, we will have to induce her. I have discussed over the phone, with some of my colleagues in Winnipeg, the possibility of transferring her to one of the larger prenatal wards in the city. She is very uncomfortable. Okay, Hosea? Is that what you wanted to know? You know, this information is generally regarded as confidential. Are you happy?”

“Yes. Thank-you, Dr. François.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Hosea put out his hand to shake the doctor’s. He truly was grateful. That was exactly what he needed to know. But before the doctor could extend his own hand in return, the hospital’s head nurse, Mrs. Barnes, came careering around the corner. A clean white blur. “Dr. François? Dr. François, Mrs. Epp is leaking amniotic fluid and having contractions one and a half minutes apart. I’m afraid one of the babies is not in position. I’m only getting two pulses. A C-section may be necessary.”

In a second, Dr. François was gone. Hosea watched him and Nurse Barnes run down the hall, their white coats flying behind them like twin pillow cases on a washline. Hosea wanted to run after them, run with them. For one semi-unconscious moment Hosea envied the uncooperative baby, the one who was stuck, the one who would have the gentle, capable hands of Dr. François guiding him, or her? towards the light, out and up. Towards safety, towards home, towards his mother and his father. Such tenderness, such concern. For something so small as a baby, one of three, a triplet. Hosea’s mind almost capsized as he began to imagine the younger Dr. François as his own father, as the cowboy on the range, as the leader of the country, as the … Cut it out, Hosea, said Hosea to himself. Dr. Bon-François is busy, so are the nurses, I’ll have a quick peek at old Leander before I go. Thank God for my rubbers, thought Hosea, as he padded softly down the hall, away from the commotion in Mrs. Epp’s room.