Miriam Toews - A Boy of Good Breeding

She sat on the windowsill and smoked and looked outside.

“Uh, hello,” she heard someone say.

“Can I help you?” she muttered and quickly butted her cigarette against the windowsill and threw it down to the street. She turned around and there was Hosea, wearing a hat. He looked vaguely stricken.

“Oh hell- o ,” she said. “It’s you. Sorry. I hope you don’t mind me smoking in here.” Hosea put up his hand like a cop saying stop and shook his head. Knute wasn’t sure he was shaking his head no, he didn’t mind, or no, she shouldn’t smoke.

“Any luck?” he said. Again, Knute wasn’t sure what he meant exactly, so she said, “No. No luck. But I got your mail.”

“Oh. Thank-you,” said Hosea.

“No problem.” Knute thought Hosea’s hat looked good on him. It looked like it must have been a longtime favourite of his.

“So. Thanks again,” said Hosea. “Um, I think you’ll work out well. Did you, uh, have any problems?”

“No, nope, no problems,” said Knute. And she thought how Hosea must be wondering because first she didn’t have any luck and now she didn’t have any problems, so what exactly did she have?

“Well, then, you may as well go home,” said Hosea. “Thanks very much for your help. Well, not your help,” he said, “I mean your services, your time. How does two hundred and fifty dollars a week sound? For, oh, a few hours a day, if that’s, if that suits you.”

“Two hundred and fifty bucks?” Knute said. “That’s great. That’s fine.”

“Because, like I say,” said Hosea, “if you need more or if you think it’s not enough, just tell me.”

“Fine, yeah, I will, but it sounds okay to me. It sounds good.”

“Say hi to Tom,” said Hosea. He sat in his chair and smoothed out the surface of his desk. “I should really drop in again soon. We had a very nice visit the last time I did.”

“Yeah,” Knute said. “You should.” She smiled. Hosea smiled.

“Listen,” he said. “Here’s a key. To the office. In case I’m not around when you need to come in to work.”

“Okay.” Knute took the key. Need to come in to work, she thought. For what?

“Well, see ya,” she said.

“See ya. See ya … Knutie. Knute.”

She smiled as if to say whatever, call me whatever. “See ya,” she said again.

The dog was still sitting there. Dusk was falling in around him. The sky was the colour of raw meat. Knute walked past the dog.

“Hey, you desperado,” she said, “what are you waiting for?” No reply. She wondered if Summer Feelin’ would like a dog. But no, not with all of Dory’s redecorating. She kept walking. Past Darlene’s Unisex Salon, past Jim and Brenda’s Floral Boutique, past the Style-Rite, past Kowalski Back Hoe Services and Catering, past Willie Wiebe’s Western Wear, past the only set of lights in town.

Hosea’s hands were shaking. He opened his top right drawer and took out the orange Hilroy scribbler. His memory of what had just happened was, what was that colour, a dusty rose, a throbbing dusty rose? It took him to the doorway of Leander’s room, but not beyond. Thank God for my rubbers, he had thought. The babies, a problem with one of them. Go back, Hosea, he had told himself. Go back into the room. You stole the hat. You killed a man and stole his hat. No, I didn’t, thought Hosea. I didn’t kill him. He just died and I happened to be there. Shouldn’t you have told someone? Should I have? Yes, I should have. I know it. But then the doctor would have been angry with me. But this man died! I know, but surely someone will notice very soon. But the hat. Nobody saw me go in and nobody saw me go out, so nobody will know that I took his hat. And that makes it okay? People might think I killed him for his hat. Why did I take the hat? It’s a beautiful hat. Because I’m no good. I stole the hat of a dead man. I can’t be any good. That’s right, that’s right. You’re no cowboy, Hosea Funk. You’re a horse’s ass. So I am. So I am.

Hosea sat still in his chair. His head hurt. He opened his scribbler and turned to the Dead column and carefully entered the name Leander Hamm, and the date March 23, 1996. Then he put the scribbler back into the drawer and took out the letter from the Prime Minister and read it twice. He also took out the newspaper photo that showed the Prime Minister sleeping on a plane to Geneva. It was Hosea’s favourite. He had a full photo album of newspaper clippings and pictures of the Prime Minister. Shaking hands, singing the national anthem, talking into a reporter’s microphone, speaking in the House of Commons, kissing his beautiful wife, playing with his grandchildren, unveiling some monument or another, riding away in a chauffeur-driven limousine. But the one of the Prime Minister sleeping was his favourite. It was the only one of them all in which Hosea could see himself.

“Three babies,” Hosea whispered to himself. Three babies. If the third survives. Hmmmm. That’s three more people in Algren, one less, Leander Hamm, that makes two, fifteen hundred and two. That’s two too many, thought Hosea. But he still had a bit of time. The Prime Minister had promised to visit on July first, Canada Day. Hosea had a few months to work it out. He felt his hat. He took it off and put it back on. He phoned Lorna at his place. No answer. Where was she? There was nowhere for her to go in Algren. And she had said she’d be staying a couple of days. “Damn Damn damn,” said Hosea, and began to wonder if he was supposed to know anything.

Where was Lorna, anyway? He decided to go home and find out. As he was getting into his car, Combine Jo walked by and looked hard at him, as if she had seen that hat somewhere before, but where?

“La dee dah, Mr. Mayor with the fancy hat,” she said. “Going to a party?”

“No,” said Hosea. “No, I’m not. I’m going home.”

“Ha ha,” said Combine Jo. “I’m kidding, Hose, it’s a nice hat, suits you. You should wear it on July first if buddy boy in Ottawa comes to town. You know, you look like … Oscar Wilde. Hey, didja hear my kid, Max, is coming home? Pretty good, eh?”

“Is it?” said Hosea.

And Combine Jo said, “Well, I think it is.”

“Yes, well … good,” said Hosea. He knew that Max had left town when Knute was pregnant with his child. So many cowboys, thought Hosea. He also knew all about Combine Jo and her craziness and the cause of it and it was no wonder Max flew the coop. He wondered if Knute and Summer Feelin’ knew Max was coming back. Then again, maybe he wasn’t coming back. Maybe Combine Jo was just talking. But then again, maybe it was true. “Oh, Jo?” he called out to her as she meandered down the sidewalk.

“Yes, m’dear?” she yelled without looking over her shoulder.

“Is he coming back for good? Like, uh, to live here?” he said.

“That’s how it’s lookin’, sweetie. That’s how the odds are stackin’ up,” she said, and she saluted the old black dog as she passed the Wagon Wheel Café.

“Three babies and Max,” whispered Hosea to himself as he drove the two blocks back home. Three babies and Max. But Leander’s gone, he thought and glanced at himself and his hat in the rearview mirror. Four more residents of Algren, minus one, equals three. And no potentially dead or dying at the moment either, thought Hosea. He drummed his fingers on top of the steering wheel and told himself not to worry, not to worry. He parked the car in the garage and went into his house through the kitchen door. He hoped Lorna was there, in bed where he had left her. He would put his cold hands on her warm thighs and she would say—

“Hosea! You’re too early!” screeched Lorna. She had flour all over her face and hair and the kitchen smelled wonderful.