Miriam Toews - A Boy of Good Breeding

“Oops,” said Hosea. “I am?”

“Yes, you are, and where did you get that hat? You know, it actually looks good on you! But what the hell are you doing home so early?” She’d said urr-lee. Hosea stopped for a brief second to reflect on that question. What the hell was he doing home so early? She said it as though it was their home, not just his. Home. She said it like she lived there, too. What with the flour on her face and everything, and barefoot! She could have said, What are you doing back so early? Or just, You’re early! Three babies and Max and no potentially dead other than Leander and now Lorna’s hinting at his home being hers, too, which would mean three babies, Max, and Lorna, as new residents of Algren, which would be next to impossible to level off before July first, the day the Prime Minister, his father, the man his mother had said, on her deathbed, was his father, had promised to come and see him — well, see Algren. All of Algren. Well, he had promised to see Canada’s smallest town and Hosea hoped that would be Algren. But. Grrr.

“I’m home early because … I love you. And what are you doing?”

“I’m baking, Hose, what does it look like?” Lorna was dragging one finger down a page of a recipe book and moving her lips.

“What are you baking?” asked Hosea.

“I’m baking cinnamon buns, Hosea. The smell of cinnamon buns, for a guy, is an aphrodisiac more powerful than all the perfumes on the market, did you know that?”

Oh, Lorna, thought Hosea. I don’t need an aphrodisiac with you. Just the mention of your name and I melt. I … melt.

“No, I didn’t know that,” said Hosea. “Well, good. That should help.”

Lorna turned around and put one hand on her hip and the other held the recipe book with her middle finger stuck in at the right place.

“What do you mean that will help , Hosea?” she said. “Help with what?”

“With us?” he said, knowing, just knowing it was all wrong.

“What do we need help with, exactly?” asked Lorna.

“Um … I don’t know. I mean, with nothing. We’re fine. Right?”

“What are you trying to say, I don’t make you hot anymore? You need a fucking cinnamon bun to get turned on?”

“No! You said it. I didn’t say that. You said cinnamon buns were more of an aphro—”

“I know what the fuck I said, okay, Hosea?”

“Okay. Let’s go back to it then. Say it again. Please? Please?”

“God, you’re hopeless, Hosea. Okay, did you know that cinnamon buns are a more powerful aphrodisiac than all the perfumes in the world?” Lorna spoke in a bored singsong voice and moved her head back and forth as if she were reciting something. Hosea was ready now.

“To hell with all the perfumes and all the cinnamon buns in the world, baby,” he said. “I don’t need any aphrodisiac but you!”

Lorna was laughing now with her hands on her hips and saying, “Yeah, yeah. Not gonna happen. My timer’s going off in about four minutes.”

Knute and Summer Feelin’ were sitting on the bed and talking.

S.F. was leaning against the wall with her feet sticking out over the edge of the bed and Knute was sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor and her hands stretched out on her thighs. Summer Feelin’ lifted each of Knute’s fingers painfully high, while she talked, and let them drop. From the pinkie on Knute’s left hand to the pinkie on her right and back again.

“Is Joey a girl or a boy?” she asked. Joey was the neighbour’s yappy dog. Knute hated that dog but Summer Feelin’ thought he was cute.

“A boy,” said Knute.

“What if he’s not?” S.F. asked.

“Then he’s a girl.”

S.F. stared at Knute, gravely, for a few seconds.

“Do you know what I’m gonna use this stuff for when it gets goopy like nail polish?” She pointed to a container of old liquid blush Dory had given her.

“Uh …” Knute said, pretending to rack her brain. “Nail polish?”

“Right, Mom, how’d you know?” said S.F., climbing onto Knute’s lap. Knute could feel S.F. starting to quake inside. Soon her head would be back and her arms would be flapping. What’s so exciting? Knute wondered. Joey? Nail polish?

“Is he coming back just to see me?” S.F. asked. She shook. Knute knew who S.F. meant. She’d been wondering the same thing. No, she thought to herself, he’s run out of money and probably has some type of venereal disease that requires antibiotics and that’s why he’s coming back.

“Yes, my darling,” she said and wrapped her arms around S.F. “You’re the main reason he’s coming back.”

“I knew it,” said S.F. Knute fell over like a tree and her head hit Summer Feelin’s pillow. She couldn’t stop it from happening any longer. She closed her eyes and remembered Max. His hair, his smile, the way he talked, the way he smoked, the way he became maudlin when he drank too much wine, how he hardly ever took anything seriously, the passionate promises he made, how he took care of Combine Jo, how he hardly ever lost his temper, his hands, his stupid jokes, his laugh, his voice, his letters that stopped coming.

“Mom, Mom, don’t sleep.”

“I’m not sleeping, S.F.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m resting.”

“Don’t rest.”

“Summer Feelin’,” Knute said. “Do you think it’s kind of selfish of Max just to come and go whenever he pleases? Do you wonder why he hasn’t come to see you at all and you’re already four years old?”

“I dunno,” S.F. said. She shrugged.

Knute sat up and S.F. pulled her off the bed. It was time to make another heart-smart low-fat, low-sodium, low-cholesterol, low-excitement meal, probably of chicken breasts and rice.

“Oh, Knutie?” Dory called from some cubbyhole she was painting in another room.

Oh no, thought Knute. Another morbid anecdote. “Yeah?”

“Did you hear that old Mr. Leander Hamm died?”

“The guy with the hat?” Knute called out.

“The guy with the hat. Yes. But he was very old. It’s a blessing, really.”

“Well then!” Knute yelled. “Bless us each and every one and pass the whiskey.”

“I just thought you might be interested!” said Dory. “For Pete’s sake!”

“Hey, Mom!” Knute yelled. “Why don’t you crawl out of that hole and come and hang out in the kitchen with us while I make supper.”

“I’ll be right there,” Dory yelled back. “Put the coffee on!”

“Will do,” said Knute, chasing S.F. into the kitchen with wild eyes and singing into the back of her neck, quietly, “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s given up his bed, he’s said all that he’s said, away his life has sped, his body’s left his head, give us his daily bread,” and Summer Feelin’ had to laugh in spite of herself. Thank God, thought Knute.

Lorna was on her way home. Everything had gone quite well, thought Hosea, very well really, except for the end when she had said, “Oh, Hosea, you know I think about living with you, having a nice easy life together, you know, just … being together.”

Nice? Easy? Could life be that way, Hosea thought, nice and easy?

Could it? And the two of them together? Obviously she meant in Algren. How could the mayor of the smallest town up and move to the big city? Well, he couldn’t, thought Hosea. And after she’d said what she’d said, Hosea had pawed his chest a few times, and said, “Oh you.” “Oh you?” Lorna had said. “Oh you? That’s all you can say, Hosea? Oh you?” But he hadn’t meant it that way. He hadn’t meant it to sound like Oh you, you’re such a silly kid. But oh you, oh you, oh YOU, my Lorna, my love. Hosea understood how Lorna might have misunderstood. He’d mumbled it into his tugging hand and looked down when he’d said it and had wanted to carry her back to his car, to his house, their house, to their bed, to bring the exercise bike out into the open and have Lorna’s sexy, lively colourful stuff all over the place, instead of sad things like Euphemia’s tablecloths and ancient jars of Dippity-Do, and forget about his stupid plan and live in honesty, the two of them, day to day, with July first coming and going like just another hot summer memory and not a looming deadline.