Miriam Toews - A Boy of Good Breeding

Knute hadn’t actually been conscious for most of that. She thought she was dreaming and she was finding the whole thing funny. Until he said, “Spring is here. I’m here,” and it dawned on her and she was awake. And then she didn’t know what to say. She lay perfectly still. “Hi,” she said.

And he said quietly, “Hey, Knutie, how are you?”

“All right, yourself?”

“Well,” he said, “I can’t see you and I’m kinda stuck … Where is she?”

“In the next room.”

“Really? In the next room?” was all Max said for a long time. And they listened to each other breathe for a minute or two.

“Why don’t you come out here?” he said, and he batted at the blanket again. Knute sighed heavily.

“I guess she’s sleeping?” whispered Max. Knute didn’t know what to say. “Knute?” said Max. “Will you come out and talk to me?”

“Okay, hang on,” said Knute. “It’s raining?”

“Yeah,” said Max.

“Okay, hang on.”

And then there they were, outside in the rain, standing and staring at each other, not really knowing what to say or how to act. Smiling, then frowning, then smiling again, looking off into the distance, looking at each other, wiping rain off their faces. Finally, Max asked, “What’s she like, Knutie?” and Knute started to cry, she couldn’t help it, and he, the favourite fuckster from afar, just stood and from time to time put his hand out towards her without touching her.

Finally he put his arm around her shoulder and she said something like “Don’t you fucking put your arm around me.”

And he said, “Fine,” and dropped it, lit a cigarette and stood there, looking off towards the neighbours’.

“Here,” he said. He gave her his lit cigarette and then lit another one for himself. Then they kind of blurted out at the same time, Knute with “You’re such a fuck-up,” and him with “I know, I know.” Then more staring off and smoking.

“Well, Knute, it’s been really nice chatting with you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey.”

“What.”

“Knute?”

“What.”

“You’re gonna let me see her, aren’t you?”

“Oh, well …” Knute said, and Max smiled. “Actually, no,” Knute continued, “no I’m not, never, well, maybe in four years, you kept her waiting, now it’s her turn to keep you waiting.”

“Hey, good one. I could wait longer, you know, five, six, twenty-five years, it’s up to you, I’ll just wait. Starting now. Okay. I’m waiting. You just let me know, give me a sign. I’m here. I’m waiting.” Max leaned up against the brick next to the front door and stood there, arms folded, looking down at his wet boots.

“Okay,” said Knute, “you wait right here. I’m going in to call the cops.”

“All right,” said Max, and he tipped an imaginary hat. “Buenas noches.” A few minutes later Knute came back outside.

“Well?” said Max.

“There aren’t any cops in Algren.”

“C’mon, Knutie, let me see her, just let me have one peek at her now and I’ll leave you alone, you can talk to her and call me at my mom’s when she’s ready, couple of days, tomorrow, four years, whatever. C’mon, Knutie, please?”

What was Knute supposed to do? She wasn’t Isak Dinesen armed and living alone in the savannah or wherever. Blow his head off and nobody would ever know. She wasn’t a member of Shining Path. She wasn’t Camille Paglia. She let him in and they tiptoed, in their huge combat boots, down the hall to Summer Feelin’s room. Max kneeled at S.F.’s bed and stared at her for about ten minutes, like he was at a viewing in a funeral home. The reverent Max. Knute sat at the kitchen table praying Tom and Dory wouldn’t wake up.

“I think you should go now,” Knute whispered to Max after the ten minutes or so were up. He stood up then but he didn’t leave. He swallowed. Knute didn’t want to look at him because she thought he might be crying. She hoped he was. Then he said, “So you think … you know you think she’s warm enough and …” He kept his eyes on S.F. and didn’t look at Knute.

“Yeah,” she said, “I think she’ll live through the night.” Max smiled.

Outside they shared another cigarette. “I quit for a while,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Knute. “That’s good.” Then Max was grinning, then laughing. “What are you laughing at?” Knute asked.

“Summer Feeling,” he said, and he was laughing and coughing, rain falling all over his face, “Oh excuse me, Feelin’. Fee-Lin. Oh God, Knute, you kill me,” he said.

Knute sat in the living room and stared out the window for a while after he had left. The rain had stopped. She watched the moon move towards the other end of Algren, somewhere over Hosea Funk’s house, probably, or it could have been the other side of the world for all she knew. “Summer Feelin’,” she said a few times. “Summer Feelin’, Summer Feelin’.” Pretty stupid, she thought, shaking her head. She couldn’t stop grinning.

All right, I’m up. I’m up. I’m up! I’ll fight Tyson. I’ll fight Ali, I’ll fight, that’s it, I’m fighting, thought Hosea. Cassius Clay. I could change my name, he thought. Hosea Ali. Mohammed Funk. Mo Funk. Hosea sighed. Lorna, he thought. Lorna Funk. Lorna Funk, Lorna Funk. He was alone. “Listen to me,” he said out loud. The telephone rang. “I got it,” said Hosea. The phone quit after one ring. Hosea sighed again. And got up to make some coffee.

First thing that morning, after exercising, he was off to see Johnny Dranger. He would just tell it like it was. Lay it on the table. Let Johnny know he was out again. I’m sorry, Johnny, he’d say. There’s been yet another mix-up at the top. They say your farm is outside the town limits of Algren. Johnny wouldn’t be happy about it, he knew. Johnny had one passion in life. Putting out fires. He had worked himself up to assistant chief of the Algren volunteer fire department, and was hankering after the number one position. It was his dream. But he couldn’t be a volunteer — let alone fire chief — with the Algren fire department if he didn’t live within the town limits. It was a provincial policy having to do with something called response time. A team of firefighters couldn’t be waiting around for volunteers to commute from all over the place. They had to be in the town. Besides, thought Hosea, there were too many men living right in Algren and a couple of women, including Jeannie, Hosea’s next-door neighbour, wanting to be put on the roster. I like to help out where I can, she’d told Hosea. Occasionally, there’d be a major house fire — once there was a tragedy involving some drunken teenagers — but mostly it was putting out burning outhouses, overheated cars, kitchen fires, and stubble fires. That was Johnny Dranger’s specialty. He had it in for stubble burners. But, thought Hosea, the farmers around here don’t start burning their stubble until harvest time, and by then he could be back in. I’ll make it up to him, thought Hosea, I’ll crown him fire chief of Algren after July first, and he’ll be in charge just in time to get those darn stubble burners.

Hosea drove down First Street, turned onto Main Street, crossed over the tracks, and began driving down the service road that ran alongside the dike that surrounded Algren. The dike was supposed to protect Algren from the raging flood-waters of the Rat River. The Rat River, thought Hosea. My ancestors landed in Halifax, hopped on a train going west, then crept up the Rat River and settled in Algren, Manitoba. My mother’s dead, my father is the Prime Minister of the country, I think, and I am the mayor of Canada’s smallest town and the spurned lover of the bold and beautiful Lorna Garden.