Miriam Toews - A Boy of Good Breeding

Hosea peered around the countryside. Dirt everywhere and grey snow, dog shit, ugly cows, puffs of steam coming out of their snouts and their rear ends, the smell of wet hay, and the sky that brilliant blue, the colour of toilet bowl cleanser. Hosea heard a screech, a voice. “Hosea, stop, stop!” Mrs. Cherniski the café owner was running down her long driveway wearing what looked like Shaquille O’Neal’s basketball shoes and waving a rake around her head. “Get him, Hosea, get that motherfucking dog away from my Pat, goddamn it if he … that’s it, he’s mounting her, Hosea, get him, get him …”

Hosea scrambled out of his car and stood there for a minute, straightening his hat, trying to figure out what was going on. “Stop him, Hosea, for Christ’s sake!” Mrs. Cherniski had slowed down by now and had her hand on her chest. The last part of her command to Hosea seemed to be swallowed up by tears and rage. She threw her rake as far as she could, spluttering and moaning, “Stop him, oh God, please stop him,” and then crumpled into a heap on her driveway.

Hosea stood, frozen to the spot. Was she dead? A heart attack? For a split second he thought of his plan. Wouldn’t that be a stroke of luck, after all, if Mrs. Cherniski was dead? He glanced at the dogs and ran over to Mrs. Cherniski who, by this point, was sitting on the driveway cross-legged and catatonic, shaking her head and muttering, “Bill Quinn, his name is Bill Quinn.”

“What’s that, Mrs. Cherniski?” said Hosea. “Who’s Bill Quinn?”

“The dog,” said Mrs. Cherniski, “the dog screwing the living daylights outta my Pat right over there, that’s who Bill Quinn is. He may not be the original Bill Quinn, he may be Bill Quinn the Second or even the Third, but, mark my words, Hosea Funk, that dog’s got bad blood coursing through his veins. That dog’s the devil’s best friend, loyal to the end …” Mrs. Cherniski stared straight ahead and spoke in a monotone. “I should have known when I saw him hanging around my café, driving my customers away with his disgusting antics. I should have known he’d be after my Pat next.”

“How do you know his name?” asked Hosea.

“I know,” said Mrs. Cherniski. “I just know.”

“But,” said Hosea. “I don’t mean to upset you further, Mrs. Cherniski, but isn’t it sort of a natural thing for dogs to do, especially now that spring is here?” Hosea couldn’t help but steal another peek at the dogs. He turned back to look at Mrs. Cherniski but she was asleep or dead, not moving, anyway — laid out flat now on the wet driveway, basketball shoes pointing up to Polaris, up towards the brilliant blue sky.

Okay, what? thought Hosea. What do I do? “Mrs. Cherniski?” he said, without touching her. “Mrs. Cherniski?” Nothing. Not a peep. She can’t be dead, thought Hosea. Just because of … of Bill Quinn? Hosea got up and began to run. He ran up the driveway and across the yard and into Mrs. Cherniski’s house. The TV was on and the room smelled like vanilla. He found the phone in the hallway and called the hospital.

“Charlie Orson Memorial Hospital, how may I direct your call?”

“What?” said Hosea. Is this a joke? he thought.

“How may I help you? Hello? Hello?”

“It’s Hosea Funk.”

“Oh God, Hosea, not you again. Now what? Do you want to know what we’re serving for lunch? Or maybe—”

“No, no, Dr. Bon — sorry, François — it’s Mrs. Cherniski. You know, the woman who owns the Wagon Wheel.”

“Yes? What about her?”

“She’s lying in her driveway,” said Hosea. “I don’t know if she’s dead or alive. She just collapsed. There’s this dog and—”

“Wait. In her driveway?”

“Yes.”

“At her house or at the Wagon Wheel?”

“House.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there. Go back to her and loosen her clothing and see if you can get her to talk to you. You could try doing artificial respiration. I’ll be there in three minutes.”

Five minutes later Dr. François and Nurse Barnes and Lawrence Hamm, who happened to be the volunteer driver, had Mrs. Cherniski strapped to a gurney and ready to be loaded into the back of the ambulance. The doctor had found her pulse but it was weak and her breathing was irregular and shallow. Thankfully, Hosea had thrown his hat into his car before Lawrence Hamm had driven up. Surely he would have recognized his dead father’s hat and accused Hosea of stealing it right there on the spot. Hosea stood by the side of the road and waved as they drove back to town and then was happy that nobody had looked up at him to see him wave good-bye to an ambulance. “Yes,” whispered Hosea under his breath, and then, “no, no.”

What kind of a … Hosea thought. Well, say she died, say Mrs. Cherniski didn’t make it, at least she’d be rid of that Bill Quinn character. But then again, he didn’t want to wish death upon her, not really, that is. Maybe she won’t die but she’ll be incapable of looking after herself and she’ll have to move in with her daughter in the city. Even if just until July first. By then she’ll be fit as a fiddle and she’ll be able to come back to Algren and work in the café. Hosea looked over at the dogs. Pat was snapping at some flying thing and Bill Quinn was lying in a puddle, asleep. Bill Quinn, thought Hosea. In a strange and stupid way he admired Bill Quinn.

This is ridiculous, he thought. Bill Quinn has got to go. And I have to get to Johnny Dranger’s place and give him the news. Three babies and Max, if he gets here, that’s four in; Leander dead and Johnny Dranger put outside town limits, that’s two out. Two more out and we’re even-steven. If Mrs. Cherniski dies, just one. And Bill Quinn doesn’t count, thought Hosea. He tugged at his chest and gazed up at the sky. He’d stay on course. Things would fall into place. He’d see to it. “Prime Minister Baert,” he rehearsed, “I’m your son, Hosea Funk, Euphemia’s boy. Welcome to Algren, Canada’s smallest town.”

Bill Quinn, roused by Hosea’s voice, lifted his head and stared at Hosea. One watery brown eye closed for a split second and then opened again. But Hosea missed it. He was a million miles away and it didn’t matter how many dirty dogs winked at him from wet ditches. He wasn’t kidding about his plan. It was on.

“Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,” Hosea sang as he drove up Johnny’s driveway. He’d put his hat back on. “Save it for a rainy day.” He looked up and noticed that the sky had changed. From the colour of toilet bowl cleanser to the colour of dust. Johnny will know what’s up before I even open my mouth, thought Hosea. And it was true. Before Hosea could properly park the Impala in the tiny driveway, Johnny was out of the house and trotting towards him. “So!” he shouted at Hosea from about twenty yards away. “Don’t tell me, I’m out. Or am I in? Was I out or am I out now? In or out? Out or in? What’s it gonna be this time, Your Excellency?”

Hosea smiled and got out of his car. He was about to shake his head and say, “I’m sorry, John, there’s been another mix-up at the top” when Johnny began to shake his head and clear his throat. “I’m sorry, John,” said Johnny, “there’s been another mix-up at the top.” Hosea tried to speak again but Johnny spoke first. “I don’t get it, Hosea, who’s the Mickey Mouse at the top? And at the top of what? The idiot list? I feel like a Fisher-Price farmer with a Fisher-Price barn and animals. Some moron kid plops me onto the little tractor, stuffs me inside the barn, clicks it shut, and moves me to another municipality. Do I look like a little toy, Hosea? Look, look, I bend at the joints. I’ve got arms, for crying out loud, and a hat that comes off.”

Speaking of hats that come off, thought Hosea, and removed his quickly and put it inside his car. He still hadn’t figured out a way of explaining to people why he was wearing dead Leander Hamm’s hat.