Miriam Toews - A Boy of Good Breeding

“You’re gonna kill them if you do that.” She turned around and saw Max coming toward her, stepping into the white glow of the streetlight.

“Good,” she said. “Damn it, I just planted these things this afternoon.”

“And now you want to kill them?” asked Max.

“I don’t want to kill the flowers, I want to kill the cockroaches. Look at them. They’re eating the flowers.”

“They’re not eating the flowers, they’re copulating in the fresh dirt you used for planting. They don’t eat flowers. The Algren cockroach is conceived in dirt. They love dirt.”

She picked up another handful of gravel and threw it at the flowers.

“And stop doing that, you’ll just hurt the flowers.”

Knute sighed.

“So this is your work, eh?” said Max.

“Part of it,” said Knute.

“Do you enjoy it?” he said. He leaned against the streetlight and folded his arms.

She looked at him and smiled. “Max,” she said, “were you with a lot of other women in Europe?”

He cleared his throat and took out a cigarette and lit it. He had a drag and exhaled dramatically and said, “I stopped counting.” Knute threw a handful of gravel at him and he laughed.

“What do you mean other women , Knute?” he said. “Other than who?” They grinned at each other. Two little shapes moved towards them in the dark, making clicking noises on the pavement.

“Hey,” said Knute, as the shapes came closer, “it’s Bill Quinn.”

“And a friend,” said Max. He moved his foot out of the way so the dogs could pass.

“I’m supposed to get rid of him,” said Knute. “He gave Mrs. Cherniski a heart attack.”

“You’re doing a great job,” said Max.

“Yeah, well, you would know.” Knute looked at her flowers and up at the sky. It would be nice if it rained. She knew Max was looking at her watching the sky. She knew he was leaning against the streetlight smoking a cigarette with nothing to do and nowhere to do it. She picked up another handful of gravel to throw at the cockroaches in her flower bed, and Max said softly, “Is there a place we can go?”

“Um …” she said quietly, “there’s …”

“You know what I mean,” he said, looking at his big boots, blowing smoke at them, and waiting for Knute to rescue him.

She still had Hosea’s office key in her back pocket. She could feel the outline of it through her jeans. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know.” Max looked up and opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. He put his hands up in front of him, palms outward, as if to ward off an assault. He smiled.

“I can ask,” he whispered. Knute reached out and took his hand. He closed his eyes for a second or two and put his arms around her. They stood that way for a while in the dark, on the deserted main street of their hometown. He smelled like hay and cigarette smoke and the back of his neck was as soft as Summer Feelin’s. He pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans and put Knute’s hands on his bare back.

She moved his hand to her back pocket and he took out the key and said, “Where’s the door for this thing?”

“Right here,” said Knute. “We’re leaning against it. It’s my office.” She smiled.

“Your office,” Max breathed. “You have an office?”

“It’s Hosea’s office.” Max had already opened the door and was pulling Knute up the stairs.

They made love on the top of Hosea’s shiny desk, and on the floor, and when they were finished they lay there naked, smoking cigarettes and talking. “I love you,” said Max. And she said, “You don’t really know me anymore.” And he said, “Well, there’s that.” And they laughed and acted casual about everything and tried not to make any promises or plans. They could never go back to where they’d been. And nothing seemed to be waiting for them down the road. So they were free. It was a sad kind of freedom but at least they knew it. They didn’t say it but they both knew Summer Feelin’ was the best thing either of them would ever have. They got dressed and stood beside each other, leaning on the windowsill and looking out at the purple sky. “Eggplant,” said Knute.

And Max said, “Just what I was gonna say.” Every few minutes he stuck out his lower lip and blew the hair away from his eyes.

“Remember that time you cut my hair outside that bar?” he said. “Remember that grey sweater dress you had on?” They took turns kissing each other gently and touching each other and then they went back to leaning on the windowsill and looking out. Neither of them wanted to go home.

“So, let’s see, what’s new … hmmmm,” said Hosea. He had picked Lorna up from the bus depot and now they were sitting at his kitchen table drinking herbal tea and trying to get to a spot in their conversation where they could feel natural with each other. “Well,” Hosea cleared his throat, “Max is back in town.”

“Max?” said Lorna.

“Knute’s old boyfriend,” said Hosea. “Summer Feelin’s dad.”

“Oh yeah,” said Lorna. “You told me about Knute and Summer Feelin’. What a great name, Summer Feelin’.”

Hosea smiled.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“It’s a great name,” said Lorna again.

“Okay,” said Hosea. “She’s a sweet kid, too.”

“Yeah?” said Lorna. “It’s nice for her to have her dad back, I guess.”

Hosea nodded. “They get along,” he said. “He takes care of her while Knute works in the office.”

Lorna nodded and sipped her tea. “Hmmm,” said Lorna, looking at her watch. “It’s June sixth today, D-Day.”

“Is that right?” said Hosea. Oh my God, he thought.

Lorna shrugged.

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess it is.”

He stared at Lorna while she fiddled with her watch. He was trying to work up the nerve to tell her his plan. Isthmus rhymes with Christmas , he told himself. Her eyes, two oceans of blue, and a skinny isthmus of a nose running in-between. Her mouth, the Bermuda Triangle, no, that’s wrong. Dehumanize your audience. Hosea could hear the voice of Mr. Flett, his old speech arts teacher. Pretend your audience is a brick fence, a body of water, an ancient land mass. And then say what you have to say. A field of wheat won’t think you’re ridiculous. A small continent won’t get up and leave. Tell her right now, Hosea told himself, tell her. You love her, you need her, you deserve her, tell her right now or kill yourself.

“Lorna!” he said loudly, scaring himself and making her jump.

“What?” said Lorna. “Are you nuts? I’m not deaf.”

“We should do that talking now, the talking we talked about before,” said Hosea, “on the phone.”

“Okay,” said Lorna, taking a big breath. “You’re right.” She smiled. “It’s very weird.”

Hosea was confused. What was weird? What did she think was weird? He hadn’t told her yet. He hadn’t said anything about the plan.

“What is weird?” he said.

“Weird,” she said slowly, smiling, “weird is that …” She stopped and moved her chair closer to Hosea, leaned across the corner of the table, cupped his face in her hands, put her lips against his forehead, and whispered “… is that I’m pregnant.”

Mr. Flett had never mentioned the possibility of a land mass getting pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. Lorna’s lips were still fastened to his forehead. He could stick out his tongue and lick her neck if he wanted to. He put his arms around her and said, “That’s amazing, Lorna. That’s amazing.”

She sat back down in her chair, folded her arms, and said, “I know it is.” She looked at Hosea. “Please smile,” she said, “oh, please smile.”

“I am,” said Hosea, frowning, “I am.”