Miriam Toews - A Boy of Good Breeding

Tom’s head didn’t move. “What do you think of that, Tom?” said Hosea. “What the hell do you think of that, Tom!” he said. “This is my dream, you bastard, now what the hell do you think? Aren’t you my fucking friend, Tom?”

Still, Tom’s head didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Tom,” said Hosea. “I’m sorry for yelling. I need a friend, Tom, that’s all, really. I’m sorry,” he said. “Okay? I’m sorry.” Hosea pulled on Tom’s blanket again, and then got up and left.

Knute knew exactly where to find Max, except that when she and S.F. got to that place he wasn’t there. If he wasn’t at the hay bales and he wasn’t at Jo’s and he had a cast on his leg and no car, then where was he? Bill Quinn was at the bales, though, looking kind of lost, so Summer Feelin’ coaxed him into the car and they took him with them. “You know,” Knute said to her, “I’m supposed to be getting rid of that dog.”

“Why?” S.F. asked. She asked why a few times, but Knute didn’t really hear her because she was so worried that Max had left for good, again. And she was so mad because why couldn’t she just get mad and yell and run away for a couple of hours, without having to worry about him leaving, too, on top of everything else? Why couldn’t they be a normal couple? Get mad, get misunderstood, act stupidly, know the other’s not going to run away, come home, make up, have fun, you know, until the next shitty time comes up, and they’d just ride that wave then.

“Why, Mom?” asked Summer Feelin’.

“Why what?” said Knute. She was driving around the four streets of Algren now, around and around, trying to come up with a plan.

“Why do you have to get rid of him?”

“I don’t know,” said Knute. “Well, because Hosea asked me to.”

“So?” said S.F. She had begun to flap and Bill Quinn sat there on the back seat staring at her. Knute looked at him in the rearview mirror.

“I’m going to crawl over and sit with Bill Quinn,” S.F. said.

“Fine,” answered Knute. And added, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” asked S.F.

“I don’t know why Hosea wants me to get rid of him.”

“Can I keep him?” asked S.F.

“No!”

Bill Quinn looked out the window politely like he was pretending not to hear the conversation. Then S.F. started up with “Why not? Why not? Please, please, please.”

“Okay, you can,” said Knute. This was just fucked, she thought to herself. Where the hell was that jerk?

“Yippeeeee!” yelled S.F. “You’re my dog!” She put her arms around him and he barked and licked her face. “You’re so cute, Bill Quinn,” she said, rubbing her nose against his.

All right, Knute thought to herself, maybe he’s at Jo’s. Maybe she’s drunk and he’s hiding out in his room, pissed off at the world, or just at me, really, and it’s a big house, maybe she doesn’t even know he’s there. Whatever, I’ll try it.

She sped up near the dike road and S.F. toppled over onto the dog. “Put your seatbelt on,” said Knute. She just wanted to say sorry and get back on track, and not lose him. Just because he was the one who went away for four years didn’t mean that she couldn’t say sorry every once in a while.

Then she saw Hosea. He was up on the dike, walking in the dark, all alone, like some kind of sentry who hadn’t heard the war was over. She slowed down and stopped on the road, below him. “Hey,” she yelled through her open window “Hi, Hosea!”

He stopped and looked at her and waved. Then he came down from the dike and walked over to the car. Shit, she thought, Bill Quinn.

“Hello, Knutie,” he said, “is that Summer …” His voice trailed off.

“Feelin’,” said Knute.

“That’s it. Summer Feelin’,” he said. “Hello there, Summer Feelin’. You’ve got a dog?”

“It’s Bill Quinn,” said Knute. It was dark and she knew there was a chance Hosea wouldn’t recognize him, but Hosea had a look on his face, a faraway look, and it didn’t seem right, for some reason, to lie to him.

“Is it?” he said. He shook his head and smiled. “They come,” he said, “and they go.”

“I’m trying to find Max,” said Knute. “Have you seen him?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Hosea. “Not recently. Why? Where’d he go?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly, that’s why I’m trying to find him.”

“You don’t think he’s left …” Hosea glanced at S.F., who was busy playing with Bill Quinn “… left Algren?”

“No,” said Knute, “I don’t think so. I’m going to check at his house. Jo hasn’t seen him, but you know … he might be there.”

Hosea looked like a ghost in the moonlight. His face was as white as the letters spelling Canada on his red shirt. “What if he’s gone?” he said. Knute looked back at Summer Feelin’. She didn’t want to get into this with her listening.

“I’m going to find him. I’m pretty sure he’s around.”

Hosea looked like he was about to cry. Why she was trying to reassure him that Max was around, when Max was her boyfriend, and the father of her child, who was sitting right there, was beyond her.

“Don’t worry, Hosea,” she said. “It’ll be okay. I’ll find him. He’s got a broken leg.” She started driving away slowly. “Okay, see ya, Hosea, see ya at work tomorrow. Don’t worry!” she yelled out the window, “I’ll find him!”

Hosea walked home and sat on his front steps for a while. He could see part of the white horse decal on the water tower, sort of shimmering in the black sky and he looked forward to seeing the whole thing against the filter-orange sky of early morning. “I hope you find him,” he said out loud, remembering S.F.’s smiling face in the back seat. It was a pure thought, a simple wish, with no strings attached. He truly did not care about his fifteen hundred at this point. He hoped on every star and flying horse in the universe that S.F. would find her dad. He thought of calling Lorna to tell her that everything was, once again, up in the air. Max was missing. He’d yelled at his buddy Tom, and made a fool of himself. Why would he want to tell Lorna that? he asked himself. He went inside and lay down on his bed and wept.

When Knute and S.F. got to Jo’s house, Jo came lumbering out to the driveway and said, “No, he’s not here, Knutie, I don’t know where he is.” It was really late by then, after midnight, and Knute told S.F. to lie down on the back seat with Bill Quinn, and try to go to sleep. She got out of the car and lit a cigarette and Jo said, “What happened, anyway? Why’d he take off?” So Knute leaned against the car and told her exactly what had happened, and she said, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Knutie, he loves you, it’s so fucking simple. Let it be! He hasn’t run away from you. It’s the goddamn guilt that’s killing him.”

“Oh,” said Knute, “he’s running away from the guilt of running away?”

“Yeah,” said Jo, “and all the work in front of him trying to rebuild your trust, which he wants, and S.F.’s, and all that very difficult shit. And believe me, it’s difficult. He hasn’t run away from you!”

“Okay,” Knute said. “Then where do I find him?”

“How the hell should I know?” said Jo. “Wouldn’t I have found him myself if I knew? The poor kid has a broken leg, after all, he can’t have gone far.”

“If he was walking,” said Knute.

“Right,” said Jo, “and I’m sure he was. His private helicopter is in the shop and it’s his chauffeur’s day off. Don’t be ridiculous, Knute. Even if he’d have tried hitchhiking to God knows where, do you honestly think anybody would pick up a guy in a cast and a skirt and a ballcap? No shirt, no suitcase? Trust me, he walked.”