A Boy of Good Breeding

five

Hosea had told on himself. It was eleven-year-old Minty who had spilled the beans to Hosea about where he had come from, but she had made him promise not to tell anyone or she’d be in trouble. “Cross your heart and hope to die?” she’d said to him.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he’d said and moved his tapered little index finger in the shape of an X over the general vicinity of his heart on the outside of his sweater.

“Okay,” said Minty. “Good boy.”

They were sitting together in the back seat of a rusted-out car that somebody had abandoned on the edge of Grandpa Funk’s alfalfa field.

Minty looked out the windows on each side of the car to make sure nobody was watching. Hosea did the same.

“Lookie,” said Minty.

Hosea stared. Minty spread her skinny bare legs, making sure her dress didn’t ride up and thumped on her flat stomach a couple of times with the bottom of her fist like she was checking a soccer ball for air. Hosea’s eyes widened and Minty nodded.

“Yessir,” she said. “But not me. Euphemia. You came right out of her …” Minty thumped her belly again.

“You’re lying,” said Hosea.

And then Minty panicked and saw her chance at redemption at the same time.

“Yeah, I am,” she said. She smiled, relieved.

“Are you?” said Hosea.

“Yeah, I am,” she said.

“Are you sure?” said Hosea.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Minty.

“Good,” said Hosea.

They were both relieved. They smiled and giggled and Hosea thumped lightly on his stomach, too, just to try it out.

“Punch me as hard as you can,” said Minty.

“No,” said Hosea.

“C’mon, Hose, just do it. I’ve tightened it up so it won’t hurt.” She put her chin down to her chest and moved her arms behind her back.

“No,” said Hosea. He started kicking the back of the dusty seat in front of him.

“Don’t you want to?” asked Minty.

“I don’t want to,” he said. He was four years old.

The next evening at the supper table Hosea sat on Euphemia’s lap finishing off his potatoes. From time to time he would thump on Euphemia’s stomach and she, irritated and trying to finish her own potatoes, would tell him to stop. Minty noticed this and tried to get Hosea’s attention. Hosea ignored Minty. He was grinning and he continued to thump Euphemia’s stomach. Minty was afraid Hosea was going to say something to get her in trouble, so she suggested that they go outside and play catch.

“Uh-uh,” said Hosea. Finally, Euphemia had had enough.

“Hosea!” she said. “Stop it, you’re hurting me!” By now all the Funks were looking at Hosea and Euphemia, sternly, curiously, amusedly, in a number of ways. There were a lot of them.

“Let me in, let me in,” said Hosea. “I want to get back in!” He laughed and scrunched up his face and put it next to Euphemia’s stomach.

“Minty told me I lived in your stomach, Mom, then I came out, right, Minty? Right, Minty?” Euphemia, horrified, stood up and marched out of the room with Hosea on her hip. But not without first noticing the look on her father’s face and the way his head swivelled ever so slowly to meet her mother’s own incredulous stare.

The Funks had, actually, considered the possibility of Euphemia being Hosea’s natural mother before this (five months of sickness, huge coats in the summertime, a man on a horse? The Funks might have been complacent but they weren’t stupid), but hadn’t wanted to make the situation worse. They had decided, without speaking about it or agreeing to it, to leave well enough alone. Euphemia’s honour would remain intact, and so would their reputation as decent people. But now, for some reason, Euphemia’s father broke their unspoken pact and opened a can of worms. Had he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his plate and allowed Euphemia and Hosea to leave the table without further ado, they would have gone on for another four or ten or fifty years, swallowing their suspicions and not rocking the boat. Maybe Euphemia’s father wanted some drama in his life. Maybe he was tired of shrugging everything off. Maybe he wanted to get angry at something. Who knows? His gaze said it all. His wife knew it. She panicked. The jig was up.

Euphemia flung Hosea onto his bed upstairs and asked him just what the heck he was talking about, wanting to get back in? Just then Minty came flying through the door, white as a sheet, and said, “Phemie, Phemie, I didn’t tell him anything. I was just joking.” Hosea lay on his back in his bed.

“She said I came out of your stomach,” he said, starting to cry.

“But I said I was lying, you little shit. You know I did,” said Minty. Now she began to cry.

“Shut up, Mint, and lock the door,” said Euphemia. She knew her parents and her other brothers and sisters would be upstairs and in the room in no time.

“You promised me, Minty, you fat liar,” said Euphemia. She shoved Minty onto the bed next to Hosea.

“Let us in, Phemie!” Euphemia’s father roared from the hallway. Her mother was begging him to calm down. Euphemia stared at Hosea. He had put his pillow over his head to muffle his sobs. The back of his neck poked out, soft and very narrow. It looks like somebody’s wrist, thought Euphemia. Two brown curls framed the tiny nape of Hosea’s neck. Euphemia kicked Minty’s leg, gently. She didn’t care. Not really. It was probably a good thing. She walked over to the door and let the rest of her family in.

“What’s this all about, Euphemia? What does Minty have to do with this? What the hell is going on?” Euphemia’s father looked from one girl to the other, barely acknowledging the small, heaving lump on the bed.

Euphemia couldn’t believe it. Her parents had accepted, cared for, and even loved Hosea when they believed he wasn’t hers. Now that they knew the truth, or suspected it — she was Hosea’s real mother, he was their flesh and blood, their own real little grandson — they were ready to reject him. And her. And maybe even Minty for keeping the secret. She’d had to tell Minty. She’d had to tell someone. She had been thrilled. And still was.

Euphemia sat down on the bed beside Hosea. She stroked his back. She didn’t try to remove the pillow. She moved her thumb up and down the back of his neck, dipping in and out of its soft hollow and feeling his hairline begin just above it. She put her mouth to his curls and kissed them.

“C’mon, Hosea,” she whispered, “we’re going.”

Euphemia’s parents had tried, in the end, to get them to stay. They had been angry and shocked and hurt and embarrassed, but they weren’t the kind of people to throw their daughter and grandson out on to the street. Why hadn’t she told them the truth? they asked Euphemia, to which she responded with a shrug. Euphemia’s father had told her she was a tramp, but had then apologized. Minty had been grounded for two weeks, which, after a day, was modified to one week, and had told Euphemia a thousand times she was sorry. Euphemia’s mother had asked her who the father was and Euphemia said she had no idea, a man on a horse. “Oh, Phemie, not that old cock and bull story,” her mother would say. “Your mother’s right, Phemie, that dog won’t hunt,” her father would echo, and Euphemia said calmly, “It’s true, that part of it is true.” Euphemia’s father would rise from the table and slam his fist down and curse Euphemia up one side and down the other and would then lie on the couch, spent and despondent.

But all the while Euphemia was packing her bags. In her mind she had already moved on. She had left. She had locked up this part of her life and thrown away the key. She had turned the page. The next morning she and Hosea were standing on the side of the road, hitching a ride to town.

Hosea would miss the farm. He’d miss Minty. He had planned to marry her when he was older. He was sorry he hadn’t punched her in the stomach when she had begged him to. But he didn’t really know why they had to go. He had crossed his heart and hoped to die in that old car, in the field with Minty. He had bothered his mother at the supper table. He had pretended to crawl into her stomach. He had thought it was funny but his grandpa and grandma were very angry and Minty was crying and now he and his mother were moving to town. He had heard his grandpa yell, “She’s his mother, for God’s sake,” and he hadn’t known why that was suddenly a problem. She had always been his mother and Grandpa had been happy. He had offered to play catch with Minty, thinking that might be it, but she said it was no use, it didn’t matter anymore.

Hosea stood at the side of the road and tugged at his shirt.

“Please,” said Euphemia and straightened out his arm. “C’mon, Hosea, let’s walk for a while.”

“But what about our boxes?” Hosea said.

“Hmmm,” said Euphemia, “we’ll just leave them right here and when we get a ride, we’ll ask the driver to come back and pick them up.”

They walked together towards town. Euphemia asked Hosea if his boots were pinching his toes yet, and he said no.

“That’s good,” she said. Hosea asked Euphemia if she’d give him a piggyback ride. She hoisted him up onto her back, and reminded him every twenty yards or so to put his arms around her shoulders and not her neck. After about half an hour they stopped and walked into the ditch and through it and up the other side and sat in the grass and leaned against a farmer’s fence.

“Hosea,” said Euphemia.

“What?” said Hosea.

“You did come from me, from inside me, inside my stomach.”

“Oh,” said Hosea. He pulled out some grass and started to make a pile.

“I’m your mother, Hosea, your real honest-to-goodness mother.”

Hosea looked up at her briefly and smiled and nodded.

“Do I got a dad?”

“He’s a cowboy.”

“Where is he?”

“Well, I suppose he’s riding the range. Cowboy’s can’t stay put, Hose.”

“That’s good,” said Hosea. He threw a piece of grass into Euphemia’s lap. And then another and another until he had made himself a pillow, and he put his head down on it and had a little nap.

“Why can’t I come along?” Summer Feelin’ wanted to go with Knute to work. Every time Knute made a move to get dressed, brush her teeth, eat breakfast, Summer Feelin’ made exactly the same move. She wasn’t letting Knute out of her sight.

“Because. I’ll be working.”

“So?”

“Well, I’m working for the mayor.”

“So?”

“So, it’s … detailed work.”

Summer Feelin’ was quiet for about ten seconds. Dory gave Knute a look (raised eyebrows, chin on chest) from the sink indicating she could have done better with the explanation.

“Grandma and Grandpa are boring,” said S.F. finally.

“Summer Feelin’!”

“Well, goodness, Knutie, it’s true, isn’t it?” said Dory, staring directly at Tom.

“No, no,” Knute began to say, glaring at S.F. and wondering if the question was actually intended for Tom. Dory was still staring at him.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Boring? I suppose we are.”

“I suppose we are,” said Dory. She slammed down the milk in front of Tom and got up for her toast.

Tom and Knute looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

“Please don’t do that,” said Dory.

“Don’t do what?” Knute asked.

“Don’t shrug your shoulders like that,” said Dory. “I’m not crazy, you know.”

She left the room then, and Tom and S.F. and Knute sat in silence for a while. One half of Dory’s toast had fallen off the plate and onto the table when she slammed it down. Tom put the toast back on her plate, lining it up perfectly alongside the other half. S.F. went over to the fridge and tried to open the door as fast as she could to catch the light coming on. Then, when that didn’t work, she opened it slowly, slowly, slowly. Tom and Knute watched, curious to know if it would work.

“C’mon, Summer Feelin’,” sighed Tom. “Let’s do some juggling. Your mom’s gotta go. Hosea’s a stickler for punctuality.”

Knute walked along Third Avenue towards Hosea’s office. She knew she had to make some other kind of babysitting arrangements for S.F. Dory had been getting more work, lately, at the farm labour pool and Tom couldn’t look after S.F. all day, every day, by himself. Later on, she might be able to bring S.F. to work with her occasionally, but not right then at the beginning. Her old friend Judy Klampp from high school had a couple of little kids, but Knute didn’t think she’d want to look after Summer Feelin’ as well. And about a hundred years ago Knute had gone to a party with Judy Klampp’s husband, before he was her husband, and had left with his brother and … no. Forget Judy Klampp.

Knute told herself she would not think of Max. As far as she was concerned, he was yesterday’s news. S.F. thought it was cool that he was coming back to Algren. She thought he would be very happy to see her do her cartwheels and spell her name. She wondered if he’d have a present for her.

“Not bloody likely,” Knute thought. She moved the hair out of S.F.’s eyes and said, “Of course he will, sweetie.” Max, she supposed, could take care of S.F. while she worked. But no, he couldn’t, because he’d be living with Combine Jo and she would maul S.F. every chance she got and who knows? thought Knute, S.F. might hate Max.

Well, she thought, she’d have a cigarette and worry about all that later. She walked along Third Avenue and a dog in a hurry passed by without glancing up at her. She heard the sound of someone practising a violin. Must be spring, she thought.

When she got to the office Hosea was sitting in his chair with his hands folded on his desk in front of him as if he were waiting for a cue from the director to spring into action. His chin jutted out slightly and his face was flushed. His hair was fluffier than usual.

“Ho! You scared me. How are you, Knute?”

“Fine, thank-you. How are you?”

“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, very busy,” said Hosea, making chopping motions with his hands. “All over town. In fact, I’ve gotta fly.”

“Okay …” said Knute. She wasn’t sure what she should be doing. Staying. Going. She could see this job shaping up to be another one of her colossal failures at meaningful employment.

“All you have to do, Knute, is answer the phone, take messages, maybe think of ways to spruce up Algren: flowers along Main Street, new lettering on the water tower, some new blacktop, maybe check into the price of a new Zamboni, that sort of thing. Okey-dokey? At about noon you can go and get my mail from the post office. Just tell ’em who you are. Fair enough?”

“Okay,” she said again. She nodded and smiled. She was about to ask Hosea if she could smoke in his office, in their office, in the office, but he was gone.

Hosea Funk hurried up the steps of the Charlie Orson Memorial Hospital. The hospital was perched on top of a small hill, and from its front doors Hosea could just see the smoke coming out of the chimney of his house, a block away. Man’s life’s a vapour, full of woes, he thought, seeing the smoke twist in the sky and disappear. He cuts a caper and down he goes. But then he remembered his beloved Lorna, probably still asleep, warm and soft, her hands curled up like a baby’s beside her head, her dark eyelashes … and Hosea’s thoughts flip-flopped from one end of the spectrum to the other in a matter of seconds: from life’s woes to passion’s throes. Then, looking once again at the smoke escaping from the chimney, his thoughts tumbled back towards the woes, lodging themselves somewhere in the humdrum middle of the spectrum with thoughts of Knute and his work, and Knute’s ripped jeans in conjunction with his mayoral status, and would it all work out — should he mention the jeans, should he not?

“Ello, Hosea, you’re looking … sound.”

“Good morning, Dr. Bonsoir, I’m feeling … sound.” Hosea smiled.

“Well then,” said the doctor. “If you are so sound, what can I possibly do for you? I am a physician. Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re here to check up on my patients. On my quality of care? Perhaps you could check Mr. Hamm’s IV levels, or inspect Mrs. Epp for signs of dilation, or maybe you would like to discuss the radical new treatment for enlarged polyps recently making its debut in the New England Journal of Medicine, eh? Mr. Hosea Funk, why do you feel you have the right to ‘check in’ as you call it, on my patients? You are not a priest or a funeral home director. You are not family. You are not an intern practising for the real thing, you are not a hospital administrator or the CMA. You are not even a florist or a pizza delivery person, not that our patients order pizza every day. So, what do you want? Mayors do not, as far as I know, make hospital rounds every few days. It is not part of their job and you are irritating the hell out of me, do you know that?”

“Well, Dr. Bonsoir, I—”

“And my name is not Bonsoir, it’s François. Bon soir, for your information, means good evening. Dr. Good Evening? Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? Think about it. Would you like me to call you Mayor … Hello? Hello, Mayor Hello. Or Mayor Good Night?”

“Well no, gosh, I’m sorry, Doctor … Doctor—”

“François!”

Hosea looked around the room, then down at his shoes. His hand went to his chest, but instead of tugging he flattened his hand over his heart.

“What? Are you having chest pain, Hosea? Sit down there, in that chair. Come on. I’m sorry. Clearly I’ve upset you. I apologize. Here now, let’s loosen your coat.”

“Dr. François, I’m sorry, I—”

“Shhhh, I’m taking your pulse. I need to count. Please, shhh.” The doctor bent over Hosea, holding his wrist between his thumb and forefinger, looking sternly at the second hand of his watch. Hosea sat there, feeling foolish. His heart was fine. How could he tell the doctor he had a nervous condition, not a heart condition? Hosea felt bad for the doctor, who was feeling bad for Hosea. He looked at the curved back of the doctor, at his dark brown hair just grazing the back of his collar. Such care, such professionalism. For a moment Hosea wished the doctor was his own son. Lorna would have a delicious lunch prepared. He and the doctor would enter the warm kitchen slapping each other on the back, each kindly ribbing the other and gazing at Lorna with mutual tenderness.

The doctor let go of Hosea’s wrist and stood up.

“You’ve got the pulse of a nine-year-old girl, Hosea. Nothing to worry about.”

“Thank-you, Dr. François. I’m sorry I irritate you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I realize there isn’t that much for you to do, a small town like Algren isn’t exactly—”

“But that’s not true, Doctor,” said Hosea. He stood up.

“I have a lot of work to do. Algren isn’t just a small town, it’s the smallest. You know, just today I’ve hired a girl — a woman — Tom McCloud’s daughter, Knute, to take care of some of the details so I can work on the bigger projects. I’m sure your work is never done even though you work in a small hospital and not one in the city.”

“Well, I suppose so. I didn’t mean to offend you, Hosea, I was simply trying to shed some light on the subject. Listen, everything is very much as it was three days ago when you were last here. Monsieur Hamm is very ill. His organs are shutting down. He has begun to hemorrhage internally. It is very difficult to find a vein in which to insert his IV tubes. The members of his family are coming around to say good-bye. Unless you are a good friend, I would suggest you maintain a respectful distance. As far as Mrs. Epp goes, if she does not go into labour soon, we will have to induce her. I have discussed over the phone, with some of my colleagues in Winnipeg, the possibility of transferring her to one of the larger prenatal wards in the city. She is very uncomfortable. Okay, Hosea? Is that what you wanted to know? You know, this information is generally regarded as confidential. Are you happy?”

“Yes. Thank-you, Dr. François.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Hosea put out his hand to shake the doctor’s. He truly was grateful. That was exactly what he needed to know. But before the doctor could extend his own hand in return, the hospital’s head nurse, Mrs. Barnes, came careering around the corner. A clean white blur. “Dr. François? Dr. François, Mrs. Epp is leaking amniotic fluid and having contractions one and a half minutes apart. I’m afraid one of the babies is not in position. I’m only getting two pulses. A C-section may be necessary.”

In a second, Dr. François was gone. Hosea watched him and Nurse Barnes run down the hall, their white coats flying behind them like twin pillow cases on a washline. Hosea wanted to run after them, run with them. For one semi-unconscious moment Hosea envied the uncooperative baby, the one who was stuck, the one who would have the gentle, capable hands of Dr. François guiding him, or her? towards the light, out and up. Towards safety, towards home, towards his mother and his father. Such tenderness, such concern. For something so small as a baby, one of three, a triplet. Hosea’s mind almost capsized as he began to imagine the younger Dr. François as his own father, as the cowboy on the range, as the leader of the country, as the … Cut it out, Hosea, said Hosea to himself. Dr. Bon-François is busy, so are the nurses, I’ll have a quick peek at old Leander before I go. Thank God for my rubbers, thought Hosea, as he padded softly down the hall, away from the commotion in Mrs. Epp’s room.

Hosea peered around the door of room 3. He jumped when his eyes met Leander Hamm’s. They were open wide and staring directly at Hosea.

“Mr. Hamm?” whispered Hosea.

“Susie? Susie?” Leander Hamm’s eyes didn’t leave Hosea’s face. Hosea stood, frozen, in the doorway. He knew that Susie had been the name of Leander’s wife, long gone now.

“No …” whispered Hosea.

“Cut the crap, Suse. Take me … with you,” Leander Hamm managed to say. He had always been a cantankerous man. He preferred horses to people.

“I can’t. I—”

And then Leander Hamm let out a howl that terrified Hosea.

“Shhh, shh …” said Hosea. He was worried that the doctor would come running. He would be so angry with Hosea if he saw him in Mr. Hamm’s room.

“Okay, I’ll take you with me … dear. Let’s go right now. But please be quiet.” And Hosea went over to Leander Hamm and took his hand. He thought of taking Mr. Hamm’s pulse, the way the doctor had taken his. He stared at his thumb and tapered forefinger holding Leander Hamm’s tiny wrist. Hosea couldn’t believe that this narrow piece of bone had held down wild horses, broken savage stallions, held off the powerful hindquarters of a bucking bronc intent on squashing him between the stable boards. But Leander Hamm tightened his grip and, with more surprising strength, pulled Hosea to him so that Hosea’s face was touching his. Hosea wasn’t quite sure where Leander Hamm wanted to go, or how they’d get there. He just wanted the old man to simmer down.

“Susie. Susie,” said Leander Hamm. He moved his sunken cheek gently against Hosea’s.

“Susie, I’m … I’m … going now. I’m …” But Leander Hamm was sobbing. And Hosea Funk was gasping, speechless, as Mr. Hamm tried to guide Hosea’s hand down towards his legs.

“No, no, my darling … my love,” said Hosea. But it didn’t matter. Leander Hamm had released his grip on Hosea’s hand. He had released his grip on all of it. Man’s life’s a vapour. Leander Hamm was dead.

About thirty-five years earlier, when Leander Hamm was only sixty years old, and Hosea was an awkward teenager, Leander had meant to tell Hosea that he thought he knew something about his father. That old story about the Funk girl being handed a baby one night by a man on a horse didn’t wash with him. Leander knew that was the official story, and he’d done enough stupid things in his day that he wasn’t about to blow the whistle on somebody else, but, gee whiz, you couldn’t lead Leander Hamm down the garden path that easily. Besides, he had seen them together in the field. And years later, he had felt something for Hosea, loping around town, so eager to please. He wanted to mention to Hosea that he had been there, at the dance in Whithers, when the man on the horse had left the hall and met Euphemia in the canola field. Leander had noticed that the stranger had left his hat behind, and he ran out to tell him. But when he saw young Euphemia and the cowboy together in the field, he turned around and quickly walked back to the dance hall. “Two kids in heat,” he’d muttered to himself at the time.

The cowboy never came back for his hat. It was a Biltmore, a good hat. Leander decided to keep it for himself. Now, he wasn’t sure, of course, that this cowboy was Hosea’s dad. But he knew, like everybody else in the area did, that Euphemia was no tramp, that she came from a pretty good family and wouldn’t have been the kind of girl to sleep with every Tom, Dick, and Harry. So chances were it was the cowboy. He seemed like a healthy boy to Leander, but of course Leander Hamm was partial to anybody who was partial to horses. The only thing that had confused him over the years was how nervous Hosea could be the son of that confident cowboy. But it happens. Anyway, the fact that Euphemia had gone out back with this stranger didn’t upset Leander. The stranger was a good boy. They had talked for a few minutes. Was he from Alberta or was he an American, maybe Montana? Leander couldn’t remember. And he hadn’t gotten around to telling the story to Hosea when he’d thought about it, and then the thought was gone.

He had taken the hat. After all, the cowboy had left and never returned. And who better to wear a quality Biltmore than Leander Hamm? In fact, he had worn that hat every day since he’d acquired it. He never saw a dentist or a doctor but twice a year he’d brought that hat into the city to have it steamed and blocked. Horses had trampled on it, shat on it, his kids had misplaced it, his grandchildren had mocked it, his wife had thrown it in the garbage half a dozen times, and not one, but two, cats had had kittens in it. Just about nightly Leander used that hat to cover his privates when he would walk, naked except for the Biltmore, to the outhouse. One time it made a journey to the Holy Land when Oberon Gonne, a man from Leander’s church, had grabbed it from the men’s hat rack after one Sunday service and flown off to Jerusalem for six months. When he came back and returned the hat to Leander it had a strange smell and Leander was pissed off.

Instead of leaving his hat at home when he went to church, he decided to leave himself at home with his hat while his wife, Susie, went to church alone. That was that.

And so, on the day that Leander’s son Lawrence had taken him to the Charlie Orson Memorial Hospital, he had been wearing the hat. And, when the nurse had told him that she would put all his belongings, including the hat, into the hospital safe while he was a patient there, Leander had managed to grab the hat and say, “Oh no, you don’t, Florence Nightingale, I’ve had that hat longer ‘n dogs have been lickin’ their balls.”

Lawrence had smiled sweetly at the nurse. “That’s really not too much to ask, is it?” he’d said. Without a word, the nurse tossed the hat over Leander’s shrunken body, to Lawrence, and stalked out.

“You don’t throw it, either, it’s a Biltmore, you goddamn … Nazi!” Leander had yelled after her.

Leander had wanted to wear it, of course, but Lawrence had convinced him that it would be better if he hung it on the IV contraption. That way Leander would be able to see it and to reach out and touch it, but it wouldn’t get flattened in bed.

And this was where the hat was hanging when Leander died. Hosea saw it and thought it was a very nice hat. It was a Biltmore, he noted. It felt like flour but was as tough as a pig’s hide. He wanted it. Oh God, what would the doctor think if he saw him, first going into Leander’s room, then killing him in a convoluted way, and now stealing his hat? He wanted that hat. He didn’t know why, but he had to have it. The doctor was busy with Mrs. Epp and the babies. Hosea reached out and grabbed it. Thankfully, Leander’s eyes were closed and his hands forever still. Sorry, said Hosea to Leander. And he left with his hat.