A Boy of Good Breeding

seven

The TV in Tom and Dory’s room droned on, accompanying Tom and Dory’s prodigious snoring routine. Summer Feelin’ creaked in her bed and sighed, dreaming of who knew what, and the moon outside was portentous. Knute opened her window for the first time that spring. The screens were still stored for the winter so she could stick her head right out into the darkness. Everything was wet and shiny. The snow fell like chunks of warm cake. She lay down on her narrow bed and fell asleep.

“Hey,” Max whispered, “hey, Knute? Knutie? Are you there? It’s me.”

He had his head in her room, sticking through the open window like a bear trying to get his face into somebody’s tent. But Knute couldn’t see him in the dark, she could only hear him. Then she felt his hand kind of batting at her blanket down around her feet and he was saying quietly, “Oh God, I hope it’s you, Knutie, and not Tom. Knute. Knute. I am an asshole, I know it. Talk to me, please? Knutie, my ribs are breaking on this windowsill, say something to me. C’mon, Knutie, just say hello or something, or fuck off, Max, whatever you feel like. C’mon, Knutie. My ass is getting soaked out here, you know it’s raining, Knute? Spring is here. I’m here. What are you, dead? Talk to me …”

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.

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.

“No, I know you’re not, John,” said Hosea. “You’re not a toy.” Hosea didn’t know what else to say. Johnny stood there glaring at him.

“But I’m out, right?” he said. “Out again, isn’t that so, Hosea? Isn’t that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“It’s just that this particular piece of land is, well, has always been, a real trouble spot. It goes back a long way, and the province is still trying to figure out just where it belongs.” Hosea’s hand went to his chest.

“That’s bullshit, Hosea, and you know it. You just haven’t got enough to do, that’s the real problem.”

“Enough to do?” said Hosea. “Enough to do?”

Just then it started to pour.

“Look, Hosea,” said John, “why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with this country. Guess there’s no way you could put me right out of the country, eh, Hosea? Why quit at the municipal level? I’ve always wanted to live in a hot place, Myanmar, say. Or Burma, or is that the same thing? Anyway, why don’t you get your pooh-bah at the top to make a really big mistake and move me and my toy barn and silo and tractor and little horses and cows all the way over to Myanmar?” Hosea looked at Johnny. He noticed Johnny had a strange way of speaking. What should have been the last word of a sentence seemed to become the first word of the sentence after it. Like, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with this. Country guess there’s no way you could—

“I’m just kidding, Hose. C’mon in. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

“No. No, I’m not,” said Hosea. I’m just kidding, Hose. C’mon. In you’re not allergic to cats, are you? Hosea repeated in his mind. Maybe he was asthmatic. Maybe it was a breathing problem. Hosea was intrigued with the way that Johnny spoke. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?

“Good. I’ve been having problems with those damn. Cockroaches ever since Yusef. Died Tiny’s not a roach eater so. I’m trying cats.”

By this time they were inside and Johnny had pointed to a kitchen chair. Hosea sat on it. Johnny went over to the counter to make some coffee.

“You mean the Algren cockroach?” Hosea asked.

“The one and only,” said Johnny. “Are there. Others, I mean around here?”

“I don’t know,” said Hosea. His shoulders slumped and he felt depressed. “I guess there could be,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Johnny, “there could be.”

“Johnny,” said Hosea. “I know you want to be the fire chief. I’m sorry, I …”

John turned around. “Hosea,” he said. “I’m a farmer and a widower since the age of. Nineteen I’ve learned not to rely on. Anything, not my cows, not my horses, not my dogs, not my crops, not the weather, not my health, not my friends, not you, not women, not love, not the fire chief. Job I’ve been in and out of this damn town so many times it’s a. Joke I don’t know what the problem is at the top, as you say, Hose, but, you know, I’ve stopped. Caring I think you must have some kind of a plan but what that plan is I cannot begin to imagine. Hosea, in, out, what difference does it make. Anymore, I’m here in the same. Place so I can’t be the fire. Chief I’ll keep putting out fires just the. Same it’s what I have to do doesn’t. Matter what anyone calls me, chief or. Johnny I’m gonna put out fires and if some government pantywaist tells me I can’t, that won’t matter to me. Either a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta. Do do you understand what I’m talking about, Hosea?”

“Yes,” said Hosea. “Yes, I do.”

“Okay,” said Johnny.

“I didn’t know you were ever married, John,” said Hosea.

“Well, I was.”

“To who?”

“Whom, you mean. To Caroline Russo.”

Hosea thought for a second. “Caroline Russo?” he said. “But she was the girl who died in that house fire years ago, wasn’t she? She was our age?” And then Hosea stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry, Johnny. Caroline Russo? I had no idea. Nobody knew you two were married. I’m sorry, Johnny.”

“Thanks, it’s. Okay it was a long time ago.”

Hosea and Johnny were quiet. Both men had sips of their coffee. Hosea remembered Caroline Russo. She was wild. She was very funny.

“We took the train to the city and got married at City Hall I,” said Johnny. He smiled at some memory. “Guess we eloped.”

“Oh,” said Hosea. He smiled too. “She was a beautiful girl.”

“Oh yeah,” said Johnny. He smiled again. So did Hosea. “So I put out fires.”

“Yeah,” said Hosea. “Yup.” They smiled at each other again. There was no reason to say anything more about it. It was a neighbour’s stubble fire that started it. The fire just got out of control and spread. The kids in the house were drunk and didn’t have a chance. Hosea knew that Caroline Russo was five months pregnant when she died in the fire. Everybody did. Well, everybody did after the coroner’s report. Nobody knew before that. Except Johnny, I guess, thought Hosea. And Hosea knew that Johnny had been one of the lucky ones. He had gone outside to piss or puke, that detail wasn’t ever really clear, and then had passed out in the yard behind the house. But nobody knew Caroline was pregnant with Johnny’s baby. Nobody knew they had married.

“I wanted to tell. People but I didn’t at the. Beginning and then it just sort of got too late to,” said Johnny. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Johnny,” said Hosea.

“Well, I may not have to be sorry about it, Hose, but I am sorry about. It I’m as sorry as they come.”

Hosea put his head into his hands. By moving Johnny out of the town limits he was destroying Johnny’s chance at redemption. And for what? For his own personal gain. For a kid’s dream of meeting his dad. Johnny never got to see his kid, never got to hold him in his arms and protect him from harm, never got to show him off and call him son and sweetheart. Hosea’s head hurt. He would put Johnny back. Somehow. And before July first. Maybe tomorrow. He knew Johnny would just laugh if he said, Oh, by the way you’re back in. He’d have to do it soon, though. And he’d have to get Johnny the job of fire chief of Algren. He was the only man for the job. It was his destiny. And I, thought Hosea, am not God. He took a deep breath.

“So,” said Johnny, “more coffee?”

“You were going to tell me what’s wrong with this country,” said Hosea.

“Right,” said John. “Remember Yusef, my. Lab, the garbage eater?”

“Big, black …” said Hosea.

“Yeah,” said John. “He died in the fall, sudden. Death from lead poisoning.” He smiled.

“Lead poisoning?” said Hosea.

“I shot him,” said John.

Hosea smiled and nodded. “Why?”

“Cancer of the. Throat I gave him two Big Macs, his favourite, put the rifle to his head and … Bam Yusef’s. Gone didn’t even know what hit. Him far as he knew he was eating a Big Mac with special sauce, box and everything.” John shook his head and had a sip of his coffee. “He was a good dog, Yusef.”

“Mmmmm,” said Hosea. He had a sip of his coffee.

“So a couple of months before Yusef died I got Tiny, another black lab, as a. Replacement they became really good. Friends I hoped Tiny would kill cockroaches the way Yusef. Had but no. Dice Tiny’s all right. Not like Yusef, mind you, but Tiny’s got a head on his shoulders and his heart’s in the right place.”

Where had Yusef’s head and heart been? thought Hosea. He had another sip and said, “Well, that’s good.”

“After Yusef died I buried him out. Back it was a hell of a job because the ground was beginning to freeze, but I got him in there and I said good-bye.”

But what’s wrong with this country? thought Hosea. “That’s too bad,” he said. His thoughts turned to Caroline Russo. He remembered her orange lunch box. She had called the colour eldorado nights or eldorado sunset or something like that.

“So about a week ago, when we had the first big thaw, I’m riding in the truck with Tiny and I smell something weird and I look over at him and he’s got blood and hair hanging off his. Snout sure enough we get home, I go out back, and I see that Tiny’s been digging at Yusef’s grave and then I get closer and I see that he’s actually dug him right up and I see that parts of Yusef have been eaten.”

“He’s been eating Yusef?” asked Hosea.

“Yeah! And then I thought back to the day I buried. Yusef had Tiny been hanging around? Watching I knew he was shook up about Yusef. Dying they were good friends there towards the end.”

“But he ate him,” said Hosea.

“Yeah,” said Johnny, and he began to laugh. He sat there laughing and Hosea stared at him. Johnny began to laugh harder and finally Hosea got it. He grinned. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and began to laugh.