A Boy of Good Breeding

nine

Hosea Funk had spent the past few days cleaning out his house, getting rid of all the old sad things of Euphemia’s, her Noxema, her Dippity-Do, her alum powder for canker sores, her old winter boots, the half-finished bags of scotch mints, and all her old clothes. He fixed his fridge and cleaned out the grout from behind the taps on the bathroom and kitchen sinks. He had planned to remove all of Euphemia’s Reader’s Digest condensed books from the small pantry in the basement. That’s when he found out someone in his house had been drinking rye whiskey, and lots of it. Boxes and boxes of empty bottles had been stored, or hidden, behind the boxes of Reader’s Digests.

Hosea had sat down on the cold cement floor. His eyes followed a crack that led to the drain hole. He remembered Tom telling him not to pee in it because he’d heard of some guy in Chicago or somewhere who had peed in his drain hole and had hit some electrical current that had travelled up the length of his stream of urine and then zap, his penis had been electrocuted and had turned black and shrivelled up right then and there. He must have been bullshitting me, thought Hosea. He sat there and no other thoughts came to mind other than the one he had been fighting off for the last minute or two.

She was drunk when she told me the Prime Minister was my father.

No, he thought, she couldn’t have been. She was on her deathbed. She couldn’t walk to the pantry in the basement to get a bottle, let alone lift her head to drink from it. “Her heart simply gave out on her, Hosea,” the doctor had said after she died. Her heart or her liver? She wasn’t very old. Had anybody known? Had the doctor known? Why was she drinking herself to death?

He had stared at the bottles for half an hour. He had never seen her drink, never seen her drunk. Had he just not known? She had always seemed content and in control. Did she drink only at night while he slept? During the day while he was at school? Is that what she did all day? Is that why she laughed and shrugged her shoulders at just about everything? Is that why she bought so many bags of scotch mints? Is that why she did handstands on the kitchen chairs?

Oh, Lord, it doesn’t matter, Hosea told himself, and smiled. He thought about tempting fate and pissing in the drain hole. Who can blame her, after all? he thought. She was alone.

Is there something bad ’bout a lady drinking all alone in a room? A letter in your handwriting … hmmmm, he couldn’t remember what the next words were.

Rye whiskey, thought Hosea. Had he picked fresh roses from Euphemia’s garden that day after school for somebody who had never been there? Rye whiskey roses for a rye whiskey man. Well, thought Hosea, I’m real, anyway. “Mother,” he said out loud, “was your life unbearable?” A letter in your handwriting and the scent of your perfume, I’m sorry, darling, so sorry, darling, I just assumed … is that how it went? Hosea hummed a little out of tune. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I am.”

He would tell Lorna about his plan. He would tell her she could move in with him after July first and do whatever she wanted with him and the house. Or maybe he wouldn’t tell her about his plan, she might think he was crazy. He would tell her something else. Something that would make the July first date seem somehow prescient, significant, romantic, and well, just right.

On that same day that he had been cleaning, Hosea had found out from Jeannie that Tom was not doing well. Nor, for that matter, was Dory. Jeannie had said both were depressed and miserable and trying to fool themselves for the sake of their daughter and granddaughter. There was more but Hosea had suddenly feigned back pain and staggered into his house explaining to Jeannie that he needed some Tylenol and an ice pack.

Hosea sat in his clean house and wondered about his old buddy Tom. Expansive, humble, tolerant Tom. Feeling bad. And worse, depressed. Well, thought Hosea. He needs a friend and that friend is me.

Hosea looked outside and noticed Euphemia’s rose bush blooming for the first time that spring. A dozen roses in a bottle of rye whiskey, thought Hosea. That would cheer him up. Hosea put on his windbreaker and Leander’s hat and went outside and picked some roses and stuffed them inside one of Euphemia’s empty whiskey bottles.

“Hosea! Roses! C’mon in!” Dory opened the door and took the bottle of roses. “Thank-you,” she said. “That’s very sweet of you, Hose.” Hosea thought she looked like she’d been crying.

“Well, you’re welcome,” he said. “You know, I looked out the window and there they were. They’re for Tom, too.”

“Of course,” said Dory, “of course they are.” Had she sighed just then? wondered Hosea. “He’s in the bedroom, Hose, if you want to say hello. He’s not feeling well enough to get out of bed. Just walk in. Here, bring him these.” She handed him the bottle of roses and said, “I’m leaving for a while. You keep him company. He’s had his pills, he won’t eat, and I’ll be back in half an hour. Good-bye.” She smiled. “If he wakes up and wonders where I am,” she said, “tell him I’ll be back in half an hour. He likes to know.”

Hosea sat on top of Tom and Dory’s laundry hamper and stared at Tom. He was sleeping. God, thought Hosea, he looks grey. What’s wrong with him?

He did look grey. He looked like Euphemia did weeks before she died. Oh no, thought Hosea. He put the roses on the bedside table, next to several jars of pills, a glass of water, Tom’s reading glasses, and a Maclean’s magazine.

“Tom?” whispered Hosea. Nothing. “Tom?” he whispered louder. He picked up the whiskey bottle with the roses and held it to Tom’s open mouth. He couldn’t see any condensation on the bottle. Very gently, Hosea put his fingers on Tom’s chest. For a second or two he couldn’t feel anything moving. He panicked. But then he felt a little something. Tom was breathing. It was okay. Hosea glanced over at the magazine. He picked it up and turned it over to look at the front cover. There was the Prime Minister! It was a fuzzy shot of John Baert on top of a mountain, wearing skis, and kissing a woman who was not his wife. “More than a friend? PM says absolutely not,” said the caption. At his age, thought Hosea. Could there be more children of his out there? Are we a little club? A big club? Hosea thought of the PM’s beautiful wife at home in Ottawa. How would she feel about this photograph? Did she care? Was she willing to put up with a bit of hanky-panky just to be the PM’s wife? Was she sad? Angry? Was she heartbroken? Had Euphemia been heartbroken? Perhaps he should send the Prime Minister’s Office a bill for the cost of thousands of bottles of rye whiskey. Her heart simply gave out on her, the doctor had said. Is being kissed and stroked, impregnated and left, by this man John Baert, a recipe for sorrow? Had he that much charisma, power, and sway? Could a man who broke women’s hearts, led the country, inspired thousands, drank martinis with world leaders, and skied at the age of seventy really be my father? thought Hosea. Can the mind work when the heart is broken? Had Euphemia been telling the truth?

“Hosea,” said Tom. “Hi.” Hosea dropped the magazine and cleared his throat.

“Tom,” he said. “Hi. How’s it going?” He smiled at his old friend and Tom smiled back.

“Not so good. Did you bring those flowers?”

“Yup. They’re roses. First batch this spring.”

“They’re beautiful, Hosea. Thank-you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you polish off that whiskey to make a vase?” Tom smiled.

“No, no,” said Hosea. He tugged on the front of his wind-breaker. “No.”

Tom smiled. “I’m just kidding, Hosea,” he said.

Hosea grinned. “Dory will be back in half an hour,” he said.

“That’s good.”

“So …” said Hosea.

Tom smiled. His eyes were red and his hair was greasy. He needed to shave.

“It’s quite nice outside these days,” said Hosea. “Spring is here to stay, I’m quite sure.”

Hosea remembered the two of them singing in school and getting sent home early. It was how they avoided the big boys.

Tom lay there, staring at the window.

“Knute’s doing a terrific job. She’s uh … a good worker.”

Tom looked at Hosea and nodded his head.

“Say, Tom,” said Hosea. “Would you mind if I borrowed your Maclean’s for a day or two?”

“Just take it, Hose,” said Tom. “Keep it.”

Then the two men sat and lay in silence. Hosea shifted the roses around once or twice. He smoothed his trousers. He smiled at Tom and Tom smiled back. Then Tom fell asleep again. Hosea sat there for a minute or two, staring first at Tom and then at the picture of the Prime Minister. He wanted to hug Tom or at least talk about the old days. He would have liked to tell Tom about Lorna. He wondered how Tom talked to Dory. How he touched her, how he laughed with Knute and played with Summer Feelin’. He wondered how Tom did all that. He touched Tom’s shoulder and whispered “good-bye” and tiptoed out of the room.

Back at his office Hosea pulled out his orange Hilroy scribbler from his drawer and entered Tom’s name in the Dying and Potentially Dead column. Tom’s voice in his head saying, Somebody die? And Hosea looking around saying, No, why? ’Cause, said Tom, your flag’s flying at half mast. That was more than forty years ago but Hosea still looked down at his zipper every time he thought about it.

He pulled his chair up to the window and stared outside until all the shops on Main Street were closed and the kids hanging around Norm’s had gone home and the sky was the colour of fresh liquid manure.

“Okay,” said Hosea the next morning. “Okay. Places to go, people to see. Lorna can go to hell. No, I don’t mean that, I take it back,” he said.

One time he had said “places to go, people to see” to Lorna and she had said, “Don’t ever say that to me again. I hate things like that.”

“Me too!” he’d said. But hadn’t meant it. He liked them, actually. Maybe later in the day he’d call Lorna and say, Hey, sweetheart, how about reconsidering me? You’re a moron, she’d say. I know, I know, what’s up, Lorna? he’d say. And she’d say, I don’t know, stuff, and slowly they’d get back on track the way they always did.

He had to find out how Mrs. Cherniski was, see if it was true that Dr. François was thinking about leaving town, confirm that Max was back in town, and find out if Knute had done anything about that darn dog, Bill Quinn. Oh, and he had to put Johnny Dranger back in town limits so he could be crowned fire chief of Algren. Fair enough, thought Hosea.

Hosea straightened the framed picture of Lorna he had sitting on his couch, and then kissed it lightly. Soon, he thought, I’ll carry you over the threshold. We’ll ride off into the sunset, you and me. “I want to grow old with you, Lorna Garden,” he said out loud. “Will you marry me?” Or, he thought, would she prefer, Marry me! It was hard to know. Hosea wondered how Tom had asked Dory to marry him. Or had Dory asked Tom? Or had they mutually, silently agreed to marry at precisely the same moment, opened their mouths, out of the blue, and said, “Yes!” in unison, knowing exactly what the other was saying yes to and falling into each other’s arms, laughing, knowing, happy.

Probably, thought Hosea. Very likely.

He went out to his car and had a look at the tires. Years ago he’d attended a convention of mayors and town reeves in Sudbury, Ontario, and one of the conventioneers had warned him that hostile townspeople do things to their mayors like slash their tires and throw eggs at their houses. Since then he checked his tires every time he drove. Each time he found them intact and full of air, Hosea congratulated himself on the fine job he was doing keeping everybody in Algren happy — at least happy enough not to slash his tires. He took off his hat and put it on top of the car so he could bend down and have a real good look, from every angle, without his hat falling off his head and onto the dusty driveway.

Hosea was on his way to the hospital when he saw Max driving down Main Street with his little girl. What was her name? Summer Time? Summer Feelin’, that was it. He and Max were stopped side by side at Algren’s only traffic light. “Hello there,” said Hosea through his open window. Max was wearing dark sunglasses and singing, and banging on the dashboard from time to time. Hosea thought he might also be pretending to play a guitar. An imaginary electric guitar hanging down low, on his hips. His fingers were moving very quickly and his left hand slid wildly up and down the neck of the imaginary guitar. His right hand yanked at imaginary strings like somebody trying to start a lawn mower.

Summer Feelin’ was laughing and waving her hands around like a symphony conductor, but she noticed Hosea and smiled.

“Your dad likes to rock,” said Hosea, smiling back at S.F.

“It’s my grandma’s car,” said S.F. in response.

Hosea knew that but he said, “Oh, I see,” and smiled again. Max’s song was over and he looked at Hosea.

“Hey, hi,” he said. “How are you?” Hosea nodded and smiled.

“Pretty good,” Hosea said. “Welcome back to Algren.”

“Thanks,” said Max, grinning. “Taking your hat for a ride?” Hosea smiled and wondered what Max meant. The light had turned green and Hosea was moving ahead, slowly, through the intersection. He didn’t hear Max yell, “Hey, your hat’s on top of the car!” As he drove down Main Street, Hosea looked right into the sun and breathed deeply.

He turned his own tape deck up loud and sang along with Emmylou. He got to the chorus and said “Guitar” along with Emmylou to her band mate.

Hosea parked his car in the hospital parking lot and glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. Where was his hat? Damn, he thought, and Lorna says I look good in it. He got out of the car and began to laugh. “I am such an idiot,” he muttered. He grabbed the hat from the top of the car and put it on his head. So, he thought to himself, I drive down Main Street singing and crying, with a hat on top of my car. He scratched his forehead and shook his leg a bit to realign his parts. “I could be senile,” he said out loud.

Hosea walked through the front doors of the hospital. There was nobody around. He walked over to the front desk and peered at the posted list of patients. He was looking for the name Cherniski.

“Hello, Hosea, making your rounds?”

“Oh, oh, hello, Dr. Bonsoir.” Hosea tugged viciously at his windbreaker and then stopped abruptly and stroked the brim of his hat. “How are you?” he said.

“Fine. Just fine. Call me Dr. Trèsbien, Hosea. How are you? How’s the chest pain?”

“Oh, it’s gone. It was nothing. Something I ate.”

“Hmmm. So, Hosea, mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead, shoot. What’s on your mind?” Hosea coughed.

“What were you doing at the Cherniski residence the day she had her heart attack?”

“Me? Well, I was helping to rescue her dog.”

“Yes, but how did you know her dog was in trouble? How is it that you just showed up at that exact moment when her dog needed rescuing?”

“Well, I don’t know. Chance, I suppose. Coincidence? I was on my way to Johnny Dranger’s.”

“I see. Is he a friend of yours?”

“In a way. Yes.”

“Hmmm …” said Dr. François.

“How is she?” said Hosea.

“Hard to say at this point.”

Hosea told himself not to ask another single question. Why was the doctor acting this way? He stared hard at his shoes and tried to stop himself from opening his mouth. He put his hands in his pockets and felt the hard edge of his hips. He looked up and saw the doctor glance at his watch and then at something behind the desk.

“Do you think she’ll make it?” he blurted out and cursed himself inside. The doctor stared at Hosea. He opened his mouth and closed it. He smiled.

“What would you say if I told you I was thinking of leaving Algren?” said the doctor. He began to pace back and forth, his hands behind his back.

“Leaving Algren,” said Hosea. “But why?”

“For a better paying job in the States.”

“The States! Why would you want to go to the States?”

“More money, like I said. And other reasons. Genvieve won’t leave Montreal to live in a place like this.”

“But what about us? We need you!”

“Well, don’t worry, Hosea. I won’t leave until you have another doctor. You organize a hiring committee, put an ad in papers across the country, and see how it goes. I’m sorry, Hosea, I need to live in a bigger place. I need to move on.”

“It’s because of the Epps, isn’t it?”

“What about them?”

“Talking about suing you over the baby with the breathing problem.”

“No, no, Hosea. That was unavoidable. Any doctor has to be prepared for potential lawsuits and disgruntled patients. That’s not the problem. I’m a young man! I need a change! I want to practise in a large hospital and experience as much as I can. That’s all.”

Dr. François looked at Hosea. Hosea didn’t know what to say. He needed to get rid of a few more people, but if the doctor left he’d have to replace him. He couldn’t expect the Charlie Orson Memorial Hospital to function without a doctor. At least not for any length of time. Could he get away with not hiring a doctor just for, say, a month or two? Until after July first? The doctor put his hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “Don’t worry so much, Hosea. You’ll kill yourself with worry.”

“I hope you change your mind,” said Hosea quietly.

“Well,” said the doctor, “we’ll see.” He paused. “Hosea,” he said, “I’ll keep you posted on Mrs. Cherniski’s condition.” The doctor removed his hand from Hosea’s shoulder and cocked his head. “Okay?” he said. Before Hosea could respond, three men came bursting through the front doors of the hospital. Two of them were helping Johnny Dranger walk and yelling at the doctor.

“He’s not breathing hardly at all, Doc!” said one. “You gotta do something quick!”

The doctor was calm. He helped the men lay Johnny down on a stretcher in the hallway. By now Nurse Barnes had showed up and was already administering oxygen to Johnny.

“What happened to his inhaler?” the doctor asked the men. They all shrugged.

“We don’t know,” said one of them.

“Was he putting out fires again?” asked the doctor.

“Looks like,” said one of the men. “He told us he’d just come from Whithers, some house fire he was helping on, his face was all full of ash and grit. He ordered a coffee, over at the Wagon Wheel, then started in on his coughing fit. Knocked his cup right off the table, and the gal over there, filling in for Cherniski, started yelling at him to get a grip. He started turning blue and he tried to talk but nothing came out, so the boys here and I stuck him in the back of the truck and brought him here. He’s looking better, I can see.”

Hosea stood beside Johnny, looking down at him and smiling. Johnny still couldn’t talk but his colour was coming back and his breathing had settled down. “I’m putting you back in, John,” whispered Hosea. Johnny blinked up at Hosea.

“Excuse me, Hosea,” said the doctor. “I’ll have to ask you to stand back a bit. He’ll be fine in a while. He’ll be out of here in an hour or two. Until the next time.” The doctor was muttering, “An asthmatic firefighter, I don’t understand …”

Hosea turned and walked towards the door. “Hey, Hosea,” said one of the men. “Isn’t that Leander Hamm’s hat you got on? He gave it to you?” Hosea froze on the spot but the man went on. “Looks pretty good on you, Hosea, looks sharp. Doesn’t it, Mel?” he said to the other man.

“Sure does,” said Mel. “That’s a bronc-bustin’ hat you got there, Hosea, you know that? You could be a cowboy if you got yourself a horse.”

Hosea smiled and said, “Well, maybe some day.” But the men weren’t listening. They were already making plans to get back to the Wagon Wheel and finish off their coffees, maybe find out more about the new gal taking over for Cherniski.

Hosea got into his car and backed out of his spot. He drove slowly down Main Street, nodding at the few people strolling along the sidewalk. Suddenly a dog stepped off the curb and sauntered across the street. Hosea slammed on his brakes and swore out loud. That damn Knute! She was supposed to get rid of that dog! Immediately Hosea felt bad about his outburst. He rolled down his window. “Uh, Bill Quinn?” he said. “Get off the road! Shoo! C’mon now, get going!” Bill Quinn turned his head to look at Hosea and then stopped in his tracks in the middle of the road. “C’mon now,” said Hosea. “I said shoo.”

Bill Quinn walked over to one of Hosea’s tires and lifted his leg. “Hey!” shouted Hosea. “Cut that out!” He threw his car into reverse and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. Bill Quinn looked behind him at the spot where the tire had just been, put his leg down and continued to cross the street. He found a square of sunlight and lay down in it. With his legs stretched out in front of him and behind him he took up the entire width of the sidewalk.

Hosea watched as a woman and her child gingerly stepped over the dog. The child bent down and scratched Bill Quinn between the ears. Bill Quinn licked the boy’s face and the woman smiled. Hosea shook his head.

Well, thought Hosea, I’m really no further ahead than when I started. I’ve got three new babies and Max on my hands and nobody gone except Leander. I’m no further ahead. Hosea remembered raking leaves for Euphemia. As soon as he’d finished a patch of the lawn, the wind would blow and more leaves would fall from the trees directly onto his freshly raked patch. “C’mon in, Hosea,” Euphemia would yell from the doorway, “don’t worry about every single leaf.” But he had worried about every single leaf. He’d stay outside until ten or eleven at night trying to rake up every leaf, trying to beat the wind. Sometimes Tom would help out for a while but eventually he’d get bored and wander off. “I’m going to bed, Hose,” Euphemia would eventually call out into the darkness, “wherever you are, good night.”

Hosea parked his car on the street in front of his office and got out. He said, “Hello, Peej,” to a small stooped man who stood on the sidewalk gazing up at the sky. “Have you got seeding weather, Peej, or not?” Hosea smiled. “Let’s hope,” said Peej.

“Well, take ’er easy, Peej.” A vicious jerk of Peej’s chin by way of saying good-bye and Hosea had safely entered his office building.

He peered out the window of his office. He watched a couple getting out of their grey Subaru and going in to the Wagon Wheel. The woman glanced at Bill Quinn lying on the sidewalk and smiled. He thumped his fingers against the windowsill to a familiar tune. Waterloo, he thumped, my Waterloo. The couple took a table next to the large window in the front of the café. Hosea watched as the man removed the woman’s coat and then disappeared into the café, looking for a place to hang it. You’ll have to hang it over the back of a chair, it’s the Wagon Wheel you’re sitting in, not the Ritz, thought Hosea. He stared at the woman and wondered if she was married to the man or was she his sister, his daughter? He thought of Lorna. The woman sat at the table, her legs crossed and sticking out to the side, and picked up a menu. She looked up at Hosea. Hosea looked up at the sky, to the right and to the left as if he’d just heard an airplane, and then quickly moved away from his window. He noticed a note lying on his desk and picked it up.

Hi, Hosea, I let myself in with the key you gave me and I called the paint places in the city. It will cost, this is the cheapest, about $2,500 dollars to paint the water tower, without the horse. With the horse, about three grand. So … let me know what you think. Also, as you probably know, Bill Quinn is still in town, but I’m working on it. And I’ll be buying the flowers later today with the money from that account. That’s where I’m going now. Oh yeah, Lorna called. See ya, Knute.

P.S. Are you still interested in turning the old fred mill into a theatre because Jeannie, you know, your neighbour? said she’s thinking about buying it and turning it into an aerobics/laundromat kind of place. She said she’d talk to you.

I’m sure she did, thought Hosea. “When?” said Hosea out loud. When, Knute? When did Lorna call, what did she say, how did she sound? Was she at work, at home? Why hadn’t Knute just let the answering machine go? It would have been more helpful. At least he could have heard her voice. Hosea stood up and walked over to the window. He watched the couple for a while. The woman didn’t look up at him again. A warm wind touched him. Knute’s note fluttered off the desk and onto the floor. “You!” he shouted at Bill Quinn. The dog lifted one ear. “Get out of my town! Get the heck out of Algren!” Bill Quinn let his ear drop, yawned, and tried to get comfortable again. Combine Jo, who had been standing on the street with her back to Hosea, peering into the window of Willie Wiebe’s Western Wear, turned around and looked up at him.

“Who the hell are you yelling at, Hosea? It’s a little undignified, don’t you think?” She was grinning. “Have you lost your mind, Hosea? Why the hell don’t you come on out of your little tower and enjoy the sunshine. Summer’s just around the corner! Did I mention S.F. and me are gonna be riding our bikes over on the dike? Hey, Hosea, you gotta bike?”

Hosea shook his head. “I was, uh, talking to Bill Quinn, to the dog,” he said. “To that black dog there on the sidewalk.”

“Oh him,” shouted Combine Jo. “He looks harmless. Hey, wait a second, did you say his name is Bill Quinn? You mean from the original Bill Quinn? Is that one of his? Oh boy.” Combine Jo shook her head.

“What do you mean, ’oh boy?” shouted Hosea. “What’s the story with the Quinns?”

“Oh, they’re just wild, Hosea. They can’t be trained. They can’t be taught a thing. They do as they please. A few generations must have lived in Whithers or who knows where, ’cause you obviously missed out on it. Just ask Cherniski! She’ll tell you all about it!” Combine Jo shook her head. “Christ,” she said. She looked amused. “I guess they’re back. Yell all you want, Hosea, that dog ain’t gonna budge.” She turned back to the display window of Wiebe’s with a little wave over her shoulder. Hosea lifted his hand.

The phone rang.

“Lorna,” said Hosea as he picked up the phone.

“How’d you know it was me?” said Lorna, laughing.

“Well, you know, if you want something bad enough …” Hosea coughed. “How are you?” he said.

“I’m fine. How are you?” she said.

“I’m okay,” said Hosea, “I’ve …” Lorna interrupted.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said.

Hosea had been about to say I’ve been better.

“Yeah,” he said. “How are you?” he asked again.

“I’m okay. Pretty good. Hosea, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” he said. He wondered what it could be. “Yeah,” he said again. “We should talk.”

“Could I come out on the bus tonight?”

“Oh,” said Hosea. “Of course you can, of course you can. I’ll be there to pick you up. I love you. I’m sorry I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. Lorna, I’m just really sorry.”

She sighed. “You keep telling me that, Hosea, and nothing ever changes.”

Hosea whispered, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Will you quit saying you’re fucking sorry!” she said.

“Okay,” said Hosea. “Yes I will, I love you.”

“And stop saying that, too!” said Lorna.

“Why?” asked Hosea. “Why should I stop saying I love you when I do?”

“Because it makes me sad, Hosea, that’s why. Because I wonder.”

“Okay,” said Hosea.

“Is that all you can say? Okay? So what does that mean, Hosea, that your love for me is a sad thing, that you don’t even know if you mean it or not?”

Hosea put his hand on his forehead. “Tell me,” she said again, softly. Was she crying?

“I have a plan, Lorna,” he said. “It’s a, well, it’s just a plan. And if you’ll just come here tonight I’ll tell you everything and then you’ll understand. My love for you is not a sad thing, Lorna. Please don’t think it is.”

“Just pick me up at seven, Hosea,” she said. “And you know, whatever.” She hung up.

Hosea closed his eyes. He could feel the warm wind blowing through his open window. He could smell the dust left over from last fall and he could hear Combine Jo laughing down on the street. He thought how much happier Leander Hamm’s corpse would be now that the earth was drying up and the snow had gone. My blood, he thought. I’d sell my blood to buy her chocolate donuts. That had been the first line of a poem he’d written on a scrap of paper the day he had decided to become a poet. He’d changed it around a million times trying to get something to rhyme with donuts and then with blood. Nothing. Except flood, and that had seemed futile. Euphemia had found the scrap of paper in his pocket and had laughed out loud for twenty minutes, and then had broken her leg. Hosea had been in the basement and had seen a spider, and because he was frustrated with his poem had screamed at the top of his lungs, “SPIDER!” Euphemia had come running and falling down the stairs, saying, “Where where where’s the fire” and her leg made a snapping noise and her femur poked off in the wrong direction, and Hosea had been quite happy about it. Even while Euphemia lay writhing on the basement floor, he had muttered sullenly, “I said spider, not fire.” Later that day he had written in his notebook that Vincent van Gogh and a lot of other great artists in the world didn’t care what people thought of them, which was nothing.

Hosea opened his eyes. Everything was going to be all right. He and Lorna would work things out. He’d tell her the truth about his plan and she would understand. She would know why he wanted to see his father. She loved him and she would know. He would take the Prime Minister by the arm and they would stroll off a ways from the crowd, down Main Street towards where the sidewalk ends, and then up Town Line Road in the direction of the dike, and Hosea would smile and say, Mr. Prime Minister, do you remember meeting a girl named Euphemia Funk years ago right here in this town? Well, I’m her son. He would smile and look into the PM’s face. And yours, he’d say. He wanted to show the Prime Minister his town, Canada’s smallest, the place of his conception, his birth, and his whole life. He wanted the Prime Minister to see it and to like it and to think well of Euphemia and the place where she was from and the son that she had raised. Lorna would understand. It was simple. Hosea nodded his head and smoothed the shiny surface of his desk with his hand. He reached for the top drawer and then decided against opening it. He would find Knute and the two of them would plant the flowers along Main Street. He would help her. And then he would go to the bus depot and pick up Lorna and show her the flowers and take her home.