by Miriam Toews
But why couldn’t he remember what happened that day he picked the roses? Hosea sat at his desk now and slammed his fist against his thigh.
Who was the special person? Had Euphemia told him or hadn’t she? Had he asked? Had he wanted to know then? Had the special person been the man who was now Prime Minister of Canada? Why had Euphemia, on her deathbed, told Hosea that his father was John Baert, the Prime Minister of Canada? Surely she had been hallucinating. She must have been crackers, substituting reality with good intentions. She had always wanted the best for Hosea, after all, and knowing Hosea’s penchant for public office, his respect for politicians, and especially successful leaders, people who didn’t shrug their lives away but made decisions and tried to change the world, she had made up this one final ridiculous story. This was her parting gift to Hosea, the words, “Your father, your father, is John Baert.” And then, “Come back …” The words not spoken to Hosea or to Dory or to a doctor or to the Lord, but to John Baert, the stranger on the horse, the young man from long ago with the dark curls on his neck, her only lover, the father of her beloved Hosea.
But had she made it up? Hosea wondered. Or was it true? In any case, if he had met his father on that day, perhaps his father would see, in Hosea, a resemblance to himself? Hosea had, since the day Euphemia told him his father was the Prime Minister, stared long and hard at any photograph, any news footage of the Prime Minister trying to see some similarities. They both had blue eyes and dark hair, but then so did millions of people. Hosea remembered the rhyme the American people had chanted when Grover Cleveland was the president and news broke out he had fathered an illegitimate child somewhere along the line: “Ma, Ma, where’s my pa? He’s gone to the White House, ha ha ha.” But what if what Euphemia had said was a lie? Or simply morphine-induced rambling? Hosea didn’t want to think about that. He had the letter, the form letter with the photocopied copy of the Prime Minister’s signature promising to visit Canada’s smallest town. Hosea had always been interested in maintaining Algren’s status as smallest town. It had kept the town on the map and given the folks in Algren a dose of civic pride, of recognition beyond being the birthplace of the Algren cockroach.
But now, since the arrival of the letter three months ago, Hosea’s job became clear. It was more than a job, though: it was his mission in life and his only dream. He must bring the Prime Minister to Algren. He must. “John Baert.” Hosea murmured the name quietly, his eyes tightly closed, his mind trying to batter down the door that blocked his memory of that day he burned his hand and picked the roses.
four
“I think he’s dead,” Summer Feelin’ whispered.
“I doubt it. His lips are moving,” Knute whispered back.
“Say something, Mom.”
Knute cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
Hosea, for the second time that afternoon, lurched forward in his chair and banged his scarred palm against the edge of his desk, sending a few paper clips skittering off the side.
“Caught you sleeping on the job, eh? Ha ha,” Knute said. Summer Feelin’ stood beside Knute, holding her hand and staring at Hosea, who was now tugging at his shirt with one hand and smoothing the already smooth surface of his desk with the other.
“Oh no, oh no, I wasn’t sleeping. I was just, thinking, so how are you, Knutie? Hi there, uh … Autumn … uh, May?”
“Summer Feelin’. Say hi, S.F.”
“Hi, S.F.”
“Ha, ha, that’s her little joke.”
“Oh yes, that’s, uh …” Hosea felt his hand go to his shirt again but this time he stopped himself from tugging by lunging towards the floor and picking up the fallen paper clips.
“Well, I just thought I’d take you up on that job offer, remember, when you came by to visit my folks you mentioned that—”
“Yes. Yes, I remember. I do, well, I will have work for you. Quite a bit of work, actually, very soon. Well, what I’ll need you to do, mainly, is, you know, answer phones, write letters, make appointments, that sort of thing. Generally, keep the place in order.”
Hosea hadn’t expected Knute to show up quite so soon. Actually, he hadn’t expected her to show up at all. And now he was having a hard time explaining what it was he wanted from her. He could have kicked himself for not being prepared. He needed a young, attractive woman at his side, plain and simple, if he was going to impress the Prime Minister. Look at all the politicians. They all had attractive aides and writers and handlers, not to mention young, beautiful wives. Lorna would do just fine as the wife, Hosea figured. Granted, she wasn’t that young, and she did stoop slightly and forget to do little things like lay down her collar or straighten her necklace so that the diamond Hosea had given her was often draped over her shoulder instead of hanging down towards her cleavage, but Hosea loved her and was confident she would pass muster with the Prime Minister. Who knows, by then she might even be living with him in Algren? And Knute would be his lovely and capable assistant, provided she wore something other than torn jeans and police boots. Hosea could picture it now. There he’d be with Lorna on one side and Knute on the other, waiting for John Baert to emerge from the limousine, to offer Hosea his hand and—
“So when do I start?” asked Knute. She could sense Hosea was nervous about this whole thing. Summer Feelin’ was trying to drag her out of the room so she was trying to get it over with as fast as she could.
“Start. Well. Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning. Say about ten o’clock.”
“Okay,” said Knute. “Sounds good.”
“Oh, Knute?”
“Yeah?”
“How’s your father’s health?”
“Oh, comme ci comme ça, you know …”
“Hmmm … Do you think his heart is getting stronger?”
“I think so, yeah. He’s learning to juggle.”
“Juggle? Really?” For a brief moment Hosea was nine again and he heard Tom’s voice. “Run, Hosea, run!” It seemed like just the other day. “Juggling, well, what do you know?” said Hosea.
By then Summer Feelin’ had dragged Knute out of the room and halfway down the hall. Knute managed to yell over her shoulder to Hosea who was still sitting at his desk tapping a paper clip against his teeth, “See ya tomorrow!”
The snow was melting and the sun was hot, so Knute and Summer Feelin’ walked home with their jackets tied around their waists and this was enough to make S.F. flap. Normally when she flapped in public Knute tried to calm her down. She’d take her hand or rub her back or say her name or get S.F. to look at her and tell her what she was so excited about. But this time Knute thought she’d just let S.F. get it out of her system. They stood right in front of the big windows of the Wagon Wheel Café and S.F. stood on one spot, her head back, mouth open, and flapped like she was about to lift right off the ground. Knute was excited, too. The world is full of possibility at that precise moment when winter jackets are taken off for the first time in Manitoba. Things were okay. Living with Tom and Dory, working for Hosea, hanging out with S.F. She wouldn’t be featured in Vanity Fair, but …
A couple of men in the café noticed S.F. and pointed at her and stared for a while and then went back to their coffee.
When she and S.F. got back to the house they saw Combine Jo lying on the ground in front of the front door. Tom was sitting in a lawn chair beside her wearing a tuque and a down-filled jacket and reading a Dick Francis novel.
“Hello, ladies, how’d the interview go?” asked Tom.
“What the hell is she doing here?” said Knute.
“Do you mean what the hell is she doing here?” said Tom, “or what the hell is she doing here?”
S.F. crawled onto Tom’s lap and peered down at Combine Jo. “Is she dead?” she asked Tom, who looked at Knute and winked.
“No, she’s just resting.” Tom put his head back and swallowed a couple of times for the benefit of S.F. who had, recently, become intrigued with his Adam’s apple and liked to follow its course with her fingertips. “Aack, not
so hard, S.F. I’ll choke.” He bulged his eyes and Summer Feelin’ giggled.
“This is ridiculous,” Knute said and went inside the house. She had to step over Combine Jo’s right arm, which was stretched out as a pillow for her head. She had almost made it into the house. Her bloated fingers grazed the sill of the door and, as Knute stepped over her, lifted slightly as if she were waving.
Knute stormed into the house and flung her jacket onto the floor.
“Why the hell is Combine Jo here and what the hell is she doing lying on the ground?” she yelled in the general direction of the den, where Dory had been painting for the past few days.
“Oh, Knutie?” came Dory’s reply. “I’m glad you’re here. Jo fainted and she’s too heavy for Tom and me to move so I just sent Tom out to sit beside her and keep an eye on her ‘til she woke up. You know, it’s warm enough out there today for her to lie there, and anyway he’d likely have another heart attack if he tried to lift her, you know, and my back isn’t—”
“She did not faint, Mother, she passed out. She’s drunk. I’m not a child. I know when somebody is drunk. You know, I’ve been drunk myself, I realize when something like this is happening.”
By now Dory had come out to the kitchen. She was covered in paint and wearing her SoHo T-shirt. Knute was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs like a kid and drinking milk directly from the carton.
“I’m not hauling her inside if that’s what you think,” she sputtered through a mouthful of milk. “Forget it.”
“Okay, okay, Knutie, calm down, okay? Just calm down.” Dory put her hands on Knute’s thighs and looked at her imploringly in very much the same way Knute looked at S.F. when she flapped.
Just then Combine Jo came thrashing through the door holding S.F. in her arms with Tom behind her, invisible except for his arms moving wildly around her trying to make sure she didn’t drop S.F. or smash any part of her against the walls of the front entrance. As Combine Jo and S.F. ricocheted from wall to wall one of Jo’s sleeves caught on the hall mirror, which yanked it right off, sending bits of glass and plaster flying and Tom, still in his tuque, started doing a sort of jig to avoid stepping on it, saying, “Dory? Dory? Dory, you gotta help me here.”
“Goddamn it!” Combine Jo slurred as one of her feet involuntarily slid out in front of her like Fred Astaire and then began to plow her way to the living room couch. “Christ, girl, hang on! We’re almost there!” she told S.F., who answered meekly, “I am. I am.” By this time Tom and Dory were flanking her like two tugs bringing in the Queen Mary, and Knute was frozen to the spot, livid.
“Ho!” Combine Jo belched out as she fell onto the couch. S.F. kind of dropped beside her and then attempted to climb off the couch, but before she could escape Combine Jo grabbed her by the shirt and said, “Not so fast, you little devil. I want to have a good look at you.”
At this point Knute intervened. “Leave her alone, Jo. S.F., come here, sweetie.”
“S.F., come here, sweetie,” Combine Jo mimicked, moving her head back and forth. “Jesus, Knuter, I’m not gonna kill the kid. When the hell are you gonna bury the hatchet, eh, Knute? I’ve apologized until I’m fucking blue in the face.”
“Coffee, Jo?” Dory asked.
“Thanks, honey.” Combine Jo sat on the couch. She was wearing giant Hush Puppies and a tent dress with tiny anchors all over it. She stared at S.F. “God, she’s an angel, Knute. She’s an angel made in heaven. Aw c’mon, let me have her. Let her sit with me for a second. Doncha want to, eh, Summer Feelin’?”
“No.” S.F. tightened her grip on Knute’s hand. Tom was busy sweeping up the broken glass in the hallway. He asked S.F. if she would like to do a puzzle with him in the den and she nodded and flew out of the room.
“Lookit her go. Runnin’ like the goddamn dickens. How old is she, anyway, Knuter? Five, six?”
“Four.”
Combine Jo sighed heavily. “I heard you two were in town, Knute. I had to come and see you. See her. You know I’ve got no way of getting to the city to see you. How was I gonna see you and S.F.?”
“Nobody invited you.”
At this Combine Jo slapped her thigh and barked, “Ha! You haven’t changed at all, Knute. Not one iota. Still a spark plug, you crazy kid. You and I should have a drink together some day. But, you know I like your spunk. I’ve always loved your spunk. And you know what? So did Max. Of all Max’s girlfriends you were my goddamn favourite and that’s no lie. The rest were pffhh … In fact, that’s another reason why I’m here.”
Dory handed Combine Jo her coffee and immediately Jo spilled a few drops on her anchor dress. “Whoops. Shit.” Then Jo did it again. “I’ll be goddamned!” she said. Dory attempted a tortured smile. Knute stood a ways away with her arms folded across her chest. The thought of a drink wasn’t a bad one. But not with her. Knute looked at her and raised her eyebrows placidly in an unfriendly gesture, egging her on.
“Max called me. Finally, the little bastard, and he’s coming home. He’s broke and tired of Europe. Who wouldn’t be? He’s coming back, Knuter. And he wants to see his goddamned daughter!”
“Are you serious?” Marilyn muttered over the phone later that evening. “That’s what she said? Just like that?”
“Yeah. Can you believe it?” Knute was soaking in a tub of hot water and talking to Marilyn on Tom’s new cordless phone. Tom and Dory and S.F. were all in bed together eating popcorn and watching TV. She could hear an occasional laugh track through the bathroom wall.
“I can believe that he’s broke,” said Marilyn.
“Some things never change,” Knute answered.
“What are you gonna do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. What can I do? I can’t keep him from coming back. I’m not gonna leave just because he’s coming back. And besides, he’s not a terrible person or anything, he’s just completely hopeless. I don’t know.”
“Well, he’s an asshole, Knute. He knew you were pregnant and he took off.”
“Well, I kind of told him to get lost.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean get lost, get lost like for five years. It means just fuck off for a while and don’t bug you.”
“Yeah, but he might have figured that out himself if he wasn’t such a slave to his mother. She’s the one who told him his life would be ruined forever if he became a father and stayed in Algren.”
“Well, that’s probably true.”
“Thanks, Marilyn.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake. He’d have to be a total moron to believe her.”
“Yeah, shhh, I know. I know. Actually I think he just wanted to leave. He couldn’t deal with it. I don’t think he ever listened to his mom.”
“Oh, so he’s Leonard Cohen all of a sudden, moping around Europe in a big black coat all grim and sad-faced because it’s what he has to do? Gimme a break. So now you’re just gonna forgive him and let him see S.F. and waltz right back into your life, just like that? Have some self-respect, for Pete’s sake, Knute.”
“Yeah, but what about S.F.? He is her father, after all. If he wants to see her, shouldn’t I let him? Just because he’s a moron doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want to see him, right? She knows about him and everything. I mean, she can decide later if she hates him enough never to see him again. I can’t really decide that for her, you know.”
“Why not? Lots of parents do that. If you think she’s better off without him in her life, then that’s that. You decide.”
“Well, you let Ron see Josh even though Ron’s an idiot.”
“Yeah, but he pays me, Knute. You know, child support? I’m forced to let him see Josh.”
“But don’t you think you’d want Josh to know Ron even if he wasn’t paying you?”
“Absolutely not. Ron’s a twit. Josh can do better than him for a father.”
“Well, Marilyn, that doesn’t make any sense. He is his father. You’re the one who could have done better than him for a boyfriend. There’s nothing you can do abo
ut him being Josh’s dad. And just because he’s a twit doesn’t mean Josh doesn’t like him.”
“Hmm, I don’t know, Knute. You know what I think? I think you’re still hot for Max.”
“Wrong-o.”
“You are! I can tell. I can always tell. You definitely are still hot for Mighty Max.”
“Oh God, Marilyn. I don’t even know him anymore.”
“Yeah? So what’s your point? Welcome to—”
S.F. came into the bathroom and asked if she could join Knute in the tub. Marilyn heard S.F. asking and said, “Oh God, don’t you hate that?”
“Yeah. I have to add more cold. Okay, I gotta go.”
“You know what you have to do, Knute?” said Marilyn.
“What.”
“You have to learn how to make pudding. It says on the box you have to stir constantly, constantly, and it takes a good twenty or thirty minutes before the stuff boils. So if S.F. is bugging you, you know, asking for this and that, you say, Sorry ma’am, do you want pudding or not? I cannot leave this pudding for a second.”
“Yeah?” said Knute.
“Yeah,” said Marilyn, “it’s great. I make tons of pudding, and while I stir I read. Thin, light books ’cause you only have one hand to hold ’em. Josh can’t do a thing about it, so he actually amuses himself and I get a decent break. All hell can break loose around me. I don’t care, I’m making pudding.”
“That’s a great idea, Marilyn,” said Knute. “What happens when he gets sick of pudding?”
“I don’t know, I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll think of something when that time comes, though. Something less fattening.”
“Yeah. Marilyn, you have to come and visit me here soon, okay?”
“Definitely,” said Marilyn, and they put off saying good-bye for a while and then eventually hung up.
That night just before Knute went to bed she watched S.F. sleep. A strand of hair was stuck in her mouth. Knute removed it. S.F. put it back in. She was beautiful. An angel made in heaven, as Combine Jo had said. God, thought Knute, that woman was S.F.’s paternal grandmother! Not that it mattered. In Knute’s opinion, Combine Jo was more interested in her next drink and her piles of money than she was in S.F. Or even Max.