A Boy of Good Breeding

by Miriam Toews

  “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.

  six

  Knute sat on the large windowsill in Hosea’s office looking out at that dog. The same dirty black one that had passed her in such a hurry. It looked like he was panhandling or something. He sat in front of the Wagon Wheel, looking up at everybody who passed, then back down the street to see if anybody else was coming. Not very many people were. Smallest town and everything. He reminded Knute of the dog who lived in the apartment block across from hers in the city. He would hang out his fourth floor window, front legs on the windowsill, and if he saw somebody wave he’d sort of wave back. Once Knute saw him on a leash going for a walk with his owner and he looked sheepish, like, Okay, yes, now you know, I’m a dog, that’s all there is to it.

  Knute opened the window and stuck her head out.

  “Hey!” she said to the dog. He looked up and nodded in a dog way but then returned to business. Somebody was coming down the street. Knute hadn’t done any of the things Hosea had asked her to do, except get the mail.

  She sat on the windowsill and smoked and looked outside.

  “Uh, hello,” she heard someone say.

  “Can I help you?” she muttered and quickly butted her cigarette against the windowsill and threw it down to the street. She turned around and there was Hosea, wearing a hat. He looked vaguely stricken.

  “Oh hell-o,” she said. “It’s you. Sorry. I hope you don’t mind me smoking in here.” Hosea put up his hand like a cop saying stop and shook his head. Knute wasn’t sure he was shaking his head no, he didn’t mind, or no, she shouldn’t smoke.

  “Any luck?” he said. Again, Knute wasn’t sure what he meant exactly, so she said, “No. No luck. But I got your mail.”

  “Oh. Thank-you,” said Hosea.

  “No problem.” Knute thought Hosea’s hat looked good on him. It looked like it must have been a longtime favourite of his.

  “So. Thanks again,” said Hosea. “Um, I think you’ll work out well. Did you, uh, have any problems?”

  “No, nope, no problems,” said Knute. And she thought how Hosea must be wondering because first she didn’t have any luck and now she didn’t have any problems, so what exactly did she have?

  “Well, then, you may as well go home,” said Hosea. “Thanks very much for your help. Well, not your help,” he said, “I mean your services, your time. How does two hundred and fifty dollars a week sound? For, oh, a few hours a day, if that’s, if that suits you.”

  “Two hundred and fifty bucks?” Knute said. “That’s great. That’s fine.”

  “Because, like I say,” said Hosea, “if you need more or if you think it’s not enough, just tell me.”

  “Fine, yeah, I will, but it sounds okay to me. It sounds good.”

  “Say hi to Tom,” said Hosea. He sat in his chair and smoothed out the surface of his desk. “I should really drop in again soon. We had a very nice visit the last time I did.”

  “Yeah,” Knute said. “You should.” She smiled. Hosea smiled.

 
“Listen,” he said. “Here’s a key. To the office. In case I’m not around when you need to come in to work.”

  “Okay.” Knute took the key. Need to come in to work, she thought. For what?

  “Well, see ya,” she said.

  “See ya. See ya … Knutie. Knute.”

  She smiled as if to say whatever, call me whatever. “See ya,” she said again.

  The dog was still sitting there. Dusk was falling in around him. The sky was the colour of raw meat. Knute walked past the dog.

  “Hey, you desperado,” she said, “what are you waiting for?” No reply. She wondered if Summer Feelin’ would like a dog. But no, not with all of Dory’s redecorating. She kept walking. Past Darlene’s Unisex Salon, past Jim and Brenda’s Floral Boutique, past the Style-Rite, past Kowalski Back Hoe Services and Catering, past Willie Wiebe’s Western Wear, past the only set of lights in town.

  Hosea’s hands were shaking. He opened his top right drawer and took out the orange Hilroy scribbler. His memory of what had just happened was, what was that colour, a dusty rose, a throbbing dusty rose? It took him to the doorway of Leander’s room, but not beyond. Thank God for my rubbers, he had thought. The babies, a problem with one of them. Go back, Hosea, he had told himself. Go back into the room. You stole the hat. You killed a man and stole his hat. No, I didn’t, thought Hosea. I didn’t kill him. He just died and I happened to be there. Shouldn’t you have told someone? Should I have? Yes, I should have. I know it. But then the doctor would have been angry with me. But this man died! I know, but surely someone will notice very soon. But the hat. Nobody saw me go in and nobody saw me go out, so nobody will know that I took his hat. And that makes it okay? People might think I killed him for his hat. Why did I take the hat? It’s a beautiful hat. Because I’m no good. I stole the hat of a dead man. I can’t be any good. That’s right, that’s right. You’re no cowboy, Hosea Funk. You’re a horse’s ass. So I am. So I am.

  Hosea sat still in his chair. His head hurt. He opened his scribbler and turned to the Dead column and carefully entered the name Leander Hamm, and the date March 23, 1996. Then he put the scribbler back into the drawer and took out the letter from the Prime Minister and read it twice. He also took out the newspaper photo that showed the Prime Minister sleeping on a plane to Geneva. It was Hosea’s favourite. He had a full photo album of newspaper clippings and pictures of the Prime Minister. Shaking hands, singing the national anthem, talking into a reporter’s microphone, speaking in the House of Commons, kissing his beautiful wife, playing with his grandchildren, unveiling some monument or another, riding away in a chauffeur-driven limousine. But the one of the Prime Minister sleeping was his favourite. It was the only one of them all in which Hosea could see himself.

  “Three babies,” Hosea whispered to himself. Three babies. If the third survives. Hmmmm. That’s three more people in Algren, one less, Leander Hamm, that makes two, fifteen hundred and two. That’s two too many, thought Hosea. But he still had a bit of time. The Prime Minister had promised to visit on July first, Canada Day. Hosea had a few months to work it out. He felt his hat. He took it off and put it back on. He phoned Lorna at his place. No answer. Where was she? There was nowhere for her to go in Algren. And she had said she’d be staying a couple of days. “Damn Damn damn,” said Hosea, and began to wonder if he was supposed to know anything.

  Where was Lorna, anyway? He decided to go home and find out. As he was getting into his car, Combine Jo walked by and looked hard at him, as if she had seen that hat somewhere before, but where?

  “La dee dah, Mr. Mayor with the fancy hat,” she said. “Going to a party?”

  “No,” said Hosea. “No, I’m not. I’m going home.”

  “Ha ha,” said Combine Jo. “I’m kidding, Hose, it’s a nice hat, suits you. You should wear it on July first if buddy boy in Ottawa comes to town. You know, you look like … Oscar Wilde. Hey, didja hear my kid, Max, is coming home? Pretty good, eh?”

  “Is it?” said Hosea.

  And Combine Jo said, “Well, I think it is.”

  “Yes, well … good,” said Hosea. He knew that Max had left town when Knute was pregnant with his child. So many cowboys, thought Hosea. He also knew all about Combine Jo and her craziness and the cause of it and it was no wonder Max flew the coop. He wondered if Knute and Summer Feelin’ knew Max was coming back. Then again, maybe he wasn’t coming back. Maybe Combine Jo was just talking. But then again, maybe it was true. “Oh, Jo?” he called out to her as she meandered down the sidewalk.

  “Yes, m’dear?” she yelled without looking over her shoulder.

  “Is he coming back for good? Like, uh, to live here?” he said.

  “That’s how it’s lookin’, sweetie. That’s how the odds are stackin’ up,” she said, and she saluted the old black dog as she passed the Wagon Wheel Café.

  “Three babies and Max,” whispered Hosea to himself as he drove the two blocks back home. Three babies and Max. But Leander’s gone, he thought and glanced at himself and his hat in the rearview mirror. Four more residents of Algren, minus one, equals three. And no potentially dead or dying at the moment either, thought Hosea. He drummed his fingers on top of the steering wheel and told himself not to worry, not to worry. He parked the car in the garage and went into his house through the kitchen door. He hoped Lorna was there, in bed where he had left her. He would put his cold hands on her warm thighs and she would say—

  “Hosea! You’re too early!” screeched Lorna. She had flour all over her face and hair and the kitchen smelled wonderful.

  “Oops,” said Hosea. “I am?”

  “Yes, you are, and where did you get that hat? You know, it actually looks good on you! But what the hell are you doing home so early?” She’d said urr-lee. Hosea stopped for a brief second to reflect on that question. What the hell was he doing home so early? She said it as though it was their home, not just his. Home. She said it like she lived there, too. What with the flour on her face and everything, and barefoot! She could have said, What are you doing back so early? Or just, You’re early! Three babies and Max and no potentially dead other than Leander and now Lorna’s hinting at his home being hers, too, which would mean three babies, Max, and Lorna, as new residents of Algren, which would be next to impossible to level off before July first, the day the Prime Minister, his father, the man his mother had said, on her deathbed, was his father, had promised to come and see him—well, see Algren. All of Algren. Well, he had promised to see Canada’s smallest town and Hosea hoped that would be Algren. But. Grrr.

  “I’m home early because … I love you. And what are you doing?”

  “I’m baking, Hose, what does it look like?” Lorna was dragging one finger down a page of a recipe book and moving her lips.

  “What are you baking?” asked Hosea.

  “I’m baking cinnamon buns, Hosea. The smell of cinnamon buns, for a guy, is an aphrodisiac more powerful than all the perfumes on the market, did you know that?”

  Oh, Lorna, thought Hosea. I don’t need an aphrodisiac with you. Just the mention of your name and I melt. I … melt.

  “No, I didn’t know that,” said Hosea. “Well, good. That should help.”

  Lorna turned around and put one hand on her hip and the other held the recipe book with her middle finger stuck in at the right place.

  “What do you mean that will help, Hosea?” she said. “Help with what?”

  “With us?” he said, knowing, just knowing it was all wrong.

  “What do we need help with, exactly?” asked Lorna.

  “Um … I don’t know. I mean, with nothing. We’re fine. Right?”

  “What are you trying to say, I don’t make you hot anymore? You need a fucking cinnamon bun to get turned on?”

  “No! You said it. I didn’t say that. You said cinnamon buns were more of an aphro—”

  “I know what the fuck I said, okay, Hosea?”

  “Okay. Let’s go back to it then. Say it again. Please? Please?”

  �
��God, you’re hopeless, Hosea. Okay, did you know that cinnamon buns are a more powerful aphrodisiac than all the perfumes in the world?” Lorna spoke in a bored singsong voice and moved her head back and forth as if she were reciting something. Hosea was ready now.

  “To hell with all the perfumes and all the cinnamon buns in the world, baby,” he said. “I don’t need any aphrodisiac but you!”

  Lorna was laughing now with her hands on her hips and saying, “Yeah, yeah. Not gonna happen. My timer’s going off in about four minutes.”

  Knute and Summer Feelin’ were sitting on the bed and talking.

  S.F. was leaning against the wall with her feet sticking out over the edge of the bed and Knute was sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor and her hands stretched out on her thighs. Summer Feelin’ lifted each of Knute’s fingers painfully high, while she talked, and let them drop. From the pinkie on Knute’s left hand to the pinkie on her right and back again.

  “Is Joey a girl or a boy?” she asked. Joey was the neighbour’s yappy dog. Knute hated that dog but Summer Feelin’ thought he was cute.

  “A boy,” said Knute.

  “What if he’s not?” S.F. asked.

  “Then he’s a girl.”

  S.F. stared at Knute, gravely, for a few seconds.

  “Do you know what I’m gonna use this stuff for when it gets goopy like nail polish?” She pointed to a container of old liquid blush Dory had given her.

  “Uh …” Knute said, pretending to rack her brain. “Nail polish?”

  “Right, Mom, how’d you know?” said S.F., climbing onto Knute’s lap. Knute could feel S.F. starting to quake inside. Soon her head would be back and her arms would be flapping. What’s so exciting? Knute wondered. Joey? Nail polish?