by Miriam Toews
“Oops, I’ll get those,” said Hosea. “Good-bye, Lorna, don’t take your love to town.”
“Excuse me?” said Lorna, starting to laugh all over again. “Okay, Hosea, I won’t…. don’t you take your love to town, either….” And then she was gone, laughing, dropping her sunglasses, waving good-bye. Hosea popped a Frisk into his mouth and stood watching while the bus disappeared. He headed back to the Wagon Wheel, hoping, as he always did, for an answer to his question. Man’s life’s a vapour, full of woes … Oh, Mrs. Cherniski, he rehearsed in his mind, you know how I like to pay a visit to new residents of Algren, just to make them feel welcome and all that, so I’m just wondering … (Hosea cocked his head in an attempt to appear sincere) when did you say your daughter was coming to town? Hosea looked over his shoulder, half expecting Lorna to be trailing him, like a probation officer. Aha, she’d say, I told you not to go near Mrs. Cherniski, I told you to leave her alone, you’ve breached the conditions of your probation, Hosea, and now you must be punished. Hosea practised his delivery one more time, “Oh, Mrs. Cherniski … just to make them feel welcome and all that.” He saw Lawrence Hamm pulling up to the feed mill in his silver pickup and immediately Hosea felt the top of his head, was it there? No, thank God, no hat … he’d left it at home. Well, thought Hosea, that will have to do. He nodded at Lawrence across the street, had a quick look around for Bill Quinn, and opened the front door of the Wagon Wheel Café.
In the evenings after Summer Feelin’ went to bed, Max and Knute would sit on top of Johnny Dranger’s pile of hay and smoke and talk and make love. It seemed like maybe they could be a real couple again. They talked about their childhoods. They were okay, pretty good. Knute’s was better. Max told her that he felt his mother loved him. That she loved a lot of things, a lot of people, and that hers was a hard way to go, a potentially disastrous way of living. Knute listened to him talk a lot about Combine Jo. She had got used to hating her, so she didn’t know what to say. Knute talked a bit about Tom and Dory, and Max shook his head. “I wonder what he wants,” he said about Tom. They talked about what Summer Feelin’ got from Max and what she got from Knute. They laughed a lot. The purple sky and warm breeze and the smell of dirt and fresh seed inspired them. Even if they couldn’t quite see a future together they could remember a past, and that was enough to build on. Dusk on the prairie in June, that’s where they were. Enough light to see what’s in your face, too much darkness to see what lies beyond.
“It’s good to be back,” said Max. “I missed you, Nudie. And I love being a dad, although it is weird….”
“That would explain all those hundreds of letters and longdistance phone calls,” said Knute. They were lying on top of their pile of hay, in Johnny’s field.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay, I didn’t call or write or whatever, but I was fucked up. So you can’t resent the fact, or you can, whatever, but you can’t be justifiably pissed that I had a brain problem and left when I was told to. And as for Summer Feelin’, I was scared to death of finding out about her. That was a major deal for me and don’t you think for a second I didn’t care about her. I figured I was doing her and you a favour by just disappearing. Okay, it’s a cliché, whatever, and you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true. I didn’t have a fucking clue what to do about her or you or myself or anything.”
“Well,” said Knute, “didn’t your mother tell you to leave so you wouldn’t get stuck being a father at your age, and with some girl who you maybe weren’t totally sure about and you just said, ‘Yes, Mother, good idea, Mother …’”
“No. That didn’t happen. I just told you that at the time. I was pissed off at you for telling me to fuck off just because I wasn’t initially thrilled at the prospect of having a kid. I mean, you know, were you thrilled? At the time? I was worried that you’d just leave me out of the whole thing, think of me as a totally useless parent. I was mad that we couldn’t just deal with it openly, I was pissed off that I couldn’t express doubt about having a baby without being thought of as a total shit…. So, whatever, for some stupid reason, I guess I was just scared, or confused, or whatever, I said my mother had encouraged me to leave, which, in hindsight, made me look like a total fucking spineless little kid, Mommy told me to leave, et cetera, et cetera, and made you hate me, and my mother, who really is just a harmless drunk, not a bad one, and she can’t figure out why you hate her, except that she assumed you’d hate me, for leaving, and … you know, hate her by proxy. I don’t know, whatever, it was a lie and I had a major brain problem. Okay? I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” said Knute. “Okay?” She took Max’s hand.
Max took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said.
Knute looked at his face. She tried to see it the way Combine Jo would have. She tried to look at it with love only. And concern.
They lay there quietly for a long time and watched the purple fade from the sky. They saw some lights go on in town and saw Johnny Dranger’s yard light go on and they heard his dog bark a couple of times and the slam of a car door and Johnny yelling at the dog. If they hadn’t lived in Algren most of their lives they would have smelled the liquid fertilizer on the fields. They were used to the smell of shit.
Max lay next to Knute, propped up on his elbows. His smooth white butt, surrounded by the brownish straw of the bales, shone like a giant egg in a dark nest. “Why didn’t you tan your bum in the South of France?” Knute asked him.
“Shut up,” said Max, laughing.
She gave him a big push with her foot and she heard him yell and then he disappeared entirely and there was a dull thud. Max had fallen overboard into the field. “Oh my God, are you okay?” she shrieked, scrambling to put her clothes on and peer over the side at the same time.
“Fucking hell,” said Max, “I think I broke my leg. You’re gonna have to go get Johnny, Knute, for fuck’s sakes …”
Knute landed on the ground beside him and leaned over to have a look.
“Did you bring my clothes?” he asked.
“No,” said Knute, “sorry.”
“Oh fuck, oh God, my leg is fucking killing me …”
“I’ll go get Johnny!” she yelled, already running through the field towards Johnny’s little house.
“Hurry, I’m dying!” Max yelled. “I’ll rot in this fucking field!”
Johnny brought them to the hospital in his truck. Max lay stretched out on the seat with his head on Johnny’s lap, moaning. He was naked except for a gunny sack thrown over his loins. Johnny sat and drove, and laughed. And Tiny, Johnny’s dog, and Knute rode in the back of the truck with the warm wind in their faces.
When they got to the hospital they had to wait for the doctor to show up. By then it was around midnight, and the only person on duty was Nurse Barnes, who shook her head when Knute told her what had happened to Max. “I see,” she said. “I see.” It didn’t look like she saw. If she had seen she would have been nodding her head, not shaking it. “Can you put any weight on it?” she asked Max.
“No!” he said. Johnny laughed at that point and so did Knute. Max was lying on a gurney in the reception area, dressed in his gunny sack and staring up at the ceiling. “What the hell is so hilarious over there?” he said. He cursed under his breath. “Can I smoke in here?”
Nurse Barnes said, “No, I’m sorry.” And she added, “I’m afraid Dr. François is having some car trouble, it may be a few minutes before he arrives.” So Johnny wheeled Max outside and they all had a cigarette on the front steps of the hospital. Nurse Barnes passed by the open front door pushing an X-ray machine or microwave oven or something and said, “Johnny, I’m surprised at you, with your asthma.”
Johnny shrugged and Max said, “What the hell does that mean?”
“Sorry,” Knute said to Johnny, “for dragging you around like this. Sorry Max is naked. It was a very warm evening, you know, and …” She was smiling and Johnny nodded.
“Sorry?” yelled Max. “Why the hell are you saying sorry to him? I’m
the one you booted off the bales. I’m the one with the fucking broken leg here!”
“And I’m sorry, Johnny,” said Knute, “that Max isn’t more grateful …”
“You guys are so lucky,” said Johnny out of the blue. He was staring at the moon. “You really are—”
Max interrupted him. “Lucky!” he said. “Lucky? Jesus, Johnny, are you warped?”
“Shut up, Max,” said Knute.
“Or what? You’ll break my other leg? … Johnny,” he said, “are you there?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny.
Nurse Barnes poked her head outside and waved her hand in front of her face. “Smoky,” she said. Max said “fuck off” in a very low voice, and then Nurse Barnes said, “The doctor’s here now, c’mon back inside.”
“I’ll race you to the front desk,” said Max, and Johnny wheeled him back inside.
The next morning Combine Jo drove Max over to Tom and Dory’s place. Summer Feelin’ saw them drive up and went running out to help Max with his crutches. She was looking forward to drawing all over his cast with her markers. Combine Jo made sure Max made it to the front door and then gave him a reassuring pat on the back. She picked up Summer Feelin’ and kissed her. “See you later, aviator,” she said to S.F. who grinned and shook her head. “See you later, hot potater?”
S.F. laughed and said, “No, no, no.”
Combine Jo tried again. “See you later, elevator?”
S.F. shrieked, “Alligator! Alligator!”
Combine Jo, all 250 pounds of her, jumped back and waved her arms in the air. “Where? Where?” she screamed. “Where’s the alligator?”
By now S.F. was flapping wildly with delight. “Over there!” She pointed to a spot behind Combine Jo, who jumped to the side. “No, no, over there!” S.F. said, and Combine Jo screamed and jumped again.
“Hey, Jo,” said Knute. Jo stopped jumping and put S.F. back down on the ground.
“Yes, ma’am?” she said, laughing and out of breath.
“Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?”
“Oh no,” she said. “Thanks anyway, Knuter, but I have some shopping to do, and a few errands to run, another time, though, eh?” She smiled and looked at S.F. “See you soon, you big balloon. Bye, Knute, see ya, Max! Dory!” she yelled into the house. “Give my regards to Tom!” Max had already hobbled into the kitchen and was sitting at the table with Dory, reading the morning paper.
Dory said, “Will do, Jo.”
And Max said, “Don’t forget, king-size! Not lights! And thanks,” he added.
This was the situation. Dory and Knute had had a long talk about Tom, about Max, about Summer Feelin’ and about themselves. They agreed that the most frustrating thing was that they didn’t know what to do. That is, they didn’t know how to make Tom happy, how to get him out of his bed. The doctors said there wasn’t much they could do, either. If a grown man decides to stay in bed for the rest of his life, what can you do? His headaches and his confusion and memory loss and depression, all of that was real. And his heart was weaker than it had been before his heart attack, but not strong enough yet to have open-heart surgery. He had been diagnosed as clinically depressed by his psychiatrist, but he had refused to talk to the doctor about his life, his family, his hopes, his dreams, the world, his sadness, anything. Then he had refused to go altogether. So Dory had started going to his appointments instead and discussing her life with Tom. Tom was on medication for all of his illnesses but nothing seemed to change. His medication had been increased, decreased, changed entirely, stopped altogether, and then prescribed again. The doctors said he should be able to do some light work, go for walks, travel, socialize with friends, stuff like that, without too much discomfort, or none at all. Staying in bed, they said, was not going to make him well. But what do you do when a grown man takes to his bed and won’t budge? Tom was lying at the bottom of his own mysterious black hole and they could do nothing to help. All they could do was wait for him to make a decision on his own, or for his sadness to lift. “Can you die from being sad?” S.F. had asked. And what could Knute say?
In the meantime, Dory would get on with her life. She decided that she would stop with the home renovations for a while, and go back to work full time at the labour pool, and join a support group in the city for people like her—women who love men who love beds, or something like that. Actually, it was cryptically called Friends of Houdini. They met every Tuesday night. And she thought she might try a couple of university courses in the fall.
It was also evident that Max and Knute had rekindled the old flame and Dory wasn’t happy about it. She wanted to be happy about it, but she wasn’t. “I need some time to process this,” she’d told Knute. She was still worried that Max would disappear any time and leave Knute and S.F. heartbroken once again. But Max and Knute were fine. They were in love, still, and having fun. They had plans for the future, to move to the city, to find work, and to raise their daughter together. “People can change, Dory,” Knute said. “People can grow up.”
“Yes, Knutie,” Dory said, “that’s true.”
But for now, Knute still had her job with Hosea, Dory was back at the labour pool and Max, they had decided, would look after S.F. at Tom and Dory’s place so that Tom would have some company while Dory and Knute were gone. Neither Max nor Tom was looking forward to spending their days together. When Dory had casually mentioned the plan to Tom, he spoke for the first time in days. He rolled over and said, “Preposterous. That boy has the constitution of an Oxo cube. Not to mention the resolve. Put him in a situation requiring responsibility and he’ll dissolve at once. He’s unfit to look after himself, let alone a child and an old man who happens to hate his guts.”
Dory had said, “Tom, Max is not a boy, the child is his own and they get along beautifully, and you are not an old man, although you’re acting like one. And, furthermore, since when do you use the expression to hate someone’s guts? Really, Tom. People change, people grow up. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not a big fan of Max’s, either, but right now he’s all we have, so get used to it.”
Or that’s how Dory told it, anyway. She was proud of her firm response to Tom’s indignation. She would have loved him to have gone on about it, to argue and rant, to jump up and down on the bed, to refuse to have Max in the house, to have said anything more at all, but he didn’t. He rolled over and didn’t say another word. When Knute told Max about the plan he responded, initially, with laughter. “Tom hates me,” he said.
“We all do, Max,” said Knute, “you’re a parasite.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “But, Knute, it’ll be pure hell, I have to take care of him? And Summer Feelin’?”
“Yes,” said Knute. “That’s correct.”
And now he had a broken leg, too. But that was the situation. Dory and Knute were confident they would manage somehow.
That morning, before Max showed up with his cast and crutches, Knute called Marilyn. She told her all about the night before and they had a good laugh. Then she told her all about Tom. “Are we young or old, do you think, Marilyn?” she asked.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Knutie,” said Marilyn. “We’re young, sort of. Young enough. Tell me what you said when S.F. asked if you can die from sadness.”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Knute. “I didn’t know what to say. If I had said ‘yes,’ she would have worried about Tom, and also would have felt she could never feel sad about something without risking her life.”
“So why didn’t you say ‘no,’ then?” asked Marilyn.
“I don’t know,” said Knute. “It wouldn’t have been the truth, really, I don’t think. To say ‘Of course you can’t die from sadness’ would be a terribly clinical thing to say, Marilyn. To say, ‘Well, technically, the heart stops beating, the brain stops sending signals, the internal organs shut down and that’s how a person dies. End of story,’ she’d grow up to be a cynic. I just think it’s more mysterious than that. I think you can die from sadness
.”
“Well,” said Marilyn, “it’s like a passive form of suicide, just letting go, checking out. Though I still think it takes more than one botched response to your kid to turn her into a cynic.”
“Okay,” said Knute, “whatever. It’s not his fault. It’s not a lack of willpower.”
“I know,” said Marilyn. “Drugs might help Tom, but then again they might not.”
“They don’t,” said Knute. “They don’t seem to, anyway. And you know, this sadness … as far as I know, Tom’s had a happy life, except for his heart attack and now the mental lapses …”
“Well, that’s enough, isn’t it?” asked Marilyn. “Sometimes it’s just the fucking sadness in the world, from the beginning of time, and no end to it in sight that begins to eat away at some people. A lot of people, I think. But a lot of people do things about it, like drink too much, or work too hard, or sleep around too much …”
“Tom just floats on it,” said Knute, “and it takes him out to sea. He gets lost.”
“How do you get him back?” asked Marilyn.
“I don’t know …”
Knute had to go to work, and Marilyn had to answer the door so they said good-bye. Marilyn said it would be a while before they could all get together again because Josh had the chicken pox and she had met a nice guy who was fixing the street in front of her place, so maybe her social life would pick up. But they agreed to talk again soon.
twelve
Hosea stood at his window and watched as Knute watered the flowers along Main Street. Red and white petunias, thought Hosea. Yes, that will work. He watched Knute turn around and say hello to a young woman about her age. She was smiling and nodding her head vigorously. Then she pointed to the flowers and laughed. She looks so much like Tom, thought Hosea. She really does. For a second or two Hosea thought about his own child residing within Lorna’s womb and he wondered, would he or she look like him? He watched Knute say good-bye to the other woman and light up a cigarette. She smokes too much, he thought. She’ll end up having a heart attack like Tom. But then Hosea remembered that Tom had never smoked, except for a couple of cigarettes one summer night up on the dike when he was a kid, because Peej had forced him to. Actually Peej had tried to force Hosea to smoke the cigarettes, but Tom had told Peej that Hosea was asthmatic and could die if he inhaled. “Here,” Tom had said, “gimme those damn things, I’ll smoke ’em myself.”