by Miriam Toews
“Fine,” said Dory. “Help yourself.”
“Sure thing,” said Hosea. “Thank-you.” He went to the fridge and got himself a beer and then went over and knocked on Tom’s door. No answer.
“For heaven’s sake, Hosea, just walk in,” Dory yelled. “He won’t answer. Just go in.”
Well, thought Hosea. Dory’s acting very strangely. “Thanks, okay,” he called out.
Hosea sat down on the laundry hamper and crossed and uncrossed his legs. He put his beer on the dresser next to the laundry hamper, and cleared his throat and tugged at his Canada T-shirt. All he could see of Tom was the back of his ruffled head poking out from under the blanket. Whooooo, Hosea kind of breathed out loud. It was a hot day all right. Hosea stared at the back of Tom’s head, willing it to swivel around and face him. Hosea could hear the crickets and the hum of the refrigerator. Dory must have stepped outside to have a good long look at the dark sky, he thought. “So,” said Hosea, “what’s new?” He stared at the back of Tom’s head and said to himself, Move, move, your damn head. Look at me. He drank some of his beer and did a mental tally of the number of beers he had had that day. This was his eighth. And last, he told himself. He thought briefly of Lorna, and of the baby-to-be, and of his father, the Prime Minister. And then he thought of Euphemia. “So,” he said again, “how are you feeling, Tom?” He finished off his bottle of beer and longed for another. I’ll just get one, he thought. He wanted to talk about his fifteen hundred, his smallest town, so badly, he wanted to tell someone about it. He got up and went to the kitchen for another beer. Nine, he thought. No more. He went back to Tom’s room and sat down on the laundry hamper again. Tom’s head was in the same position. Nice head, he felt like saying. Needs combing. Hosea leaned over so his head was close to Tom’s. He could hear Tom breathing. He reached over and put his hand on Tom’s chest. Up and down, up and down, good sign. Like a baby, thought Hosea. Well. “So, Tom,” he said, “something is happening. To me. Something good.” He leaned over and pulled gently on Tom’s blanket. “Something good, Tom,” he whispered. Hosea looked around the room. “Hey, Tom,” he said. “You know something? I’ll tell you a secret. My father is the Prime Minister of Canada.” Hosea stared at the back of Tom’s head. He thought for sure that remark would get it to move, or at least make a sound. Nothing. He’s asleep, then, thought Hosea. He’s not hearing a word I say. Hosea had a sip of his beer. “And he’s coming to visit me on July first,” he said. Hosea told Tom all about the smallest town contest and about all the comings and goings of the people of Algren, about the triplets and Veronica Epp, about Leander Hamm, and Iris Cherniski, about the doctor’s girlfriend, and Max, and Johnny Dranger, about Lorna, and the baby, and how, finally, Algren had fifteen hundred people exactly, which was just the right number to make it the smallest town, and on and on. “So,” he said, “I’m going to meet my dad, Tom. I’ll see him for the first time, and I’ll tell him who I am, and I’ll show him my town.”
Tom’s head didn’t move. “What do you think of that, Tom?” said Hosea. “What the hell do you think of that, Tom!” he said. “This is my dream, you bastard, now what the hell do you think? Aren’t you my fucking friend, Tom?”
Still, Tom’s head didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Tom,” said Hosea. “I’m sorry for yelling. I need a friend, Tom, that’s all, really. I’m sorry,” he said. “Okay? I’m sorry.” Hosea pulled on Tom’s blanket again, and then got up and left.
Knute knew exactly where to find Max, except that when she and S.F. got to that place he wasn’t there. If he wasn’t at the hay bales and he wasn’t at Jo’s and he had a cast on his leg and no car, then where was he? Bill Quinn was at the bales, though, looking kind of lost, so Summer Feelin’ coaxed him into the car and they took him with them. “You know,” Knute said to her, “I’m supposed to be getting rid of that dog.”
“Why?” S.F. asked. She asked why a few times, but Knute didn’t really hear her because she was so worried that Max had left for good, again. And she was so mad because why couldn’t she just get mad and yell and run away for a couple of hours, without having to worry about him leaving, too, on top of everything else? Why couldn’t they be a normal couple? Get mad, get misunderstood, act stupidly, know the other’s not going to run away, come home, make up, have fun, you know, until the next shitty time comes up, and they’d just ride that wave then.
“Why, Mom?” asked Summer Feelin’.
“Why what?” said Knute. She was driving around the four streets of Algren now, around and around, trying to come up with a plan.
“Why do you have to get rid of him?”
“I don’t know,” said Knute. “Well, because Hosea asked me to.”
“So?” said S.F. She had begun to flap and Bill Quinn sat there on the back seat staring at her. Knute looked at him in the rearview mirror.
“I’m going to crawl over and sit with Bill Quinn,” S.F. said.
“Fine,” answered Knute. And added, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?” asked S.F.
“I don’t know why Hosea wants me to get rid of him.”
“Can I keep him?” asked S.F.
“No!”
Bill Quinn looked out the window politely like he was pretending not to hear the conversation. Then S.F. started up with “Why not? Why not? Please, please, please.”
“Okay, you can,” said Knute. This was just fucked, she thought to herself. Where the hell was that jerk?
“Yippeeeee!” yelled S.F. “You’re my dog!” She put her arms around him and he barked and licked her face. “You’re so cute, Bill Quinn,” she said, rubbing her nose against his.
All right, Knute thought to herself, maybe he’s at Jo’s. Maybe she’s drunk and he’s hiding out in his room, pissed off at the world, or just at me, really, and it’s a big house, maybe she doesn’t even know he’s there. Whatever, I’ll try it.
She sped up near the dike road and S.F. toppled over onto the dog. “Put your seatbelt on,” said Knute. She just wanted to say sorry and get back on track, and not lose him. Just because he was the one who went away for four years didn’t mean that she couldn’t say sorry every once in a while.
Then she saw Hosea. He was up on the dike, walking in the dark, all alone, like some kind of sentry who hadn’t heard the war was over. She slowed down and stopped on the road, below him. “Hey,” she yelled through her open window “Hi, Hosea!”
He stopped and looked at her and waved. Then he came down from the dike and walked over to the car. Shit, she thought, Bill Quinn.
“Hello, Knutie,” he said, “is that Summer …” His voice trailed off.
“Feelin’,” said Knute.
“That’s it. Summer Feelin’,” he said. “Hello there, Summer Feelin’. You’ve got a dog?”
“It’s Bill Quinn,” said Knute. It was dark and she knew there was a chance Hosea wouldn’t recognize him, but Hosea had a look on his face, a faraway look, and it didn’t seem right, for some reason, to lie to him.
“Is it?” he said. He shook his head and smiled. “They come,” he said, “and they go.”
“I’m trying to find Max,” said Knute. “Have you seen him?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Hosea. “Not recently. Why? Where’d he go?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly, that’s why I’m trying to find him.”
“You don’t think he’s left …” Hosea glanced at S.F., who was busy playing with Bill Quinn “… left Algren?”
“No,” said Knute, “I don’t think so. I’m going to check at his house. Jo hasn’t seen him, but you know … he might be there.”
Hosea looked like a ghost in the moonlight. His face was as white as the letters spelling Canada on his red shirt. “What if he’s gone?” he said. Knute looked back at Summer Feelin’. She didn’t want to get into this with her listening.
“I’m going to find him. I’m pretty sure he’s around.”
Hosea looked like he was about to cry. Why she was
trying to reassure him that Max was around, when Max was her boyfriend, and the father of her child, who was sitting right there, was beyond her.
“Don’t worry, Hosea,” she said. “It’ll be okay. I’ll find him. He’s got a broken leg.” She started driving away slowly. “Okay, see ya, Hosea, see ya at work tomorrow. Don’t worry!” she yelled out the window, “I’ll find him!”
Hosea walked home and sat on his front steps for a while. He could see part of the white horse decal on the water tower, sort of shimmering in the black sky and he looked forward to seeing the whole thing against the filter-orange sky of early morning. “I hope you find him,” he said out loud, remembering S.F.’s smiling face in the back seat. It was a pure thought, a simple wish, with no strings attached. He truly did not care about his fifteen hundred at this point. He hoped on every star and flying horse in the universe that S.F. would find her dad. He thought of calling Lorna to tell her that everything was, once again, up in the air. Max was missing. He’d yelled at his buddy Tom, and made a fool of himself. Why would he want to tell Lorna that? he asked himself. He went inside and lay down on his bed and wept.
When Knute and S.F. got to Jo’s house, Jo came lumbering out to the driveway and said, “No, he’s not here, Knutie, I don’t know where he is.” It was really late by then, after midnight, and Knute told S.F. to lie down on the back seat with Bill Quinn, and try to go to sleep. She got out of the car and lit a cigarette and Jo said, “What happened, anyway? Why’d he take off?” So Knute leaned against the car and told her exactly what had happened, and she said, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Knutie, he loves you, it’s so fucking simple. Let it be! He hasn’t run away from you. It’s the goddamn guilt that’s killing him.”
“Oh,” said Knute, “he’s running away from the guilt of running away?”
“Yeah,” said Jo, “and all the work in front of him trying to rebuild your trust, which he wants, and S.F.’s, and all that very difficult shit. And believe me, it’s difficult. He hasn’t run away from you!”
“Okay,” Knute said. “Then where do I find him?”
“How the hell should I know?” said Jo. “Wouldn’t I have found him myself if I knew? The poor kid has a broken leg, after all, he can’t have gone far.”
“If he was walking,” said Knute.
“Right,” said Jo, “and I’m sure he was. His private helicopter is in the shop and it’s his chauffeur’s day off. Don’t be ridiculous, Knute. Even if he’d have tried hitchhiking to God knows where, do you honestly think anybody would pick up a guy in a cast and a skirt and a ballcap? No shirt, no suitcase? Trust me, he walked.”
Knute threw her cigarette down and ground it out with the heel of her boot.
“Listen,” said Jo, “why don’t we have a drink and then I’ll come looking with you?”
“Just bring it along, Jo. Let’s go.”
They decided to drive along the country roads around Algren, circling farther and farther out for a few miles, and then circling back in, going over the same ground again. It seemed as logical a plan as any. They’d been driving for a while when Knute decided to ask Jo about her habit of blasting down Main Street on her combine and sharing a drink with her dead husband over at the cemetery. “That combine thing, Jo, do you ever …?”
Jo looked at her and sighed. “I don’t do it anymore,” she said. Knute nodded and they kept driving. “You know,” said Jo, sitting in the front with Knute, and resting her arm on the windowsill, “when Max was nine I took him to Cooperstown.”
“Oh yeah?” said Knute. “What’s that?” She thought Jo had been too drunk and fat to get out of the house all those years. That’s how the story had gone, anyway. She wondered how much she really knew about her little town and the people living in it.
“Cooperstown,” she said. “Cooperstown, New York. The Baseball Hall of Fame is there.”
“Oh,” said Knute, “keep looking out your side.” S.F. and Bill Quinn were fast asleep in the back seat.
“Max was so excited,” continued Jo. “He’d say, oh, four days ’til we get there, and then, you know, two days, one day, six hours, three hours, like that. And, you know, we had driven for days and days and finally we got there, to Cooperstown, and Max didn’t want to go to the museum! We had gone all that way for him, you know, he loved baseball and this was a dream come true for him, the livin’ end, and then he balked. The little fucker, I thought then. What’s going on? So I said ‘Okay then, let’s have something to eat’ and he chose a restaurant a little way down the street from the hall of fame, so we could just sort of see the flagpost that was in front of it, but not the actual building. And then he just farted around in that damn café for an hour and a half, making up excuses not to go to the g.d. hall of fame! So, you know, we took a little trolley ride around the town, it’s a really pretty little place, just up this windy road from Woodstock, actually. Anyway, a fun little trolley ride packed with other tourists and some local people. And finally I thought, Okay, we have to go to that hall of fame now. We just have to. So I told Max, ‘Okay, we’re getting off this trolley at the next stop and we are going into that hall of fame. End of story. You know, the damn thing’s gonna close for the day before we get in.’ So we get off and we walk up to the front steps of the building and Max stops. He just stops and stands there staring at it. And I take his hand, you know, c’mon, c’mon. But he stands there and he starts to cry. Now I’m totally fed up, but, you know, a little concerned, and I say ‘Max sweetheart, what is the problem here?’ And he says, ‘If I go in now, it’ll soon all be over, like a dream. And I don’t want it to end.’”
Jo shook her head and laughed. “Crazy little fucker, eh?”
“Well,” asked Knute, “did you eventually go in?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “We did.”
“Was it … did it work out okay?”
“Yeah,” said Jo. “We went over every single square inch of that place. I followed Max around and he covered it all, we were there for hours and hours, they had to kick us out at closing time. He was in heaven, that’s for sure.”
“Did he cry when you had to go?” asked Knute.
“No,” said Jo. “No, I don’t think he did. He was perfectly content, as I recall.”
“I thought you never left the house when you were, uh, when Max was little.”
“That’s just another lie, Knutie,” said Jo. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Well,” Jo said a little later, “we’re not finding him, are we?” She passed Knute her bottle of bourbon.
“Maybe he’s in Cooperstown,” said Knute. Jo laughed and yawned.
“Are you okay to drive, Knutie?” she asked. “Not too sleepy?” She put her head back and shifted her large body around on the seat.
“I’m fine,” Knute answered.
“I’ll just have a quick catnap, then, if you don’t mind,” said Jo, and closed her eyes.
Knute was worried. She was already circling back the way she’d come and if she hadn’t seen him on the way out of town, she didn’t know why she should expect to see him on the way in. Besides, he wouldn’t necessarily be on the road, he might have walked into somebody’s field and fallen asleep or gone into an open silo, a barn, anything. She passed the Hamms’ farm on the left. It had a giant yard light on that lit up the entire area for what seemed like miles. A million moths and bugs flew around the light and a couple of dogs were walking around in the yard. No lights were on in the house. Then Knute had an idea! She stepped on the gas and drove straight into town and out the other side, back onto the dike road and headed for Johnny Dranger’s house.
She peeled into the driveway, pulled right up to Johnny’s front door and left Jo, S.F., and Bill Quinn asleep in the car. She could hear music coming from the house and laughter and low voices and she knew she had her man. She just walked right in and said, “Hello, Max, hello, Johnny, what’s up?” They both stood there, smiling and staring at her, and instead of yelling she smiled and stared back.
Johnny said, “Have a seat, Knute.”
“You’re mad at me, aren’t you, Knutie?” said Max.
“Nah,” she said, “I’m here to apologize.” Johnny disappeared into the kitchen then and Knutie whispered, “But why do you keep running away?”
“You ran away, Knute, this time. I didn’t.”
“You ran away after I ran away,” she said.
“No I didn’t,” said Max. “I stayed at your place until Dory came home, like I was supposed to, then I offered to take S.F. back to my house but she said no, she was gonna make pizza with Dory, so fine, no problem, then I left and—”
“And didn’t tell anybody where you were going,” interrupted Knute.
“Why should I have?” said Max. “I’m an adult, Knutie, I’m twenty-four years old. If a twenty-four-year-old doesn’t go straight home after work, is that a problem?”
“I know,” she said, “it’s not, but can’t you understand how I might have worried? You know it’s happened before.”
“Yeah,” said Max. “Okay, whatever, I’m not going to argue anymore, I have too fucking much at stake now, okay? You want me to understand all this stuff about you, fine, why don’t you try to understand some stuff about me?”
Knute didn’t say anything then. What was there to say? Then she thought of something. “Okay,” she said. Silence.
“Well, thank-you,” said Max. He smiled.
“You’re welcome.” Silence. “How’s your leg?”
“Fine, thank-you,” said Max. “How’s yours?” Knute smiled. Silence.
“I know about the phone call,” she said.
“I assumed,” said Max. “Tom told you?”
“Yeah.” Silence.
“I have something to ask you, Knute,” said Max.
“Do you think you and S.F. would like to live here with me? You know, just try it out, see how it goes, we could fight on a more regular basis, you know …”
It was the first time Knute had seen Max looking unsure of himself.