A Boy of Good Breeding

by Miriam Toews

  “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 im
aginary 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.