The Funks had, actually, considered the possibility of Euphemia being Hosea’s natural mother before this (five months of sickness, huge coats in the summertime, a man on a horse? The Funks might have been complacent but they weren’t stupid), but hadn’t wanted to make the situation worse. They had decided, without speaking about it or agreeing to it, to leave well enough alone. Euphemia’s honour would remain intact, and so would their reputation as decent people. But now, for some reason, Euphemia’s father broke their unspoken pact and opened a can of worms. Had he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his plate and allowed Euphemia and Hosea to leave the table without further ado, they would have gone on for another four or ten or fifty years, swallowing their suspicions and not rocking the boat. Maybe Euphemia’s father wanted some drama in his life. Maybe he was tired of shrugging everything off. Maybe he wanted to get angry at something. Who knows? His gaze said it all. His wife knew it. She panicked. The jig was up.
Euphemia flung Hosea onto his bed upstairs and asked him just what the heck he was talking about, wanting to get back in? Just then Minty came flying through the door, white as a sheet, and said, “Phemie, Phemie, I didn’t tell him anything. I was just joking.” Hosea lay on his back in his bed.
“She said I came out of your stomach,” he said, starting to cry.
“But I said I was lying, you little shit. You know I did,” said Minty. Now she began to cry.
“Shut up, Mint, and lock the door,” said Euphemia. She knew her parents and her other brothers and sisters would be upstairs and in the room in no time.
“You promised me, Minty, you fat liar,” said Euphemia. She shoved Minty onto the bed next to Hosea.
“Let us in, Phemie!” Euphemia’s father roared from the hallway. Her mother was begging him to calm down. Euphemia stared at Hosea. He had put his pillow over his head to muffle his sobs. The back of his neck poked out, soft and very narrow. It looks like somebody’s wrist, thought Euphemia. Two brown curls framed the tiny nape of Hosea’s neck. Euphemia kicked Minty’s leg, gently. She didn’t care. Not really. It was probably a good thing. She walked over to the door and let the rest of her family in.
“What’s this all about, Euphemia? What does Minty have to do with this? What the hell is going on?” Euphemia’s father looked from one girl to the other, barely acknowledging the small, heaving lump on the bed.
Euphemia couldn’t believe it. Her parents had accepted, cared for, and even loved Hosea when they believed he wasn’t hers. Now that they knew the truth, or suspected it — she was Hosea’s real mother, he was their flesh and blood, their own real little grandson — they were ready to reject him. And her. And maybe even Minty for keeping the secret. She’d had to tell Minty. She’d had to tell someone. She had been thrilled. And still was.
Euphemia sat down on the bed beside Hosea. She stroked his back. She didn’t try to remove the pillow. She moved her thumb up and down the back of his neck, dipping in and out of its soft hollow and feeling his hairline begin just above it. She put her mouth to his curls and kissed them.
“C’mon, Hosea,” she whispered, “we’re going.”
Euphemia’s parents had tried, in the end, to get them to stay. They had been angry and shocked and hurt and embarrassed, but they weren’t the kind of people to throw their daughter and grandson out on to the street. Why hadn’t she told them the truth? they asked Euphemia, to which she responded with a shrug. Euphemia’s father had told her she was a tramp, but had then apologized. Minty had been grounded for two weeks, which, after a day, was modified to one week, and had told Euphemia a thousand times she was sorry. Euphemia’s mother had asked her who the father was and Euphemia said she had no idea, a man on a horse. “Oh, Phemie, not that old cock and bull story,” her mother would say. “Your mother’s right, Phemie, that dog won’t hunt,” her father would echo, and Euphemia said calmly, “It’s true, that part of it is true.” Euphemia’s father would rise from the table and slam his fist down and curse Euphemia up one side and down the other and would then lie on the couch, spent and despondent.
But all the while Euphemia was packing her bags. In her mind she had already moved on. She had left. She had locked up this part of her life and thrown away the key. She had turned the page. The next morning she and Hosea were standing on the side of the road, hitching a ride to town.
Hosea would miss the farm. He’d miss Minty. He had planned to marry her when he was older. He was sorry he hadn’t punched her in the stomach when she had begged him to. But he didn’t really know why they had to go. He had crossed his heart and hoped to die in that old car, in the field with Minty. He had bothered his mother at the supper table. He had pretended to crawl into her stomach. He had thought it was funny but his grandpa and grandma were very angry and Minty was crying and now he and his mother were moving to town. He had heard his grandpa yell, “She’s his mother, for God’s sake,” and he hadn’t known why that was suddenly a problem. She had always been his mother and Grandpa had been happy. He had offered to play catch with Minty, thinking that might be it, but she said it was no use, it didn’t matter anymore.
Hosea stood at the side of the road and tugged at his shirt.
“Please,” said Euphemia and straightened out his arm. “C’mon, Hosea, let’s walk for a while.”
“But what about our boxes?” Hosea said.
“Hmmm,” said Euphemia, “we’ll just leave them right here and when we get a ride, we’ll ask the driver to come back and pick them up.”
They walked together towards town. Euphemia asked Hosea if his boots were pinching his toes yet, and he said no.
“That’s good,” she said. Hosea asked Euphemia if she’d give him a piggyback ride. She hoisted him up onto her back, and reminded him every twenty yards or so to put his arms around her shoulders and not her neck. After about half an hour they stopped and walked into the ditch and through it and up the other side and sat in the grass and leaned against a farmer’s fence.
“Hosea,” said Euphemia.
“What?” said Hosea.
“You did come from me, from inside me, inside my stomach.”
“Oh,” said Hosea. He pulled out some grass and started to make a pile.
“I’m your mother, Hosea, your real honest-to-goodness mother.”
Hosea looked up at her briefly and smiled and nodded.
“Do I got a dad?”
“He’s a cowboy.”
“Where is he?”
“Well, I suppose he’s riding the range. Cowboy’s can’t stay put, Hose.”
“That’s good,” said Hosea. He threw a piece of grass into Euphemia’s lap. And then another and another until he had made himself a pillow, and he put his head down on it and had a little nap.
“Why can’t I come along?” Summer Feelin’ wanted to go with Knute to work. Every time Knute made a move to get dressed, brush her teeth, eat breakfast, Summer Feelin’ made exactly the same move. She wasn’t letting Knute out of her sight.
“Because. I’ll be working.”
“So?”
“Well, I’m working for the mayor.”
“So?”
“So, it’s … detailed work.”
Summer Feelin’ was quiet for about ten seconds. Dory gave Knute a look (raised eyebrows, chin on chest) from the sink indicating she could have done better with the explanation.
“Grandma and Grandpa are boring,” said S.F. finally.
“Summer Feelin’!”
“Well, goodness, Knutie, it’s true, isn’t it?” said Dory, staring directly at Tom.
“No, no,” Knute began to say, glaring at S.F. and wondering if the question was actually intended for Tom. Dory was still staring at him.