“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Boring? I suppose we are.”
“I suppose we are,” said Dory. She slammed down the milk in front of Tom and got up for her toast.
Tom and Knute looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
“Please don’t do that,” said Dory.
“Don’t do what?” Knute asked.
“Don’t shrug your shoulders like that,” said Dory. “I’m not crazy, you know.”
She left the room then, and Tom and S.F. and Knute sat in silence for a while. One half of Dory’s toast had fallen off the plate and onto the table when she slammed it down. Tom put the toast back on her plate, lining it up perfectly alongside the other half. S.F. went over to the fridge and tried to open the door as fast as she could to catch the light coming on. Then, when that didn’t work, she opened it slowly, slowly, slowly. Tom and Knute watched, curious to know if it would work.
“C’mon, Summer Feelin’,” sighed Tom. “Let’s do some juggling. Your mom’s gotta go. Hosea’s a stickler for punctuality.”
Knute walked along Third Avenue towards Hosea’s office. She knew she had to make some other kind of babysitting arrangements for S.F. Dory had been getting more work, lately, at the farm labour pool and Tom couldn’t look after S.F. all day, every day, by himself. Later on, she might be able to bring S.F. to work with her occasionally, but not right then at the beginning. Her old friend Judy Klampp from high school had a couple of little kids, but Knute didn’t think she’d want to look after Summer Feelin’ as well. And about a hundred years ago Knute had gone to a party with Judy Klampp’s husband, before he was her husband, and had left with his brother and … no. Forget Judy Klampp.
Knute told herself she would not think of Max. As far as she was concerned, he was yesterday’s news. S.F. thought it was cool that he was coming back to Algren. She thought he would be very happy to see her do her cartwheels and spell her name. She wondered if he’d have a present for her.
“Not bloody likely,” Knute thought. She moved the hair out of S.F.’s eyes and said, “Of course he will, sweetie.” Max, she supposed, could take care of S.F. while she worked. But no, he couldn’t, because he’d be living with Combine Jo and she would maul S.F. every chance she got and who knows? thought Knute, S.F. might hate Max.
Well, she thought, she’d have a cigarette and worry about all that later. She walked along Third Avenue and a dog in a hurry passed by without glancing up at her. She heard the sound of someone practising a violin. Must be spring, she thought.
When she got to the office Hosea was sitting in his chair with his hands folded on his desk in front of him as if he were waiting for a cue from the director to spring into action. His chin jutted out slightly and his face was flushed. His hair was fluffier than usual.
“Ho! You scared me. How are you, Knute?”
“Fine, thank-you. How are you?”
“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, very busy,” said Hosea, making chopping motions with his hands. “All over town. In fact, I’ve gotta fly.”
“Okay …” said Knute. She wasn’t sure what she should be doing. Staying. Going. She could see this job shaping up to be another one of her colossal failures at meaningful employment.
“All you have to do, Knute, is answer the phone, take messages, maybe think of ways to spruce up Algren: flowers along Main Street, new lettering on the water tower, some new blacktop, maybe check into the price of a new Zamboni, that sort of thing. Okey-dokey? At about noon you can go and get my mail from the post office. Just tell ’em who you are. Fair enough?”
“Okay,” she said again. She nodded and smiled. She was about to ask Hosea if she could smoke in his office, in their office, in the office, but he was gone.
Hosea Funk hurried up the steps of the Charlie Orson Memorial Hospital. The hospital was perched on top of a small hill, and from its front doors Hosea could just see the smoke coming out of the chimney of his house, a block away. Man’s life’s a vapour, full of woes, he thought, seeing the smoke twist in the sky and disappear. He cuts a caper and down he goes. But then he remembered his beloved Lorna, probably still asleep, warm and soft, her hands curled up like a baby’s beside her head, her dark eyelashes … and Hosea’s thoughts flip-flopped from one end of the spectrum to the other in a matter of seconds: from life’s woes to passion’s throes. Then, looking once again at the smoke escaping from the chimney, his thoughts tumbled back towards the woes, lodging themselves somewhere in the humdrum middle of the spectrum with thoughts of Knute and his work, and Knute’s ripped jeans in conjunction with his mayoral status, and would it all work out — should he mention the jeans, should he not?
“Ello, Hosea, you’re looking … sound.”
“Good morning, Dr. Bonsoir, I’m feeling … sound.” Hosea smiled.
“Well then,” said the doctor. “If you are so sound, what can I possibly do for you? I am a physician. Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re here to check up on my patients. On my quality of care? Perhaps you could check Mr. Hamm’s IV levels, or inspect Mrs. Epp for signs of dilation, or maybe you would like to discuss the radical new treatment for enlarged polyps recently making its debut in the New England Journal of Medicine, eh? Mr. Hosea Funk, why do you feel you have the right to ‘check in’ as you call it, on my patients? You are not a priest or a funeral home director. You are not family. You are not an intern practising for the real thing, you are not a hospital administrator or the CMA. You are not even a florist or a pizza delivery person, not that our patients order pizza every day. So, what do you want? Mayors do not, as far as I know, make hospital rounds every few days. It is not part of their job and you are irritating the hell out of me, do you know that?”
“Well, Dr. Bonsoir, I—”
“And my name is not Bonsoir, it’s François. Bon soir, for your information, means good evening. Dr. Good Evening? Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? Think about it. Would you like me to call you Mayor … Hello? Hello, Mayor Hello. Or Mayor Good Night?”
“Well no, gosh, I’m sorry, Doctor … Doctor—”
“François!”
Hosea looked around the room, then down at his shoes. His hand went to his chest, but instead of tugging he flattened his hand over his heart.
“What? Are you having chest pain, Hosea? Sit down there, in that chair. Come on. I’m sorry. Clearly I’ve upset you. I apologize. Here now, let’s loosen your coat.”
“Dr. François, I’m sorry, I—”
“Shhhh, I’m taking your pulse. I need to count. Please, shhh.” The doctor bent over Hosea, holding his wrist between his thumb and forefinger, looking sternly at the second hand of his watch. Hosea sat there, feeling foolish. His heart was fine. How could he tell the doctor he had a nervous condition, not a heart condition? Hosea felt bad for the doctor, who was feeling bad for Hosea. He looked at the curved back of the doctor, at his dark brown hair just grazing the back of his collar. Such care, such professionalism. For a moment Hosea wished the doctor was his own son. Lorna would have a delicious lunch prepared. He and the doctor would enter the warm kitchen slapping each other on the back, each kindly ribbing the other and gazing at Lorna with mutual tenderness.
The doctor let go of Hosea’s wrist and stood up.
“You’ve got the pulse of a nine-year-old girl, Hosea. Nothing to worry about.”
“Thank-you, Dr. François. I’m sorry I irritate you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I realize there isn’t that much for you to do, a small town like Algren isn’t exactly—”