Where was Lorna, anyway? He decided to go home and find out. As he was getting into his car, Combine Jo walked by and looked hard at him, as if she had seen that hat somewhere before, but where?
“La dee dah, Mr. Mayor with the fancy hat,” she said. “Going to a party?”
“No,” said Hosea. “No, I’m not. I’m going home.”
“Ha ha,” said Combine Jo. “I’m kidding, Hose, it’s a nice hat, suits you. You should wear it on July first if buddy boy in Ottawa comes to town. You know, you look like … Oscar Wilde. Hey, didja hear my kid, Max, is coming home? Pretty good, eh?”
“Is it?” said Hosea.
And Combine Jo said, “Well, I think it is.”
“Yes, well … good,” said Hosea. He knew that Max had left town when Knute was pregnant with his child. So many cowboys, thought Hosea. He also knew all about Combine Jo and her craziness and the cause of it and it was no wonder Max flew the coop. He wondered if Knute and Summer Feelin’ knew Max was coming back. Then again, maybe he wasn’t coming back. Maybe Combine Jo was just talking. But then again, maybe it was true. “Oh, Jo?” he called out to her as she meandered down the sidewalk.
“Yes, m’dear?” she yelled without looking over her shoulder.
“Is he coming back for good? Like, uh, to live here?” he said.
“That’s how it’s lookin’, sweetie. That’s how the odds are stackin’ up,” she said, and she saluted the old black dog as she passed the Wagon Wheel Café.
“Three babies and Max,” whispered Hosea to himself as he drove the two blocks back home. Three babies and Max. But Leander’s gone, he thought and glanced at himself and his hat in the rearview mirror. Four more residents of Algren, minus one, equals three. And no potentially dead or dying at the moment either, thought Hosea. He drummed his fingers on top of the steering wheel and told himself not to worry, not to worry. He parked the car in the garage and went into his house through the kitchen door. He hoped Lorna was there, in bed where he had left her. He would put his cold hands on her warm thighs and she would say—
“Hosea! You’re too early!” screeched Lorna. She had flour all over her face and hair and the kitchen smelled wonderful.
“Oops,” said Hosea. “I am?”
“Yes, you are, and where did you get that hat? You know, it actually looks good on you! But what the hell are you doing home so early?” She’d said urr-lee. Hosea stopped for a brief second to reflect on that question. What the hell was he doing home so early? She said it as though it was their home, not just his. Home. She said it like she lived there, too. What with the flour on her face and everything, and barefoot! She could have said, What are you doing back so early? Or just, You’re early! Three babies and Max and no potentially dead other than Leander and now Lorna’s hinting at his home being hers, too, which would mean three babies, Max, and Lorna, as new residents of Algren, which would be next to impossible to level off before July first, the day the Prime Minister, his father, the man his mother had said, on her deathbed, was his father, had promised to come and see him — well, see Algren. All of Algren. Well, he had promised to see Canada’s smallest town and Hosea hoped that would be Algren. But. Grrr.
“I’m home early because … I love you. And what are you doing?”
“I’m baking, Hose, what does it look like?” Lorna was dragging one finger down a page of a recipe book and moving her lips.
“What are you baking?” asked Hosea.
“I’m baking cinnamon buns, Hosea. The smell of cinnamon buns, for a guy, is an aphrodisiac more powerful than all the perfumes on the market, did you know that?”
Oh, Lorna, thought Hosea. I don’t need an aphrodisiac with you. Just the mention of your name and I melt. I … melt.
“No, I didn’t know that,” said Hosea. “Well, good. That should help.”
Lorna turned around and put one hand on her hip and the other held the recipe book with her middle finger stuck in at the right place.
“What do you mean that will help, Hosea?” she said. “Help with what?”
“With us?” he said, knowing, just knowing it was all wrong.
“What do we need help with, exactly?” asked Lorna.
“Um … I don’t know. I mean, with nothing. We’re fine. Right?”
“What are you trying to say, I don’t make you hot anymore? You need a fucking cinnamon bun to get turned on?”
“No! You said it. I didn’t say that. You said cinnamon buns were more of an aphro—”
“I know what the fuck I said, okay, Hosea?”
“Okay. Let’s go back to it then. Say it again. Please? Please?”
“God, you’re hopeless, Hosea. Okay, did you know that cinnamon buns are a more powerful aphrodisiac than all the perfumes in the world?” Lorna spoke in a bored singsong voice and moved her head back and forth as if she were reciting something. Hosea was ready now.
“To hell with all the perfumes and all the cinnamon buns in the world, baby,” he said. “I don’t need any aphrodisiac but you!”
Lorna was laughing now with her hands on her hips and saying, “Yeah, yeah. Not gonna happen. My timer’s going off in about four minutes.”
Knute and Summer Feelin’ were sitting on the bed and talking.
S.F. was leaning against the wall with her feet sticking out over the edge of the bed and Knute was sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor and her hands stretched out on her thighs. Summer Feelin’ lifted each of Knute’s fingers painfully high, while she talked, and let them drop. From the pinkie on Knute’s left hand to the pinkie on her right and back again.
“Is Joey a girl or a boy?” she asked. Joey was the neighbour’s yappy dog. Knute hated that dog but Summer Feelin’ thought he was cute.
“A boy,” said Knute.
“What if he’s not?” S.F. asked.
“Then he’s a girl.”
S.F. stared at Knute, gravely, for a few seconds.
“Do you know what I’m gonna use this stuff for when it gets goopy like nail polish?” She pointed to a container of old liquid blush Dory had given her.
“Uh …” Knute said, pretending to rack her brain. “Nail polish?”
“Right, Mom, how’d you know?” said S.F., climbing onto Knute’s lap. Knute could feel S.F. starting to quake inside. Soon her head would be back and her arms would be flapping. What’s so exciting? Knute wondered. Joey? Nail polish?
“Is he coming back just to see me?” S.F. asked. She shook. Knute knew who S.F. meant. She’d been wondering the same thing. No, she thought to herself, he’s run out of money and probably has some type of venereal disease that requires antibiotics and that’s why he’s coming back.
“Yes, my darling,” she said and wrapped her arms around S.F. “You’re the main reason he’s coming back.”
“I knew it,” said S.F. Knute fell over like a tree and her head hit Summer Feelin’s pillow. She couldn’t stop it from happening any longer. She closed her eyes and remembered Max. His hair, his smile, the way he talked, the way he smoked, the way he became maudlin when he drank too much wine, how he hardly ever took anything seriously, the passionate promises he made, how he took care of Combine Jo, how he hardly ever lost his temper, his hands, his stupid jokes, his laugh, his voice, his letters that stopped coming.
“Mom, Mom, don’t sleep.”
“I’m not sleeping, S.F.”