seven
The TV in Tom and Dory’s room droned on, accompanying Tom and Dory’s prodigious snoring routine. Summer Feelin’ creaked in her bed and sighed, dreaming of who knew what, and the moon outside was portentous. Knute opened her window for the first time that spring. The screens were still stored for the winter so she could stick her head right out into the darkness. Everything was wet and shiny. The snow fell like chunks of warm cake. She lay down on her narrow bed and fell asleep.
“Hey,” Max whispered, “hey, Knute? Knutie? Are you there? It’s me.”
He had his head in her room, sticking through the open window like a bear trying to get his face into somebody’s tent. But Knute couldn’t see him in the dark, she could only hear him. Then she felt his hand kind of batting at her blanket down around her feet and he was saying quietly, “Oh God, I hope it’s you, Knutie, and not Tom. Knute. Knute. I am an asshole, I know it. Talk to me, please? Knutie, my ribs are breaking on this windowsill, say something to me. C’mon, Knutie, just say hello or something, or fuck off, Max, whatever you feel like. C’mon, Knutie. My ass is getting soaked out here, you know it’s raining, Knute? Spring is here. I’m here. What are you, dead? Talk to me …”
Knute hadn’t actually been conscious for most of that. She thought she was dreaming and she was finding the whole thing funny. Until he said, “Spring is here. I’m here,” and it dawned on her and she was awake. And then she didn’t know what to say. She lay perfectly still. “Hi,” she said.
And he said quietly, “Hey, Knutie, how are you?”
“All right, yourself?”
“Well,” he said, “I can’t see you and I’m kinda stuck … Where is she?”
“In the next room.”
“Really? In the next room?” was all Max said for a long time. And they listened to each other breathe for a minute or two.
“Why don’t you come out here?” he said, and he batted at the blanket again. Knute sighed heavily.
“I guess she’s sleeping?” whispered Max. Knute didn’t know what to say. “Knute?” said Max. “Will you come out and talk to me?”
“Okay, hang on,” said Knute. “It’s raining?”
“Yeah,” said Max.
“Okay, hang on.”
And then there they were, outside in the rain, standing and staring at each other, not really knowing what to say or how to act. Smiling, then frowning, then smiling again, looking off into the distance, looking at each other, wiping rain off their faces. Finally, Max asked, “What’s she like, Knutie?” and Knute started to cry, she couldn’t help it, and he, the favourite fuckster from afar, just stood and from time to time put his hand out towards her without touching her.
Finally he put his arm around her shoulder and she said something like “Don’t you fucking put your arm around me.”
And he said, “Fine,” and dropped it, lit a cigarette and stood there, looking off towards the neighbours’.
“Here,” he said. He gave her his lit cigarette and then lit another one for himself. Then they kind of blurted out at the same time, Knute with “You’re such a fuck-up,” and him with “I know, I know.” Then more staring off and smoking.
“Well, Knute, it’s been really nice chatting with you.”
“Fuck off.”
“Hey.”
“What.”
“Knute?”
“What.”
“You’re gonna let me see her, aren’t you?”
“Oh, well …” Knute said, and Max smiled. “Actually, no,” Knute continued, “no I’m not, never, well, maybe in four years, you kept her waiting, now it’s her turn to keep you waiting.”
“Hey, good one. I could wait longer, you know, five, six, twenty-five years, it’s up to you, I’ll just wait. Starting now. Okay. I’m waiting. You just let me know, give me a sign. I’m here. I’m waiting.” Max leaned up against the brick next to the front door and stood there, arms folded, looking down at his wet boots.
“Okay,” said Knute, “you wait right here. I’m going in to call the cops.”
“All right,” said Max, and he tipped an imaginary hat. “Buenas noches.” A few minutes later Knute came back outside.
“Well?” said Max.
“There aren’t any cops in Algren.”
“C’mon, Knutie, let me see her, just let me have one peek at her now and I’ll leave you alone, you can talk to her and call me at my mom’s when she’s ready, couple of days, tomorrow, four years, whatever. C’mon, Knutie, please?”
What was Knute supposed to do? She wasn’t Isak Dinesen armed and living alone in the savannah or wherever. Blow his head off and nobody would ever know. She wasn’t a member of Shining Path. She wasn’t Camille Paglia. She let him in and they tiptoed, in their huge combat boots, down the hall to Summer Feelin’s room. Max kneeled at S.F.’s bed and stared at her for about ten minutes, like he was at a viewing in a funeral home. The reverent Max. Knute sat at the kitchen table praying Tom and Dory wouldn’t wake up.
“I think you should go now,” Knute whispered to Max after the ten minutes or so were up. He stood up then but he didn’t leave. He swallowed. Knute didn’t want to look at him because she thought he might be crying. She hoped he was. Then he said, “So you think … you know you think she’s warm enough and …” He kept his eyes on S.F. and didn’t look at Knute.
“Yeah,” she said, “I think she’ll live through the night.” Max smiled.
Outside they shared another cigarette. “I quit for a while,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Knute. “That’s good.” Then Max was grinning, then laughing. “What are you laughing at?” Knute asked.
“Summer Feeling,” he said, and he was laughing and coughing, rain falling all over his face, “Oh excuse me, Feelin’. Fee-Lin. Oh God, Knute, you kill me,” he said.
Knute sat in the living room and stared out the window for a while after he had left. The rain had stopped. She watched the moon move towards the other end of Algren, somewhere over Hosea Funk’s house, probably, or it could have been the other side of the world for all she knew. “Summer Feelin’,” she said a few times. “Summer Feelin’, Summer Feelin’.” Pretty stupid, she thought, shaking her head. She couldn’t stop grinning.