Oh, Lord, it doesn’t matter, Hosea told himself, and smiled. He thought about tempting fate and pissing in the drain hole. Who can blame her, after all? he thought. She was alone.
Is there something bad ’bout a lady drinking all alone in a room? A letter in your handwriting … hmmmm, he couldn’t remember what the next words were.
Rye whiskey, thought Hosea. Had he picked fresh roses from Euphemia’s garden that day after school for somebody who had never been there? Rye whiskey roses for a rye whiskey man. Well, thought Hosea, I’m real, anyway. “Mother,” he said out loud, “was your life unbearable?” A letter in your handwriting and the scent of your perfume, I’m sorry, darling, so sorry, darling, I just assumed … is that how it went? Hosea hummed a little out of tune. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I am.”
He would tell Lorna about his plan. He would tell her she could move in with him after July first and do whatever she wanted with him and the house. Or maybe he wouldn’t tell her about his plan, she might think he was crazy. He would tell her something else. Something that would make the July first date seem somehow prescient, significant, romantic, and well, just right.
On that same day that he had been cleaning, Hosea had found out from Jeannie that Tom was not doing well. Nor, for that matter, was Dory. Jeannie had said both were depressed and miserable and trying to fool themselves for the sake of their daughter and granddaughter. There was more but Hosea had suddenly feigned back pain and staggered into his house explaining to Jeannie that he needed some Tylenol and an ice pack.
Hosea sat in his clean house and wondered about his old buddy Tom. Expansive, humble, tolerant Tom. Feeling bad. And worse, depressed. Well, thought Hosea. He needs a friend and that friend is me.
Hosea looked outside and noticed Euphemia’s rose bush blooming for the first time that spring. A dozen roses in a bottle of rye whiskey, thought Hosea. That would cheer him up. Hosea put on his windbreaker and Leander’s hat and went outside and picked some roses and stuffed them inside one of Euphemia’s empty whiskey bottles.
“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.