“Thank-you for that,” Dory said. “It might be a good idea.”
“Well,” Knute yawned, “this is kind of strange. Why don’t you go to bed and finish it in the morning? Or I could help you after work tomorrow.”
“Where were you?” asked Dory, her eyes still fixed on the wall. Knute paused and thought, To hell with it, she already knows.
“With Max,” she said. She moved the kettle closer to the wall.
“I see,” said Dory. Her lower lip started to tremble.
“Oh, Mom,” said Knute. “It’s not that big a deal.” Dory nodded and blinked a few times. “It’s really not.”
“I don’t …” Dory began.
“I know,” said Knute. “Don’t worry.” Dory looked at her and smiled, sadly, and wiped the sweat off her nose with the bottom of her T-shirt.
“Do you remember Candace Wheeler?” she asked.
“Candace Wheeler,” said Knute. “Candace Wheeler. No, I don’t. Why?” Knute already knew it would be something terrible, maybe a pitchfork through her cheek or flesh-eating disease.
“She had to have a C-section in the city,” said Dory.
“That’s too bad,” said Knute, thinking it could have been a lot worse. She wanted to go to bed. She wanted to dream of Max and their nowhere relationship before the sun rose and ruined everything.
“The baby was totally, you know, totally … stressed out,” Dory continued.
Knute smiled. “Stressed out?”
“Well, whatever,” Dory said. “Under stress, I guess is what it was, or duress. Apparently Candace’s pelvis wouldn’t open up far enough for the baby to go through, but they only discovered this after eighteen hours of hard labour. So Candace was just about dead from the pain, and then suddenly they decide to do the C-section. They thought they had given her enough anesthetic, but because they were in such a hurry to save the baby, they made a mistake with the levels and she wasn’t entirely, you know, frozen, you know, the area, and so she could feel the knife cutting her open. She was only slightly numb. She was far too weak to object, though, and, oh, Knute, it was awful. A large flap of skin, the stomach skin, was pushed aside, sort of draped up over her breasts and then it took two doctors to pry her rib cage open far enough to get the baby out. And she’s feeling all of th—”
“Mom,” Knute said. “Please stop.” Dory began to cry, and moved her finger through the condensation on the kettle and shook her head. “It’s okay,” said Knute. She sat down on the floor next to Dory and put her arms around her. Dory put her head on Knute’s shoulder and wept.
“Oh, Knutie,” she sobbed, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make him live. I don’t know how to make him talk.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Knute stroked Dory’s hair the way Dory used to stroke hers when she was sad or sick.
“He doesn’t talk to me, Knute. He just lies there.”
“I know.” Knute nodded her head. She didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t want him to die, sweetheart,” said Dory. She had stopped sobbing but tears were still streaming down her cheeks.
“I know,” Knute said again. She kissed her mother’s forehead.
“But sometimes I do,” said Dory.
“Yeah.” Knute nodded quickly.
“Then I would know, you know?” Dory continued. “Then I would know what to do. I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know if I should force him out of his bed or if I should sit by his side or talk to him and just be patient and let him get up when he’s ready or if I should tell him I’ll leave if he doesn’t try, at least, but that’s so cruel and I don’t want to leave him. How could I? I just don’t know. And it’s not his fault. But he could at least sit down for meals or go on a little drive with me or just talk to me. Uncle Jack called earlier this evening and I couldn’t stop crying on the phone. You know how much Jack’s always loved Tom. He said he’d try to talk to him, but I don’t know …”
Knute didn’t know, either. “Maybe …”
“He can’t think straight, Knute, and it’s getting worse. The neurologist thinks that he’s had a series of small strokes, not big enough for anybody to really notice, except he knows it and he can’t do things, you know, like he used to. He can’t read anymore. When he said he was reading his journals in the garage while I worked, he wasn’t, you know, he just pretended to. His handwriting is illegible. His short-term memory is gone. Sometimes he forgets where he is, he gets dizzy. He can’t drive. And, Knute, he’s not affectionate like he used to be, he’s not funny, with the jokes and laughing, he’s just not the same guy …”
Knute closed her eyes and leaned her head against the damp wall.
“I’m sorry,” Dory said. “I don’t want to upset you. I just needed to talk to someone. I don’t know what to do. I want you to be happy, and now with Max back, I don’t know what’s going to happen, will he leave you again? Pregnant? Will he break Summer Feelin’s heart, too, this time? How many times is this going to happen?”
“Mom,” said Knute, “I’m not going to get pregnant. Don’t worry. Max and I aren’t even in a relationship. I can’t help it if he leaves again, but Summer Feelin’ is better off knowing him, having seen him, and having had fun with him. She’ll miss him but she’ll be fine. If he leaves again, I’m sure he’ll be back to see her. He won’t be able to stay away for long. He’s crazy about her. His mom lives here, I’m here for the time being, and this is his town. Don’t worry about me and Summer Feelin’ on top of everything else. Let’s just go to sleep and in the morning I want to hear about Dad and you and we’ll talk about it, and figure out what we can do, how we can live with it. It’s gonna be okay.”
Dory began to cry again.
“I love you, Mom,” said Knute. “I love you very much.”
Dory whispered, “I know you do, Knutie,” and stared at her ravaged wall.
Later, after Dory was asleep, Knute went to the garage and looked at Tom’s veterinarian journals. She skimmed over an article on ringworm and one on pregnant-mare urine, and then went inside the house and had a quick peek at Summer Feelin’. Her mouth was open, and her arms and legs were spread apart like a starfish. Knute moved her right arm and leg to make some room and then curled up beside her. “The sun’s coming up,” she whispered. She didn’t think S.F. had ever seen a sunrise, except for when she was a baby, and had woken up hungry and crying. She whispered it again.
“Okay,” said S.F. in her sleep, “that’s okay.” And she stretched out her right arm and leg again, on top of Knute.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Lorna. “You think Baert is your dad, but you’re not sure. Euphemia told you on her deathbed, and you believe she was lucid enough to know what she was talking about. That was three years ago. Since then you haven’t called him or even tried to get—”
Hosea interrupted. “Well, Lorna,” he said, “I can’t just call up the Prime Minister and say, Hey, I’m your son, you know, about fifty some years ago you rode through this small prairie town on a horse and—”
“Okay, okay,” said Lorna. “Fine, I understand. So then you get a letter from the Prime Minister saying he’s going to visit Canada’s smallest town on July first as a way of showing the country he’s interested in, well, small towns, I guess.”
“Right,” said Hosea.
“Hmmm,” said Lorna. “Interesting publicity stunt.”
“It’s not a publicity stunt,” said Hosea. “It’s a way of reaching out to rural Canadians, to show them that he cares.”
“Yeah,” said Lorna, “about their votes.”
“Well even so,” said Hosea, “it’s my chance.”
“Okay,” said Lorna. “It’s your chance. So, you want to make sure Algren is Canada’s smallest town on July first so you get a chance to see your dad, and show him what you’ve accomplished in your life.”