Hosea opened his office window and wedged a fat felt-tipped marker under it to keep it up. He tried to make out the emblem on the front of Knute’s baseball cap. He thought it was the Brooklyn Dodgers. Tom’s cap, he thought. That’s Tom’s old cap.
Peej had always wanted to fight Hosea. He knew he would win and he knew Hosea wouldn’t tell Euphemia, and even if she found out she’d probably just shrug it off or make a joke. And Hosea had no father to defend him.
Hosea remembered watching the baseball game from the relative safety of the dike. He’d known Peej was there waiting for him. Hosea rode his bike around and around the dike. All the boys playing baseball could see him up on the dike and from time to time one of them would wave. Peej wasn’t going to go up there to fight Hosea because he wanted an audience. He wanted Hosea to come down to the field where all the boys were. Finally Tom couldn’t stand it any longer and he threw his baseball glove in the grass and walked over to where Peej stood. “C’mon, you stupid piece of shit, I’ll fight you.”
This made Peej laugh. “Go back to your little game, you jam tart, you’re not the girl I’m looking for.” Tom looked up at the dike. Hosea had stopped riding and stood straddling his bike, watching.
“C’mon,” said Tom, “you big chickenshit. Fight me. If I win, you leave Hosea alone. You never touch him, ever.”
Peej laughed. “Okay,” he said. “And if I win?” Tom flew at him. He didn’t have an answer for that question. He just knew he had to win.
Tom didn’t really know how to fight. He didn’t know how to punch and kick and ward off blows, hook and jab, all that stuff. In fact, he fought like a girl. He clawed P.J.’s face with his fingernails. He pulled P.J.’s hair until his head snapped back and his tongue stuck out and that’s when he bit half of it off and spit it back into P.J.’s face. And that’s when P.J. went down and the fight was over. Tom was sobbing and trembling and he fell to his knees beside P.J. who was bleeding into the dirt and whimpering like a newborn calf. Tom looked up and saw Hosea way off in the distance, riding his bike around the dike, and disappearing. He was free.
Knute was watering the petunias along Main Street, having a cigarette and keeping a lookout for the painters from Whithers. She had hired them to paint the water tower and put the horse decal on it and they had guaranteed the job would be finished by July first, when the Prime Minister might be coming for a visit. They were coming with a few truckloads of paint called eldorado, a kind of filter-orange, Hosea had said, a colour that would blend with the fiery hues of the sunrise and make it look like the white horse was racing through the sky and not plastered onto the side of a water tower. Whatever, she had thought to herself when Hosea told her that. She figured it must have been his girlfriend Lorna’s idea. Anyway, she was watering the flowers when Hosea opened his window and called out, “Hey, Knutie, who was that woman you were just talking to? I haven’t seen her around town before!”
“It’s Iris!” she yelled back. “Iris Cherniski! She’s moved here to help her mom at the Wagon Wheel!” And then Hosea slammed his window shut, just like that — end of conversation.
Hosea put his head on his desk. Well, he thought, she’s here. Those damn Cherniski women don’t waste any time, do they? Now I’ve got Max, the triplets, and Iris Cherniski, that’s five over fifteen hundred. Hosea opened his top drawer and pulled out his orange Hilroy scribbler. Under the column New Citizens of Algren, he added the name Iris Cherniski. He put his scribbler back in the top drawer and closed it. Then he opened the middle drawer and pulled out the tattered copy of the letter from the Prime Minister, promising to visit Canada’s smallest town on July first. It has to be, thought Hosea, it just has to be. He thought of the boxes of empty bottles in his basement and of Euphemia’s dying words, “Your father is John Baert, the Prime Minister.” He didn’t want to think about it. He re-folded the letter and put it back into the middle drawer. Wait a second, he thought. Today’s my birthday! Today’s my friggin’ birthday. He knew he’d have to remind Lorna. She often had trouble remembering her own. God, I’m ancient, he thought. People will think I’m my baby’s grandfather. Hosea flipped his hands over and checked for liver spots and any type of trembling. Had his left hand quivered? He decided to go home and make himself some lunch. He would call Lorna and have a quick nap, and on his way back to the office he would check on the painters and also on the progress of the carpenters who were busy transforming the old feed mill into a theatre. Then he would talk to Knute about Bill Quinn, and also drive out to the Welcome to Algren, Canada’s Smallest Town sign, and think about how to jazz it up.
Hosea drove home and pulled into his driveway. He imagined himself reaching over and unbuckling the seatbelt that would be securely fastened around his infant son or daughter’s car seat. Or, he wondered, does the baby ride in the back seat? From now on, he decided, he would closely observe parents interacting with their children. He made a mental note to remind Lorna to do the same. Hosea had his screen door open and was almost in his house when Jeannie appeared from between their houses. Hosea was afraid she’d bring up the subject of turning the feed mill into an aerobics/laundromat and he was about to tell her he already had plans for it, but he didn’t get the chance. “Oh, Hosea,” said Jeannie, “thank God I caught you, is this a bad time?”
“Uh,” said Hosea, “for what?” He knew for what, and yes, he thought, it was a bad time. Every time was a bad time as far as Jeannie was concerned.
“Well, I’ll just be a second,” she said. “Listen to this. Veronica, you know, Veronica Epp? With all the kids? She’s leaving her husband. Apparently, he’s being a jerk and not helping out with the triplets at all, he says they’re probably not his, excuse me? Not his? I don’t think so. It’s not like Veronica has any time to have affairs on the side. But he says triplets don’t run in his family, and they don’t run in hers, so in whose do they run? Veronica says, Well for Pete’s sake, they don’t really run in most families. So anyway, she’s had enough. She’s leaving. And she’s taking the triplets with her. She was going to take all the kids, but they don’t want to go, you know, they’re older and all that, and Gord’s nice to them because he can see the resemblance, et cetera, et cetera, so—”
“Wait!” said Hosea. “Veronica’s leaving? With the triplets? You mean all three of them?”
“Well, yes, Hosea, all three of them,” she said. “Triplets, three, get it?”
“I can’t believe it,” said Hosea, “that’s fabulous, well not fabulous, I mean, as in good, I mean, you know, fabulous, as in like a fable, it’s so strange, can it be true? That kind of fabulous …” Hosea’s hand flew to his shirt.
Jeannie shook her head. “Well, I don’t know, Gord may be a jerk, but he was probably more help than she realized. It won’t be easy for her to be alone with three babies, not to mention being separated from her other kids, and who knows what strange ideas Gord will put in their heads about their mother and their three baby brothers?”