“No, no,” said Hosea, “I was just wondering how Tom was. I thought I’d come visit for a while.”
“Oh. Well,” said Dory. “You know, Hosea, we’re having a little, well … oh, for heaven’s sake, just come in, then. Go and talk to him. My goodness, it’s hot out here.” Dory shook her head and peered off into the night. “Do you want a beer?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh no,” said Hosea. “No thank-you. Well, all right,” he said, and thought, hair o’ the dog, after all.
“Go on in,” said Dory, “I’ll bring you one. The only reason why I have a beer to offer you is because of Max. He’s looking after S.F. and Tom, while Knutie and I are off at work.”
“Well,” said Hosea, “that’s a nice arrangement.”
Dory frowned and stared off into the darkness again. “Go on in,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Um, I could just get it myself, Dory,” said Hosea. “I know where the fridge is.”
“Fine,” said Dory. “Help yourself.”
“Sure thing,” said Hosea. “Thank-you.” He went to the fridge and got himself a beer and then went over and knocked on Tom’s door. No answer.
“For heaven’s sake, Hosea, just walk in,” Dory yelled. “He won’t answer. Just go in.”
Well, thought Hosea. Dory’s acting very strangely. “Thanks, okay,” he called out.
Hosea sat down on the laundry hamper and crossed and uncrossed his legs. He put his beer on the dresser next to the laundry hamper, and cleared his throat and tugged at his Canada T-shirt. All he could see of Tom was the back of his ruffled head poking out from under the blanket. Whooooo, Hosea kind of breathed out loud. It was a hot day all right. Hosea stared at the back of Tom’s head, willing it to swivel around and face him. Hosea could hear the crickets and the hum of the refrigerator. Dory must have stepped outside to have a good long look at the dark sky, he thought. “So,” said Hosea, “what’s new?” He stared at the back of Tom’s head and said to himself, Move, move, your damn head. Look at me. He drank some of his beer and did a mental tally of the number of beers he had had that day. This was his eighth. And last, he told himself. He thought briefly of Lorna, and of the baby-to-be, and of his father, the Prime Minister. And then he thought of Euphemia. “So,” he said again, “how are you feeling, Tom?” He finished off his bottle of beer and longed for another. I’ll just get one, he thought. He wanted to talk about his fifteen hundred, his smallest town, so badly, he wanted to tell someone about it. He got up and went to the kitchen for another beer. Nine, he thought. No more. He went back to Tom’s room and sat down on the laundry hamper again. Tom’s head was in the same position. Nice head, he felt like saying. Needs combing. Hosea leaned over so his head was close to Tom’s. He could hear Tom breathing. He reached over and put his hand on Tom’s chest. Up and down, up and down, good sign. Like a baby, thought Hosea. Well. “So, Tom,” he said, “something is happening. To me. Something good.” He leaned over and pulled gently on Tom’s blanket. “Something good, Tom,” he whispered. Hosea looked around the room. “Hey, Tom,” he said. “You know something? I’ll tell you a secret. My father is the Prime Minister of Canada.” Hosea stared at the back of Tom’s head. He thought for sure that remark would get it to move, or at least make a sound. Nothing. He’s asleep, then, thought Hosea. He’s not hearing a word I say. Hosea had a sip of his beer. “And he’s coming to visit me on July first,” he said. Hosea told Tom all about the smallest town contest and about all the comings and goings of the people of Algren, about the triplets and Veronica Epp, about Leander Hamm, and Iris Cherniski, about the doctor’s girlfriend, and Max, and Johnny Dranger, about Lorna, and the baby, and how, finally, Algren had fifteen hundred people exactly, which was just the right number to make it the smallest town, and on and on. “So,” he said, “I’m going to meet my dad, Tom. I’ll see him for the first time, and I’ll tell him who I am, and I’ll show him my town.”
Tom’s head didn’t move. “What do you think of that, Tom?” said Hosea. “What the hell do you think of that, Tom!” he said. “This is my dream, you bastard, now what the hell do you think? Aren’t you my fucking friend, Tom?”
Still, Tom’s head didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Tom,” said Hosea. “I’m sorry for yelling. I need a friend, Tom, that’s all, really. I’m sorry,” he said. “Okay? I’m sorry.” Hosea pulled on Tom’s blanket again, and then got up and left.
Knute knew exactly where to find Max, except that when she and S.F. got to that place he wasn’t there. If he wasn’t at the hay bales and he wasn’t at Jo’s and he had a cast on his leg and no car, then where was he? Bill Quinn was at the bales, though, looking kind of lost, so Summer Feelin’ coaxed him into the car and they took him with them. “You know,” Knute said to her, “I’m supposed to be getting rid of that dog.”
“Why?” S.F. asked. She asked why a few times, but Knute didn’t really hear her because she was so worried that Max had left for good, again. And she was so mad because why couldn’t she just get mad and yell and run away for a couple of hours, without having to worry about him leaving, too, on top of everything else? Why couldn’t they be a normal couple? Get mad, get misunderstood, act stupidly, know the other’s not going to run away, come home, make up, have fun, you know, until the next shitty time comes up, and they’d just ride that wave then.
“Why, Mom?” asked Summer Feelin’.
“Why what?” said Knute. She was driving around the four streets of Algren now, around and around, trying to come up with a plan.
“Why do you have to get rid of him?”
“I don’t know,” said Knute. “Well, because Hosea asked me to.”
“So?” said S.F. She had begun to flap and Bill Quinn sat there on the back seat staring at her. Knute looked at him in the rearview mirror.
“I’m going to crawl over and sit with Bill Quinn,” S.F. said.
“Fine,” answered Knute. And added, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?” asked S.F.
“I don’t know why Hosea wants me to get rid of him.”
“Can I keep him?” asked S.F.
“No!”
Bill Quinn looked out the window politely like he was pretending not to hear the conversation. Then S.F. started up with “Why not? Why not? Please, please, please.”
“Okay, you can,” said Knute. This was just fucked, she thought to herself. Where the hell was that jerk?
“Yippeeeee!” yelled S.F. “You’re my dog!” She put her arms around him and he barked and licked her face. “You’re so cute, Bill Quinn,” she said, rubbing her nose against his.
All right, Knute thought to herself, maybe he’s at Jo’s. Maybe she’s drunk and he’s hiding out in his room, pissed off at the world, or just at me, really, and it’s a big house, maybe she doesn’t even know he’s there. Whatever, I’ll try it.
She sped up near the dike road and S.F. toppled over onto the dog. “Put your seatbelt on,” said Knute. She just wanted to say sorry and get back on track, and not lose him. Just because he was the one who went away for four years didn’t mean that she couldn’t say sorry every once in a while.
Then she saw Hosea. He was up on the dike, walking in the dark, all alone, like some kind of sentry who hadn’t heard the war was over. She slowed down and stopped on the road, below him. “Hey,” she yelled through her open window “Hi, Hosea!”
He stopped and looked at her and waved. Then he came down from the dike and walked over to the car. Shit, she thought, Bill Quinn.
“Hello, Knutie,” he said, “is that Summer …” His voice trailed off.
“Feelin’,” said Knute.