A Boy of Good Breeding (27 page)

When Knute and S.F. got to Jo’s house, Jo came lumbering out to the driveway and said, “No, he’s not here, Knutie, I don’t know where he is.” It was really late by then, after midnight, and Knute told S.F. to lie down on the back seat with Bill Quinn, and try to go to sleep. She got out of the car and lit a cigarette and Jo said, “What happened, anyway? Why’d he take off?” So Knute leaned against the car and told her exactly what had happened, and she said, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Knutie, he loves you, it’s so fucking simple. Let it be! He hasn’t run away from you. It’s the goddamn guilt that’s killing him.”

“Oh,” said Knute, “he’s running away from the guilt of running away?”

“Yeah,” said Jo, “and all the work in front of him trying to rebuild your trust, which he wants, and S.F.’s, and all that very difficult shit. And believe me, it’s difficult. He hasn’t run away from you!”

“Okay,” Knute said. “Then where do I find him?”

“How the hell should I know?” said Jo. “Wouldn’t I have found him myself if I knew? The poor kid has a broken leg, after all, he can’t have gone far.”

“If he was walking,” said Knute.

“Right,” said Jo, “and I’m sure he was. His private helicopter is in the shop and it’s his chauffeur’s day off. Don’t be ridiculous,
Knute. Even if he’d have tried hitchhiking to God knows where, do you honestly think anybody would pick up a guy in a cast and a skirt and a ballcap? No shirt, no suitcase? Trust me, he walked.”

Knute threw her cigarette down and ground it out with the heel of her boot.

“Listen,” said Jo, “why don’t we have a drink and then I’ll come looking with you?”

“Just bring it along, Jo. Let’s go.”

They decided to drive along the country roads around Algren, circling farther and farther out for a few miles, and then circling back in, going over the same ground again. It seemed as logical a plan as any. They’d been driving for a while when Knute decided to ask Jo about her habit of blasting down Main Street on her combine and sharing a drink with her dead husband over at the cemetery. “That combine thing, Jo, do you ever …?”

Jo looked at her and sighed. “I don’t do it anymore,” she said. Knute nodded and they kept driving. “You know,” said Jo, sitting in the front with Knute, and resting her arm on the windowsill, “when Max was nine I took him to Cooperstown.”

“Oh yeah?” said Knute. “What’s that?” She thought Jo had been too drunk and fat to get out of the house all those years. That’s how the story had gone, anyway. She wondered how much she really knew about her little town and the people living in it.

“Cooperstown,” she said. “Cooperstown, New York. The Baseball Hall of Fame is there.”

“Oh,” said Knute, “keep looking out your side.” S.F. and Bill Quinn were fast asleep in the back seat.

“Max was so excited,” continued Jo. “He’d say, oh, four days ’til we get there, and then, you know, two days, one day, six hours, three hours, like that. And, you know, we had driven for days and days and finally we got there, to Cooperstown, and
Max didn’t want to go to the museum! We had gone all that way for him, you know, he loved baseball and this was a dream come true for him, the livin’ end, and then he balked. The little fucker, I thought then. What’s going on? So I said ‘Okay then, let’s have something to eat’ and he chose a restaurant a little way down the street from the hall of fame, so we could just sort of see the flagpost that was in front of it, but not the actual building. And then he just farted around in that damn café for an hour and a half, making up excuses not to go to the g.d. hall of fame! So, you know, we took a little trolley ride around the town, it’s a really pretty little place, just up this windy road from Woodstock, actually. Anyway, a fun little trolley ride packed with other tourists and some local people. And finally I thought, Okay, we have to go to that hall of fame now. We just have to. So I told Max, ‘Okay, we’re getting off this trolley at the next stop and we are going into that hall of fame. End of story. You know, the damn thing’s gonna close for the day before we get in.’ So we get off and we walk up to the front steps of the building and Max stops. He just stops and stands there staring at it. And I take his hand, you know, c’mon, c’mon. But he stands there and he starts to cry. Now I’m totally fed up, but, you know, a little concerned, and I say ‘Max sweetheart, what is the problem here?’ And he says, ‘If I go in now, it’ll soon all be over, like a dream. And I don’t want it to end.’”

Jo shook her head and laughed. “Crazy little fucker, eh?”

“Well,” asked Knute, “did you eventually go in?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “We did.”

“Was it … did it work out okay?”

“Yeah,” said Jo. “We went over every single square inch of that place. I followed Max around and he covered it all, we were there for hours and hours, they had to kick us out at closing time. He was in heaven, that’s for sure.”

“Did he cry when you had to go?” asked Knute.

“No,” said Jo. “No, I don’t think he did. He was perfectly content, as I recall.”

“I thought you never left the house when you were, uh, when Max was little.”

“That’s just another lie, Knutie,” said Jo. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“Well,” Jo said a little later, “we’re not finding him, are we?” She passed Knute her bottle of bourbon.

“Maybe he’s in Cooperstown,” said Knute. Jo laughed and yawned.

“Are you okay to drive, Knutie?” she asked. “Not too sleepy?” She put her head back and shifted her large body around on the seat.

“I’m fine,” Knute answered.

“I’ll just have a quick catnap, then, if you don’t mind,” said Jo, and closed her eyes.

Knute was worried. She was already circling back the way she’d come and if she hadn’t seen him on the way out of town, she didn’t know why she should expect to see him on the way in. Besides, he wouldn’t necessarily be on the road, he might have walked into somebody’s field and fallen asleep or gone into an open silo, a barn, anything. She passed the Hamms’ farm on the left. It had a giant yard light on that lit up the entire area for what seemed like miles. A million moths and bugs flew around the light and a couple of dogs were walking around in the yard. No lights were on in the house. Then Knute had an idea! She stepped on the gas and drove straight into town and out the other side, back onto the dike road and headed for Johnny Dranger’s house.

She peeled into the driveway, pulled right up to Johnny’s front door and left Jo, S.F., and Bill Quinn asleep in the car. She
could hear music coming from the house and laughter and low voices and she knew she had her man. She just walked right in and said, “Hello, Max, hello, Johnny, what’s up?” They both stood there, smiling and staring at her, and instead of yelling she smiled and stared back. Johnny said, “Have a seat, Knute.”

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you, Knutie?” said Max.

“Nah,” she said, “I’m here to apologize.” Johnny disappeared into the kitchen then and Knutie whispered, “But why do you keep running away?”

“You ran away, Knute, this time. I didn’t.”

“You ran away after I ran away,” she said.

“No I didn’t,” said Max. “I stayed at your place until Dory came home, like I was supposed to, then I offered to take S.F. back to my house but she said no, she was gonna make pizza with Dory, so fine, no problem, then I left and—”

“And didn’t tell anybody where you were going,” interrupted Knute.

“Why should I have?” said Max. “I’m an adult, Knutie, I’m twenty-four years old. If a twenty-four-year-old doesn’t go straight home after work, is that a problem?”

“I know,” she said, “it’s not, but can’t you understand how I might have worried? You know it’s happened before.”

“Yeah,” said Max. “Okay, whatever, I’m not going to argue anymore, I have too fucking much at stake now, okay? You want me to understand all this stuff about you, fine, why don’t you try to understand some stuff about me?”

Knute didn’t say anything then. What was there to say? Then she thought of something. “Okay,” she said. Silence.

“Well, thank-you,” said Max. He smiled.

“You’re welcome.” Silence. “How’s your leg?”

“Fine, thank-you,” said Max. “How’s yours?” Knute smiled. Silence.

“I know about the phone call,” she said.

“I assumed,” said Max. “Tom told you?”

“Yeah.” Silence.

“I have something to ask you, Knute,” said Max.

“Do you think you and S.F. would like to live here with me? You know, just try it out, see how it goes, we could fight on a more regular basis, you know …”

It was the first time Knute had seen Max looking unsure of himself.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Where?”

Max took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. “Right here,” he said, blowing out smoke.

Knute pointed to the kitchen. “With Johnny?” she whispered.

“No, no, he’s leaving,” said Max. “That’s the thing. And he’s offered me his place. Us his place. If you want it.”

“Well, sure,” said Knute, “okay,” and then they laughed for a while thinking of themselves as farmers and Johnny came back into the living room with some snacks. Eventually Knute remembered that S.F. and Jo and Bill Quinn were sleeping in the car. Johnny threw them out at four in the morning, said he had to pack. Knute drove Max and Jo home. Bill Quinn went with them. And then S.F. woke up and said she was going with the dog, so that night she slept over at Max’s. And Knute went home alone.

K
nute slept until noon the next day without S.F. around to wake her up, and when she went into the kitchen there was a note that said:

She had written something else about someone in town stepping on a rusty nail and having a strange reaction to the tetanus shot, but she had crossed most of it out, and written “Oh never mind” underneath.

Knute peeked into Tom’s room and asked him if there was anything he needed before she left. He shook his head and smiled. She told him about Max and her and S.F. moving into Johnny’s house and looking after his farm, and he gave her the
thumbs-up sign and said, “That’s great.” He seemed short of breath and she asked him if he was okay and he nodded. She kissed him good-bye and left for work.

When Knute got to the office Hosea was there and he said, “Did you find him?”

“Yup,” answered Knute. “At Johnny’s house.” And then she told him about the plan to move in with Max and he, too, was very happy about it.

“How’s Tom doing today?” he asked, and Knute said she didn’t know.

“It’s hard to know anything about him these days,” she said. Hosea told her that they had the smallest town, they had fifteen hundred people, as soon as Johnny left, anyway. The count would happen in the next day or two and that would be that. The Prime Minister would be coming to Algren on July first.

“Well then,” said Knute, “all is well.”

“Quite,” said Hosea, formally, and kind of sadly, and Knute put up her hand for him to slap, you know, high-five, but he said, “Oh, you’re going?” And he waved back.

Which was one of the funnier things that had happened to Knute in a while.

Hosea sat at his desk and felt the warm midday sun on his back. As randomly as I was conceived, he thought, as randomly as I was named, as randomly as … he heard a horn honking under his window and he got up and walked over to have a look. “Hey, Hosea!” shouted Johnny Dranger. “I’m leaving! I’m gone!” Hosea waved and yelled, “Good luck! Come back alive! And send me a postcard from time to time!”

“I will!” yelled Johnny. “So long!” And he was gone.

The phone rang and Hosea hoped it would be Lorna. “Hello?” he said.

“May I speak to Mayor Hosea Funk, please?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Speaking,” said Hosea.

“Ah,” said the woman, “I’m calling from the Prime Minister’s Office. Your town, as you know, is one of Canada’s smallest and is one of the contestants in our smallest town competition.”

“Yeah, yes, I know that,” said Hosea, and added, “thanks.”

“One of our census people will be in your town tomorrow to do an official, uh, count, and who shall we tell her will be the person to contact when she arrives?”

“Oh,” said Hosea, “that could be me.”

“Yourself?” said the woman.

“Yes,” said Hosea. He coughed. “Yes, myself.”

“Very good then,” said the woman. “And the address of your office being?”

“Office being?” said Hosea.

“Yes,” said the woman.

“Oh,” said Hosea, “okay.” And he gave her the address.

“Our counter should be there at ten o’clock, Mayor Funk, is that convenient for you? Mayor Funk? Hello, Mayor Funk? Mayor Funk!”

“Oh yes,” said Hosea. “Sure thing. Thank-you.”

Hosea hung up the phone and two seconds later heard the scream of Algren’s one and only ambulance as it ripped through the torpor of the day. Before Hosea could make it to the window, the ambulance had passed and the street was, once again, as dead as a ghost town.

Hosea ran out of his office and towards the hospital. The siren had stopped and Hosea could hear birds singing and an airplane flying directly behind him, maybe it was a crop duster, why was it following him? And a stampede of horses. Or was it his heart? One kid stopped playing in his yard and looked up at
the strange sight of Hosea Funk sprinting down the sidewalk like an escaped parolee, and a couple of women visiting outside stared at him and shook their heads. “That Hosea Funk,” one said, but Hosea, by that time, was nearing the hospital, and then he was there, running up the stairs, then through the front door, towards the emergency room, and shouting, “No! No! No!”

Tom lay on the stretcher surrounded by machines and cords. Dr. François was pounding on his chest and checking levels on one of the machines. Nurse Barnes was injecting Tom with something and another nurse was standing next to the doctor, watching a machine and opening up a small package. A third nurse was on the phone to another hospital and Hosea heard her say, “… massive cardiac …” and then some numbers. Then the doctor speaking to the nurse beside him, softly, and … Tom, just lying there. The doctor turned around and saw Hosea standing in the doorway and said, “For God’s sake …” and turned back to Tom. After a few seconds, the doctor said to Hosea, “Find Dory,” and then he and the nurses surrounded Tom, and Tom disappeared inside them.