A Boy of Good Breeding by Miriam Toews Read Free Book Online

as an obvious affirmation of what was there but as a sort of mantra, preparing him for his work, a simple prelude to the more complicated nature of his obsession. The scribbler was an orange Hilroy, the kindstill available on dusty drugstore shelves in places like Algren. On the front of it, at the bottom, were spaces to fill in personal information. Hosea had filled in each space. Name: Mayor Funk. Subject: 1500 . Classroom No.: Mayor’s office, town of Algren, Canada’s Smallest!
    Hosea preferred to take out his scribbler when no one was around. Usually that wasn’t a problem as there were only two very part-time employees working in the place. The old renovated house was a municipal government project. It contained the Mayor’s Office, the Arts Council Office for Algren and the surrounding areas, the Recreation District Office, the Weed Control District, and the Cemetery Board. Two women, sisters, in fact, shuffled around between the various responsibilities. Hosea’s Aunt Minty, Euphemia’s younger sister, used to work in the office, but years ago she and her husband, Bert Seeger, had moved to Fresno, California, and Hosea didn’t hear much from her anymore. She and Bert had come out for Euphemia’s funeral, but most of their time had been taken up with the Seeger in-laws.
    Hosea had enjoyed working with his Aunt Minty. Every time he came into work she’d have the coffee made and sometimes fresh pastry, and she’d smile and say to Hosea, “Good morning, sweetie, you’re looking well.” From time to time Hosea murmured those words to himself under his breath as he stomped the snow from his boots or took off his coat, hoping the sisters working behind the counter wouldn’t hear him and look at each other in that way.
    But now he was alone. And that was just fine because he needed to make a pertinent entry in his scribbler. Under the Dying and Potentially Dead column, he carefully printed the name Leander Hamm. Then he turned to the very back of the scribbler and, under the Newly Born and Rumoured to be Born he printed the name Veronica Epp and the notation, “expectingtriplets,” and then he added—“high risk.” Drumming his pen against his desk for a moment, he returned the scribbler to its place in the drawer.
    He glanced out his window and saw the dog. The same dog he had seen on his way to work after visiting Veronica Epp. A woman had been crouching down and holding the dog by its collar and had asked Hosea if he knew whose dog it was. Hosea had been concerned that the dog was not on a leash but running freely, unsupervised, all over Algren. He asked the woman if she would call the pound, or actually Phil Whryahha, the man in Algren who, proudly appointed by Hosea himself, was responsible for stray pets. And that’s when John Funk (no relation to Hosea), the caretaker of St. Bartholomew’s Church, had walked up and suggested to the woman that she simply let the dog go. That the dog would surely find its way home. There was hardly a car on Algren’s streets that would run the risk of hitting it, he’d said, and the dog seemed friendly enough. Let it go, he’d said. It’ll be fine.
    Hosea had stood there, dumbfounded. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Such a simple and obvious solution. The woman let go of the collar, the caretaker strolled back to St. Bart’s, and the dog slowly walked away, towards the edge of town. Hosea stood there. He had said something. Something like “very good.” Or “there you go.” But he had felt unsure of himself. This dog business had jarred him.
    He focussed on his plan to bring the Prime Minister to Algren. It could be a good thing for everybody in Algren, he thought. It would be an exciting day, a coup for a small prairie town, a psychological boost, and a surefire guarantee that Hosea would be re-elected, when the time came, as Algren’s mayor.
    Hosea whipped open the second drawer from the top of his desk and pulled out the letter from the House of Commons,