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

dated February 12 , 1996 . “Dear Mayor,” it began. Hosea hadread and reread, folded and unfolded this letter so often that it had become slightly torn down the middle. He had carefully fixed it with a piece of Scotch tape so the tear was hardly noticeable. Hosea moved his finger across the photocopied signature, John Baert, Prime Minister. The contents of the letter were by now so familiar to him that he could sit back in his chair, close his eyes, and recite it from memory:
    Dear Mayor
,
    As part of the federal government’s commitment to rural growth, I have promised to visit Canada’s smallest town for 24 hours, on July 1, 1996. Algren may be one of our candidates. We will inform you of further plans at a later date, providing you are interested in participating in the aforementioned event.
    Sincerely, John Baert, Prime Minister
    Hosea sat at his desk and imagined the day the Prime Minister would come to Algren. Hosea would be there to greet him, with Lorna at his side. He’d have bought a new suit in Winnipeg, Lorna a new dress and maybe new shoes. The sun would be shining, the high school band would play some rousing march, little Tilly Bond, the cutest kid in town, would present the Prime Minister with a bouquet of flowers. The billboard announcing Algren to the world would be repainted and so would some of the storefronts along Main Street. He and the Prime Minister would shake hands warmly and the Prime Minister would pat him on the back and congratulate him, would take him into his confidence, and they would exchange jokes and leadership tips and anecdotes and discuss crisis management and possibly even correspond after the visit. At dinner, prepared by the Elks or the Kinettes and served in theEuphemia Funk Memorial Arena, Curling Club, and Recreational Complex, Hosea and the Prime Minister would raise their glasses for the photographers and toast to hmmm, whatever, rural prosperity, perhaps. There would be stories written in the papers and pictures taken, bearing eternal witness to the event and to Hosea’s and Algren’s victory, to their reigning status as Canada’s smallest town.
    It would be a day like no other. Hosea now sat way back in his chair, his legs up on his desk, his hands clasped behind his head, his thumbs making circles on the nape of his neck. So lost in thought was he that he didn’t notice his pen roll off his desk and onto the shiny hardwood floor. Even Hosea’s sexual fantasies couldn’t hold a candle to his fantasy of meeting the Prime Minister and having Algren shown off to the world. Yes, it would be a day like no other, that’s for sure, thought Hosea and leaned back even farther so that his swivel chair almost fell over backwards and he had to lurch forward and grip the hard wooden edge of his desk to keep his balance. He must have slammed the palm of his right hand hard against the wood, because that pain triggered a flood of memories and now Hosea pictured another day that was full of pomp and circumstance and nervousness and … what? What was it about that day, anyway? Hosea wondered.
    He had been outside playing in the small yard behind the house on First Street. He hadn’t had a jacket on, or was it shoes he hadn’t had on? Had it been March or July? Well, he had picked flowers later that day, so it must have been July. But hadn’t he just come home from school? Yes, of course, he had walked home with Tom who had lived across the street. Well, actually they had run home because two older fellows were chasing them and one of them had taken Hosea’s jacket. That was it. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, because the older boy had taken it, and it must have been a day in May or June. Sometimewhen flowers could grow in Manitoba. Roses. He was sure they were roses because they had pricked the palm of his hand when he held them.
    “Run, Hosea! Run!” Tom had already been caught as usual and managed to yell out the simple instructions to Hosea before a big hand was clamped