hadn’t and who was probably experiencing some pain right then, too.
This was the memory that had been triggered when he had banged his right palm against his desk, trying to keep himself from falling over backwards in his chair. Hosea looked at his right palm. There was a very faint trace of scar tissue. Unless it was bumped in a certain way, and it never had been until now, he felt no pain there. He brought his palm up towards his face. He stared at it. He moved his lips over it. Nothing. He couldn’t remember anything else of that day. The roses had pricked his palm, so therefore he had picked them. And he would only have picked them if his mother had asked him to. And she would only have asked him to pick roses if they had been going to see someone very special. Like, for example, the future Prime Minister. “Your father,” Hosea recalled the words Euphemia had spoken on her deathbed, “is the Prime Minister of Canada.”
But why couldn’t he remember what happened that day he picked the roses? Hosea sat at his desk now and slammed his fist against his thigh.
Who was the special person? Had Euphemia told him or hadn’t she? Had he asked? Had he wanted to know then? Had the special person been the man who was now Prime Minister of Canada? Why had Euphemia, on her deathbed, told Hosea that his father was John Baert, the Prime Minister of Canada? Surely she had been hallucinating. She must have been crackers, substituting reality with good intentions. She had always wanted the best for Hosea, after all, and knowing Hosea’spenchant for public office, his respect for politicians, and especially successful leaders, people who didn’t shrug their lives away but made decisions and tried to change the world, she had made up this one final ridiculous story. This was her parting gift to Hosea, the words, “Your father, your father, is John Baert.” And then, “Come back …” The words not spoken to Hosea or to Dory or to a doctor or to the Lord, but to John Baert, the stranger on the horse, the young man from long ago with the dark curls on his neck, her only lover, the father of her beloved Hosea.
But had she made it up? Hosea wondered. Or was it true? In any case, if he had met his father on that day, perhaps his father would see, in Hosea, a resemblance to himself? Hosea had, since the day Euphemia told him his father was the Prime Minister, stared long and hard at any photograph, any news footage of the Prime Minister trying to see some similarities. They both had blue eyes and dark hair, but then so did millions of people. Hosea remembered the rhyme the American people had chanted when Grover Cleveland was the president and news broke out he had fathered an illegitimate child somewhere along the line: “Ma, Ma, where’s my pa? He’s gone to the White House, ha ha ha.” But what if what Euphemia had said was a lie? Or simply morphine-induced rambling? Hosea didn’t want to think about that. He had the letter, the form letter with the photocopied copy of the Prime Minister’s signature promising to visit Canada’s smallest town. Hosea had always been interested in maintaining Algren’s status as smallest town. It had kept the town on the map and given the folks in Algren a dose of civic pride, of recognition beyond being the birthplace of the Algren cockroach.
But now, since the arrival of the letter three months ago, Hosea’s job became clear. It was more than a job, though: it was his mission in life and his only dream. He must bring the PrimeMinister to Algren. He must. “John Baert.” Hosea murmured the name quietly, his eyes tightly closed, his mind trying to batter down the door that blocked his memory of that day he burned his hand and picked the roses.
four
“I think he’s dead,” Summer Feelin’ whispered.
“I doubt it. His lips are moving,” Knute whispered back.
“Say something, Mom.”
Knute cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
Hosea, for the second time that afternoon,
This was the memory that had been triggered when he had banged his right palm against his desk, trying to keep himself from falling over backwards in his chair. Hosea looked at his right palm. There was a very faint trace of scar tissue. Unless it was bumped in a certain way, and it never had been until now, he felt no pain there. He brought his palm up towards his face. He stared at it. He moved his lips over it. Nothing. He couldn’t remember anything else of that day. The roses had pricked his palm, so therefore he had picked them. And he would only have picked them if his mother had asked him to. And she would only have asked him to pick roses if they had been going to see someone very special. Like, for example, the future Prime Minister. “Your father,” Hosea recalled the words Euphemia had spoken on her deathbed, “is the Prime Minister of Canada.”
But why couldn’t he remember what happened that day he picked the roses? Hosea sat at his desk now and slammed his fist against his thigh.
Who was the special person? Had Euphemia told him or hadn’t she? Had he asked? Had he wanted to know then? Had the special person been the man who was now Prime Minister of Canada? Why had Euphemia, on her deathbed, told Hosea that his father was John Baert, the Prime Minister of Canada? Surely she had been hallucinating. She must have been crackers, substituting reality with good intentions. She had always wanted the best for Hosea, after all, and knowing Hosea’spenchant for public office, his respect for politicians, and especially successful leaders, people who didn’t shrug their lives away but made decisions and tried to change the world, she had made up this one final ridiculous story. This was her parting gift to Hosea, the words, “Your father, your father, is John Baert.” And then, “Come back …” The words not spoken to Hosea or to Dory or to a doctor or to the Lord, but to John Baert, the stranger on the horse, the young man from long ago with the dark curls on his neck, her only lover, the father of her beloved Hosea.
But had she made it up? Hosea wondered. Or was it true? In any case, if he had met his father on that day, perhaps his father would see, in Hosea, a resemblance to himself? Hosea had, since the day Euphemia told him his father was the Prime Minister, stared long and hard at any photograph, any news footage of the Prime Minister trying to see some similarities. They both had blue eyes and dark hair, but then so did millions of people. Hosea remembered the rhyme the American people had chanted when Grover Cleveland was the president and news broke out he had fathered an illegitimate child somewhere along the line: “Ma, Ma, where’s my pa? He’s gone to the White House, ha ha ha.” But what if what Euphemia had said was a lie? Or simply morphine-induced rambling? Hosea didn’t want to think about that. He had the letter, the form letter with the photocopied copy of the Prime Minister’s signature promising to visit Canada’s smallest town. Hosea had always been interested in maintaining Algren’s status as smallest town. It had kept the town on the map and given the folks in Algren a dose of civic pride, of recognition beyond being the birthplace of the Algren cockroach.
But now, since the arrival of the letter three months ago, Hosea’s job became clear. It was more than a job, though: it was his mission in life and his only dream. He must bring the PrimeMinister to Algren. He must. “John Baert.” Hosea murmured the name quietly, his eyes tightly closed, his mind trying to batter down the door that blocked his memory of that day he burned his hand and picked the roses.
four
“I think he’s dead,” Summer Feelin’ whispered.
“I doubt it. His lips are moving,” Knute whispered back.
“Say something, Mom.”
Knute cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
Hosea, for the second time that afternoon,
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