flapped like she was about to lift right off the ground. Knute was excited, too. The world is full of possibility at that precise moment when winter jackets are taken off for the first time in Manitoba. Things were okay. Living with Tom and Dory, working for Hosea, hanging out with S.F. She wouldn’t be featured in
Vanity Fair
, but …
A couple of men in the café noticed S.F. and pointed at her and stared for a while and then went back to their coffee.
When she and S.F. got back to the house they saw Combine Jo lying on the ground in front of the front door. Tom was sitting in a lawn chair beside her wearing a tuque and a down-filled jacket and reading a Dick Francis novel.
“Hello, ladies, how’d the interview go?” asked Tom.
“What the hell is she doing here?” said Knute.
“Do you mean what the hell is
she
doing here?” said Tom, “or what the hell is she doing
here?”
S.F. crawled onto Tom’s lap and peered down at Combine Jo. “Is she dead?” she asked Tom, who looked at Knute and winked.
“No, she’s just resting.” Tom put his head back and swallowed a couple of times for the benefit of S.F. who had, recently, become intrigued with his Adam’s apple and liked to follow its course with her fingertips. “Aack, not so hard, S.F. I’ll choke.” He bulged his eyes and Summer Feelin’ giggled.
“This is ridiculous,” Knute said and went inside the house. She had to step over Combine Jo’s right arm, which was stretched out as a pillow for her head. She had almost made it into the house. Her bloated fingers grazed the sill of the door and, as Knute stepped over her, lifted slightly as if she were waving.
Knute stormed into the house and flung her jacket onto the floor.
“Why the hell is Combine Jo here and what the hell is she doing lying on the ground?” she yelled in the general direction of the den, where Dory had been painting for the past few days.
“Oh, Knutie?” came Dory’s reply. “I’m glad you’re here. Jo fainted and she’s too heavy for Tom and me to move so I just sent Tom out to sit beside her and keep an eye on her ‘til she woke up. You know, it’s warm enough out there today for her to lie there, and anyway he’d likely have another heart attack if he tried to lift her, you know, and my back isn’t—”
“She did not faint, Mother, she passed out. She’s drunk. I’m not a child. I know when somebody is drunk. You know, I’ve been drunk myself, I realize when something like this is happening.”
By now Dory had come out to the kitchen. She was covered in paint and wearing her SoHo T-shirt. Knute was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs like a kid and drinking milk directly from the carton.
“I’m not hauling her inside if that’s what you think,” she sputtered through a mouthful of milk. “Forget it.”
“Okay, okay, Knutie, calm down, okay? Just calm down.” Dory put her hands on Knute’s thighs and looked at her imploringly in very much the same way Knute looked at S.F. when she flapped.
Just then Combine Jo came thrashing through the door holding S.F. in her arms with Tom behind her, invisible except for his arms moving wildly around her trying to make sure she didn’t drop S.F. or smash any part of her against the walls of the front entrance. As Combine Jo and S.F. ricocheted from wall to wall one of Jo’s sleeves caught on the hall mirror, which yanked it right off, sending bits of glass and plaster flying and Tom, still in his tuque, started doing a sort of jig to avoid stepping on it, saying, “Dory? Dory? Dory, you gotta help me here.”
“Goddamn it!” Combine Jo slurred as one of her feet involuntarily slid out in front of her like Fred Astaire and then began to plow her way to the living room couch. “Christ, girl, hang on! We’re almost there!” she told S.F., who answered meekly, “I am. I am.” By this time Tom and Dory were flanking her like two tugs bringing in the
Queen Mary
, and Knute was frozen to the
Vanity Fair
, but …
A couple of men in the café noticed S.F. and pointed at her and stared for a while and then went back to their coffee.
When she and S.F. got back to the house they saw Combine Jo lying on the ground in front of the front door. Tom was sitting in a lawn chair beside her wearing a tuque and a down-filled jacket and reading a Dick Francis novel.
“Hello, ladies, how’d the interview go?” asked Tom.
“What the hell is she doing here?” said Knute.
“Do you mean what the hell is
she
doing here?” said Tom, “or what the hell is she doing
here?”
S.F. crawled onto Tom’s lap and peered down at Combine Jo. “Is she dead?” she asked Tom, who looked at Knute and winked.
“No, she’s just resting.” Tom put his head back and swallowed a couple of times for the benefit of S.F. who had, recently, become intrigued with his Adam’s apple and liked to follow its course with her fingertips. “Aack, not so hard, S.F. I’ll choke.” He bulged his eyes and Summer Feelin’ giggled.
“This is ridiculous,” Knute said and went inside the house. She had to step over Combine Jo’s right arm, which was stretched out as a pillow for her head. She had almost made it into the house. Her bloated fingers grazed the sill of the door and, as Knute stepped over her, lifted slightly as if she were waving.
Knute stormed into the house and flung her jacket onto the floor.
“Why the hell is Combine Jo here and what the hell is she doing lying on the ground?” she yelled in the general direction of the den, where Dory had been painting for the past few days.
“Oh, Knutie?” came Dory’s reply. “I’m glad you’re here. Jo fainted and she’s too heavy for Tom and me to move so I just sent Tom out to sit beside her and keep an eye on her ‘til she woke up. You know, it’s warm enough out there today for her to lie there, and anyway he’d likely have another heart attack if he tried to lift her, you know, and my back isn’t—”
“She did not faint, Mother, she passed out. She’s drunk. I’m not a child. I know when somebody is drunk. You know, I’ve been drunk myself, I realize when something like this is happening.”
By now Dory had come out to the kitchen. She was covered in paint and wearing her SoHo T-shirt. Knute was sitting on the counter, swinging her legs like a kid and drinking milk directly from the carton.
“I’m not hauling her inside if that’s what you think,” she sputtered through a mouthful of milk. “Forget it.”
“Okay, okay, Knutie, calm down, okay? Just calm down.” Dory put her hands on Knute’s thighs and looked at her imploringly in very much the same way Knute looked at S.F. when she flapped.
Just then Combine Jo came thrashing through the door holding S.F. in her arms with Tom behind her, invisible except for his arms moving wildly around her trying to make sure she didn’t drop S.F. or smash any part of her against the walls of the front entrance. As Combine Jo and S.F. ricocheted from wall to wall one of Jo’s sleeves caught on the hall mirror, which yanked it right off, sending bits of glass and plaster flying and Tom, still in his tuque, started doing a sort of jig to avoid stepping on it, saying, “Dory? Dory? Dory, you gotta help me here.”
“Goddamn it!” Combine Jo slurred as one of her feet involuntarily slid out in front of her like Fred Astaire and then began to plow her way to the living room couch. “Christ, girl, hang on! We’re almost there!” she told S.F., who answered meekly, “I am. I am.” By this time Tom and Dory were flanking her like two tugs bringing in the
Queen Mary
, and Knute was frozen to the
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