Milosz (10 page)

‘Zoop,' the sailor says, pointing at a youth dressed in black who blurts, ‘Zap.'

‘Wrong,' Geon shouts. ‘You are disqualified! You should be saying “Zip.” You weren't listening. You must
listen
.' Geon points to his ears again. Hunter escorts the disqualified youth out. Geon claps his hands. ‘Focus, everyone. Start again. Etienne, what do you say?'

‘Zap?'

‘Precisely. Begin.'

And on it goes for two hours until only six actors remain. Milo's feet ache from standing, and he pines for an honest day of junk removal. Geon directs them to sit in a circle on the floor. Etienne, in the sailor's cap, mutters, ‘
Quelle blague
.'

Geon claps his hands. ‘You who remain are the guardians of trust.' Hunter serves them grape Kool-Aid and chocolate chip cookies, which the guardians consume with gusto. Geon claps his hands again. ‘What have we learned from this exercise?' The actors, exhausted, their mouths full of cookie, look apprehensively at one another.

‘It's all circular,' Milo says.

‘Precisely.'

He places the plums and grapes on Christopher's bed table. The food tray has not been removed. Milo lifts the lid and is disturbed to see that the food is untouched. Christopher appears to be sleeping, the air moving through his nostrils causing a faint whistle. They have bandaged his head. What can this mean? Milo sits and waits, worriedly eating grapes. The Portuguese man on the other side of the curtain has developed a hacking cough.

‘Milo?'

‘Yes?'

‘Are you fucking my wife?'

‘You already asked me that.'

‘I'm asking you again.'

‘No.'

‘Are they okay?'

‘They're fine.' More lies.

‘You didn't tell them anything?' Christopher sounds winded.

‘No, but I think I should. I think they should know.'

‘If you tell them, I'll kill you. One more disaster and she'll crack.'

‘Why did they bandage your head?'

‘They drilled a burr hole in it to let the blood out. Subdural bleeding.'

A ponytailed nurse appears with a needle. ‘I need more blood samples, Mr. Wedderspoon.'

Christopher remains listless as she taps his arm, searching for a vein. She seems very young to Milo, fresh out of nursing school.

‘He's having trouble breathing with that splint,' Milo says. ‘I don't think they put it on right. His nose looks crooked.'

‘Yeah, he'll have to get it fixed later by a plastic surgeon.' She pokes the needle into Christopher's arm.

‘What do you mean
later
? Why can't they fix it now?'

‘That would be an elective procedure. There's big waiting lists for or time.' Blood spurts into the syringe.

‘So you mean he has to walk around with a nose that makes it hard to breathe for months? Couldn't they see it was crooked in the operating room?'

‘Milo, we've already been through this,' Christopher says. ‘They're waiting to see if I die.'

‘Given the extent of his other injuries,' the nurse explains, ‘the nose isn't a priority.' She sashays away with Christopher's blood.

‘The worst part,' Christopher says, ‘is I have to breathe through my mouth, which dries it. So I drink water, which bloats my bladder.'

Milo tries to think of something constructive to say.

‘What are you doing here, Milo?'

‘You already asked me that.'

‘No, I said whatever you're doing here, you don't have to do it.'

Milo has been waiting for Christopher to remember that he was at the scene of the accident,
caused
the accident by calling his name, forcing Christopher to turn his head away from the cab. Maybe he does remember.

‘Does your head hurt?'

‘Not anymore.' Christopher closes his eyes. ‘Please go away.'

•••

He tries the sliding glass doors but they're locked. He knocks on the glass. Usually, after episodes, she keeps Robertson home, even lets him sit by the dryer, which she normally avoids running due to the cost of hydro. The rhythm of the drum rotating soothes him. Milo knocks again, holding his face close to the glass to peer in. He hears pop music. Tanis never plays pop because it makes Robertson hyper. An intruder must be in the house. Milo pounds on the door. ‘Open up, I know you're in there.'

Pablo, shirtless, slides open the doors. ‘Hello, sir,
qué pasa?
'

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Cleaning windows.'

Milo doesn't believe this for a second. ‘Where's your bucket?'

‘In the living room.'

‘Where's Tanis?'

‘She took him to the doctor.'

Milo pushes past Pablo into the living room. Sure enough, there is a bucket and a squeegee. ‘Why are you washing her windows?'

‘She asked me to. She said if I need cash there's stuff that needs doing that her husband used to do.'

‘I can't believe you're taking her money.'

‘Why? Is she broke?'

‘That's not the point.'

‘The point is you're the one who took her panties. Me and Tanis are just friends. She needs a friend right now.'

‘
I'm
her friend.'

‘That's not what she says.'

‘What did she say?'

‘Take a chill pill, man. This lady's got you real wound up.'

He drinks beer on the deck with the Cuban because he doesn't want to go home to Vera.

‘I think Robertson feels too much,' Pablo says. ‘Tanis says people don't think he feels but I think he over-feels and that's why he freaks out.'

‘Suddenly you're an expert.' Milo eats more pretzels.

‘Most of us can, like, stop freaking out, you know. But he's feeling so much all the time, like, maybe screaming is his way of shutting out feelings. How do you shut out feelings, Milo?'

‘I don't have feelings.'


‘You love Tanis. You're shutting out those feelings.'

‘I don't love her.'

‘We all shut out feelings, and it makes us sick, keeping all those feelings locked out. I saw this movie about this guy who didn't believe he deserved to be loved. The whole movie, people were, like, trying to love him but he pushed them away and he got sicker and sicker. So finally all the people who love him show up at the hospital and, like, hug and kiss him and tell him how much he means to them, and he's so sick he's too weak to push them away anymore. He's, like, dying and he's just figured out how to love. It was so sad. It made me cry.'

‘Aren't you supposed to be cleaning windows?'

‘You know what Robertson was doing when I came over?'

‘What?'

‘Moving pots and pans around. She lets him take stuff out of the cup­boards and move it around. She says it helps him decompress.'

‘What are you lot up to?' Vera calls from Milo's back porch. ‘We've been looking all over for you two. Wait till you see the goodies we bought for supper tomorrow. We even found some lime cordial and Scotch eggs!'

With a Scotch egg lodged in his intestines, he checks his email. His agent, Stu, expresses dismay over Milo's
unprofessional behaviour
at the beer ad call­back. ‘We need to talk,' he says. More importantly, Geon Van Der Wyst wants Milo to participate in phase two of the audition for the show without a script. The group will meet in a rural setting. A van will pick Milo up at three p.m. on Sunday, a welcome diversion. A day in the country, free from domestic turmoil, might speed his transformational healing. Geon advises him to bring a sleeping bag, which suggests an overnighter.

‘Milo!' Pablo and Vera call from downstairs. He holds pillows over his ears but Pablo flings open his door. ‘Milo, come quick, your dad's on
TV
! You got to come right now, man.'

‘Buzz off. My father's dead.'

‘Wally says they never found no body. He says he's even got the Nazi scar.' Pablo grabs his arm and hauls him downstairs where Wallace and Vera, gin and tonics in hand, crowd the couch.

‘What kind of sick joke is this, Wallace?' Milo demands.

‘No joke. The fucker was there.'

‘Don't use that word,' Vera says.

‘What am I supposed to say? He was a mean fucker. Everybody hated him.'

‘Wally!'

Wallace swills more
G&T
. ‘I'm telling you, the fucker was there.'

‘Where?'

‘It's a show about people who think they're on reality shows,' Pablo explains. ‘Like, in real life, they think there's hidden cameras everywhere.'

‘My father thought he was on a reality show?'

‘Shit, no, he was in the home for crazies.'

‘A retirement home,' Vera clarifies. ‘It was another gentleman in the home who thought he was on a reality show.'

‘So what was my father doing there?'

‘He was a client.'

‘Just sitting there,' Wallace says, ‘like the fucker he was, just sitting there passing judgment.' Wallace played street hockey in the neighbourhood. Whenever he hit a ball or a puck onto Gus's property, Gus would keep it.

‘My father wouldn't be caught dead in a retirement home.'

‘It's a miracle,' Pablo says. ‘You've been given a second chance, Milo. If I saw
mi padre
again I would tell him I forgive him for screwing my cousin.'

‘You saw some guy in the background of a shot,' Milo says, ‘who resembled Gus. Hallelujah.'

They hear pounding on the back door.

‘Must be your lady friend,' Vera says.

Tanis's hair reaches out in angry tentacles. ‘I need to speak with you privately.'

He sits on a Muskoka chair. She stands with arms crossed. Before she can accuse him of further misdeeds, he tells her about liberating Puffy.

‘So where is it now?'

‘Still in the basement. I'd like Robertson to have it, if that's all right with you.'

She drops into the other chair and deflates. This is not the reaction he'd expected.

‘Is Robertson all right?' he asks. ‘What did the doctor say?'

‘Nothing new. He's on a mild sedative which he hates because it disorients him.'

‘Well, as I say, the kids don't want the hamster back so there's no reason Robertson can't keep it. I think caring for another living being might help him through all this.'

‘You don't get through it. It goes on and on.'

‘If you'd prefer, I can keep it here and he can visit it.'

‘Billy Kinney is dead. They couldn't stop the bleeding. Even after they opened his skull to put a clip over the aneurysm.' Tanis tilts her head back and stares at stars shrouded in smog.

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' Milo says quietly, except it feels as though he's shouting because
not always fatal
should mean the little fucker's still breathing at least.

‘They took him off the ventilator this afternoon,' she says.

‘How do you know all this?'

‘I called his mother.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I care. Unlike yourself.'

‘But she threatened to press charges against Robertson.'

‘So?'

‘So, she denies that her son bounces basketballs off Robertson's head.'

‘Her son is dead.'

This isn't really happening. In seconds the lights will fade to black and Milo will step out the stage door and feel cool air on his face.

‘I haven't told Robertson,' she says. ‘I have no idea how he'll react.'

‘Is he going to school tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow is Saturday.'

Milo is no longer inside his body but above in a hot air balloon looking down at the accidental killer, the paunchy Everyman who can do nothing but blunder. Whoever was in that body has vacated, never to return. Hot air swirling in and around him makes him feel about to pass out. ‘At least … ' he murmurs, ‘at least he can go to school on Monday without being bullied.'

‘How can you even say that? A child has died.'

‘He tormented Robertson,' he pleads. ‘That's over at least.'

‘It's never over. There are always more bullies. Life is a war.'

She retreats in her flip-flops. The doors slide shut and he hears the click of the lock.

arah Moon Dancer told me,' Pablo says, ‘it's time for reflection.'

Milo stares grimly at a romantic comedy. The sultry schoolteacher has discovered that her cowboy lover is an outlaw. She throws her honey-I-love-you ring at him.

‘Sarah,' Pablo continues, ‘says we've been spending way too much time buying stuff to impress people who don't matter. Greed is over, Milo.

And hobris.'

‘Hubris.'

‘Hubris? What's hubris?'

‘Arrogance, pride. Too much of it.'

‘Sarah says hubris makes us self-destruct.'

In constant replay in Milo's mind is the image of the boy prostrate on the sidewalk. Had he run for help, would the little shit still be alive? Even more shameful, Milo's main concern is that he doesn't get implicated in the death. True, he did not
intend
to kill, and a murder conviction requires proof of intent. Reverberating from the consequences of his violent behaviour, in a clammy sweat, he squeezes some solace out of the fact that Robertson won't be shoved, slandered, fingered and humiliated at school. But Billy was only a child. Does Billy being a bully make it okay that he's dead? Absolutely not, Milo tells himself. Then why isn't he soaked in remorse? Has he, like the Michigan boy who shot his beloved grandfather in the head, been desensitized by the human slaughter, real and unreal, he sees flashed on screens daily? The Michigan boy said he felt like he was watching a movie about himself and he understood why people murder because ‘you feel like nothing could ever hurt you just for that split second.' Isn't that how Milo felt when he fled the scene of the crime? The boy who shot his grandfather said he guessed he did it because of ‘sadness and pent-up anger.' Is that why Milo did it, because of the sadness and pent-up anger he feels towards his father who may or may not be dead? The Michigan boy is in prison for life.

The cowboy outlaw shoots the lawman who has been tailing him and slings back whisky in the saloon.

‘Did Maria call here?' Pablo asks.

‘Why would Maria call here?'

‘My cell died. I don't think she wants to see me again, ever. She works hard at her jobs, you know, and she wants a big wedding with a priest and everything. She deserves that. She deserves better than me.'

Anxiety expanding within causes Milo to tremble. ‘How 'bout a whisky?' he asks, the bad actor seeking refuge in the bottle, appalled that his meagre existence can go on despite his atrocious act. He digs around in the sideboard for a bottle but instead grips something soft. He pulls out his father's wallet, which he'd assumed Gus had taken with him. The familiarity of its worn leather causes momentary paralysis. Gus could stride in at any second and demand, ‘What do you think you're doing with my wallet?' It was strictly off limits. If Milo needed money, he had to ask, and even then there were no guarantees. If at all, the cash was withdrawn slowly and kept in hand until Milo feebly reached for it, avoiding Gus's laser stare.

‘No whisky?' Pablo asks.

Milo pulls out a bottle of brandy. By the time the outlaw has shot six more lawmen and resumed copulating with the sultry blonde, Pablo and Milo have consumed several brandies. A haze settles over them. Only now does Milo have the courage to open the wallet. He finds two twenties, some bus tickets, Home Depot receipts, credit cards and a photo-booth shot of himself as a child. Milo can't remember the shot or the photo booth. His teeth protrude and he looks as though he's trying to force a crap. Why would Gus keep this photo in his wallet? Did he show it to his concrete associates and share a good laugh? Did he look at it wistfully, remembering better days?
Were
there better days? Has Milo forgotten something, so pent-up is he with sadness and anger?

Pablo peers over his shoulder. ‘Is that you?' He starts to giggle. ‘You look like a beaver.'

Milo shoves the photo back into the wallet.

‘
Coño
,' Pablo says. ‘That's him!' He pulls out Gus's driver's licence. ‘That's the old guy on the show.' He holds the licence inches from his nose. ‘He's even got the Nazi scar.'

It was Russians who split open Gus's face. They left him for dead, after raping his sister and stealing what remained of his family's food and livestock. When Gus's mother and father returned, Gus's mother cried for thirty-six days. His father stopped speaking.


If he is alive, why hasn't he come home? Milo checked the
TV
guide. He could contact the show's producers. Or forget about it. Wallace, sauced, was not of sound mind. The scar is the problem. Milo used to invent stories about his father fighting off the Nazis. Usually, he equipped Gus with a variety of farm implements, but sometimes his dad swung at the Krauts with bare fists. If it is the old man, what if he doesn't want to be found? What if he ran away and is not waiting to be forgiven or understood, or to justify his paternal cruelty by explaining that he'd wanted to protect Milo? The father who kept an ugly photo of his son close to him at all times is in hiding.

Best forgotten, denied. All of it.

Vera has them ‘tidying up a bit.' ‘We want to impress Fennel now, don't we?'

Pablo flops on the couch again.

‘Get off your arse,' Milo says. ‘Help me out here.'

‘With what?'

‘Vera wants you to do the windows.'

‘I don't do windows.'

‘You just did Tanis's.'

‘That's because she paid me.'

‘Is that the only reason?'

‘You have a dirty mind, Milo.'

Milo has been keeping an eye out for Robertson, hoping that the news of a liberated Puffy will brighten the boy's face and free Milo, however briefly, from his brewing guilt and fear of going to prison for life.

‘I don't know about you lot,' Vera calls from the kitchen, ‘but I like to see a vase of flowers on a table, something cheery.'

‘I'll go,' Milo says, seizing the opportunity to escape.

‘I've got to go to Tanis's,' Pablo says.

‘What do you mean you've got to go to Tanis's?' Milo demands.

‘She wants me to check her eavestroughs. She says rain's been spilling over.'

That this musclehead has easy access to next door infuriates Milo. He snatches Gus's twenties and strides to the only florist in the neighbourhood. He chooses what he hopes will be a suitably cheery bouquet and decides to stroll by the Copper Pipe, giving Zosia the opportunity to see the bouquet and wonder whom it's for. But police tape cordons off his ex-lover's place of employment. One of the plate-glass windows has been shattered and replaced with plywood. Panic propels Milo to the neighbouring used bookstore, where a pile of Danielle Steel affronts him.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?' a hunched man on a stool inquires.

‘No, ah, yes, actually, do you know what happened next door?'

‘A shooting.' The man studies Milo over his reading glasses.

‘Was anybody hurt?'

‘Several people.'

‘Do you know who?'

‘Didn't frequent the place.'

‘Do you know if they were customers or employees?'

‘Couldn't say.'

‘Did anybody die?'

‘A couple were critical.'

Even the phone booth fights him, its cracked doors jutting like teeth. Milo bashes through them. Zosia's number is out of service. He phones the police and is put on hold for twenty minutes until finally a
PC
comes on the line to tell him only the victims' relatives have been notified. Milo calls hospitals until he runs out of change. He has lost her, imagines her bloodied against terracotta tiles. Gunned down in the land of opportunity.

‘Answer it,' Wallace hisses. He is wearing his one-size-too-small blazer-and-tie combo.

‘You answer it, man,' Pablo says. ‘She's
your
girlfriend.'

‘You watch it, dickbag.'

‘Was that the bell?' Vera calls from the kitchen.

Milo opens the door. Fennel, looking prettier than he remembers in a floral skirt and blouse, makes a peace sign with her fingers.

‘Is that Fennel?' Vera scuttles towards them, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Aren't you lovely. Wally, you didn't tell me she was such a looker. Come in, love.'

Milo steps behind Vera, trying to make eye contact with Fennel while pointing repeatedly at Wallace. Fennel barely perceptibly nods.

‘What will you have?' Vera asks. ‘A
G&T
, a sherry?'

‘Gin's fine, thanks,' Fennel says.

‘Off you go, Wally, work your magic.' Vera winks at Fennel. ‘He's always been good at a cocktail.'

The Cuban, topless of course, offers Fennel a spot on the couch then spreads himself inches from her.

‘Are you dressing for dinner, Pablo?' Milo demands.

‘It's so hot, man, with the cooking and everything.'

‘Why don't we all get naked?' Milo suggests. Fennel fidgets, looking at Pablo. She probably wants to paint him, probably wants to trace his greasy contours with her brush. Disgusting.

‘Go put a jumper on, Pablo, there's a love,' Vera says, sitting next to Fennel and patting her knee. ‘Wally hasn't told me much about you. I think he wanted to surprise me.'

‘Are you surprised?'

‘Well, I must admit, I did imagine someone a bit older.'

‘I'm better breeding material,' Fennel says.

‘Wal-lee, you didn't tell me you've been thinking about little ones.'

Wallace,
G&T
in hand, falters. ‘Just thinking about it, Mother.' His hand grazes Fennel's as he offers her the glass. Fennel drinks deeply while Wallace watches, apparently mesmerized. He sucks on his puffer.

‘Oh, wouldn't that be a lark,' Vera says, ‘a bonny grandkiddy. Might be a bit big, though, for a little thing like yourself.'

‘I'll stretch.'

Wallace reddens. Pablo returns in a muscle shirt. ‘
Mi madre
was four-foot-eight and had seven nine-pound bambinos.'

‘Your father should've been arrested,' Fennel says.

Over dinner, the alcohol softens edges. Fennel's admission that she is a painter enables her to hold forth. ‘Van Gogh, totally. I mean,
nobody
was doing what he was doing. He was, like,
living
the paint. He ate paint.'

‘Ate it?' Pablo asks, leaning towards her.

Fennel nods. ‘Sucked on the tubes.'

‘
Coño
.'

‘Who's for more mash?' Vera calls from the kitchen.

‘I thought he cut his ear off,' Milo says, slipping Fennel's mammal onto plate.

‘That's bullshit,' Fennel says. ‘Gauguin cut it off. He was, like, this awesome swordsman and Van Gogh was, like, nuts, so Gauguin had to fight him off.'

‘Why was he nuts?' Wallace asks, softly. He has been uncharacteristically quiet.

‘He was depressed.'

‘Why?'