Milosz (14 page)

‘Gary,' Milo persists, ‘you must know where they went.'

‘I just follow orders.'

Is it possible that, by pure chance, Milo has so far escaped being
disappeared
? Who are these mad men anyway? ‘I demand to know where we're going. I want to talk to Geon Van Der Wyst.' Gary cranks the volume on the radio.

They pull up outside a vinyl-sided prefabricated house. A balding dog yaps at their heels. Elton kicks it. Elvis puts his arm around Milo's shoulders. ‘Could you say some nice things about me to Tawny? Like, she don't even know about my model-airplane collection yet.'

Inside several sombre First Nations people sit on plastic chairs apparently waiting for something.

‘Sit down,' Gary orders. Elvis and Elton take the chairs on either side of Milo. A wizened, white-haired man shuffles to the front of the room. The other People of the First Nations watch him with great interest and Milo concludes that he must be the leader and has, no doubt, experienced much abuse at the hands of white-asses. Is that what this is all about then? As the only white-ass present, is Milo expected to justify the raping and pillaging, the introduction of firewater, the spreading of disease and the appropriation of land, the kidnapping and abuse of Native children, the merciless enforcement of Christianity? How can he possibly excuse white man's greed and hubris? Is this the condition for his release? Will failure to adequately justify the heinous acts of his pale-face brethren condemn him? Or is this another Geon Van Der Wyst scheme? Milo looks around for hidden cameras. Is this part of the show? A white man cut adrift in Indian territory, his only weapon his wits?

‘My name is Al,' the old man says, ‘and I'm an alcoholic.'

Everyone else says, ‘Welcome, Al.'

‘Last week,' Al continues, ‘my son Joe asked me to go over to his place to watch hockey on his big television.' Al speaks slowly, each word weighted. ‘He has asked me many times to go over to his place to watch hockey on his big television and I have always said no because they drink beers. I know it hurts my son's feelings when I say no. He is a good boy. He is off the reservation and working at Mr. Lube. He has his own place. I am very proud of Joe but when he is watching hockey with his friends, he drinks beers.' The other alcoholics murmur ominously.

‘But last week I decided that I could not say no to Joe again. I decided I would go to his place and watch hockey on his big television.' Al pauses, looking studiously at the floor then up at the ceiling. The other alcoholics wait expectantly. Outside, the balding dog yaps. ‘Last week I sat with my son Joe and watched hockey on his big television. I did not drink one beer. Not one.' The alcoholics jump up and applaud, offering ‘thank you for sharing' and ‘good job' and ‘way to go, man.' Al wipes his eyes as he shuffles back to his seat.

Elvis, still applauding, nudges Milo. ‘Don't it make you proud to be human?'

Al and Joe watching hockey. A longing clutches at Milo. He
must
see his father again. Must sit together watching hockey. Milo stopped watching hockey with Gus during Gus's fat period, after Annie died, because Gus would rail at the players, even Guy Lafleur who could do no wrong in Milo's eyes. Gus's bitterness consumed massive amounts of Doritos, Pringles and sour cream 'n' onion potato chips. Milo stayed in his room listening to the game on the radio. But now things will be different. Look at Tawny, longing for the father who thwacked her with beer bottles. Had she not been blinded by resentment they might have had a proper conversation; an understanding might have formed. Now he's dead. But Gus is not. Gus is waiting to be found. Milo has failed miserably; he can see that now. Too much time spent picking at self-inflicted wounds. And what about Robertson and Tanis? And Christopher stranded in the hospital? They need Milo.
Stop thinking about the bad things all the time
, Tawny said. What did the horoscope say?
You are commanding attention these days. You have what is called presence. When you walk into a room, heads will turn.

As more alcoholics humbly confess to staying on the wagon, Milo applauds so hard his hands burn.

ow can Gus's house be empty? Where are the gin-swilling barbarians? Are there no innards to fry, no mambo to grind? Milo feels as though he is still on the Greyhound bus, lurching and rumbling, each bump on the road jabbing his rib, forcing him to grunt.

Immediately he turns on his computer and searches for
Reality Check
, the reality show about people who think they're on reality shows. He leaves a lengthy message in their viewer response mailbox explaining his quest to the show's producers, Birgit Kaiser and Sammy Sanjari. Next he emails Geon Van Der Wyst demanding an explanation for why he was left behind in the woods. The only message in Milo's inbox is from his agent, who wants to have a chat to make sure ‘we're still on the same page.'

After taping a plastic garbage bag over his chest wrap, Milo showers for twenty minutes, exalting in running water. Next he intends to eat real food. Fed and shaved, he will be ready to face Tanis, to come clean about Chris­topher, because this can't go on. Just like a fever must be allowed to reach its peak to cure sickness, so must the incendiary truth about Christopher be allowed to burn. Milo is prepared to receive angry words from both Tanis and Christopher. The important one is Robertson. He must learn about his dad's plight. And that his dad would give his life for him.

It's while Milo's sitting at the kitchen table, savouring a cheese and pickle sandwich, that the three musketeers barge in.

‘Where's Robertson?' Pablo demands.

‘How should I know? I just got here.'

‘So you didn't take him on a little jaunt?' Vera queries.

‘Why would I take him on a little jaunt?'

‘He's missing,' Wallace clarifies.

‘Tanis will know where he is,' Milo says.

‘Not this time.'

‘Robertson's
disappeared
,' Pablo wails. ‘Tanis thought maybe
you
took him. We've been looking all over for him. Me and Vera in the woods and Wallace in the truck.'

‘I've cruised the entire fucking neighbourhood ten times.' Wallace sticks his fingers in the pickle jar and fishes one out.

‘Did she call the police?'

‘Not right away,' Pablo says. ‘She don't like cops. She says if they find him they'll scare him.'

‘They won't understand his handicap,' Vera clarifies.

‘But she did call them? Have they started a search?'

‘I saw a couple of cops down the street going door to door,' Wallace says. ‘Next they'll get the dogs out.'

Pablo sticks his fingers in the pickle jar. ‘That would, like, totally freak out Robertson. Hope they don't taser him.'

‘I'd better go over there,' Milo says.

‘That might not be such a great idea,' Pablo says. ‘She's totally flipped out – like, she's not talking to nobody. She was screaming at the cops.'

‘That's after she was screaming for the kid,' Wallace says. ‘She was running all over the place screaming for him. Busted her ankle.'

‘What?'

‘She was in the ravine looking for him and tripped. She's on crutches.'

He knocks on the sliding doors and presses his ear against the glass. ‘Tanis?' All the lights are on, which is unusual because of her concern about the hydro bill. But this evening the house is ablaze, as though Tanis is trying to transform it into a beacon for her son.

Then suddenly she's behind the glass, almost unrecognizable, her hair wild and her eyes frantic. She doesn't open the door. ‘Do you have him?' she demands.

‘Of course not. I would never take him anywhere without your consent.' Hunched over the crutches she seems smaller, frailer. ‘Please, can we talk?'

She opens the door but turns her back on him as she hobbles to a chair.

‘Tell me what happened,' he pleads.

‘If I knew, would I be here?' Her voice sounds hoarse, probably from all that screaming.

‘When did you last see him?'

‘Last night,' she says. ‘In bed. Safe in bed.'

‘Did you tell him about Billy?'

‘Why would I do that? Sleep tight, baby, and by the way Billy's dead.' She starts rubbing her face as though she's trying to rub it off. ‘The dog's gone. He either took her or went looking for her.'

‘Where would Sal go?'

‘The ravine.'

‘Did you call for her there?'

‘Of course,' she shouts. ‘What do you think I've been doing? Sitting around waiting? My boy is gone.
Gone
!' She starts to moan, swaying back and forth on the chair.

‘He was outside in his pyjamas the night of the party,' Milo says. ‘Has he been doing that lately? Getting out of bed and walking around outside while you're sleeping?'

‘How am I supposed to know what he's doing while I'm sleeping? I shouldn't sleep. I was wrong to sleep. Mothers of autistic children should never sleep. I should know that. He was in
bed
.'

‘So you woke up this morning and he was gone?'

‘How stupid are you? I want you to go now.' She stands on one leg with difficulty and starts hobbling towards him. ‘Go.'

‘I want to help.'

‘You can't help. You kill little boys. Out.' She lifts a crutch and jabs it at his chest. ‘Out. Go.' She starts to swing the crutch at his face. ‘Get out!'

The three amigos are eating liverwurst sannies. ‘Where did you look for him?' Milo demands.

‘All over,' Pablo says.

‘Be more specific.'

‘We had a look in the woods,' Vera says. ‘A bit tricky with all that shrubbery. My stockings are in tatters.'

‘Did you go north or south?' Milo asks.

Pablo pushes a pickled egg into his mouth. ‘Which way is north?'

‘Did you go right or left when you entered the ravine?'

Pablo stands and re-enacts their entrance to the ravine. ‘Right.'

‘Are you sure, love? Seems to me we went straight down the middle.'

‘Did you follow the path?'

‘Sure, because it was hard for Vera to walk in the forest.'

‘How far did you go?'

‘You mean, like, how many miles?'

Vera offers Milo a pickled egg. ‘We were only gone an hour or so.'

‘Leave the ravine to the cops,' Wallace advises. ‘Only nutcases go in there at night.'

Milo swallows more codeine and grabs his flashlight. ‘Robertson will hide from the cops.'

At the base of the street the ravine fans out. Its steep slopes make the land unattractive to developers, allowing it to become a sanctuary for the homeless and a haven for druggies. Blanket tents dot the wilderness, as does litter, cigarette butts, used syringes and condoms.

Sodden from the rain, the undergrowth offers little traction, and Milo repeatedly loses his footing. When he looked for his father he was not methodical about it. He did not comb the woods but followed what he thought were leads: a broken branch here, a used tissue there. He worried that he would get lost if he strayed too far from the path. This time he will traverse the terrain beyond the path. ‘Robertson!' he shouts every few steps, stopping to listen for a response. If the child is injured or traumatized he may be unable to respond. ‘Sal!' Milo also calls. He is wearing his four-hundred-dollar glasses, which he rarely does because he's afraid of losing them. He needs them only for driving and auditions that require him to look intelligent. In the woods they enable him to see more clearly into the brush. After an hour of traversing, he squats on a fallen trunk. The spill from city lights filters the darkness while distant traffic drones. ‘Robertson,' he calls for possibly the three hundredth time. He too is growing hoarse while trying not to think about what might be happening, or might have happened to Robertson. On the opposite slope he sees the flicker of a lighter, then the glow of cigarettes or spliffs. This sign of human life offers no comfort because humans offer Robertson no comfort. Milo resumes traversing, watching the glowing dots dance as the smokers move the butts to and from their mouths. It makes perfect sense that Robertson ran away, given the circumstances. After Annie died, Milo ran away on a regular basis. Despite his stash of Pop-Tarts, after several hours his stomach would rumble and he would return to Mrs. Cauldershot, who would say, ‘Oh, it's you. Did you run away again?'

Robertson ran away because his father left him and because he is despised at school. Many with Autism Spectrum Disorders are not supposed to be able to interpret emotions in others. But Robertson must see his mother becoming unwound, must see her taking pills, see her hair spiralling out of control, see her hanging laundry in the rain. It must frighten him.

The glowing dots bounce and move across the slope. The beam on Milo's flashlight weakens.

The impact from being tackled and slammed into the ground leaves him winded. In the darkness a boot pushed against his throat makes him choke. Hands roughly search his pockets.

‘Take my money,' Milo manages to utter before remembering he left without his wallet.

‘Where is it?' a faceless figure demands.

‘I forgot it.'

The boot pushes harder into his neck. ‘Do you want to fuckin' die?'

‘It's true. I'm looking for a boy. I left it at home.'

‘He's a fuckin' faggot lookin' for some crackhead to blow.'

‘We'll get you a boy. Where's your fuckin' money?'

Milo doesn't resist but holds his four-hundred-dollar glasses away from his assaulted body in an effort to protect them.

The faceless figure pulls out Milo's keys. ‘You got a car?'

‘No.'

‘Don't bullshit me.' The boot pushes harder.

‘He's right, there's no fuckin' car key here.'

‘What are these pills?'

‘Painkillers.'

‘Take the fuckin' narcotics.'

‘
Where's
your fuckin' money?' The hands search Milo's back pockets. ‘This guy's a fuckin' joke.'

‘A fuckin' faggot. Take his flashlight.'

‘Fuckin' waste of time.' While Milo holds his glasses at arm's length the faceless figure kicks his legs. The boot kicks his head.

•••

‘What're you doing here?'

‘What?'

A flashlight shines in his face. ‘What're you doing here?'

‘Robertson?' Relief at seeing the boy surges through Milo.

‘You got beat up,' Robertson says.

‘Did you see anything?'

‘Nope. But nobody lies in the dirt.' Sal sniffs Milo.

‘Where are my glasses? Give me your flashlight.' Sure enough the glasses are intact inches away. Milo puts them on.

‘You don't wear glasses,' Robertson says.

‘I do sometimes. What are you … why did you run away?'

‘I didn't run away. I left and you better not tell anybody where I am.'