Milosz (25 page)

've never in my whole life eaten an artichoke,' Guard Number One says. ‘I don't know why.' He digs around on his plate for low carbs. ‘I used to weigh one-fifty-eight, waist thirty-four.'

‘Try power yoga,' Guard Number Eight suggests. He is gleeful because his earring has gone undetected by wardrobe.

‘I strained a groin muscle doing Pilates,' the Prisoner says. ‘My ex made me go.'

‘You've got to quit doing what your ex tells you,' Number One says. ‘That's why she's your ex, got it?'

The Prisoner receives regular text messages from his ex. They meet for brunch on Sundays, even though she's balling the forklift driver.

‘Guys don't twig to the fact they can't eat like they did when they were twenty,' Number Eight says. ‘Result: flab fest. Start running, do some core strengthening.'

‘What are you, a fucking personal trainer?'

‘Power yoga instructor.' Number Eight lifts his leg and pushes his foot behind his head.

‘That's disgusting,' Number One says. ‘We're trying to eat here.'

Why all this hostility? Milo can't understand the neuro-typicals, full of bluster and bile, insincerity and lies. Tanis wants Robertson to be normal. Must those with
ASD
mimic the neuro-typicals – keeping in check their appreciation of detail and patterns – and adopt the mindless behaviour of the majority?

He showed Gus the photo from his wallet this morning. The old man held the picture of the small boy looking like a beaver, nodded politely and handed the shot back. It's as though it never happened. Milo never sat on his knee with a candied apple while Gus appeared to be waiting for a bus. Gus didn't argue himself out of a business and a wife. He is a Polish farm boy in a new land, dancing jigs and discovering new words like okay. He said it several times this morning while Vera made him oatmeal. She said she didn't have the strength for a fry-up. She washed the dishes and went back to bed, leaving Gus and Pablo exchanging
okays
.

Number Eight has taken his foot from behind his head to study a newspaper. ‘“International experts,”' he reads, ‘“were asked to characterize the traits of intelligence, wisdom and spirituality.” What do you think they said?'

‘Like I give a fuck,' Number One says.

‘Here's a hint,' Number Eight says. ‘What did the wise men have?'

‘Wisdom?' the Prisoner guesses.

‘No shit, Sherlock,' Number One says.

Number Eight assumes the Lotus position. ‘They say wisdom can be learned, increases with age and can be measured.'

‘How do they measure it?' the Prisoner asks.

‘They say it is a form of advanced cognitive and emotional development that is experience-driven.'

‘So I guess what they mean is,' the Prisoner says, ‘live and learn.'

‘A friend of mine,' Milo offers, ‘believes that life's challenges are lessons and sometimes we have to learn the same lessons over and over.'

‘Sounds like a major sad-ass.' Number One chews on a carrot stick.

‘He isn't, actually. He is pathologically positive.'

‘Must be retarded.'

Milo finds a phone and calls home. Pablo answers.

‘Is my father okay?'

‘More than okay, Milo, he's helping me with the deck. He's fixing it in places I never even noticed.'

‘Are you going to pay him?'

‘Sure.' He doesn't sound sure.

‘If you don't pay him, that's exploitation.'

‘Of course I'll pay him, when Tanis pays me.'

‘Is she around?'

‘She went to the centre.'

‘Is she going to bring Robertson home?'

‘She didn't say.'

‘Did she say anything?'

‘About what?'

Milo would like to say ‘me' but knows this would sound absurd. ‘How's Vera?'

‘I don't know. She's in her room.'

‘She hasn't come out?'

‘Not since breakfast. She says she's feeling under the weather. An Indian came by looking for you. A girl, like, a real Indian. Long shiny black hair, like Pocahontas.'

‘What did she say?'

‘She said, “Is Milo home?”'

The second assistant director signals that it's time to march prisoners. ‘Chop, chop,' he says.

Christopher is no longer on the geriatric floor. Milo tracks him down on the orthopedic floor in a semi-private room.

‘You again,' Christopher says.

‘It's nice you have a window.'

Christopher's purple bruises have turned ochre. ‘How's my family?'

‘I was hoping you'd call Robertson.'

‘I can't call Robertson without calling Tanis and she doesn't want to talk to me.'

‘Actually, you can. Because he's not at home, he's at the Child and Parent  Resource Centre.'

‘Why?'

‘They had a fight.'

‘What do you mean “a fight”?'

‘It got physical.'

Christopher tries to sit up but can't. ‘What did he do to her?'

‘She's fine but she needed a break.'

‘What did he do to her? Milo, don't fuck with me.'

‘He tried to strangle her. Because she locked him up and put bolts on the doors. He was going nuts.'

‘Why did she lock him up?'

‘To keep him from running away. He ran away.' And out the sad story tumbles: Billy bouncing the basketball off Robertson's head, Mrs. Bulgobin and the hamster, the Robertson-blows-Mr. Hilty note, the ravine, the debris hut, the cops. Christopher doesn't move while Milo paces and gesticulates. He omits telling him about Billy's death because he fears Christopher won't let him near Robertson if he finds out about his child-killing capabilities. ‘I really think it would help if you call him. He needs to know you care.'

‘No, Milo,
you
need to know I care. Robertson needs anti-psychotic medication. He's in good hands there.'

‘But they don't love him. We all need people who love us. Antonio Banderas said that Melanie Griffith made it through rehab because of the power of the heart.' Milo can't believe he is quoting a Spanish movie star. ‘Antonio said there is nothing in the world that cannot be cured by love.'

‘Or plastic surgery,' Christopher says. ‘Have you seen Miss Melanie lately?'

‘Anyway, it's not just him. Everybody knows that love is the most important thing.' And everybody knows nobody loves Milo. Which must be why he thinks he
needs
someone to love him – that without strong personal attachments human existence is a dry bone waiting to be buried. But experience has taught him that relationships complicate, are messy – you get hurt. No relationships equals no complications, no mess, no hurt. Caring about Robertson has only caused Milo grief. He stands unwanted in a hospital room, or on a deck, when he should be out playing the field. Enough of this trying to heal other people's wounds, the world's greatest loiterer and avoider has had it. He's outta here.

‘Do you have the number?' Christopher asks.

‘What number?'

‘For the centre.'

He knows it by heart, has been dialling and hanging up before anyone answers, fearing they will inquire about his relationship to Robertson, and he knows he can't lie. Or more to the point, Robertson can't lie. When told Uncle Milo is coming to see him, he'll say in that too-loud voice of his, ‘Who's Uncle Milo? I don't have an Uncle Milo.'

‘416-778-4923.'

Christopher dials and waits. ‘Yes, good evening, I'm wondering if you can help me, I'm trying to talk to my son, Robertson Wedderspoon. Is he still in isolation? … I see … Well, visiting is a problem for me because I'm in the hospital myself, bedridden, in fact … Yes, well, she didn't mention it because she doesn't know yet, we're separated, didn't she tell you? … Yes, I understand that but policies waste time and I'm short of it. Can I speak with your supervisor?'

It takes ten minutes for Christopher to convince the staff at the centre to put Robertson on the line. ‘Hey, buddy, how are you?'

Milo lingers by the curtain, waving vaguely at the neighbouring patient who is watching hockey and calling players cocksuckers. ‘Their goalie's fucking killing us,' the patient exclaims, possibly to Milo. ‘That guy's a fucking god. A fucking
god
!'

‘Robby,' Christopher says, ‘listen to me, I'm not angry with you … no, I'm not, I'm angry with myself. Robby, I need you to listen to me … Please, buddy, calm down … None of this is your fault … Okay, yes, well, that was your fault. What happened to stopping and thinking before you hurt somebody? Remember we talked about how you're getting bigger and you can hurt somebody by mistake? … I know … I know … I understand that.'

‘He's fucking
superhuman
,' the sports fan cries.

‘I'm sorry too,' Christopher says. ‘Yeah, well, Mum and I have stuff to work out … Yes, we're going to try but you have to stop attacking her, bud … I know you don't mean to … Robby, you have to calm down, bud. You're freaking yourself out, stop and think, take a breath.' Christopher holds the receiver away from his ear and Milo can hear Robertson, in his too-loud voice, struggling to explain himself, talking too fast and stumbling over words. ‘Buddy, listen to me. It's not your fault … Can
I
talk for a minute? … Will you let me talk? … I know, bud, I'm sorry, but listen to me … I can't talk to you when you're excited. Please take a breath and listen … I know all that, Milo told me … He's here, he told me everything, so you don't need to worry.'

‘Cocksuckers,' the sports fan scoffs.

‘Robby? Robby, are you there? Bud? Who is this? … I was talking to my son. … Yes, I understand that, but I am not ambulatory at the moment. … Is she there? … When do you expect her? … Is she taking him home tonight? … All right, well, have her call me, please. I'm at a new number, 416-668-4267, extension 209 … I understand that, just please, let her know.' Christopher hangs up and folds his hands on his stomach. ‘That went well.'

‘He needed to hear from you.'

‘She won't call.'

‘She will.'

‘He sounds terrible. That's why she's leaving him there. She's scared.' He covers his face with his hands. ‘I don't know what I'm doing.'

‘You're doing just fine.'

Christopher watches the phone and Milo digs around in his bad acting box for something encouraging to say. ‘It said in the paper that wisdom is a form of advanced cognitive and emotional development that is experience-driven.' He can't believe he is repeating this drivel when he knows that experience burns you, covers you in scars so thick you can hardly move. You're too scared to move anyway because you know it will hurt. ‘When do they expect Tanis to be back?'

‘They don't. She's been in and out. She wanted to take him home yesterday but they discouraged her. Sometimes there are other
ASD
kids there. I think he feels less like a freak around them.'