Milosz (27 page)

‘Has he shown you his model airplane collection yet?'

She starts to walk away.

‘Sorry, Tawny, I'm sorry. It's been a bad day.'

‘That's what my father always said. It makes no sense. I didn't make his day bad so why did he hit
me
?'

‘Because you were there. And because you would take it.'

‘That's no reason to hit somebody.'

‘I agree.'

‘I think it was because he was really sad underneath.'

‘Lots of people are really sad underneath and don't go around hitting people.' Or roughing up little boys.

‘Yeah, but he was put in a res school and all that. All kinds of weird shit happened there, like they buried babies in tunnels. He hardly ever talked about it. Sometimes at dinner, to make us appreciate our food, he'd tell us about how the teachers got good meals while the students ate crap. His brother talked about it more, like when he was drunk, but my dad didn't want us to know what went on there. He was trying to shield us from it. One time he went back to look for a girl's grave, some girl he knew there who died.'

‘Did he find it?'

‘I don't know. He was drunk when he got home and then it was like he forgot he even went. Anyway, maybe your father is trying to shield you from shit that happened and that's why he acts like an asshole.'

By forgetting Milo's
entire
existence?

‘If my father was still alive,' Tawny says, ‘I'd make him tell me about it.'

Why bother when you're hollow, like a dead tree?

He gives Tawny his room and takes the couch, knowing he won't sleep because he hasn't slept properly since he killed the boy.

‘She's cute,' Pablo says from the La-Z-Boy. ‘I never seen a real Pocahontas up close. Nice hair.'

‘She's a child, lay off her.'

‘Take it easy, Milo. You act like I'm a sex addict or something.' He unwraps a stick of gum and pops it in his mouth. ‘Tanis was looking for you.'

‘When?'

‘When you were out.'

‘Does she want me to go over?'

‘It's a little late. Call her in the morning.'

‘How did she look?'

‘Tired. She don't sleep even with the pills. She paid me so I gave some cash to Gussy. We're going shopping tomorrow to get some more yaboowcos and some kleb rah-zoh-vyh. He likes dark bread. And he wants some mas-woh.'

‘Which is?'

‘Butter.'

‘How do you know all this?'

‘You people who only speak one language don't get it. You figure it out, you keep trying and pretty soon you're talking. You don't talk, period, Milo. If you talked more, you'd figure stuff out.'

‘Would you shut up for
one minute
? Where's the remote?'

Pablo points to the armrest beside Milo's head. He grabs it and presses the power button. The earthquake victims are old news. An oil spill steals the headlines. Pelicans, coated in crude sludge, struggle to fly.

Why does Tanis want to talk to him? Did she call Christopher? Is she furious with Milo for keeping the accident a secret? Will she forbid him from seeing Robertson, who has become the only light in Milo's darkening sky, in fact, all the stars in his firmament?

She bangs on the back door with her crutch. ‘You told me you wouldn't do anything without my consent.' She leans on her crutches, looking, in the half-light, like some strange three-legged creature.

‘What am I doing without your consent?' He honestly can't remember, so entangled is he in the lives of others.

‘Taking Robertson to see him.'

‘Oh.' Milo still hasn't made up his mind about this. He has Christopher's authorization and cab fare in his pocket, but as far as he can remember, he made no promises. ‘Why wouldn't you give me your consent?'

‘Because it will destroy him.'

‘Who?'

‘Robertson.'

‘Interesting you should say that because Christopher thought learning about the accident would destroy you and here you are, swinging crutches around. When did you talk to him? Did you call him?'

‘It's over, Milo. I'm not going to be forced back into a destructive marriage because my husband got hit by a cab. I'm sorry it happened and I'm glad he's receiving medical care but that's it, I'm done. I have a son who requires my full attention.'

‘Does he? Couldn't you hire a guard so you, personally, wouldn't have to keep him locked up 24/7? How 'bout paying Pablo on an hourly basis to check the bolts? Although physical activity could be a problem. You might want to get an indoor mini tramp so the kid's muscles don't atrophy. And, of course, make sure he takes lots of vitamin D, you don't want his bones going soft, or do you? An invalid would be a lot easier to control, heck, just don't build ramps. He'd be trapped on the ground floor at all times so you could really give him your full attention.' Reading her expression in the poor light is impossible. He waits for a tirade, or a blow from a crutch.

‘There was a mother there,' she says, sounding only weary, ‘whose son punches her, kicks her, knocks her down and pulls out her hair. She's so desperate she contacted her
MP
to protest funding cuts for the autistic. You know what he said? He said her son would get better treatment in jail. Her
Member of Parliament
said she should charge her son with assault so a judge could order treatment, or sign custody over to Children's Aid. So you tell me, Milo, you tell me who will take care of my son when he is the size of a man.' She's getting loud again. ‘The reality is no one gives a fuck. Her son has been on a waiting list for a group home for nine months.
Nine months
. He's on antipsychotics that make him clumsy. He slams into things. He's stopped speaking. She's terrified all the time. No one gives a
fuck
!'

He has never heard her say
fuck
. It scares him.

‘If I told Christopher about this boy, you know what he'd say? He'd say, “It's only a matter of time.” He's given up. He can rot in the hospital, for all I care. It's over.' She starts to hobble to her deck.

‘Did you bring Robertson home?'

‘That's no concern of yours. And don't say you love him. You don't even know him.'

He climbs his stairs and knocks on the wall, pressing his ear against it, listening for the shuffle of big slippers. He knocks again, harder, and waits. Until his father screams.

ablo pushes the La-Z-Boy into reclining mode. ‘It's getting hard to sleep around here.'

‘I thought you were getting a place with Fennel.'

‘We're looking. She don't want no dark place. The light has to be right. And she's so busy right now with her new teacher, Vitorio. He's always making them paint. Vitorio says a true painter either paints or dies. Fenny don't want to die.'

Gus took the blue pill from Milo without hesitation or recognition. The old man has come to expect the pill when he wakens from his private hell. Maybe Milo shouldn't give it to him and just let the old man scream his guts out. What will remain? Will the Polish farmer scram, chased out of consciousness by Gus's demons, his true inner ugly self?

‘Vera don't look too good,' Pablo says.

‘She wants grandkiddies and Wallace is not delivering.'

‘Sarah says we have to stop
wants
. Wants are soul-destroying. I was depressed about Fenny being so busy with Vitorio and everything … '

‘Is she screwing him?'

‘What kind of question is that?'

‘Why else would you be depressed about her being “busy” with him?'

‘He talks to her about art. I don't know nothing about art. Anyway, I was feeling sad about it, lonely and everything, and Sarah said, “It's not up to anybody else to make you happy, Pablo. It's not up to Fenny. It's up to you and you alone. Accept and celebrate that you are in charge of your own happiness.”'

References to happiness make Milo uncomfortable.
Happy
is one of those battered words people use casually, frequently, but he's never sure what they really mean by it. The pursuit of happiness, what does that actually
mean
?

‘So that's what you're doing here,' he asks, ‘lying around taking up space, celebrating being in charge of your own happiness?'

‘When did you get so mean, Milo? You used to be nice.'

Four times tonight Milo has been abrasive and callous: to Tawny, Tanis, his father and now Pablo. It's much easier than being nice.

Guard Number Eight is reading an article about laughing yoga and tries to get Milo, Guard Number One and the Prisoner to laugh big hahaha laughs with him. When they refuse, he dials up Laughter Yoga on the Phone and laughs with a man who lives alone in his dead mother's house in North Carolina. They share big hahaha laughs for five minutes. After he hangs up, Number Eight looks invigorated.

Dog treats are attached to a trainer dressed in prison garb to induce the dog to jump on him and appear to maul him. Milo has been instructed to crack his whip at the marching prisoners but to not actually hit them. A whipping scene does occur in the movie, according to Number One, who claims to have read the entire script. Milo is hoping that if he does good whip-cracking during the dog-mauling scene, he may be chosen to do the actual whipping, which would mean an extra day's work. But the whip proves awkward to handle, heavy, and it winds around his feet, tripping him. When he whips a prisoner by mistake, the fight coordinator snatches the whip and hands it to Number Eight, who is still wearing an earring. Number Eight cracks the whip perfectly and winks at Milo. The extras in soiled prison garb, covered in fake blood and bruises, feigning fear and suffering, force Milo to revisit the possible content of Gus's nightmares. The father he remembers was afraid of nothing, was beyond intimidation. What happens in Gus's dreams that leaves him trembling?

‘What's the deal with your boots?' the fight coordinator demands with jowls twitching.

‘My boots?' Milo asks.

‘Something's making noise. I think it's your boots. Walk.'

Milo walks and, sure enough, one of his too-small boots has begun to squeak.

‘Go to wardrobe and get new boots.'

‘There are no more boots.'

‘Then get them fixed, oiled, whatever,'

‘But I'm needed in this scene.'

‘Not in those boots.' And just like that, Milo is dismissed and replaced by the earring-wearing Number Eight.

The wardrobe trailer is not its usual hive of activity. Amy, the sullen assistant who lined Milo's helmet with felt, whimpers into her cell. ‘I thought he loved me,' she sniffles. Milo stands unnoticed in the doorway. ‘Because he
told me
he loved me … he did, that's what he said, he told me he loved me more than he'd loved any of his other girlfriends … he
did
, that's what he said … ' She sees Milo. ‘What do you want?'

‘Umm, my boot is squeaking. They want me to wear different boots.'

‘There are no more boots.'

‘I told them that and they said to get you to oil it or something. They need me in the next scene. It's kind of urgent.'

‘I've gotta go,' Amy says, pocketing the cell and wiping her nose. ‘Give it to me.' Her eyes are very red.

‘I'm sorry to bother you.'

‘Just give me the boot.'

He'd prefer not to as, no doubt, it reeks from his sweaty foot. ‘I thought we could try oiling it on the outside.'

‘What kind of squeak is it?'

He walks back and forth a few feet.

‘They look too small,' she says.

‘No, they're fine, just a little snug.'

‘Give me the boot.'

It takes him several minutes to unlace the boot, during which he can hear her gulping convulsive sobs. Were he not anxious to get back on set before Number Eight completely usurps his role, he would suggest he come back later. Instead he says, ‘I'm confused about love as well. The use of the word, I mean. People use it a lot. I think it's probably overused, actually. I don't think people really know what they mean when they say it. I think some people say it just to make the other person feel better.'

‘Oh, so now
you're
saying he doesn't love me either. You don't even
know
him. Give me the fucking boot.'

‘Actually, I wasn't saying that, it's just it's become such a commonplace word. I said it recently, just out of the blue I said I loved somebody and it felt inadequate, like I wasn't sure it was the right word to describe my feelings for this person.' He hands her the boot. ‘His mother doesn't think it's the right word either. On the other hand, the word
feelings
makes me uncomfortable as well.'

‘What's his mother got to do with it?' Amy flexes the boot repeatedly, listening for the squeak.

‘Pardon?'

‘What business is it of his mother's to tell you
love
isn't the right word for your feelings? You should tell her to fuck right off.'

‘Well, the problem is, I think I might love her too. I'm confused about my feelings for her as well.'

‘You love the son
and
the mother?' She rips the insole out of his boot.

‘I'm not sure. You see, most people seem to get by with the
love
word and the
feelings
word. They seem to understand them in an acceptable sense, but I find them hard to use seriously. I mean, they're so … imprecise.'

‘Try it now.' She hands him the boot. ‘Don't lace it up, just see if it still squeaks.'

‘It's pretty uncomfortable without the insole.'

‘Walk.'

He does. No squeak.

‘See, it was the insole.'

‘But there are nails or something sticking up without the insole.'

‘They're not nails, just nubby things, stitches or something.'

‘Well, they hurt.'

‘I thought you said they needed you on set. Suffer for your art.' She turns her back on him and starts smearing blood and dirt on prisoners' stripes. Milo returns to the set and reports to the second assistant director who tells him, ‘Not now.' Gus would say this when Milo had a question or a suggestion.
Not now
. Milo knew damn well
not now
meant
never.
Not now
meant
get out of my face
. Milo will not tolerate being told
not now
by the second assistant director. The director himself has shown Milo respect, he is not just another guard.

‘Excuse me,' he says, ‘but I am in this scene. The fight coordinator sent me to get my boot fixed.'

‘Are you limping?'

‘No.' The nubby things have been boring into Milo's foot for twenty ­minutes.

‘Walk.'

‘You've seen me march. I'm Guard Number Twelve.'

‘I don't care what you are, walk.'

Milo takes a few steps, trying not to favour the sore foot.

‘You're definitely limping. Are you injured?'

Milo can't admit that the boots are too small and the only remaining boots. ‘No, it must be a cramp.' He shakes out his leg.

‘Sit this one out,' the second assistant director says, turning to the continuity girl. And just like that, Milo is made redundant. Bodies move around him with purpose. ‘Move over, Jack,' a crew member says. Shoulders nudge him, elbows shove him. He hears the crack of the whip as Number Eight herds the prisoners into the gas chambers. ‘Out of the way, asshole,' another crew member says. Milo limps to the house block, now emptied of prisoners. Coke cans and Styrofoam cups litter the mud where, only days ago, Milo wowed the director with his smoking and whistling skills. How small, how trivial, how unimportant all this is, he is. Still in his helmet, he smacks his head into the side of the building, seeking the relief that Robertson must find when smashing his skull into hard surfaces. A girl prisoner, who'd said hi to Milo earlier, whose soft sandy hair reminded him of Zosia, sees him as she rushes back to the set from a Porta Potty but quickly averts her eyes. Zosia never averted her eyes; she'd stare into him, trying to understand. ‘Explain it to me,' she'd say. But how could he explain feelings he couldn't understand? He bangs his head again. It only hurts, offers no respite. He matters to no one.

He rips babies off the mother spider plant and throws them in the trash. Why bother planting them when no one cares, when his jungle has been invaded by strangers. Two of them burst in giggling and flop down on the couch.

‘Gussy's only got one pair of underwear, Milo. He's been wearing the same pair for three days, right, Gussy?' Gus nods, causing a fresh fit of giggles.

‘Maybe he's afraid of being kidnapped,' Milo says.

‘We've got to get him some undies.' Pablo digs around in his jeans and pulls out a crumpled twenty. ‘Let's go to Zellers. Maria always buys Fruit of the Loom for her brothers there.'

‘Not now,' Milo says.

‘He's got no clean shorts.'

‘
Bielizna
,' Gus nods. ‘On-deh-vare.'

‘Awesome, Gussy, that's it, underwear.'

‘Vont kofee?'

‘Totally, let's get us some kah-vah.' They charge into the kitchen. Milo flings himself on the couch and gropes around for the remote. It's as though he has swallowed hundreds of cotton balls, cramming his lungs, his guts. Stifled by fluff, his frustration at being inconsequential robs him of breath. He thrashes about like the asphyxiated until a hand smacks his face.