Milosz (28 page)

‘Are you having a seizure?' Tawny asks. ‘When my cousin has fits, we slap him and he gets better.' She slaps Milo again.

He pushes her away and sits up, feeling a small air passage opening. Why does he care about all this anyway? What's it matter to him if he matters to these idiots? ‘Who gives a fuck?' he says out loud.

‘About what?' Tawny asks.

‘Any of it. What's going on around here.'

‘What's going on around here?'

‘Collusion and deceit. Who gives a shit? It's not my prah-blum.'

‘Who said it was?'

‘I'm a hollow tree, remember? Dead, dead, dead. I'd like to sleep now and this couch is the only vacancy. Good night.'

‘It's only six o'clock.'

Pablo returns. ‘Where's Vera?'

‘I haven't seen her,' Tawny says.

‘Vera?' The Cuban bounds upstairs. Where does all that energy come from? Are only the truly ignorant able to thrive in the bog of human existence?

‘Do you have a headache?' Tawny asks. ‘I've got some Tylenol.'

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.

‘She's right,' Milo declares.

‘Who?'

‘That bitch has no right to tell me
love
isn't the right word.'

•••

‘I am here to see Robertson Wedderspoon. I have a letter from his father who is in the hospital and therefore unable to come himself. In the letter Mr. Wedderspoon explains that I am to take Robertson to visit him this evening. It will only be a short visit and I shall return with him forthwith.' Milo said
forthwith
in a commercial in which he played a servant to a lord in need of speedy muffler replacement.

Several staff members huddle over the letter. Christopher studied law before he became a financial advisor. Even Milo was intimidated by the legal-speak in the letter. ‘Just a moment,' a woman in Birkenstocks tells him. Two others, in yoga pants, watch him. He remains standing, even though his foot is still tender from the Nazi boot. Sitting would suggest he is prepared to wait. A small autistic boy wanders into the waiting area, repeatedly patting the wall as though feeling for a secret passage. ‘What are you doing out here, Curly?' one of the yoga-panted women asks. ‘Come back to the playroom.' Curly doesn't hear or isn't listening. He stops in front of Milo, who is blocking his path. Milo steps aside and Curly resumes feeling for the escape hatch. ‘Curly, let's go back to the playroom.' The yoga-panted woman makes sweeping gestures with her arms. ‘Let's go back to the playroom. There are no toys out here.'

Curly makes it to the front door and begins pushing on it. ‘No, Curly, you have to wait for your mum, she'll be here soon. Let's go back to the playroom.' She tries to take his hand but he pulls away from her. Both yoga ladies corner the boy in what looks like an effort to corral him into the playroom. Curly begins to yelp and slam his hands into the wall. The Birkenstocked woman appears with Robertson who, when he sees Milo, jumps up and down, shouting, ‘It's Milo, it's Milo, it's Milo, it's Milo, it's Milo, it's Milo!' Curly yelps louder, engaging the Birkenstocked woman. With the jailers distracted, Milo makes a run for it, signalling for Robertson to follow. Giggling uncontrollably, he seems about to hyperventilate. Milo has never seen the boy so red-faced and tries to calm him but Robertson buckles over and collapses on the sidewalk, still gasping hysterically until he notices worms on the rain-soaked concrete. He begins to rescue the worms, picking them up with great care and setting them in the dirt beside the pavement. This could take hours. Milo spots a Baskins-Robbins and tries diversion tactics. ‘How 'bout some ice cream?'

Robertson moves deliberately up and down the counter, scrutinizing the tubs.

‘You go ahead,' Milo says to a busload of Chinese tourists waiting their turn. Twenty minutes later the boy has chosen one scoop of Mango Tango and one scoop of Jamoca Almond Fudge.

Having blown Christopher's cash on ice cream, Milo must take the child on the bus and walks with dread towards the stop. Robertson follows unquestioningly, intently licking his cone, and sits on the bench. Ice cream dribbles down his wrist.

‘This is fun,' he says and Milo realizes that yes, it
is
fun. Could this be happiness? This tiny blip, this pause between one thing and another, when nothing can be done but wait for a bus? Sparrows crowd into a puddle, flapping their wings, splashing one another, puffing out their feathers and dipping their breasts into the water. Happiness.

But as the bus pulls in, Milo feels himself quivering, so fearful is he that Robertson will refuse to get on the bus. Milo's plan is to proceed without discussion, to just climb on board and hope that Robertson will follow.

‘A bus. Awesome,' Robertson says, clambering up the steps.

Milo leads him to the back and offers him a window seat. Robertson bounces in the seat. An old woman in a rain bonnet watches him warily.

‘This is epic,' Robertson says.

An unshaven middle-aged man, off-gassing beer, eyes a young woman fidgeting with her personal listening device. ‘Do you play golf?' he asks her. When she doesn't respond he asks again, louder.

‘She can't hear you,' Robertson says in his too-loud voice. ‘She's got earbuds in.'

‘She can hear me,' the drunk says, leaning over the girl. ‘Do you play golf?'

‘I don't think she does,' Robertson says.

‘Who the fuck are you?'

The girl pulls out her earbuds and says, ‘I don't play golf.'

‘Oh, that's too bad,' the drunk says. ‘I can't marry you then.'

‘She doesn't want to marry you,' Robertson clarifies.

‘It's a joke, you little fuck.'

‘Settle down,' a bearded man in shorts says. Milo has noticed Robertson staring at the bearded man's prosthetic leg.

‘Your fake leg looks cool,' the boy says.

‘Thank you,' the bearded man replies. ‘Want to see my stump?'

‘Totally,' Robertson says. The old woman in the rain bonnet scowls. The girl fits her earbuds back in while the drunk slumps into a vacated seat.

The bearded man unfastens clasps, removes his prosthesis and his stump sock.

‘Fuck me,' the drunk protests, ‘I don't want to see this.'

‘Don't look then,' Robertson says. The bearded man waves his stump at him. ‘Awesome,' the boy says. ‘Does it hurt?'

‘The skin toughens up after a while.'

‘Can I hold it?' He reaches for the prosthesis and the man hands it to him with the tennis shoe still on. The old woman gasps and scuttles to the front of the bus. The girl stares at the leg, apparently unimpressed. ‘Fuck me,' the drunk says again, covering his eyes. Robertson runs his hand over the prosthesis's metallic surfaces and grips the shoe, flexing the foot. ‘Epic,' he says.

‘You should probably give it back,' Milo suggests.

‘No rush,' the man says, scratching his stump.

‘What happened to your real leg?' Robertson asks without looking directly at the man.

‘Motorcycle accident. Never be in a hurry, nothing good ever happens in a hurry.'

Robertson holds the leg up like a telescope and peers into it. ‘This is totally boss. You don't have to cut your toenails.'

‘That's true.'

‘I always forget to cut my toenails and they rip my socks.'

‘Can you give him his leg back now?' Milo asks. ‘We're getting off at the next stop.'

‘Do you wear it all the time or do you hop around?'

‘I do a fair bit of hopping,' the man admits.

‘That is so totally badass. You must have amazing balance. I can't hop on one leg for long.'

‘It just takes practice. I still use crutches around the house.'

‘This is our stop,' Milo says, unsure if he should try to take the leg from Robertson, worrying that if he does it will cause an episode.

‘Thanks for showing it to me,' the boy says, handing back the leg.

‘Anytime.'

On the sidewalk, Robertson practises hopping on one leg. Not once has he asked where they are going, so engaged is he in the moment. Milo has never met anyone who doesn't want to know what's happening next. Rain splatters them again, soaking Robertson's T-shirt, but he continues to hop until they reach the hospital doors. ‘I'm not sick,' he says.

‘I know.'

‘I mean, I'm not hitting or shouting.'

‘I know that. We're not here because of you.'

‘Are
you
sick?'

‘No.'

‘Then why are we here? I don't want to go in, I'm not going in.' He starts running, leaping off the sidewalk to make room for a wheelchair. A car honks and a driver shouts, ‘Get off the fucking road!' Milo, with his foot still sore from the Nazi boot, chases after Robertson but the boy, fit from hours on the trampoline, moves at high speed. Pedestrians dodge him and turn around to watch the fleeing child, creating further obstacles for Milo who mutters, ‘Excuse me,' as he stumbles around them, only to discover the boy has disappeared from sight. ‘Has anybody seen a blond boy, eleven years old?' he asks as his feet slip in his rain-soaked sandals. ‘A boy,' he shouts. ‘Please, have you seen him? He was running.' No one cares. They keep their heads down in the rain, rushing for shelter. The sky darkens and rumbles and Milo remembers that Robertson is afraid of thunder. During storms he seeks out Tanis and stays close to her. She looks forward to bad weather for this reason. Where is she now as the storm rumbles? Is she imagining her son safe in isolation in a soundproof room? Milo has stolen her boy from her. The child she tried to keep safe, that she loves more than breathing – Milo has lost him. A feeling of defeat so massive, so crippling, descends upon him, forcing him to his knees as he calls the boy's name over and over. He looks in all directions but rain and nightfall make it impossible to see any distance. With each clash of thunder he imagines Robertson cringing, drenched, walking in circles. With no phone booth in sight, Milo shouts, ‘Police, would someone please call the police?' But there is no one; all have run from the relentless downpour. Milo removes his slippery sandals and scrambles barefoot first one way and then another, calling, until his feet and throat are raw. It's over, he can't do this anymore. No matter how good his intentions, he causes harm. Mrs. Cauldershot told him he was nothing but trouble. ‘Nothing but trouble,' he mutters.

‘What is?' Robertson asks.

‘Why did you take off?'

‘Why did you take your sandals off?'

‘My feet slip in them when they're wet.'

‘I don't like thunder.'

‘I know.' Again he resists the urge to grab the shivering child. ‘Where did you go?'

‘I'm not going to the hospital.'

‘I was taking you to the hospital to see your dad.'

‘My dad?'

‘Yes, he was in a car accident. He asked me to take you to see him. In the hospital.'

Robertson puts his hands on his hips. ‘Well, why didn't you say so?' Right away he is on the march, as though the world didn't almost come to an end.

formidable woman in plum occupies the chair beside Christopher's roommate's bed. ‘Your mother knows you're going to call her,' she says.

‘I didn't say I'd call her,' the sports fan replies. His
TV
blares some game or other.

‘She knows you will,' the woman in plum says.

‘I didn't say I would.'

‘She's waiting for you to call.'

‘I'm not calling her.'

Contrary to expectation, Robertson doesn't appear to be destroyed by the sight of his father, unconscious and in ruins. The boy doesn't try to wake him but examines the tubes leading in and out of him, and the contraptions on his legs. He draws the curtain the full length of the rod and says to the sports fan and his companion, ‘Can you please be quiet.' The woman in plum looks around the curtain at Milo.

‘Is he talking to us?'

‘He is. He's very sensitive to noise.'

‘My father's sleeping. Please turn off your television.'

‘Oh, come on, kid,' the sports fan says. ‘It's the finals.'

‘If you could just turn it down a bit,' Milo says.

‘It's too loud,' Robertson insists. ‘Do you have hearing problems?'

‘Do you have manners?' the woman in plum demands.

‘He's sincerely asking,' Milo explains. ‘He's very literal.'

‘He's very rude is what he is,' the woman says, jerking the curtain back. ‘Turn it down, Travis.'

‘It's the finals.'

‘Turn it down and call your mother.'

‘Robby,' Christopher murmurs. ‘Buddy, I'm so happy to see you.'

‘I'm happy to see you too,' Robertson says sombrely. ‘You've got a lot of things attached to you.'

‘Yes, quite a web, isn't it? That's why I got Milo to bring you here. Why are you all wet?'

‘It's raining.'

The woman in plum pushes her face around the curtain again. ‘Does he have to talk that loud?'

‘He does,' Christopher says, and then starts to laugh or cry, Milo isn't sure which. ‘It's so great to see you, Robby. I've missed you so much.'

‘I've missed you too,' Robertson says flatly, fondling the external fixator.

‘Be careful with that,' Milo cautions.

‘You're shivering,' Christopher says. ‘I have a jacket here somewhere, can you find it? They put my stuff that wasn't wrecked in a plastic bag and stuck it in the locker.'

Milo finds the bag and the jacket and fits it around Robertson who, it seems to him, has not once made eye contact with his father. ‘What were you doing in a car?' he asks. ‘We don't have a car anymore.'

‘I wasn't in a car,' Christopher says. ‘I was crossing the street. I got hit.'

‘Did you look before you crossed?'

‘No.'

‘That's bad.'

‘Yes.'

‘How long before you get better?'

‘Well, they say eight weeks before I can bear weight.' Christopher seems even frailer than he did yesterday and Milo can't imagine him finding the strength for rehab.

‘Travis, call your mother,' the woman in plum commands.

‘I'm not calling her. She
expects
me to call her. And anyway, I don't want to worry her. Did he score? Fuck, I missed it, he
scored
, shit. Fuck.'

‘It's rude to swear,' Robertson says.

‘If that kid doesn't shut the fuck up, I'm going to kill him.'

‘So are you coming home when you get better?' Robertson asks.

‘I have to see how it goes.'

‘Mum didn't tell me you were in the hospital.'

‘She didn't know,' Christopher says. ‘I didn't want her to worry. She knows now but you don't need to tell her you visited me. Let's make it our secret, then Milo can bring you another time.'

‘She won't let me go out with Milo. She thinks he's irresponsible and that he killed Billy.'

‘That he what?'

‘Killed Billy.'

‘The kid who body-slams you?'

Robertson nods. ‘She thinks Milo killed him wearing his Spider-Man mask but I know he's way too chicken.' Christopher stares questioningly at Milo, who attempts to shrug dismissively to suggest that he couldn't possibly have killed Billy.

‘How did he die?' Christopher asks.

‘He got in a fight with somebody in a Spider-Man mask and something in his brain exploded.'

‘Well,' Christopher says. ‘That's very disturbing.'

Still feeling Christopher staring at him, Milo tries to look preoccupied adjusting the blinds.

‘On the other hand, Robby, this might mean you can start carrying a cell again if Billy's not around to steal it. I miss being able to call you, bud.'

‘Somebody else will steal it.'

‘I didn't know Billy stole your cell,' Milo says.

‘Don't tell Mum. She thinks I lost it.'

‘We didn't tell Tanis,' Christopher explains, ‘because she'd expect justice in what would be a long-drawn-out affair, the only evidence being Robby's testimony, his word against Billy's. Hard to prove beyond a reasonable doubt.'

On the bus, the knowledge that Billy body-slammed Robertson and stole his cell reignites a fury in Milo that he must not reveal to the boy. He folds his arms tightly, restraining himself, while trying to think about other things like why sons avoid their mothers, lie to their mothers, for fear of worrying or disappointing them. Aren't their mothers disappointed and worried anyway? Isn't Tanis going out of her mind with worry despite her ignorance of the body-slamming and cellphone theft? Will the sports fan's lies stop his mother from fretting about him? Is not Vera starving herself with disappointment and worry despite her son's collusion and deceit? If Annie had lived, what lies would Milo have told her? He often lied to Gus to forestall interrogation.

One lie would make another necessary and soon he would lose track of the ­falsehoods. Inevitably Gus would note the discrepancies and display the ­anticipated disappointment and worry. Now he has no idea who Milo is and therefore no expectations of him. Milo cannot disappoint or worry. This should be liberating.

‘Is my dad going to die?'

‘Absolutely not,' Milo says, far from certain that this is true. He knew an actor called Naylor Wiens who fell off a horse while shooting a commercial for breath mints. Naylor had lied about being able to ride. He and an actress, wearing fur hats, galloped towards each other on white horses. When Naylor fell off, he broke many bones and was strung up in a web similar to Chris­topher's. Naylor caught pneumonia and died.

‘Maybe he'll get a badass fake leg like that guy's,' Robertson says. ‘That would be cool.'

‘No, he's going to keep both legs. So let's not tell your mum about the hospital visit, okay?'

‘He didn't look too good,' Robertson says.

‘I think that's inevitable, after a big accident like that. He'll get better.'

Only after they've been off the bus for ten minutes does Robertson ask where they are going.

‘To the centre. Remember, I got permission to take you to visit your dad on the condition that I bring you back.'

‘I'm not going back.'

Milo can see the boy bracing for a fight. ‘You have to. That was part of the deal. Otherwise your mum will find out and she won't let you see your dad.'

‘She can't stop me.'

‘Robertson, you have to go back or they'll report you missing. Just tonight, okay? Can you do this for me? Please?'

At first the boy only hastens his pace but, as Milo matches his stride, he begins to run. ‘You can't keep running away,' Milo calls after him, already short of breath and favouring his sore foot. ‘Stop!' he shouts, fearing he won't be able to keep up. ‘Please stop!' Robertson sprints onward and Milo, suddenly flushed with the adrenalin spawned by his terror of losing the boy again, races after him, tackling him. As they tumble to the sidewalk Milo uses his body to block Robertson's fall. Once safely on the ground his first instinct is to release the child to make sure he isn't hurt. But he knows if he loosens his grip he may be unable to restrain him. Instead he hangs on as the boy fights and squirms despite his arms being pinned to his sides. Milo endures kicks and head-butts but he will not let go. A man smoking a cigar, walking what looks like an oversized rat, stares at them. ‘Everything cool here?'

‘Totally cool,' Milo says. ‘It's just seizures.'

‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,' Robertson shouts.

Milo, still maintaining a vise grip, pulls them into a sitting position and leans against a fire hydrant. What a relief to be holding him finally, feeling the intractable life of him. He has only held Robertson when Tanis has asked him to lift the sleeping boy upstairs. Unconscious, the child feels soft and pliable. Conscious and infuriated, he feels wiry, a small mass of taut muscle.

‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,' Robertson shouts again but with less force.

A stooped woman, dragging a shopping buggy, eyes him and shakes her head.

And then it is just the two of them, the captor and the captured, testing each other's strength and will, waiting it out. Milo's arms burn and his legs cramp but when the boy, exhausted, tips his head back and rests it against his shoulder, Milo presses his cheek against his silky hair and rocks him gently. An unfamiliar feeling spreads through him; he can't find words to describe it, he who is uncomfortable talking about feelings. What he knows is that for once he is in the right place at the right time. He will stay here, holding firm, for as long as it takes.

‘Where have you been?' Pablo demands.

‘What's it to you where I've been?'

‘The
TV
people keep calling. And Wallace has gone
AWOL
and Vera won't come out of her room. She's starving herself, Milo. I tried cheese and crackers, a liverwurst sanny. Gussy and me even made cabbage rolls.'

‘So that's what stinks,' Milo says. His house no longer smells like his house, or Gus's, for that matter. ‘Where is he?'

‘In the basement. He likes it down there. Please, can you talk to Vera? I seen an old lady starve herself before.
Mi abuela
when she found out my father was screwing my cousin, and that my niece was a
puta
. She didn't even drink water. She got dehydrated and went into a coma. It don't take long, Milo.'

‘So let her die if she wants to. Why do we all have to
live
? I'm sick of this life-at-any-cost bullshit. If she wants to die, let her die.' Why he is presenting his callous face when moments ago, carrying the boy to safety, feeling his warm surrender, his trust, laying him gently on the bed while the yoga-panted women watched admiringly, he felt, well, happy.

‘She don't really want to die. It's just she's upset about Wallace.'

‘And Wallace is upset about Vera. Why can't everybody just
move on
?'