Milosz

by Cordelia Strube

  ‘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?’

  Fennel appears nonplussed, as though she can’t believe she has to explain it to him.

  ‘Maybe nobody loved him,’ Pablo offers. ‘And he loved nobody.’

  ‘His brother loved him,’ Milo says.

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ Fennel says. ‘If he loved him, no way would he have left him to rot in the Yellow House.’

  Vera spoons overcooked Brussels sprouts onto their plates. ‘Would you care for more roast, Fennel?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure? Don’t be shy. I like a girl who enjoys her meat.’

  ‘I’ll have more,’ Milo says, even though, after Fennel’s serving, he feels as though he has swallowed a cow.

  ‘I like a man with an appetite.’

  ‘Maybe his brother loved him,’ Pablo suggests, ‘but he couldn’t express it. Sarah Moon Dancer says we have to re-establish boundaries and communication pathways with our families.’

  ‘Were you over at that crazy bitch’s again?’ Wallace says.

  ‘I had to help her with her wind chimes.’

  ‘No way do you go over there, you read me? She owes me three hundred bucks.’

  ‘Who’s Sarah Moon Dancer?’ Fennel asks.

  ‘Some psycho bitch.’

  ‘She has a healing circle,’ Pablo says. ‘You don’t know how to heal, Wallace, that’s why you’re so angry all the time. Maybe if you let Sarah help you on your Earthwalk you would learn to embrace other people’s gifts.’

  ‘Who’s for more pud?’ Vera dumps shrivelled Yorkshire puddings onto plates. ‘I do so enjoy a party. What about dancing? Pablo was playing something Latino earlier. I like a bit of rumba.’

  Milo has never really understood drunkenness because at the end you’re back where you started, only it’s worse. The three of them mambo and samba and God knows what. Milo repeatedly turns the music down so as not to disturb Tanis and Robertson. Wallace, in another gin-induced stupor, has been relegated to kitchen clean-up. With dishrag in hand he watches forlornly as Fennel, Vera and Pablo gyrate and shake. Milo, his cold-sober assistant, pulls him back into the kitchen.

  ‘What is it with Pablo and women?’ Wallace asks.

  ‘Muscles.’

  ‘Besides that.’

  ‘No brains.’

  ‘Nah, he’s got some fucking animal thing going. Women are always looking at him.’ He scrubs ferociously at the roasting pan. ‘She hasn’t even looked at me once, did you notice that? She’s supposed to be my girlfriend and she hasn’t even fucking looked at me once.’

  ‘Lots of girlfriends don’t look at their boyfriends.’

  ‘Yeah, but we’re supposed to be acting. I’m paying her to be my girlfriend.’

  ‘Maybe avoiding eye contact is part of the act. We didn’t give her specific instructions.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me. She wants to fuck that sleazy Mexican.’

  Milo scrapes leftovers into the compost bin. ‘I don’t think Vera’s noticed.’

  Wallace pours himself a sherry.

  ‘Maybe you should lay off the hooch,’ Milo suggests.

  Vera pops her head in. ‘
How’s everything? A bit of a drudge, isn’t it? Sorry about that. Don’t worry about the tins, I’ll do them in the morning. I think I need a bit of air, actually, not feeling quite myself.’ She stumbles slightly. Milo grabs her elbow and escorts her to a Muskoka chair where she passes out.

  ‘Wallace?’ Milo shouts, fearing another dead body. ‘Wallace, come here, quick!’ He grabs Vera’s bony wrist, feeling for a pulse. Wallace teeters on the porch.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I think she might need medical attention.’

  ‘Nah, don’t sweat it. She always nods off. That’s why she loses her glasses. They slide off.’

  ‘I can’t feel a pulse.’

  ‘Forget about it.’ Wallace returns to kitchen duty. Milo pats Vera’s face. She swats at his hands without opening her eyes.

  Robertson emerges from the darkness, barefoot in his pyjamas. ‘She looks dead.’

  ‘She isn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She just slapped me.’

  ‘That was before. Maybe she’s dead now.’

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s just sleeping. Where’s your mum?’

  ‘In bed. She took one of my pills to help her sleep. She pretends they’re for me but really they’re for her.’

  ‘You took one though, too, didn’t you?’

  ‘I spit it out. Why are you people making so much noise? If my father was here he’d be steamed.’

  ‘It’s almost over. It was a dinner party for Wallace.’

  ‘Is it his birthday?’

  ‘No. Listen, I’ve still got the hamster. I talked to your class about how Puffy needs sleep and quiet during the day. They agreed to let me keep him.’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Her. If your mum doesn’t want you to have it, I could keep her and you could visit her.’

  Even in the poor light Milo can see that relief is not brightening Robert­son’s face. He is blinking repeatedly and swaying slightly. ‘Do they still think I took her?’ he asks.

  ‘Not at all, I told them I took her. They don’t even know you’re involved, which you aren’t. You had nothing to do with it. So you can go to school tomorrow like it’s any other day.’