‘Stop making so much noise.’
Milo stumbles. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Tawny Farmer. Who are you?’ The voice sounds young.
‘I can’t see you.’
‘Stop jumping around and shouting.’
Is she a teenager? What’s she doing in the woods at this hour? ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I didn’t think anyone could hear me.’
‘The animals hear you. They need sleep.’
‘Of course. Sorry. Where are you?’
‘Right in front of you.’
Milo stares in front of him for several seconds before he can see the outline of a small person.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Tawny asks.
‘Umm, well, I’m part of a theatre group.’
‘Where’s the other part?’
‘I don’t know. I’m lost, actually.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘Yeah, well I was trying to make the best of it. I built a debris hut.’
‘A what?’
‘A shelter.’
Conversing with a faceless voice makes him gesture as though talking with the deaf. Never before has he understood the need to read facial expressions. Is this girl in cahoots with Gary and company? Is this some kind of prank? Are they about to descend upon the worm turd and steal what is left of his cash?
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
‘Getting you to stop making noise. Are you okay? You seem pretty freaked.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘If you say so.’
Twigs crunch as she starts to walk away, leaving him desolate in the maw of the muddy, buggy night. ‘Wait,’ he yelps. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To my trailer.’
‘Can I come?’
‘To my trailer?’
‘Yes. I won’t be any bother. I’m just … I’m just … ’ He feels sobs of humiliation pending. He is a quitter. He doesn’t deserve to survive. He sucks in air to prevent an avalanche of dejectedness. At least she can’t see him.
‘Come on.’ He feels her hand in his, firm and warm, taking charge. He follows like a child.
Kerosene lamps illuminate the small trailer. Stuffed animals occupy the pullout bed. Spread across the table are books: Relationships for Dummies, Dating for Dummies and Why He Isn’t Calling You Back. Dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, Tawny looks overweight and homely, despite her long, shiny black hair. Milo would like to shield her from the books, assure her that males are taken in by the packaging and that the how-to pulp won’t help her, that one day the right guy will come along and see beyond the packaging. Milo can’t say this because he doesn’t believe it. She will go on blaming herself for being unable to become something she is not. She will endure endless diets, bad jokes and fucks in her search for love and approval.
‘Is this part of the reservation?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. It was my dad’s workshop. He carved stuff for the cottagers. Stuff to put in their gardens. And driveways. They like having their names carved on signs.’
‘Is he no longer with us?’
‘Snowmobile accident.’
‘I’m so sorry. Is your mother alive?’
‘I guess you could call it that. What about your parents?’
‘My mother’s dead and I thought my father was, but now some people think they saw him on a reality show. I suspect they’re mistaken.’
‘You don’t want him to be alive?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s an asshole.’
Tawny sits on the pullout bed. ‘I thought my dad was an asshole but then he died and all I could remember were the nice things about him.’
‘I don’t have that problem.’
‘You just aren’t remembering hard enough. Stop thinking about all the bad things all the time. I’m trying to do that with my mom before she’s dead. Like, not see all the bad things all the time.’
‘Is she ill?’
‘No, but everybody dies. That’s what’s so dumb about humans. We pretend we’re not going to die. Animals don’t do that. If people told me my dad was on a reality show I’d go looking for him so I wouldn’t spend all day wondering if he was dead or not. I’d sleep better.’
‘I sleep better thinking he’s dead.’
‘Not me, I miss my dad. He used to take me on his snowmobile. I’d hold on tight and feel totally safe. I never feel that anymore.’
Milo tries to remember if he ever felt totally safe with his father. Maybe in the truck while Gus focused on the road, both hands firmly on the wheel. ‘I’ve been feeling guilty about hating him,’ he admits.
Tawny passes him a bag of Oreos. ‘Maybe unconsciously you knew he wasn’t dead. Like, you could feel him around you. I don’t feel my dad. He’s definitely dead. You’re lucky. ‘ She bites an Oreo. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just hasn’t worked out.’
‘What do the girlfriends say when they ditch you?’
‘The last one said I coast.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘I think she just got tired of me. I think she wanted someone with ambition.’
‘You don’t have ambition?’
‘Why should I when we’re all dying anyway?’
‘To make things better for future generations.’
He has read that the People of the First Nations look out for future generations. Unlike the white-asses who only look out for Number One. ‘Do you go to school?’ he asks.
‘I’m going to be a lawyer. I’m going to fight for Native rights. What’s it like in Toronto?’
‘Busy. Polluted. It’s nicer up here.’
‘Guess that’s why you were screaming to get out.’ She picks up a newspaper. ‘What sign are you?’
‘Virgo.’
‘Something about you is commanding attention these days. You have what is called presence. When you walk into a room, heads will turn. You can join any conversation effortlessly and quickly lead the discussion. Be prepared to be the life of the party.’
‘Can’t wait.’
‘Do you want to sleep?’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’ She pats the bed. ‘I have to study anyway.’ She pulls a backpack from under the bed and starts spreading textbooks out on the table. ‘I need the chair,’ she says.
The prospect of horizontal dozing on a soft, dry surface entices him. He rolls onto the bed trying to think of something he can offer in return for her kindness. ‘Tawny?’
Already she has the books open, pen ready, revealing the lawyer in her.
‘Don’t try too hard with the guys,’ he says. ‘They don’t like it when you try too hard. They’re turned on when you don’t seem to care.’
‘That’s twisted.’
‘It is.’
She looks back at her books while he coasts into oblivion.
Banging on the trailer wakes him. ‘Worm turd, you in there?’
Tawny pushes the door open. ‘Stop making so much noise.’
‘Is he in there?’
‘Who?’
‘The actor.’
‘What actor?’
Milo drops to the floor by the bed.
‘I seen him!’ Elvis squeals, rapping his knuckles on the window. ‘What you hiding him for, Tawny? Did you get lucky?’
‘Get out here, boy,’ Gary orders. ‘You’ve got people looking for you.’
‘What people?’ Tawny demands.
‘It’s all right, Tawny,’ Milo says, realizing this could be the moment he has been waiting for. Is it not possible that his infernal night has been a trial by fire? That once again he will receive a hero’s welcome? Geon will ask to speak to him personally on his cell, commend him on his innovation and fortitude and award him the lead. Milo scribbles his address and phone number on a slip of paper and hands it to Tawny. ‘If you ever make it to the Big Smoke, give me a call.’
The S
UV jerks up a dirt road. Elvis puts his arm around him. ‘Did you get any pussy?’
‘Are you crazy? She’s just a child.’
‘Elvis has dirty dreams about her,’ Elton says.
‘Where are we going?’ Milo asks.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ Gary replies.
‘So no petting or nothing?’ Elvis asks.
‘Nothing. Leave her alone. She’s a nice girl.’
‘Her dad was a prick,’ Elvis says.
‘Used to throw beer bottles at her,’ Elton adds. ‘So Elvis wants to save her but she’s not too interested.’
‘She just doesn’t know me good enough yet.’
‘Where are we going?’ Milo repeats. ‘Where are the other actors?’
‘They left,’ Elvis says.
‘Left? Where did they go?’
Elvis shrugs.
‘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.
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