Milosz

by Cordelia Strube

  ‘Sure,’ Annie said, pulling her hand from his and rubbing it as though it hurt. When they were leaving, Milo asked the bug-eyed girl why she was banging her head.

  ‘To get the poison out.’

  Maybe that’s what Robertson tries to do, get the poison out. Milo wouldn’t mind cracking his own skull open, trashing those untrustworthy, destructive, remorseless, circular thoughts.

  One morning you’ll wake up and you’ll be old and you’ll have nothing, Zosia said.

  Cloud cover has muzzled the moon. Pablo plops into the other Muskoka chair. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  Milo can’t see him but hears him chewing gum.

  ‘You know what Mother Teresa says, Milo? She says, “Either all life matters or no life matters.”’

  ‘I have no idea what that means.’

  ‘Sarah told me she knew this guy who was a Tutsi in Rwanda when all the Hutus were hacking them with machetes. He saw chopped-up bodies all over the place. He saw a baby alive in its dead mama’s arms. The baby kept reaching for its mother’s breast because it didn’t know she was dead. The Tutsi left the baby there. He could have tried to save it but he knew it would cry and the Hutus would find them and cut them to bits. He said all his life he remembers that baby.’

  ‘Your point is.’

  ‘He said he envied bugs. He’d be lying in dirt someplace, hiding from Hutus, and he’d look at a bug and wish he was it, just some bug that nobody wanted to murder. Just some bug living a bug life.’

  ‘Your point is.’

  ‘The bug’s life matters too, Milo. All life matters or no life matters. You have to decide.’

  ‘Why do I have to decide?’

  ‘Everybody has to decide.’

  ‘What did you decide?’

  ‘All life matters.’

  ‘Is that why you sprayed poison on those fleas? Don’t the fleas matter?’

  ‘Fleas cause harm.’

  ‘And humans don’t?’

  ‘Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have killed the fleas. I’ll have to ask Sarah.’ Pablo chews. ‘Do you think your father was in a camp?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It would be hard to talk about though, wouldn’t it? I mean, who wants to tell their son what big boys did to him in a camp.’

  ‘Nobody did anything to anybody. He got on a boat and came to Canada.’

  ‘When? How old was he? I mean, they wouldn’t let some little kid on a boat. Maybe he was in a camp before he got on the boat. And maybe he got beat up, which is why he’s so mean. Sarah says people who persecute most likely grew up with abuse or neglect.’

  Gus’s only comment about the war was, It destroyed the killers and the killed, and the rest paid the price. End of story. What price? Milo never asked for fear of being scolded, and now his father only speaks Polish.

  ‘Sarah thinks Wallace is a super achiever because he’s so driven and walks all over people. She says he was called on in childhood to make up for some family shame or tragedy. She thinks Vera married the witless dingbat because she got pregnant. Wally was expected to be the little man, you know, like, dependable, totally different from his dad.’

  ‘What’s Sarah say about you?’

  ‘I’m a martyr. I go around doing everybody else’s work, trying to keep everybody happy. She says my parents gave up on their dreams for me so I gave up on myself. She says I have to work on believing in myself.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you going around doing everybody else’s work.’

  ‘Not now. But, like, before. In my family.’

  ‘If you did some work around here, I’d believe in you.’

  ‘You don’t take none of this seriously, Milo, because you’re an avoider. Avoiders are aware of problems but don’t talk about them. Avoiders grow up in judgmental families with weak emotional ties. That’s you all over.’

  ‘I’m going to bed. If you disturb me, you will be on the street tomorrow.’

  But of course he can’t sleep. He pounds his pillow and wrestles his blanket, wishing he could be a bug living a bug life.

  Sarah Moon Dancer said people who persecute grew up with abuse or neglect. Gus. But didn’t Milo attack smaller, weaker boys? Didn’t he just kill a child? What’s wrong with him? He rolls over again.

  How does it feel when your son, who you love more than breathing, tries to strangle you? Knocked unconscious by pharmaceuticals, how do you get up in the morning, knowing that he is locked up, far from you, alone, screaming at deaf walls? Knowing that when you arrive to pick him up, he won’t look for you, won’t reach for you, you could be anybody.

  Not so different, really, from Annie. Milo wanted her to reach for him once, just once. It didn’t seem to matter if he clung to her or watched TV or smashed his Star Wars figures. She wasn’t really there. Sometimes she’d move her mouth into a tremulous smile but Milo didn’t know what it meant. It didn’t mean I love you more than breathing. It didn’t mean come and let me hold you or we’re in this together. That’s what he wanted, an ally, but she couldn’t commit. Gus was in the room even when he wasn’t, watching them, judging them.

  Was it in the void of his mother’s love and the chill of his father’s scorn that Milo developed the practice of avoidance that has served him so well on his Earthwalk, being aware of problems but not talking about them? Avoiders grow up in judgmental families with weak emotional ties. That’s him all over. End of story.

  ’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 t
o 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.’

  ‘He’s not a freak. We’re the freaks.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Milo. Listen I … I don’t know what she’ll say, if she does call, or if she’ll even let me see him. But legally she can’t stop me. The thing is, I can’t move. Could you bring him here? If I give you cab fare and a letter, and whatever they need to grant permission, will you pick him up? I’m only asking because you keep hanging around.’

  As a coaster and avoider, Milo’s first instinct is to bolt. ‘Shouldn’t we wait and see if she calls?’

  Christopher looks at him with the same how-could-I-possibly-have-thought-you-were-anything-but-a-piece-of-shit expression so commonly used by Gus. ‘I forgot. You want to fuck my wife.’

  ‘Unreal,’ the sports fan says.

  ‘Vera?’ He knocks again. ‘Vera, Pablo says you haven’t eaten since breakfast. How about a spot of cheese with some sherry?’ Pablo and Gus are below stuffing tacos with whatever they can scrounge in the fridge. Gus became very excited when he discovered a cabbage, ‘Kapusta!’ he said and began slicing it thin and tossing it into the tacos along with leftover animal parts and grated cheese. Milo has never seen Gus eat a taco. Gus distrusts foreign food.

  When Vera doesn’t answer, Milo gently pushes the door open. A pile of darned socks, some of them Milo’s, sits on the dresser. She has fallen asleep in the chair, Annie’s chair, by the window. At Vera’s feet lie her glasses and the wedding photo of Milo’s parents. He sets both back on the dresser. He has avoided this room because the decor that Gus described as candy dish is oppressive. Did the floral wallpaper offer Annie solace or amplify her loneliness? The rest of the house, ruled by Gus, remained beige and brown, although he allowed her to paint the bathroom Citrus Zest Yellow. Milo remembers his mother’s excitement as she dipped her brush and began transforming the dull walls that had stood passively while she hemorrhaged babies. All would be better from now on, Milo felt. She died three weeks later, without finishing the baseboards. Gus painted them in the same demented yellow.