Milosz

by Cordelia Strube

  ‘This is fine.’

  ‘Okay, well, just say the word if you want another one.’

  ‘Sit down, Milo.’

  He does. Be decisive and dynamic and take full advantage of the new opportunities coming your way.

  She points to the newspaper. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, just a bit about another suicide bomber. A woman this time. She only managed to blow up twelve people. Wonder if this means they’ll give her a hard time in the afterlife.’ Why is he babbling? Zosia’s skin seems almost translucent. Is all the blood going to the baby? He read somewhere that the fetus’s needs override the mother’s, draining the life out of her.

  ‘You had a haircut,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, well, it was for a part.’

  ‘What kind of part has hair like that?’

  ‘A Nazi guard. It was a small part, a glorified extra really.’

  ‘Good for you.’ She sips what’s left of her coffee. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘Is it a high-risk pregnancy?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘The ultrasound.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘They don’t do ultrasounds on normal babies, do they?’

  ‘Of course. Between five and six months it’s routine.’

  What a magnificent word, routine. Milo grips the table, steadying himself as relief sloshes through him.

  ‘Is that what you wanted to talk about?’ she asks.

  Wait a minute. Routine between five and six months and she didn’t con­tact him till the seventh? Which means she took a month to think about it. ‘No, I mean, yeah, I was just … worried.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She always says this, the woman who watched her father being dragged off to Siberia. ‘Milo, I shouldn’t have phoned you. It was a mistake. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘I want to worry,’ he blurts. ‘I mean, I want to be part of its life.’

  ‘Why?’

  This hits below the ribs. Why? ‘Because … because it needs me and because … I have no life.’

  ‘It doesn’t need you, and you have much life. Always Canadians think they have no life. They should stop watching TV and look around. There is much life here.’

  ‘Are you going back? How’s your mother?’

  ‘Sick. And my sister can’t help. She wanted to be Britney Spears. Now, if she is alive, she is a whore in Western Europe.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, that’s … that’s terrible, I mean how … ?’

  ‘They inject them with heroin. Drug addicts don’t care what perverts do to them. If drug traffickers get caught, they serve years in prison. Human traffickers get months. Better to risk small time in prison playing the talent scout with stupid girls.’

  ‘How horrible.’ Can he really think of nothing more helpful to say?

  ‘She was always stupid, always singing, looking in mirrors. But my mother doesn’t want to live anymore. I’m going back but I can’t help. She wants her baby daughter.’

  ‘Aren’t the police involved?’

  Zosia snorts. ‘It’s not like TV, Milo. They don’t catch the bad guys.’

  ‘What about the fetus? Isn’t plane travel dangerous for it?’

  ‘I must go back now because I don’t want her born there. It’s no place for a young girl.’

  ‘It’s a girl?’ Suddenly suffused with lightness, Milo sits erect. The creature has a face now, a mini Zosia, full of wit and wisdom, piss and vinegar.

  ‘I should go,’ she says.

  And out the phrase pops, not tugged gracefully across the sky by a plane but sputtered from lips that have trouble forming the words. ‘Zosia, will you … marry me?’

  ‘Not a good idea.’

  ‘Why not? She’ll be safe then. They’ll have to let you back here. Divorce me later if you want.’

  A bald man at the next table, clutching a Cucina Italiana magazine, complains to a hairy man about his old pot lights leaving holes that have to be drywalled to fit his new, smaller pot lights.

  ‘I don’t believe in marriage,’ Zosia says.

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Somebody always loses.’

  ‘I agree. I think it’s an institution that has served its purpose. Now that we don’t need Ma and Pa working together to keep the farm going, who needs it? But the fact is it would make you Canadian. And her Canadian.’ Referring to ‘her’ causes a light-headedness that he tries to stabilize with a slug of caffeine. Zosia sighs as only a European can, a sigh weary from thousands of years of turf wars, slaughter and strife.

  ‘We’d have to live together for two years,’ she says.

  Already he can feel the ground steadying beneath him. ‘That’s no problem. I have a house.’ He doesn’t tell her it’s full of squatters.

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Sure it is, unless we complicate it. My friend Robertson doesn’t like it when things get too complicated and I agree with him.’

  ‘Did you build towers with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘It’s simple,’ Milo says, trying to believe it is. ‘We download a licence, get married at city hall. You go to Latvia and see your mum then come back and have the baby. We play house for two years then you can leave.’ He adds the can, hoping to suggest that she might also stay. Not that he wants this, he doesn’t think, having never understood how two people can live in each other’s faces and beds for years on end.

  ‘I would need an agreement on paper. I would want sole custody of the child.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, although he isn’t sure about this either. Everything will work out for the best if you believe in yourself and if you believe that the Universe wants you to succeed.

  ‘But don’t most people usually share custody?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m not most people.’

  ‘Right. Well, anyway, we don’t have to decide that now, do we?’

  ‘Yes. We do. No loose ends.’

  He can agree then fight her later. Anyway, once she sees what an über-dad he is, she’ll change her mind. ‘Fine,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t want to sleep with you.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Zosia stands. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Can I walk you somewhere?’

  ‘No. I’ll call you.’

  And she’s gone. The bald man says to the hairy man, ‘The problem is not everybody wants the same thing. Everybody has to want the same thing.’

  The pet store has the fetid smell of caged and dejected animals. Behind dirty glass they lie limp or display obsessive-compulsive behaviour. A puppy chews on its paw, a monkey swings its head, a parrot plucks its feathers. ‘You should try talking to it,’ Milo tells the dull-eyed sales clerk.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Parrots pluck their feathers when they’re stressed. They need attention. You should try talking to it. They enjoy Thai food, particularly lemon grass.’

  The kid checks his cell.

  ‘Do you have any rabbits?’

  ‘Rabbits?’ The kid squints as though trying to remember what a rabbit is. ‘There might be one left, at the back.’

  Milo walks down the aisle crowded with pet clutter until he sees the rabbit behind dirty glass. It doesn’t wiggle its nose or twitch its ears. It sits with empty eyes, its ears flattened against its skull. Milo returns to the sales clerk.

  ‘What happened to the other rabbits?’

  ‘What rabbits?’

  ‘You said there was only one left. What happened to the others?’

  ‘Guess they got sold.’

  ‘Does that mean this one’s sick?’

  ‘Why would it be sick?’

  ‘It looks sick.’

  ‘No way.’ The sales clerk slouches down the aisle with Milo trailing him and stares at the rabbit. ‘It looks all right.’

  ‘It’s not moving. It’s not twitching its nose or ears, or even its tail.’
/>   ‘It’s resting.’

  ‘Its eyes are open.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Do they rest with their eyes open?’

  ‘Cats rest with their eyes open.’

  Milo tries to remember if cats rest with their eyes open. A cat-loving ex-girlfriend – named Cat – had cats that lay around staring. He snapped his fingers at them in an effort to make them blink. He taps the glass, hoping for a response from the rabbit. ‘I’ve always wanted a rabbit.’

  ‘Looks like today’s your lucky day.’ The kid checks his cell again.

  ‘I always wanted one that looked like Peter Rabbit.’ The resting rabbit is primarily white with black patches.

  ‘Peter who?’

  ‘How much is it?’

  The kid points to $29.99 scrawled in marker on the glass. ‘It’s on special.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘What is that?’ Pablo asks.

  Milo sits with the boxed rabbit on his lap. He has lifted one cardboard flap, enabling the rabbit to adjust to the unfamiliar smells and lighting. On the walk home the rabbit barely moved in the box and Milo is still somewhat concerned that it might be terminally ill. The sales clerk said if it died in a week he could return it and get a credit. ‘Sometimes pets expire and we don’t know why. Make sure you give it water or it’ll dehydrate.’ He tried to sell Milo a cage but Milo has no intention of caging the rabbit. Dean Blinky’s sister let Hoppy hop all over the house except at night when she put it in a pen built by Mr. Blinky. She and Dean were expected to pick up Hoppy’s turds but Dean inevitably found excuses to avoid this task. Milo thought the little round turds remarkably clean and neat, and won’t mind picking up after Patches. This is the only name he can think of so far.

  ‘So what’s in the box, Mee-wosh?’ Pablo persists.

  ‘Stop calling me that.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Bug off. It’s a rabbit.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘To, like, eat?’

  ‘God no, to hold, to love.’

  ‘To love?’ Pablo starts to giggle. ‘You mean, like, a rabbit girlfriend? Your own personal bunny?’ Pablo, wildly amused by his own wit, chuckles so hard he tumbles on the couch, gripping his sides.

  ‘Quit it,’ Milo says. ‘You’re bumping the box,’

  ‘Sorry, so sorry.’ He dons a serious face. ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Forget it. If you push your big mug in there, you’ll scare him. Or her.’ He forgot to ask if it was a boy or a girl.

  ‘Why’d you get a rabbit?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted one.’ As a child, even though Milo never mentioned the rabbit again, he fantasized about bringing one home and witnessing his father’s reaction. ‘Is Gus on the stationary bike?’ he asks. The old man has been using it regularly, no doubt increasing his life span by decades.

  ‘No, he went with Robertson and Wallace to buy more patio stones.’

  ‘You mean they just got in the truck and went? Tanis said it was okay?’

  ‘Tanis is at the hospital with Christopher.’

  Why does everything run smoothly when Milo is not around? It’s as though he is the problem.

  ‘What did Zosia say?’ Pablo asks.

  ‘What do you mean, “what did Zosia say”?’

  ‘No way would I go to that Magic Bean joint. What a rip-off.’ He kicks off his boots and peels off his socks. ‘So, is it your baby?’

  ‘None of your fucking business.’

  ‘Maria wants babies. I don’t mind. I like bambinos.’

  ‘You don’t have a job, you dumbass, how are you supposed to afford ­bambinos?’

  ‘Gus and me are going into business.’ Pablo tosses his socks on the floor. ‘Friendly Handy Men.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since we talked about it. Cash only. Wallace already has a couple of jobs lined up. He’ll help us with his truck if he gets a cut. And you could work with us too, Mee-wosh, be our legit front man and make nice with the customers.’

  ‘Am I missing something here? You don’t speak Polish. How can you go into business with someone who doesn’t speak your language?’

  ‘It’s not about language.’

  ‘What’s it about then, asshole?’

  ‘Action talks larger than words. Vera says that. You should talk less and act more, Mee-wosh.’

  ‘Excuse me, but did you not, days ago, accuse me of being Action Man? Did you not tell me to chill?’

  ‘That was before.’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before you went psycho on the TV show.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what this is about.’ He knows the musketeers are peeved because they will not be on television. The rabbit springs out of the box and bolts from the room.

  ‘Coño,’ Pablo says. They both chase after it but it has vanished. ‘It must be really scared,’ Pablo observes.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

  Tawny pads in, books in hand. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Milo bought a rabbit and it escaped.’

  ‘A rabbit?’

  ‘Yes,’ Milo says, ‘it’s a small animal that hops and has floppy ears.’

  ‘Are you going to roast it on a spit? That’s really good.’

  ‘Nobody’s roasting the rabbit, okay? The rabbit is a pet.’

  ‘It’s Milo’s personal bunny,’ Pablo explains, collapsing into giggles again.

  ‘This is serious,’ Milo says. ‘I mean, what if it doesn’t come out and gets dehydrated and expires?’

  Vera stomps downstairs. ‘What’s all this then?’

  ‘Milo bought a rabbit and it escaped,’ Tawny says.

  ‘A rabbit? Is Gus putting it in a stew?’

  ‘It’s not to eat, it’s a pet.’

  ‘Mee-wosh’s personal bunny,’ Pablo says, convulsing on the couch.

  ‘Goodness gracious. Well, it won’t come out with all this commotion about.’

  ‘Exactly. Quiet,’ Milo commands but, of course, no one pays him any attention. Tawny rummages in the fridge and Pablo, whose cell is now working, takes a call from commando Maria.

  ‘Everybody vacate the main floor,’ Milo orders, shoving Pablo out the door.

  ‘Has anybody seen Wally?’ Vera asks.

  ‘I’ll call you when he gets back. Go up and rest.’

  ‘I don’t need to rest, Milo. I need a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Later. I’ll bring it up.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk to her like that,’ Tawny says. ‘White-asses don’t respect their elders.’

  ‘How ’bout you take your books upstairs and improve your mind?’

  ‘Can I eat these?’ she holds up cheese slices. ‘I like peeling off the plastic.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Finally he is alone, listening for rabbit rustlings. He takes a carrot from the fridge and lies on the floor to be eye level with the rabbit. If he remains still, it might become curious about the carrot and venture out for a sniff. It has probably never seen a carrot, only little brown pellets of dried rabbit food. Milo places the carrot within arm’s reach. Beatrix Potter based Peter Rabbit on a real rabbit, which suggests that rabbits do, in fact, have curiosity, although this one’s probably less inclined to take chances having spent its life behind dirty glass.

  When he hears the truck in the driveway he jumps up to stop them from barging in and terrorizing Patches further. ‘You can’t come in,’ he tells them.

  ‘Why the fuck not?’ Wallace demands.

  ‘There’s a rabbit loose in the house.’

  ‘A rabbit?’ Robertson asks.

  ‘Is it for some weird Pollack dish?’

  ‘It’s a pet.’

  ‘Can I see it?’ Robertson asks.

  ‘When I find it. It’s scared. Pablo was doing his usual blabbing and bouncing around and it scared the rabbit.’

  ‘Wszystko dobrze?’ Gus says.

  ‘I need a beer, man,’ Wallace says. ‘Bring u
s out some beers.’

  Milo moves stealthily into the kitchen to get the beers but, of course, has to dig around in the fridge crammed with animal parts.

  ‘Okay?’ Gus asks, startling him.

  ‘Okay, just please, go back outside.’

  ‘Po co?’

  ‘Oh, for chrissake, I don’t speak Polski, you know that.’

  ‘Niewazne.’ Gus starts to go back out.

  ‘Wait, take the beers.’ He finds a couple and tries to hand them to Gus but the old man is looking past him at the darting rabbit.

  ‘Ale cudo!,’ he says, ‘Królik,’ and walks quietly into the living room, whistling softly and calling, ‘Truś, truś.’ He picks up the carrot then kneels to look under the couch, still whistling and making kissing noises. Milo has never heard him make such sounds. Gus lies on his side in front of the couch, sliding his hand holding the carrot under it. ‘Truś, truś.’ Completely focused, he looks as though he could maintain this position for hours. Milo takes the beers out to Wallace. ‘He’s seen it,’ he says. ‘Now we just have to wait and see what happens. Don’t make any noise.’

  ‘How hard is it to find a fucking rabbit?’

  Back inside, on his hands and knees behind the La-Z-Boy, Gus talks more softly than Milo has ever heard him speak. ‘Cicho maluti, cicho,’ he says. Milo kneels on the floor, ready to play goalie should the rabbit make a run for it. ‘Truś, truś. Cicho maluti, cicho.’ Gus starts humming one of his Polish tunes and Milo, sleep-deprived, becomes drowsy. ‘Sing to me, Daddy,’ he’d say after his mother died, in an attempt to postpone the dreaded bedtime moment when his father would leave him alone with his terrors. ‘Mummy used to sing to me.’

  ‘I don’t sing.’ Gus ruffled Milo’s hair but didn’t kiss him, or make kissing noises. ‘Big boys don’t need songs,’ he said. ‘Go to sleep.’

  ‘Piękne, kurwa,’ Gus says, gently pulling the rabbit from behind the La-Z-Boy and settling it on his lap. He strokes the bunny’s ears and continues to talk to it with a tenderness Milo has never witnessed, or felt.

  He calls her even though he knows he shouldn’t. ‘Milo.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I bought a rabbit.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I thought it might make a good companion for the baby.’

  She says nothing, of course.

  ‘Zosia.’