Unexpectedly, Milo

by Matthew Dicks

  Even if one existed, what kind of league would hold its fights at ten in the morning?

  Milo was sure that he was missing something. He desperately wanted to discuss the matter with someone like Edith Marchand, or perhaps Andy. These were people who might see or think of something that he was overlooking. And though he didn’t want to violate Freckles’s privacy any more than necessary, he needed to speak to someone who he could trust.

  Sadly, Christine did not currently occupy this short list.

  chapter 13

  Milo couldn’t remember the last time he heard Edith Marchand come close to swearing, so when she told him to “watch the goddamn tapes!” he decided to take her advice seriously. After finishing his morning visit with Mr. Coger, Milo had spent the afternoon with Edith, a rare Sunday visit. Edith was hosting a book club that evening and had asked Milo to come over and rake out the rug (a phrase he always found to be a little dirty) and discuss the book with her prior to her friends’ arrival. Though Edith Marchand was a confident and intelligent woman, the members of her monthly book club included a retired high school English teacher, a University of Connecticut biophysicist, and a poet of some local renown, so she constantly worried about the impression that she might make on them during the discussion. In order to compensate, Milo and Edith had an arrangement in which he would read the assigned book and provide a warm-up discussion for her, during which she could try out observations and criticisms for the first time and co-opt some of Milo’s as well.

  The biophysicist had chosen this month’s book, and though Milo didn’t usually mind reading the chosen texts, the months in which the biophysicist chose the book tended to be the exception. In the past, the guy had forced the group to read Finnegan’s Wake, To the Lighthouse, and The House of Mirth, as well as this month’s gem, José Saramago’s Blindness, which in Milo’s estimation was the single most depressing book ever published. Had he not liked Edith Marchand as much as he did, Milo would’ve stopped reading the book by the eighth chapter and faked his way through their discussion.

  But out of friendship and obligation, he had finished reading the book three nights ago, and was pleased to hear that Edith despised the book as much as he. In fact, according to her, the book had made her cry on several occasions. Though Milo hadn’t come close to tears, he wasn’t surprised at Edith’s admission. Based on the horrific way that Saramago treated his characters, he wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the author despised each and every one of them.

  After discussing the book with her for nearly an hour (to his credit, the biophysicist at least chose books that promoted conversation), Milo rose to rake out the shag and Edith finally asked about Christine and then Freckles. Though Milo had wanted to bring up these topics as soon as he entered the house, he knew that Edith would eventually find time for his concerns.

  “So she doesn’t want to go back to therapy?” Edith asked as Milo finished raking under the final chair.

  “I’m not sure. The message that she left on my machine last night was strange. She asked if I thought that therapy was still a good idea. Then she asked if I’d like to have coffee on Wednesday morning, before she goes to work and before we see the doctor. Then she reminded me not to be late for our appointment.”

  “Was that it?”

  “Yeah. She asked me to call back, but I had to leave early this morning, so I’ll call her back tonight. What could she be thinking?”

  “I have no idea, Milo,” Edith said. “But Ed Marchand used to say that there are no incomprehensible women. Only ignorant men.”

  “Thanks, Edith. That’s really helpful.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me. I have no idea what your wife is thinking. I’ve never even met the girl. But here’s what I do know: You’d better find out what’s wrong. That girl used to adore you, but from what you tell me, that’s no longer the case. You need to know why. I can’t imagine why that fool doctor hasn’t asked her that question yet.”

  Edith had a point. Though Milo knew that Christine was unhappy and that the two of them were struggling to communicate (and seemed to have run out of things to say to each other), he had no idea what had precipitated the change in their relationship and, more specifically, what had caused Christine’s feelings to change so dramatically. “Maybe Dr. Teagan asked her the question when they were alone.”

  “Maybe Dr. Teagan should pass that information on to you, then, because it seems to me that it would be more helpful in your hands than his. Don’t you think?”

  Milo thought Edith was right, but he also wondered how much he cared anymore. Did he want to repair his marriage because of a love he had for Christine or because of a desire to return to the convenience and steadiness of the relationship? He had begun to wonder.

  Edith finished her last sip of tea, and when Milo didn’t respond, she continued. “Now, what about that girl on the videotape? Have you found her yet?”

  Milo related the events of the previous evening pertaining to his search, including his fruitless attempts at researching Freckles’s identity. He added in the new information that he had gathered since he had last seen Edith, including the name of Freckles’s middle school and her mysterious morning fight, but he left out the part about Sherry Ferroni and cruelty in Mrs. Walker’s language arts class.

  He thought that Freckles would’ve wanted it that way.

  “Milo, why are you fooling around with the computer? Watch the goddamn tapes!”

  “Yeah, I know. But I thought it might be pretty easy to find some information on her dead friend, and from there, I thought I might be able to find her.”

  “You don’t know if those tapes are three weeks old or three years old. You could be watching video from ten years ago, right? What if this girl’s friend died in 1998? Will you still be able to find her obituary on the Internet?”

  “Probably not, but the tapes don’t look that old. And the camera is in good condition. In fact, I might be able to figure out the year that the camera was sold, since the models change almost every year. That might give me an idea about how old the …”

  “Milo, just watch the goddamn tapes. Save all this other nonsense for later. If she doesn’t say her name by the end of the last tape, then you can start looking on the Internet.”

  Edith’s advice made sense, but part of Milo had hoped to discover Freckles’s identity by watching as little of the tapes as possible. The footage was becoming more personal with each recorded minute, especially since she had decided to keep the recordings for herself. This decision, combined with her growing comfort with the camera, had led to her revelation about Sherry Ferroni and her act of childhood cruelty. Milo was hoping to avoid any more personal moments like these, out of respect for Freckles’s privacy, but Edith was probably right. If he wanted to return the camera and the tapes to their owner, his best chance would be to finish watching the tapes.

  Besides, a part of Milo found comfort in Freckles’s admissions of imperfections. He wished that he had the courage to do the same.

  “You’re right, Edith. I’ll go home and watch the tapes tonight.”

  “Good. And call that wife of yours too. Don’t forget that she’s more important than your video girl, okay?”

  He wondered if this was still true but said, “Of course. Do you think I’m losing my mind?”

  “No. But sometimes I wonder if you don’t have a crush on this girl, Milo. You’ve got a look in your eye when you talk about her that I don’t much like.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know the girl. How could I have feelings for a complete stranger?”

  “I don’t know, but just keep it that way. At least until you have this Christine business settled, one way or the other. Okay, my boy?”

  Milo smiled. “You bet. Now tell me: Do you feel ready for your book club tonight?”

  “As ready as I can be. They all speak so fast, and Charles makes me so nervous. Just stares at me with a blank face when I’m speaking. I can’t tell what
he’s thinking. I wish I were twenty years younger. My mind was so much sharper back then.”

  “Edith, you’re smarter than people half your age.”

  “That’s nice to say, but you know it isn’t true; otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Don’t get old, Milo. It’s not nice. Old age is the last dirty trick.”

  Milo returned the rake to the closet and left as Edith was starting to roll curlers in her gray hair. Her notebook was propped against the mirror, and she was frantically reviewing her notes from their book discussion as she worked. She had more than three hours before her guests arrived, but she was still worried that there wouldn’t be enough time to pull herself together.

  Of all his clients, Milo loved Edith Marchand the most.

  The idea to surprise Christine with flowers occurred to Milo as he exited Route 9 in Newington on his way home. Though “99 Luftballons” had begun to consume his thoughts during his visit with Edith, the sign for Central Connecticut State University, surrounded by flowers that had just begun to bloom, had given Milo the idea to surprise his wife with a bouquet. Though there was an outside chance that the gesture might be perceived as overkill, he thought it was more likely that Christine would receive the flowers with excitement and appreciation. It had been at least a year, and probably more, since Milo had sent roses to his wife, and perhaps this was the kind of gesture that Dr. Teagan had meant when he suggested that they begin dating.

  His plan was to purchase flowers and drive them over to the house, handing them off in person on the front stoop or leaving them on the dining room table for his wife to find when she arrived home. Christine was often volunteering with the Red Cross on the weekend, so many Sunday afternoons were spent in gymnasiums, malls, and town halls, ensuring that these events went off without a hitch. Whether or not she was home didn’t matter much to Milo, since the flowers would be a surprise either way.

  Even though Milo had moved out of the house, he had kept his house key on his key ring, so he let himself in after pulling into the driveway and finding it void of automobiles. Visiting his house for the first time since the separation, he couldn’t help but think about all that he might lose if he and Christine were unable to settle their differences and resume their marriage as previously scheduled. The house, a spacious ranch on the corner of Wilson and Taft, had required a great deal of work when they first moved in, and Milo had done most of it himself. Rosebushes had been growing wild around the foundation of the house, and after attempts to prune them back, he finally decided to tear them out completely and replace them with plants that were more manageable. This process had taken more than a week to accomplish, and he could still remember the subsequent nightmares of rosebushes creeping into the house at night to enact their thorny revenge. Those hours of work and hundreds of tiny cuts on his hands, arms, and legs would all go for naught if he and Christine did not repair their relationship.

  It was a small thing, he knew. The elimination of some rosebushes hardly constituted a marriage. But it was the accumulation of small things: the roses, their DVD collection, his relationship with Christine’s parents, the new lawn mower, the wedding photos, the flat-screen television, the plans for finishing the basement and replacing the windows, and the trip to Martha’s Vineyard later that summer. All of these small things were the stuff of their marriage, and combined, this stuff made up their relationship. Held it together. Made it tangible. Certainly there was more at stake than lawn mowers and DVDs and vacation plans, but Milo was beginning to realize that these things had become important to him, perhaps because Christine no longer was. The part of him that had always known that Christine was not right for him had jumped at the chance to move out and grant Christine her space, even when the part of Milo that loved his marriage struggled to hold on. And perhaps that was the crux of the matter: Though Milo was still unwilling to fully embrace the idea, he thought that he might have loved his marriage more than his wife. The home, the companionship, the family, and, most important, the comfort in knowing that his oddities were safely hidden away. That after more than three years of marriage and five years together, his wife did not have even an inkling of the U-boat captain who sometimes insisted he open a jar of jelly or smash a Weeble.

  Though this was good, Milo found himself wanting more. Part of him believed that he could still find the joy and excitement and genuine love that he had felt for Christine in the beginning. This hope is what had led him to the idea to do something romantic for Christine, and how he found himself, a dozen roses in his hands, on the doorstop of the house they once shared.

  Milo entered through the side door facing the driveway, feeling like an intruder upon setting foot in the kitchen. It had been just over a month since he had left, yet in that time the house had begun to feel foreign to him. At any moment, he half expected a police cruiser to pull into the driveway, officers piling out in order to arrest him for breaking and entering. Nevertheless, things inside the house looked as they always had. The kitchen was spotless, with uncluttered countertops, clean appliances, and an empty drying rack by the sink. Christine insisted on cleanliness in the kitchen.

  Milo placed the glass vase on the small kitchen table and was turning to leave when he remembered the need for clean sheets in his apartment and instead passed through the kitchen, heading for the bathroom. Multiple sets of bed linens had been one of the many things that Milo had not thought about in his attempt to exit the house as quickly as possible.

  In the linen closet adjacent to the master bedroom he found several clean sets, most of which were given to him and Christine as wedding gifts. He took a set that had not been a wedding gift, as well a few extra towels, as they were also in short supply at his apartment.

  Needing to relive himself, Milo took a few more steps down the hall into the bathroom, noting the empty slot where his toothbrush had once resided and the disappearance of the magazine rack, which had sat underneath the pedestal sink opposite the toilet. Christine had never been a fan of the reading material that Milo kept on hand and had apparently eliminated it in his absence.

  Several pairs of bras and panties hung over the shower rod to dry, and, once again, Milo was consumed with the feeling that he was an intruder in his own home. Even though he had seen Christine’s underwear a million times and had just had sex with his wife a few days ago, standing in the small room, staring at her dangling straps and cups and the lacy panties, made him feel both uncomfortable and … devious? Sneaky?

  Yes, sneaky.

  He had lived with Christine for more than three years, but in that time, he had never stood in such wonder over her underwear, so surprisingly and unaccountably curious about her bra size. He pulled down a teal bra from the rod and examined the tag inside the cup.

  32C.

  Gathering the towels and linens, Milo exited the bathroom, noticing a new piece of furniture across the hall in the bedroom. My bedroom, he reminded himself. In the corner beside the bed was a portable playpen of some sort, the type that parents use to reconfigure the environment when invading the homes of friends and relatives with babies in tow. Milo stepped into the room and examined this latest addition, assuming that one of Christine’s friends had recently visited with her newborn, but unable to think of any of her friends who might have a baby. The Pack and Play, as it was labeled, contained several stuffed animals, a tiny pink blanket, and a plastic book that looked ideal for chewing. Perfect for chewing, in fact, though it appeared to be void of any teeth marks. And just like that, what began as a simple observation had instantly blossomed into a sudden need, a demand to chew on this book that had been specifically designed for chewing, ignored by some baby, a girl, Milo surmised, who was probably too clever for her own good. Milo would have liked to be able to say that he tried to resist this new and especially odd demand, but he did not. Already consumed by the impulse, he chose to chew rather than wait for the demand to explode into an all-encompassing, pain-inducing, brain-busting imperative that would send him to the infant section of the t
oy store in frantic search of a plastic book.

  And so he chewed, and with each gnawing grind, demand was replaced with satisfaction. A feeling of relief. A sense that the world was once again in order and as it should be, much like the broken balsa wood airplanes and the smashed Weebles. It was as if these items, the plastic book, the balsa wood, and the Weebles, had all been created for the express purpose of chewing, snapping, and smashing, and to do otherwise with them would have been wrong. The demands were simply the cry of the universe to make things right again.

  Chew on the book, for that is why it exists.

  And so he chewed.

  As he chewed, Milo wondered who Christine knew who had a baby girl. His wife had more than a dozen friends from the office, paralegals and fellow attorneys for the most part, and though Milo knew some of them well, others were characters whom he heard about only in stories about the office or happy hour escapades.

  Probably one of them, he thought.

  The rhythm of the “99 Luftballons” once again filled Milo’s mind, almost as if a radio had been switched on in the next room, reminding him of its increasing persistence. Milo knew that the song would continue to fill his mind, eventually encroaching on all other thought, until it became so loud and pressure-inducing that its sheer size and weight would become a hindrance to its fulfillment. Milo thought of it as the Point of No Return, the moment at which a demand ceased to be an impetus for fulfillment and transformed itself into an impediment.

  He tried to avoid these situations at all costs.

  In response, Milo placed the well-chewed book into his coat pocket before heading for the door. Better for Christine’s friend to think that she misplaced the book than to have her wondering who had chewed it up. He wanted to leave before Christine returned home, in hopes of preserving the surprise.