by Ivan Jenson
“Please not now,” Mrs. Sonas muttered in Spanish and Consuelo, whose intuition told her things were really askew now, took Mrs. Sonas' skeletal hands and held them warmly in her soft, dark-skinned palm.
“I know what you all think of me,” Ray whined, now truly indulging in the awkward spotlight of attention. “You are all thinking, oh, he’s the one in the family who paints houses, while Milo, well Milo is the artiste.”
Milo, dressed uncomfortably in a suit that was still brittle from its starchy dry-cleaning, called out “Ray, what is wrong with you?. Why do you always have to ruin perfectly good moments? It seems to me like you didn’t learn jack shit at UCLA. I didn’t realize you had a Masters in assholeology.”
“Look at our mother,” Ray said, nearly crying and pointing again. “She looks like she is over one hundred years old and she is only seventy um...”
“You don’t even know how old she is,” Milo said. “ She is seventy nine, you fucking loser.” Milo was on his feet, heading toward Ray as Vincent, (who was invisible to the guests) put his hand on Milo's shoulder to settle him down.
But Ray would not stop. “The last few years have really aged her. I am speaking of the last few years since your oh so convenient nervous breakdown. You have been like a festering cancer to her health. She has worried sick over you for twenty years. She busted her ass covering your ass when you were down and out in New York, you asshole! You used to call her twenty times a day, wearing her out. You were always moaning that this time your career was really over, boo hoo, boo hoo. You didn’t get to be Picasso. You fucking destroyed her with your negativity. You are still killing her.”
Both Ray and Milo took a breath at the same time, they were blood brothers after all and even in a dispute they were still in synchronicity with the other's biology. Milo turned to Samantha and gave her his wedding ring in it’s tiny padded box. Samantha was sobbing.
Now Ray was considerably bigger than Milo. There was no doubt he was Goliath to Milo’s David. But a lifetime of anger had built up in both of them.
Milo’s nephew Donny, though only sixteen, was beefier than both of them and he was not too happy about this out of town brother messing things up for his favorite uncle. And Donny stood still as he watched Milo stride right up to Ray. Donny was tempted to beat the shit out of Ray himself, but then again he thought it would be better to let Milo do it himself. Donny called out, “Beat the hell out of him. You know you can do it Milo!”
Milo moved toward Ray feeling a strength in his body, a stiffening in his spine. Years of sporadic contact with his brother brought this dissonance to a head. Mountains of resentment, each fragmented and distinct, slight, and aggravation flickered before him. And Ray, not sensing the intensity of Milo's anger, continued egging him on. “So, are the two of you going to live happily ever after in a halfway house? Is that the plan?”
Nick’s inner reactors were being engaged for he was just now planning to cover first and last month, plus security on a loft on the lower East side of Manhattan for Milo and Samantha. This was to be Milo’s chance to begin again, to have his dignity again, and more than that, to flourish in the very city that almost destroyed him. Nick was planning to facilitate the chance for Milo to come full circle. Nick believed that New York was where Milo belonged and he was not about to have some drunk, bitter, and envious bully of a brother bring down the very foundation of artistic self esteem that he was spending tens of thousands of dollars to bolster.
Nick had traveled with a few of his associates to Gold Haven to be there for Milo, and this caustic scene was hardly what he expected. At five foot seven inches and hundred and thirty five pounds, Nick was not a formidable presence but he was nervy from having been sitting uncomfortably on a particularly hard folding chair, two rows behind Ray and, if he were to rudely reach forward with his long arms he could grab Ray by the lapel. Instead he simply stood up and towering over the seated crowd bellowed, “Excuse me, sir, just one moment please. I have a great respect for your family but I have a vested interest in Milo. I happen to know he’s been through a lot in his life to get to where he is and to go where he is going. And I, for one, give him a lot of credit. You Ray have to get hold of yourself now, and simmer the hell down.”
Some young upstart who was at the controls for the sound system, thought he might contribute to maintaining the peace by cuing a song that was Mrs. Sonas' favorite, Imagine by John Lennon as sung by American Idol runner-up David Archuleta. It was supposed to play at the end of the ceremony, but it came on now in the middle of this showy disagreement. The loud volume silenced the crowd. And when Archuleta sang: Imagine all the people living life in peace Yoo Hoo hoo-oo-oo Ray raised his fists in a most old fashioned manner. He was putting up his dukes and walking up the aisle, and he resembled, in his ill fitting suit and bowie tie an illustration of a turn of the century boxer. He now stood face to face with Milo. Milo raised his fists as well.
When they were children these two brothers cloaked their fists in pillows and would fist fight with those cumbersome soft pillows as boxing gloves to soften their blows.
Ray said, “Well, little brother, it’s about time you fight your own battle. It’s about time you stood up for yourself.”
Consuelo could now feel Mrs. Sonas' hands go cold. She was able to follow the silent film laid out in front of her. “Que espanto!” Consuelo found herself saying when Ray pushed forth the first blow. This instantly bloodied Milo’s nose. Milo retaliated with a punch that struck only air. Ray followed with an undercut to the ribs, that not only knocked the air out of Milo, but triggered a collective gasp from the onlookers that was inaudible to the crowd because of the loud music.
Milo lunged at Ray and they both got locked in a wrestler type hold that resembled the embrace of two world federation fakers.
The two brothers stood locked in that embrace, twisting about. Then they broke apart and Milo looked shaken. Physical contact with men was not his thing. He looked rattled, his face was red and he was sweating. Ray came at him with a torrent of punches. Ray gave Milo a knee kick to the groin, followed by two karate chops to the wind pipe. Milo doubled over in pain. Nick spontaneously took on the roll of referee and called out, “Hey, those were some cheap shots, now cut it out.”
Milo fell to his knees and Ray walked slowly to his younger brother and then broke every semblance of decency when he kicked his brother directly in the face, knocking Milo off his knees face first into the grassy grave yard.
At this point, Paul, their half-brother got up and tried to restrain Ray saying, “Come on man, what do you think you are doing, this is Milo's day, why do you have to fuck it up like this?”
“Lay off me, Paul.” Ray said overpowering Paul's effort to restrain him, and it wasn’t long before he got Paul in a choke hold, “Today is Mother’s day, not Milo’s day!”
Although Paul was in a choke hold he managed to eke these words out: “Look, it’s Milo’s day too, it was decided. I think what is pissing you off the most is that it is not your day. It is never your day!”
“Like I said, it's Mom’s day,” Ray insisted, still keeping Paul in a tight grip.
Now, Paul was speaking softly, confidentially so that their mother could not overhear, “Listen man, for all we know this could be her last one, so why don’t you just cool it?”
“Do you really think this could be it ...for her?” Ray asked.
“I really think so, just look at her..”
They both looked towards their mother who seemed confused by what she was seeing.
Now Ray spoke as loudly as a caterer announcing that the wedding buffet was being served, “Milo killed her, she has made herself sick with worry over him. He did this to her.”
“Fuck you, Ray.” Paul said, drooling from the choke hold.
Ray let go of Paul who dropped to the ground.
Bloodied, winded, humiliated, and now dressed in a torn lawn-stained gray suit, Milo recovered enough to slowly get up on his feet. Ray let him be.
/>
Milo said, “There has always got to be somebody or something that fucks with my life. I guess this proves my theory that there is no such thing as a perfect moment. At least there never has been for me.”
Milo, unexpectedly found himself emotionally regressing as if in a dream where one stands on a stage in one’s briefs, or like one who must speak in front of class in urine soaked slacks. It was a fight or flight situation. He sensed that maybe back hundreds of generations ago perhaps in his primitive ancestry he was one of those pathetic primates who fled from an opponent, be it a Tyrannosaurus Rex or a meddlesome monkey man. He was a runner not a fighter.
Milo discovered himself running through the graveyard. He was a runaway. Running away from the living, weaving his way through the granite postal addresses of the dead. But nobody wrote letters to these stone mailboxes, these underground coffin condos. As he ran around them, and sometimes in his confusion jumped over them, all he knew was that he was going away. Where he was running to, at the moment, did not matter.
As he moved, he remembered how all his life his mother had always claimed that graveyards were a total waste of space, she called graveyards, “the ego trip of the dead.” Milo ran around the large stone monuments which were guarded by statue angels with blind marble eyes. The sculptor in him couldn't help but notice the stiffness of American statue work. It reminded him of how he, as a teenager had approached a sculpture gallery on Park Avenue. He came on strong and aggressive and managed to get a few unscheduled moments with the gallery owner. He showed this very thin woman photos of his early busts made of clay and his unbridled confidence and with an almost abrasive salesmanship humored the gallerist. After examining his works at her vast white desk, she told him that his Rodin-esque busts had what she called “real juice” but warned him there was limited hope of financial success for a budding sculptor in this day and age. She said quite frankly, “Sculpture reminds people of death, and it’s the fault of all those damn monuments in graveyards.”
As Milo ran, he knew he was running away from more than just the burden of having a brutally envious and emotionally poisonous older brother, he was also running from the imminent and inevitable loss of his spirit guide, his always watching, always kind mother. He knew in his heart that, even if he married now, it was unlikely he would live long enough to know Samantha longer than he had known his mother. So many recent summer nights he had found it hard to sleep knowing the truth. That there would soon come the fall, a time his mother loved because of the reddening of the leaves, and the chilly breezes which made the trees shiver. But she might as well die now because all that she would now conveniently miss after the falling of the leaves would be the freezing wind and the white dandruff of winter snow. But why couldn’t she behold one last fall? God, could you grant her one more Autumn, he found himself thinking. Even though he was not so sure about God either. But just about now would be a good time to discover and believe in him.
Then of all absurd things he discovered that he was not running alone. On the contrary, the whole congregation of friends and family were up and running after him. They were right behind him all along, but because he never looked back over his shoulder, he was totally unaware that he was being followed so devoutly and at the head of the formally dressed herd was Ray. This was not good.
Milo found himself running backwards, amazed as he was by the sight of everyone, including Samantha, who was holding her white high heel shoes and running barefoot to him.
It occurred to him then that he had also been running from her. How could he tie the knot now? Why now, when he was on the verge of an opportunity to enjoy the sensual fruits of all the dues he had paid for half his life. Surely when the galley shows came, the long limbed models would soon follow, and the aristocratic daughters of wealthy collectors, and society debutantes, and night life celebutantes, the sensual undergraduates, those sexy liberal art majors all wishing to get to know that elder statesmen of the art world, that veteran of sidewalk selling who had become the king of the contemporary art market, Milo Sonas. Why marry now when all the money and all the fucking was on its way, why commit now to just one girl?
But then he reminded himself that he was attempting to simulate completeness for the sake of his good as dead mother.
Samantha! Ray! Nick!
He could see them all running at him, Becky, Amelia, Paul. They were gaining on him too.
Ray was way ahead of everyone else, and he looked like he was still festering with anger. He called out to Milo, as he caught up, “Didn’t you know Milo that I’m not going to quit this until you are dead?”
Milo stopped in his tracks at that statement, he just couldn't run any longer He would feel too vulnerable with his back facing his violent brother.
Now, his brother stood before him again.
“Don’t you know what wonderful things will happen for your art when you are dead. Most artists only get famous when they die.”
Ray shoved Milo. Milo didn’t budge, his posture straight, he wanted to at least try to be invincible.
Milo said, “And if you kill me, what happens to your life? It is ruined.”
“On the contrary I gain fame and notoriety as the brother who killed you. They will say in the history books, Ray Sonas, was the guy who killed that famous artist Milo Sonas.”
“Is that what you want to be known for?”
“I have no choice, what the hell else will I be remembered for? I mean nobody cares about a guy like me. Nobody cares that I am such an efficient wall and ceiling painter or that I have no need for canvas tarp. Who cares that I never drip paint when I work? Nobody. Who would give a shit about about a guy like me? I’m just a house painter and you are an artist.”
“Funny, a painter who does not drip.” Milo said trying to get Ray to smile, “I am a messy painter myself. Bravo to you.”
Ray was not humored, he shoved his brother again, and this time Milo lost his balance and fell backward. But strangely nothing broke his fall and it felt as through it took an inordinate amount of time to land. He felt himself falling, as if through sky. But land he did, right into semi-darkness, on sharp edged, rocky dirt.
Milo was now squared in a prison cell of soil. Milo was six feet under in a newly dug grave. Suddenly whatever suicidal tendency or what was commonly called a death wish no longer was a part of him. He was now in a frantic panic to hold onto life, dear life, sweet life. He wanted his freedom, his space and every ounce of time he could get. Ray stood at the edge of the freshly dug grave and said, “Hello, dead artist.”
But as soon as that was said Paul and Nick took down Ray with the whoosh of a folding chair. And faces appeared all around this frame of dirt, this grave.
Samantha was there, Uncle Allen, Amelia and Becky, and the cousins, and the invited guests.
“Don’t worry Milo,” Nick said, “I called the police on my cell. We’ll get you out of there.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Pablo and Vincent appeared next to him, they both smiled like a host does when they are welcoming a visitor. But Milo was not ready to join the ranks of dead artists.
Milo stood up, and discovered that this grave was deeper than six feet. And then he saw those friends and family members standing on the edge with their hands extended, and all of them wishing he would choose their reaching hands to grasp. But who should he choose? Uncle Allen was over eighty, he certainly didn’t have the strength to get Milo out of this mess. Becky and Amelia were reaching and smiling, like two midwives reaching toward a womb, but Milo never knew them to be particularly strong. Emotionally, they were bullish, but physically they were quite weak.
Ray was struggling against those who were trying to restrain him, “Let me the hell go. Get off of me, I’m cool, I just got a little hot under the collar. That’s all. Cut me some slack.”
Milo was brushing the soil and specs of dirt off his suit while he considered who would have the honor of pulling him out of this open grave.
Then kneeling
at the edge he now saw his short, stocky art dealer Nick who was reaching his hand out, like a business executive seeking a firm handshake on a verbal agreement.
“Look, Milo, “ said Pablo. “Your dealer is trying to save you.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get out of this one,” Vincent added.
At last they let go of Ray. It occurred to Milo that the one person that got him in this predicament might be the only one strong enough to get him out, Ray seemed to read his mind as he said, “Come on. I put you in there, I can get you out.”
Milo looked at his brother’s face, tanned by the California sun and etched with disappointment, cheeks creased from the false smile of a disillusioned spirit, eyes widened and hoping for forgiveness.
“No, don’t reach for his hand, that would be a terrible mistake,” Pablo said.
“You can’t trust your brother Milo, haven’t you learned that by now?” Vincent added.
And so Milo chose to ignore their warnings and he reached for, not his agent's hand, nor his sister's hand or Donny's or one of the invited guest's, but his brother’s, and just as he touched Ray's hand Milo experienced another jolt of “posanoia” (that positive twist on paranoia where one believes that the whole world and everyone in it are not after you and are not against you but are FOR you and that everybody wants only to help).
Ray couldn't lift Milo out alone. It took the grip of a second set of hands to hoist Milo upward from the freshly dug grave. Paul the half-brother, sailor, hang glider, the scuba diver, put both of his hands around Milo's left wrist, while Ray held with both hands Milo’s right wrist. It was good brother and bad brother now both working in unison. Yin and Yang.
“Gotcha!” Paul said. And Milo remembered in California when the three of them had sailed together to Catalina Island and the mast broke in half and they were stranded in the Pacific waters. He remembered how Paul had tried to shoot his SOS flare and how the trigger jammed. The three of them sat in the baking August sun, the light blazing. Yes, it was a Sunday, just like today his wedding day and the day of his mother’s funeral. He remembered how Paul's boat simply tread water, until help came in the form of a passing barge that towed them in.
