Milosz

by Cordelia Strube

  Gedge, no doubt accustomed to listening to excuses, waits for one.

  ‘I took it because hamsters are nocturnal. It’s very stressful for them to be exposed to daylight when they should be sleeping. On Google it says the rate of hamster death is higher in classrooms because the hamsters are constantly exposed to noise, artificial light and handling.’

  Gedge sits at his desk, taking a deep breath. While waiting for his exhalation, Milo has visions of last night’s carnage. When Tanis insisted the hamster had to be returned, it was as though she’d plunged a knife into Robertson.

  ‘If you’re not a parent,’ Gedge says, ‘how did you know about the hamster?’

  ‘A friend of mine is in the class.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’ He must protect Robertson from further persecution. The head-banging did not stop until four a.m.

  ‘It wouldn’t be Robertson Wedderspoon by any chance?’

  ‘Robertson who?’

  Gedge takes another deep breath. ‘Did it occur to you, Mr. Krupi, that in rescuing the hamster for your friend, you caused the other children considerable distress?’

  ‘That did occur to me, yes. For this reason I was hoping you might allow me the opportunity to explain my actions to them. And, of course, I’d like to reimburse the school for the price of the cage and Puffy.’

  ‘I take it you don’t intend to return the hamster?’

  ‘I’d rather not. My friend is very attached to it. I was hoping that, when I tell the children about the trauma and shortened life spans of hamsters in classrooms, they might not want Puffy.’

  Gedge places his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands under his chin. ‘In all my years, Mr. Krupi, I have never encountered such a situation.’

  ‘It is unusual.’

  ‘I have half a mind to report you to the police.’

  ‘I completely understand that, sir, and if, after I have spoken with the ­children, you still wish to press charges I will not resist arrest.’

  These are not the upturned faces of the innocent. With brand names stretched across their apparel they are the pawns of the consumer age. Already the judgmental expressions of their parents shadow their faces. These are Robertson’s foes, and Milo has no choice but to plead for mercy. ‘They get tumours,’ he explains, ‘from the stress caused by lack of sleep and handling.’

  ‘You mean they get cancer?’ a boy in a Roots Athletics hoodie asks.

  ‘That is correct. And the tumours grow and make it difficult for them to swallow. They stop eating and eventually die.’

  A girl in an American Apparel tank top says, ‘Mine got tumours on his testicles. They got so big he couldn’t walk.’ The other consumer pawns titter.

  ‘It wasn’t in a classroom though,’ the boy in the hoodie, a future litigator, points out. ‘Which means they die anyway, even if they’re not in a classroom. You’ve got no proof they die sooner in a classroom.’

  ‘As I said, it’s all online.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read online,’ the litigator scoffs.

  ‘Try to imagine,’ Milo says, ‘living in a small cage with nothing but wood shavings and dried seeds for company. Imagine it’s bedtime and you’re exhausted but you can’t turn the light out and you hear loud voices and chairs scraping and doors slamming. Imagine you’re finally about to doze off when a giant hand opens the cage and grabs you.’ Milo raises his hands, spreading his fingers to make them giant-like. ‘Suddenly you’re hoisted into the air and being passed around. Each time you try to escape, the giant hands grip you tighter,’ he tightens his fists, ‘so hard you can’t breathe and you feel your life being squeezed out of you.’ Some of the children’s mouths gape. ‘Imagine you’re blindfolded, because hamsters can’t see in daylight due to their large pupils. So there you are, a blinded hostage, suffocating, lost in space with no knowledge of when this torture will end. You wait for the giants to kill you, to squash you between their massive palms … ’

  ‘I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Krupi,’ Mrs. Bulgobin interjects.

  ‘And then what happens?’ Milo persists. ‘You get dropped back in the cage with nothing but wood shavings and dried seeds for company. And as much as you hate the loud, bright, noisy cage, you prefer it to being in the giants’ grip. You live in fear of the giant hands reaching in and grabbing you again and again, squeezing the breath out of you … ’

  ‘That’s enough, Mr. Krupi.’

  ‘And they do,’ Milo says, ‘day in and day out, they snatch you from the cage.’

  ‘I’m calling Mr. Gedge,’ Bulgobin says.

  ‘Let’s take a vote,’ Milo says. ‘Who thinks Puffy should be forced to live caged in the classroom forever?’

  The litigator raises his hand.

  ‘That’s one vote for jailing Puffy for life,’ Milo says. ‘Hands up for those who think Puffy should be free?’

  Many hands shoot up.

  ‘Case closed,’ Milo says. ‘I’ve made a donation to your school so you can either buy a snake or a lizard, or think of something fun to do like have a pizza lunch. Thank you so much for your time and co-­operation.’ He thinks he smiles warmly but respectfully at Mrs. Bulgobin before hastily bowing out.

  •••

  ‘We want raw emotion onstage,’ Geon Van Der Wyst advises Milo. ‘Don’t think stage.’ He makes air quotes with his fingers when he says stage. ‘Forget stage. There is no fourth wall. You and the audience are symbiotic. Your emotional reality and their emotional reality are one.’

  Milo avoided this kind of touchy-feely bilge when he knew how to act, but now he is desperate for a job and Geon Van Der Wyst is famous for acquiring grant funding for multimedia projects no one ever sees.

  ‘It’s about trust,’ Geon emphasizes. ‘No trust, no raw emotion. Remove the barriers and it will come.’

  ‘Is there a script?’ Milo asks.

  Geon Van Der Wyst looks wearily at his assistant, an emaciated woman named Hunter.

  ‘No script,’ Hunter says. Her eyes are heavily lined with black pencil.

  ‘I saw you in Godot,’ Geon says. ‘I felt you pulling at the restraints.’ He mimes pulling at restraints. ‘I believe you have immense power. But you have to trust it.’

  Eleven other actors file into the room. Geon claps his hands twice. ‘Friends, we are going to perform a trust exercise, although it is not only about trust, but underlying currents. We must sense these currents, anticipate them as we learn from one another. You follow?’ The actors nod, some of them looking malnourished and unwashed. ‘Stand in a circle,’ Geon orders.

  Milo looks for familiar faces, or at least cute girls.

  ‘Place your palms together,’ Geon orders. ‘Now listen carefully to my instructions. When I say “Begin,” Milo will say “Zip.” As he says “Zip,” he will direct one hand to snap out in the direction of another person. That person will then take Milo’s energy and immediately say “Zap.” He or she will then slide their palms together and send the energy in the direction of someone else by snapping out their hand and saying “Zoop.” This requires extreme concentration, trust and focus. You must listen intently to the word because the group must retain the sequence, “Zip Zap Zoop.” You will be disqualified if you say “Zap” or “Zip” when you should be saying “Zoop,” or “Zip” when you should be saying “Zap” or “Zoop.” You must listen.’ Geon points to his ears. ‘Listen, trust and focus.’ He claps his hands twice. ‘Milo, begin.’

  Milo, with his palms pressed together, aims his hands towards a girl with cornrows. ‘Zip,’ he says. Startled, the girl quickly points her hands at a man in a sailor’s cap. ‘Zap,’ she says.

  ‘Zoop,’ the sailor says, pointing at a youth dressed in black who blurts, ‘Zap.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Geon shouts. ‘You are disqualified! You should be saying “Zip.” You weren’t listening. You must listen.’ Geon points to his ears again. Hunter escorts the disqualified youth out. Geon clap
s his hands. ‘Focus, everyone. Start again. Etienne, what do you say?’

  ‘Zap?’

  ‘Precisely. Begin.’

  And on it goes for two hours until only six actors remain. Milo’s feet ache from standing, and he pines for an honest day of junk removal. Geon directs them to sit in a circle on the floor. Etienne, in the sailor’s cap, mutters, ‘Quelle blague.’

  Geon claps his hands. ‘You who remain are the guardians of trust.’ Hunter serves them grape Kool-Aid and chocolate chip cookies, which the guardians consume with gusto. Geon claps his hands again. ‘What have we learned from this exercise?’ The actors, exhausted, their mouths full of cookie, look apprehensively at one another.

  ‘It’s all circular,’ Milo says.

  ‘Precisely.’

  He places the plums and grapes on Christopher’s bed table. The food tray has not been removed. Milo lifts the lid and is disturbed to see that the food is untouched. Christopher appears to be sleeping, the air moving through his nostrils causing a faint whistle. They have bandaged his head. What can this mean? Milo sits and waits, worriedly eating grapes. The Portuguese man on the other side of the curtain has developed a hacking cough.

  ‘Milo?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you fucking my wife?’

  ‘You already asked me that.’

  ‘I’m asking you again.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are they okay?’

  ‘They’re fine.’ More lies.

  ‘You didn’t tell them anything?’ Christopher sounds winded.

  ‘No, but I think I should. I think they should know.’

  ‘If you tell them, I’ll kill you. One more disaster and she’ll crack.’

  ‘Why did they bandage your head?’

  ‘They drilled a burr hole in it to let the blood out. Subdural bleeding.’

  A ponytailed nurse appears with a needle. ‘I need more blood samples, Mr. Wedderspoon.’

  Christopher remains listless as she taps his arm, searching for a vein. She seems very young to Milo, fresh out of nursing school.

  ‘He’s having trouble breathing with that splint,’ Milo says. ‘I don’t think they put it on right. His nose looks crooked.’

  ‘Yeah, he’ll have to get it fixed later by a plastic surgeon.’ She pokes the needle into Christopher’s arm.

  ‘What do you mean later? Why can’t they fix it now?’

  ‘That would be an elective procedure. There’s big waiting lists for or time.’ Blood spurts into the syringe.

  ‘So you mean he has to walk around with a nose that makes it hard to breathe for months? Couldn’t they see it was crooked in the operating room?’

  ‘Milo, we’ve already been through this,’ Christopher says. ‘They’re waiting to see if I die.’

  ‘Given the extent of his other injuries,’ the nurse explains, ‘the nose isn’t a priority.’ She sashays away with Christopher’s blood.

  ‘The worst part,’ Christopher says, ‘is I have to breathe through my mouth, which dries it. So I drink water, which bloats my bladder.’

  Milo tries to think of something constructive to say.

  ‘What are you doing here, Milo?’

  ‘You already asked me that.’

  ‘No, I said whatever you’re doing here, you don’t have to do it.’

  Milo has been waiting for Christopher to remember that he was at the scene of the accident, caused the accident by calling his name, forcing Christopher to turn his head away from the cab. Maybe he does remember.

  ‘Does your head hurt?’

  ‘Not anymore.’ Christopher closes his eyes. ‘Please go away.’

  •••

  He tries the sliding glass doors but they’re locked. He knocks on the glass. Usually, after episodes, she keeps Robertson home, even lets him sit by the dryer, which she normally avoids running due to the cost of hydro. The rhythm of the drum rotating soothes him. Milo knocks again, holding his face close to the glass to peer in. He hears pop music. Tanis never plays pop because it makes Robertson hyper. An intruder must be in the house. Milo pounds on the door. ‘Open up, I know you’re in there.’

  Pablo, shirtless, slides open the doors. ‘Hello, sir, qué pasa?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Cleaning windows.’

  Milo doesn’t believe this for a second. ‘Where’s your bucket?’

  ‘In the living room.’

  ‘Where’s Tanis?’

  ‘She took him to the doctor.’

  Milo pushes past Pablo into the living room. Sure enough, there is a bucket and a squeegee. ‘Why are you washing her windows?’

  ‘She asked me to. She said if I need cash there’s stuff that needs doing that her husband used to do.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re taking her money.’

  ‘Why? Is she broke?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘The point is you’re the one who took her panties. Me and Tanis are just friends. She needs a friend right now.’

  ‘I’m her friend.’

  ‘That’s not what she says.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Take a chill pill, man. This lady’s got you real wound up.’

  He drinks beer on the deck with the Cuban because he doesn’t want to go home to Vera.

  ‘I think Robertson feels too much,’ Pablo says. ‘Tanis says people don’t think he feels but I think he over-feels and that’s why he freaks out.’

  ‘Suddenly you’re an expert.’ Milo eats more pretzels.

  ‘Most of us can, like, stop freaking out, you know. But he’s feeling so much all the time, like, maybe screaming is his way of shutting out feelings. How do you shut out feelings, Milo?’

  ‘I don’t have feelings.’

  ‘You love Tanis. You’re shutting out those feelings.’

  ‘I don’t love her.’

  ‘We all shut out feelings, and it makes us sick, keeping all those feelings locked out. I saw this movie about this guy who didn’t believe he deserved to be loved. The whole movie, people were, like, trying to love him but he pushed them away and he got sicker and sicker. So finally all the people who love him show up at the hospital and, like, hug and kiss him and tell him how much he means to them, and he’s so sick he’s too weak to push them away anymore. He’s, like, dying and he’s just figured out how to love. It was so sad. It made me cry.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning windows?’

  ‘You know what Robertson was doing when I came over?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Moving pots and pans around. She lets him take stuff out of the cup­boards and move it around. She says it helps him decompress.’

  ‘What are you lot up to?’ Vera calls from Milo’s back porch. ‘We’ve been looking all over for you two. Wait till you see the goodies we bought for supper tomorrow. We even found some lime cordial and Scotch eggs!’

  With a Scotch egg lodged in his intestines, he checks his email. His agent, Stu, expresses dismay over Milo’s unprofessional behaviour at the beer ad call­back. ‘We need to talk,’ he says. More importantly, Geon Van Der Wyst wants Milo to participate in phase two of the audition for the show without a script. The group will meet in a rural setting. A van will pick Milo up at three p.m. on Sunday, a welcome diversion. A day in the country, free from domestic turmoil, might speed his transformational healing. Geon advises him to bring a sleeping bag, which suggests an overnighter.

  ‘Milo!’ Pablo and Vera call from downstairs. He holds pillows over his ears but Pablo flings open his door. ‘Milo, come quick, your dad’s on TV! You got to come right now, man.’

  ‘Buzz off. My father’s dead.’

  ‘Wally says they never found no body. He says he’s even got the Nazi scar.’ Pablo grabs his arm and hauls him downstairs where Wallace and Vera, gin and tonics in hand, crowd the couch.

  ‘What kind of sick joke is this, Wallace?’ Milo demands.

  ‘No joke. The fucker was
there.’

  ‘Don’t use that word,’ Vera says.

  ‘What am I supposed to say? He was a mean fucker. Everybody hated him.’

  ‘Wally!’

  Wallace swills more G&T. ‘I’m telling you, the fucker was there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s a show about people who think they’re on reality shows,’ Pablo explains. ‘Like, in real life, they think there’s hidden cameras everywhere.’

  ‘My father thought he was on a reality show?’

  ‘Shit, no, he was in the home for crazies.’

  ‘A retirement home,’ Vera clarifies. ‘It was another gentleman in the home who thought he was on a reality show.’

  ‘So what was my father doing there?’

  ‘He was a client.’

  ‘Just sitting there,’ Wallace says, ‘like the fucker he was, just sitting there passing judgment.’ Wallace played street hockey in the neighbourhood. Whenever he hit a ball or a puck onto Gus’s property, Gus would keep it.

  ‘My father wouldn’t be caught dead in a retirement home.’

  ‘It’s a miracle,’ Pablo says. ‘You’ve been given a second chance, Milo. If I saw mi padre again I would tell him I forgive him for screwing my cousin.’

  ‘You saw some guy in the background of a shot,’ Milo says, ‘who resembled Gus. Hallelujah.’

  They hear pounding on the back door.

  ‘Must be your lady friend,’ Vera says.

  Tanis’s hair reaches out in angry tentacles. ‘I need to speak with you privately.’

  He sits on a Muskoka chair. She stands with arms crossed. Before she can accuse him of further misdeeds, he tells her about liberating Puffy.

  ‘So where is it now?’

  ‘Still in the basement. I’d like Robertson to have it, if that’s all right with you.’

  She drops into the other chair and deflates. This is not the reaction he’d expected.

  ‘Is Robertson all right?’ he asks. ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Nothing new. He’s on a mild sedative which he hates because it disorients him.’

  ‘Well, as I say, the kids don’t want the hamster back so there’s no reason Robertson can’t keep it. I think caring for another living being might help him through all this.’