Milosz

by Cordelia Strube

  ‘He was outside in his pyjamas the night of the party,’ Milo says. ‘Has he been doing that lately? Getting out of bed and walking around outside while you’re sleeping?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know what he’s doing while I’m sleeping? I shouldn’t sleep. I was wrong to sleep. Mothers of autistic children should never sleep. I should know that. He was in bed.’

  ‘So you woke up this morning and he was gone?’

  ‘How stupid are you? I want you to go now.’ She stands on one leg with difficulty and starts hobbling towards him. ‘Go.’

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘You can’t help. You kill little boys. Out.’ She lifts a crutch and jabs it at his chest. ‘Out. Go.’ She starts to swing the crutch at his face. ‘Get out!’

  The three amigos are eating liverwurst sannies. ‘Where did you look for him?’ Milo demands.

  ‘All over,’ Pablo says.

  ‘Be more specific.’

  ‘We had a look in the woods,’ Vera says. ‘A bit tricky with all that shrubbery. My stockings are in tatters.’

  ‘Did you go north or south?’ Milo asks.

  Pablo pushes a pickled egg into his mouth. ‘Which way is north?’

  ‘Did you go right or left when you entered the ravine?’

  Pablo stands and re-enacts their entrance to the ravine. ‘Right.’

  ‘Are you sure, love? Seems to me we went straight down the middle.’

  ‘Did you follow the path?’

  ‘Sure, because it was hard for Vera to walk in the forest.’

  ‘How far did you go?’

  ‘You mean, like, how many miles?’

  Vera offers Milo a pickled egg. ‘We were only gone an hour or so.’

  ‘Leave the ravine to the cops,’ Wallace advises. ‘Only nutcases go in there at night.’

  Milo swallows more codeine and grabs his flashlight. ‘Robertson will hide from the cops.’

  At the base of the street the ravine fans out. Its steep slopes make the land unattractive to developers, allowing it to become a sanctuary for the homeless and a haven for druggies. Blanket tents dot the wilderness, as does litter, cigarette butts, used syringes and condoms.

  Sodden from the rain, the undergrowth offers little traction, and Milo repeatedly loses his footing. When he looked for his father he was not methodical about it. He did not comb the woods but followed what he thought were leads: a broken branch here, a used tissue there. He worried that he would get lost if he strayed too far from the path. This time he will traverse the terrain beyond the path. ‘Robertson!’ he shouts every few steps, stopping to listen for a response. If the child is injured or traumatized he may be unable to respond. ‘Sal!’ Milo also calls. He is wearing his four-hundred-dollar glasses, which he rarely does because he’s afraid of losing them. He needs them only for driving and auditions that require him to look intelligent. In the woods they enable him to see more clearly into the brush. After an hour of traversing, he squats on a fallen trunk. The spill from city lights filters the darkness while distant traffic drones. ‘Robertson,’ he calls for possibly the three hundredth time. He too is growing hoarse while trying not to think about what might be happening, or might have happened to Robertson. On the opposite slope he sees the flicker of a lighter, then the glow of cigarettes or spliffs. This sign of human life offers no comfort because humans offer Robertson no comfort. Milo resumes traversing, watching the glowing dots dance as the smokers move the butts to and from their mouths. It makes perfect sense that Robertson ran away, given the circumstances. After Annie died, Milo ran away on a regular basis. Despite his stash of Pop-Tarts, after several hours his stomach would rumble and he would return to Mrs. Cauldershot, who would say, ‘Oh, it’s you. Did you run away again?’

  Robertson ran away because his father left him and because he is despised at school. Many with Autism Spectrum Disorders are not supposed to be able to interpret emotions in others. But Robertson must see his mother becoming unwound, must see her taking pills, see her hair spiralling out of control, see her hanging laundry in the rain. It must frighten him.

  The glowing dots bounce and move across the slope. The beam on Milo’s flashlight weakens.

  The impact from being tackled and slammed into the ground leaves him winded. In the darkness a boot pushed against his throat makes him choke. Hands roughly search his pockets.

  ‘Take my money,’ Milo manages to utter before remembering he left without his wallet.

  ‘Where is it?’ a faceless figure demands.

  ‘I forgot it.’

  The boot pushes harder into his neck. ‘Do you want to fuckin’ die?’

  ‘It’s true. I’m looking for a boy. I left it at home.’

  ‘He’s a fuckin’ faggot lookin’ for some crackhead to blow.’

  ‘We’ll get you a boy. Where’s your fuckin’ money?’

  Milo doesn’t resist but holds his four-hundred-dollar glasses away from his assaulted body in an effort to protect them.

  The faceless figure pulls out Milo’s keys. ‘You got a car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me.’ The boot pushes harder.

  ‘He’s right, there’s no fuckin’ car key here.’

  ‘What are these pills?’

  ‘Painkillers.’

  ‘Take the fuckin’ narcotics.’

  ‘Where’s your fuckin’ money?’ The hands search Milo’s back pockets. ‘This guy’s a fuckin’ joke.’

  ‘A fuckin’ faggot. Take his flashlight.’

  ‘Fuckin’ waste of time.’ While Milo holds his glasses at arm’s length the faceless figure kicks his legs. The boot kicks his head.

  •••

  ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘What?’

  A flashlight shines in his face. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Robertson?’ Relief at seeing the boy surges through Milo.

  ‘You got beat up,’ Robertson says.

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘Nope. But nobody lies in the dirt.’ Sal sniffs Milo.

  ‘Where are my glasses? Give me your flashlight.’ Sure enough the glasses are intact inches away. Milo puts them on.

  ‘You don’t wear glasses,’ Robertson says.

  ‘I do sometimes. What are you … why did you run away?’

  ‘I didn’t run away. I left and you better not tell anybody where I am.’

  ‘Your mom is really worried about you. She called the police, they’re looking for you.’

  ‘She wouldn’t do that. She thinks cops are fascists.’

  ‘Well, she was frightened and didn’t know what else to do so she called them. You just disappeared. Why didn’t you leave a note?’

  ‘Too complicated.’ Robertson says this when he is about to shut down. Milo wants to throw his arms around the child and hold him close but knows this would cause a full freak-out and retreat. Changing tactics, Milo inhales deeply and produces what he hopes will pass for a contented sigh.

  ‘What a beautiful night,’ he says. ‘You can even see stars.’

  Robertson rubs Sal’s tummy.

  ‘I was out in the country last night,’ Milo adds. ‘With real Indians.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was auditioning for a show.’

  ‘What kind of show?’

  ‘I don’t actually know.’

  ‘So why did you audition for it?’

  ‘I wanted a job.’

  ‘Did you get it?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. I learned how to build a debris hut.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A shelter made from dead branches and leaves and stuff.’

  ‘Could we make one now?’

  Sleep-deprived, with pulsating pain in his head, neck, ribs and legs, the last thing Milo wants to do is build another debris hut. If Robertson were a normal child, Milo could coax him home with offers of pizza and ice cream and mother love. ‘It’s pretty dark,’ he says, feeling for his opioids be
fore remembering that the muggers took them.

  ‘No it’s not. The moon’s almost full. You can see fine when you get used to it.’ Robertson starts digging around in the brush. ‘How big do the branches have to be?’

  When Milo was earning his bullshit of arts degree, he became infatuated with a coltish runner who dreamed of making the Olympic team. He never got to sleep with her but watched her race many times and was always astonished at how ready to expire she looked after passing the finish line. She told him the pain got so bad in the last laps that it was as if she were being stabbed. In the final lap even her eyeballs started to burn, but she’d say in her head to her body, ‘This is it, no second chances. Show me what you’ve got.’ Milo is having a similar conversation in his head with his tortured body as he searches for deadfall. Miraculously they spotted a tree in the moonlight with a Y-shaped nook at a good height. Robertson, full of vim and vigour, thanks to his steady diet of granola bars and juice boxes, searched tirelessly until he found what he considered to be the perfect ridgepole. Now, in his last lap, Milo’s body must show him what it’s got, because collapsing at Robertson’s feet will only frighten him. Milo must appear in command of the situation. If Robertson has confidence in him, he may be able to convince him to return home. If Milo comes off as anything less than Mountain Man, Robertson will lose interest and vanish again. So despite the stabbing pain, Milo bends down repeatedly to fill his arms with branches and leaves. He had hoped that hunger would draw Robertson back to civilization, but the granola bars have eliminated this option, although Milo has tried muttering that a cup of hot chocolate would ‘go down real nice about now.’ He doesn’t know why he’s talking as though he is in a Western. Robertson pays him no heed anyway, so focused is he on the task at hand. His face is filthy as are his clothes, a little wild boy.

  ‘Did the Indians teach you this?’ Robertson asks.

  ‘No. It was a survivalist.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A man determined to survive come the Apocalypse.’

  ‘Does he know when it’s coming?’

  ‘No, but when it does, he’ll be ready.’

  ‘That’s smart,’ Robertson says, stuffing more mud into the crevices of the hut.

  ‘Is it? I mean, would you want to go on living when human life on the planet has ended?’

  ‘Definitely. It would be totally boss.’

  Milo imagines the autistic emerging from the detritus, freed from society’s nagging demands, rebuilding the world their way.

  Robertson stands back and appraises their work. ‘This is epic.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it but you might want to go home and get a sleeping bag if you plan to camp out here.’

  ‘Sleeping bags are for wussies.’ He scrambles into the hut. Sal scurries after him.

  Now what? Should Milo make a run for it? Get Tanis? How could she manage the terrain on crutches? And what if Robertson isn’t here when they get back? And where is here, exactly? Without a flashlight how effective will Milo’s return journey be? What if he can’t find the hut?

  ‘Epic,’ Robertson says again. Milo has never seen him so exhilarated. Turning him in, sending him back to the jail of home and school, would be a betrayal. But what about mother love? Unconditional love? Acceptance? Does Robertson not need this? Although Tanis doesn’t really accept him, does she? She wants him to be normal. That’s it then. She has lost him by trying to make him into something he is not. How many parents lose their children by trying to make them into something they are not? The coltish runner’s parents were unable to hide their disappointment when she failed to make the Olympic team. She became a real estate agent, grew hips and children. Milo sees her ads on benches at bus stops. All that suffering just so people can sit on her face.

  ‘Milo?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you coming in?’

  The hut is small; it will be hard to keep his distance.

  ‘Actually, pardner, I was kinda pinin’ for some viddles and a comfy bed.’ Why is he talking cowboy again? Robertson doesn’t respond, has probably shut down. A siren wails beyond the woods in the urban jungle and suddenly Milo would much rather be here than there. He hears a click and sees the glow of Robertson’s flashlight through the debris hut.

  ‘Milo?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you want a granola bar and an apple juice?’

  ‘Sure.’ He crawls inside the hut until he is a foot from Robertson, who has laid out two bars and two juice boxes and three dog biscuits for Sal.

  ‘We have to ration,’ the wild boy explains. They chew and swallow slowly. Periodically Robertson caresses the sides of the hut. ‘Epic,’ he says.

  omething raps against the ridgepole. ‘Anybody in there?’

  ‘Shhh,’ Milo hisses, scrambling out.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ a bodybuilder cop demands.

  ‘Nothing, just please be quiet. He freaks out so easily.’

  ‘You got the kid in there?’

  ‘Robertson Wedderspoon? Yes. Do you have a cell, can you call his mother?’

  ‘We have to see the boy first.’

  A sumo wrestler cop and a dog circle the debris hut as though checking for bombs.

  ‘It’s just,’ Milo tries to explain, ‘sudden moves startle him. He’s autistic.’

  ‘We heard. What’s your name?’

  ‘Milo Krupi. I’m his neighbour.’

  ‘You stayed here all night with him?’

  ‘No. I was out looking for him and got mugged. He found me, actually.’

  ‘Why didn’t you take him home?’

  ‘Because he didn’t want to go home.’

  ‘He’s a kid. He has to go home.’

  ‘I know, but I was trying to do it gradually, in daylight, so we wouldn’t get lost.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he want to go home?’

  ‘Oh, domestic trouble. His parents broke up. And school, he’s bullied at school.’

  The cop taps the hut with his baton. ‘You built this?’

  ‘We both did. It’s a debris shelter. Robertson was very happy making it. I didn’t want to ruin it for him by forcing him to go home.’

  ‘Is that right? Well, how ’bout you let him talk for himself?’

  ‘Actually, I’d prefer it if you’d let me wake him.’

  ‘Mr. Crappy, you’re under suspicion for kidnapping. We don’t want you talking to him.’

  ‘That’s absurd. He’s my friend.’

  ‘Let’s see what he has to say about it.’

  The sumo wrestler grips Milo’s arm. ‘Stand over here, please.’

  ‘Could you take your hat off?’ Milo asks the bodybuilder.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll look less threatening if you take your hat off. Plus I don’t think you’ll fit through with the hat on. It’s pretty snug in there.’

  The sumo wrestler continues to grip Milo’s arm while the bodybuilder kneels in front of the debris hut. ‘Robertson?’ he inquires.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ Milo explains.

  ‘Shut up,’ the sumo wrestler advises.

  ‘Robertson,’ the bodybuilder repeats, ‘it’s all right. You’re safe now. You can come out.’ Sal, turned feral by her taste of the wild, charges at the cop, barking excitedly. The police dog, still on a leash, lunges towards her, also barking.

  ‘Milo?’ Robertson cries, sounding terrified.

  ‘I’m right here, buddy. It’s the police. They’ve come to find you.’

  ‘Shut up,’ the wrestler repeats.

  ‘Milo, you promised you wouldn’t tell anybody. Did you tell them?’

  ‘I didn’t, buddy. Honest.’ The wrestler tightens his grip.

  ‘You told them, you told them, you told them!’ Robertson shrieks.

  The bodybuilder pushes Sal aside, takes off his hat and crawls into the debris hut, club, gun and all. Within seconds Robertson is shrieking and kicking, causing branches and leaves to pop off the hut.

 
‘It’s okay, son,’ the bodybuilder says, ‘we’re not going to hurt you. Your mom’s really worried about you and she wants you home.’

  ‘My mom says police are fascists!’ Robertson yells. ‘I’m never going home ever, ever, ever, ever, ever!’

  ‘Let me talk to him,’ Milo persists.

  ‘Shut up.’

  Robertson’s high-tops poke through the hut as he kicks. ‘I’m never going home ever, ever, ever, ever, ever!’ The hut vibrates as he bangs his head against it. Within seconds the bodybuilder drags him out, kicking and screaming.

  ‘Call his mother,’ he says to the wrestler. ‘Tell her the fascists are on their way.’ The bodybuilder strides through the woods with the wailing, flailing boy in his grasp.

  •••

  ‘Do you know this man?’ the bodybuilder asks Tanis.

  ‘He’s my neighbour.’

  ‘We found him with your son.’

  ‘I found him,’ Milo interjects. ‘Actually, he found me.’

  ‘Shut up,’ the wrestler says.

  ‘He built some kind of wigwam with your son last night and slept in it.’

  Tanis, who has been looking and acting like a madwoman, opens and closes her mouth several times. Already she has further alienated the police by accusing them of mistreating her son. ‘Get away from him,’ she kept yelling at them. Milo had to restrain Robertson while she strapped on the protective helmet. They can hear him thumping as they stand in the front hall.

  Tanis looks at Milo with eyes completely unfamiliar to him. ‘You knew where he was?’

  ‘Not until the early hours of this morning,’ Milo explains. ‘He didn’t want to come back and I didn’t want to force him. I mean, it was dark. We could have gotten lost.’

  ‘So how long were you planning to stay in the wigwam?’ the bodybuilder inquires.

  ‘Hopefully not long. I was hoping he’d get hungry and I could interest him in some pancakes or something.’

  Tanis sits and stares at nothing. ‘Why didn’t he want to come home?’

  ‘He didn’t want to go to school,’ Milo says, which is easier than explaining that the pressure to be normal has overwhelmed Robertson.

  ‘Well, ma’am, if you’re satisfied that your son’s safe, we’ll be on our way.’