Milosz

by Cordelia Strube

  ‘Anytime.’

  On the sidewalk, Robertson practises hopping on one leg. Not once has he asked where they are going, so engaged is he in the moment. Milo has never met anyone who doesn’t want to know what’s happening next. Rain splatters them again, soaking Robertson’s T-shirt, but he continues to hop until they reach the hospital doors. ‘I’m not sick,’ he says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I mean, I’m not hitting or shouting.’

  ‘I know that. We’re not here because of you.’

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are we here? I don’t want to go in, I’m not going in.’ He starts running, leaping off the sidewalk to make room for a wheelchair. A car honks and a driver shouts, ‘Get off the fucking road!’ Milo, with his foot still sore from the Nazi boot, chases after Robertson but the boy, fit from hours on the trampoline, moves at high speed. Pedestrians dodge him and turn around to watch the fleeing child, creating further obstacles for Milo who mutters, ‘Excuse me,’ as he stumbles around them, only to discover the boy has disappeared from sight. ‘Has anybody seen a blond boy, eleven years old?’ he asks as his feet slip in his rain-soaked sandals. ‘A boy,’ he shouts. ‘Please, have you seen him? He was running.’ No one cares. They keep their heads down in the rain, rushing for shelter. The sky darkens and rumbles and Milo remembers that Robertson is afraid of thunder. During storms he seeks out Tanis and stays close to her. She looks forward to bad weather for this reason. Where is she now as the storm rumbles? Is she imagining her son safe in isolation in a soundproof room? Milo has stolen her boy from her. The child she tried to keep safe, that she loves more than breathing – Milo has lost him. A feeling of defeat so massive, so crippling, descends upon him, forcing him to his knees as he calls the boy’s name over and over. He looks in all directions but rain and nightfall make it impossible to see any distance. With each clash of thunder he imagines Robertson cringing, drenched, walking in circles. With no phone booth in sight, Milo shouts, ‘Police, would someone please call the police?’ But there is no one; all have run from the relentless downpour. Milo removes his slippery sandals and scrambles barefoot first one way and then another, calling, until his feet and throat are raw. It’s over, he can’t do this anymore. No matter how good his intentions, he causes harm. Mrs. Cauldershot told him he was nothing but trouble. ‘Nothing but trouble,’ he mutters.

  ‘What is?’ Robertson asks.

  ‘Why did you take off?’

  ‘Why did you take your sandals off?’

  ‘My feet slip in them when they’re wet.’

  ‘I don’t like thunder.’

  ‘I know.’ Again he resists the urge to grab the shivering child. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I’m not going to the hospital.’

  ‘I was taking you to the hospital to see your dad.’

  ‘My dad?’

  ‘Yes, he was in a car accident. He asked me to take you to see him. In the hospital.’

  Robertson puts his hands on his hips. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ Right away he is on the march, as though the world didn’t almost come to an end.

  formidable woman in plum occupies the chair beside Christopher’s roommate’s bed. ‘Your mother knows you’re going to call her,’ she says.

  ‘I didn’t say I’d call her,’ the sports fan replies. His TV blares some game or other.

  ‘She knows you will,’ the woman in plum says.

  ‘I didn’t say I would.’

  ‘She’s waiting for you to call.’

  ‘I’m not calling her.’

  Contrary to expectation, Robertson doesn’t appear to be destroyed by the sight of his father, unconscious and in ruins. The boy doesn’t try to wake him but examines the tubes leading in and out of him, and the contraptions on his legs. He draws the curtain the full length of the rod and says to the sports fan and his companion, ‘Can you please be quiet.’ The woman in plum looks around the curtain at Milo.

  ‘Is he talking to us?’

  ‘He is. He’s very sensitive to noise.’

  ‘My father’s sleeping. Please turn off your television.’

  ‘Oh, come on, kid,’ the sports fan says. ‘It’s the finals.’

  ‘If you could just turn it down a bit,’ Milo says.

  ‘It’s too loud,’ Robertson insists. ‘Do you have hearing problems?’

  ‘Do you have manners?’ the woman in plum demands.

  ‘He’s sincerely asking,’ Milo explains. ‘He’s very literal.’

  ‘He’s very rude is what he is,’ the woman says, jerking the curtain back. ‘Turn it down, Travis.’

  ‘It’s the finals.’

  ‘Turn it down and call your mother.’

  ‘Robby,’ Christopher murmurs. ‘Buddy, I’m so happy to see you.’

  ‘I’m happy to see you too,’ Robertson says sombrely. ‘You’ve got a lot of things attached to you.’

  ‘Yes, quite a web, isn’t it? That’s why I got Milo to bring you here. Why are you all wet?’

  ‘It’s raining.’

  The woman in plum pushes her face around the curtain again. ‘Does he have to talk that loud?’

  ‘He does,’ Christopher says, and then starts to laugh or cry, Milo isn’t sure which. ‘It’s so great to see you, Robby. I’ve missed you so much.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too,’ Robertson says flatly, fondling the external fixator.

  ‘Be careful with that,’ Milo cautions.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ Christopher says. ‘I have a jacket here somewhere, can you find it? They put my stuff that wasn’t wrecked in a plastic bag and stuck it in the locker.’

  Milo finds the bag and the jacket and fits it around Robertson who, it seems to him, has not once made eye contact with his father. ‘What were you doing in a car?’ he asks. ‘We don’t have a car anymore.’

  ‘I wasn’t in a car,’ Christopher says. ‘I was crossing the street. I got hit.’

  ‘Did you look before you crossed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long before you get better?’

  ‘Well, they say eight weeks before I can bear weight.’ Christopher seems even frailer than he did yesterday and Milo can’t imagine him finding the strength for rehab.

  ‘Travis, call your mother,’ the woman in plum commands.

  ‘I’m not calling her. She expects me to call her. And anyway, I don’t want to worry her. Did he score? Fuck, I missed it, he scored, shit. Fuck.’

  ‘It’s rude to swear,’ Robertson says.

  ‘If that kid doesn’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to kill him.’

  ‘So are you coming home when you get better?’ Robertson asks.

  ‘I have to see how it goes.’

  ‘Mum didn’t tell me you were in the hospital.’

  ‘She didn’t know,’ Christopher says. ‘I didn’t want her to worry. She knows now but you don’t need to tell her you visited me. Let’s make it our secret, then Milo can bring you another time.’

  ‘She won’t let me go out with Milo. She thinks he’s irresponsible and that he killed Billy.’

  ‘That he what?’

  ‘Killed Billy.’

  ‘The kid who body-slams you?’

  Robertson nods. ‘She thinks Milo killed him wearing his Spider-Man mask but I know he’s way too chicken.’ Christopher stares questioningly at Milo, who attempts to shrug dismissively to suggest that he couldn’t possibly have killed Billy.

  ‘How did he die?’ Christopher asks.

  ‘He got in a fight with somebody in a Spider-Man mask and something in his brain exploded.’

  ‘Well,’ Christopher says. ‘That’s very disturbing.’

  Still feeling Christopher staring at him, Milo tries to look preoccupied adjusting the blinds.

  ‘On the other hand, Robby, this might mean you can start carrying a cell again if Billy’s not around to steal it. I miss being able
to call you, bud.’

  ‘Somebody else will steal it.’

  ‘I didn’t know Billy stole your cell,’ Milo says.

  ‘Don’t tell Mum. She thinks I lost it.’

  ‘We didn’t tell Tanis,’ Christopher explains, ‘because she’d expect justice in what would be a long-drawn-out affair, the only evidence being Robby’s testimony, his word against Billy’s. Hard to prove beyond a reasonable doubt.’

  On the bus, the knowledge that Billy body-slammed Robertson and stole his cell reignites a fury in Milo that he must not reveal to the boy. He folds his arms tightly, restraining himself, while trying to think about other things like why sons avoid their mothers, lie to their mothers, for fear of worrying or disappointing them. Aren’t their mothers disappointed and worried anyway? Isn’t Tanis going out of her mind with worry despite her ignorance of the body-slamming and cellphone theft? Will the sports fan’s lies stop his mother from fretting about him? Is not Vera starving herself with disappointment and worry despite her son’s collusion and deceit? If Annie had lived, what lies would Milo have told her? He often lied to Gus to forestall interrogation.

  One lie would make another necessary and soon he would lose track of the ­falsehoods. Inevitably Gus would note the discrepancies and display the ­anticipated disappointment and worry. Now he has no idea who Milo is and therefore no expectations of him. Milo cannot disappoint or worry. This should be liberating.

  ‘Is my dad going to die?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Milo says, far from certain that this is true. He knew an actor called Naylor Wiens who fell off a horse while shooting a commercial for breath mints. Naylor had lied about being able to ride. He and an actress, wearing fur hats, galloped towards each other on white horses. When Naylor fell off, he broke many bones and was strung up in a web similar to Chris­topher’s. Naylor caught pneumonia and died.

  ‘Maybe he’ll get a badass fake leg like that guy’s,’ Robertson says. ‘That would be cool.’

  ‘No, he’s going to keep both legs. So let’s not tell your mum about the hospital visit, okay?’

  ‘He didn’t look too good,’ Robertson says.

  ‘I think that’s inevitable, after a big accident like that. He’ll get better.’

  Only after they’ve been off the bus for ten minutes does Robertson ask where they are going.

  ‘To the centre. Remember, I got permission to take you to visit your dad on the condition that I bring you back.’

  ‘I’m not going back.’

  Milo can see the boy bracing for a fight. ‘You have to. That was part of the deal. Otherwise your mum will find out and she won’t let you see your dad.’

  ‘She can’t stop me.’

  ‘Robertson, you have to go back or they’ll report you missing. Just tonight, okay? Can you do this for me? Please?’

  At first the boy only hastens his pace but, as Milo matches his stride, he begins to run. ‘You can’t keep running away,’ Milo calls after him, already short of breath and favouring his sore foot. ‘Stop!’ he shouts, fearing he won’t be able to keep up. ‘Please stop!’ Robertson sprints onward and Milo, suddenly flushed with the adrenalin spawned by his terror of losing the boy again, races after him, tackling him. As they tumble to the sidewalk Milo uses his body to block Robertson’s fall. Once safely on the ground his first instinct is to release the child to make sure he isn’t hurt. But he knows if he loosens his grip he may be unable to restrain him. Instead he hangs on as the boy fights and squirms despite his arms being pinned to his sides. Milo endures kicks and head-butts but he will not let go. A man smoking a cigar, walking what looks like an oversized rat, stares at them. ‘Everything cool here?’

  ‘Totally cool,’ Milo says. ‘It’s just seizures.’

  ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,’ Robertson shouts.

  Milo, still maintaining a vise grip, pulls them into a sitting position and leans against a fire hydrant. What a relief to be holding him finally, feeling the intractable life of him. He has only held Robertson when Tanis has asked him to lift the sleeping boy upstairs. Unconscious, the child feels soft and pliable. Conscious and infuriated, he feels wiry, a small mass of taut muscle.

  ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,’ Robertson shouts again but with less force.

  A stooped woman, dragging a shopping buggy, eyes him and shakes her head.

  And then it is just the two of them, the captor and the captured, testing each other’s strength and will, waiting it out. Milo’s arms burn and his legs cramp but when the boy, exhausted, tips his head back and rests it against his shoulder, Milo presses his cheek against his silky hair and rocks him gently. An unfamiliar feeling spreads through him; he can’t find words to describe it, he who is uncomfortable talking about feelings. What he knows is that for once he is in the right place at the right time. He will stay here, holding firm, for as long as it takes.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Pablo demands.

  ‘What’s it to you where I’ve been?’

  ‘The TV people keep calling. And Wallace has gone AWOL and Vera won’t come out of her room. She’s starving herself, Milo. I tried cheese and crackers, a liverwurst sanny. Gussy and me even made cabbage rolls.’

  ‘So that’s what stinks,’ Milo says. His house no longer smells like his house, or Gus’s, for that matter. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the basement. He likes it down there. Please, can you talk to Vera? I seen an old lady starve herself before. Mi abuela when she found out my father was screwing my cousin, and that my niece was a puta. She didn’t even drink water. She got dehydrated and went into a coma. It don’t take long, Milo.’

  ‘So let her die if she wants to. Why do we all have to live? I’m sick of this life-at-any-cost bullshit. If she wants to die, let her die.’ Why he is presenting his callous face when moments ago, carrying the boy to safety, feeling his warm surrender, his trust, laying him gently on the bed while the yoga-panted women watched admiringly, he felt, well, happy.

  ‘She don’t really want to die. It’s just she’s upset about Wallace.’

  ‘And Wallace is upset about Vera. Why can’t everybody just move on?’

  ‘Are you shouting again?’ Tawny asks, nibbling on a cabbage roll.

  ‘I wasn’t shouting.’

  ‘Yes you were. Why don’t you move on?’

  Milo feels his jaw flapping but no words come out.

  ‘He used to be nicer,’ Pablo says, putting his arm protectively around her.

  ‘Hands off her!’ Milo snaps as he climbs the stairs to his parents’ room. ‘Vera?’ He knocks several times. When she doesn’t respond he nudges the door open. She’s asleep in the armchair. He picks her glasses up off the floor, sets them on the dresser and lies on the marshmallow bed. No one will bother him in here. His muscles tense, resisting the cushy mattress. It’s as though if he lets go, he will fall. What really happened in this chocolate box of a room anyway? What could it have been like for Annie to endure the sexual advances of her husband knowing that any resulting pregnancy would likely fail? Why didn’t the doctors tell her to stop? Maybe they did and Gus kept at, as he has always done. After the funeral, when Milo couldn’t sleep because Annie wasn’t there to kiss him good night, Gus took him for rides in his truck. This was the height of decadence to Milo, to be out in the world at night in his pyjamas in his father’s truck. His mother wouldn’t have liked it. His father didn’t say much, driving with both hands on the wheel, but it was the two of them together in the world, against the world. In that truck, in his pyjamas, with the city lights flickering, Milo felt that only good things could happen. Eventually he’d fall asleep and Gus would carry him to bed. After several weeks Gus stopped the ritual, insisting it was a waste of gas and it was time for Milo to be a big boy and go to sleep by himself. Milo didn’t question or plead, he obeyed and lay stiff with apprehension contemplating the endless nights ahead, filled with fitful sleep and nightmares in which his mother would die many deaths. Often he’d waken thinki
ng he’d dreamed that she’d died, that she was downstairs pouring orange juice and shaking out his Froot Loops.

  ‘Milo?’

  ‘Yes, Vera.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Rumour has it you’re starving yourself.’

  ‘What tosh.’

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Breakfast.’

  ‘Well,’ Milo looks at his watch, ‘that was sixteen hours ago.’

  ‘Was it? Heavens.’

  ‘Can I bring you up a tray?’

  ‘I might be able to manage a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Has Wally come back yet?’

  ‘I’ll check.’

  Pablo’s digging a spoon into a tub of ice cream. ‘How’s she doing?’

  Milo fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. ‘I’m making her tea and biscuits.’

  ‘Bueno. You have to be quiet though. Fenny’s painting Tawny.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fenny’s never painted a real Indian before. I told her about Tawny and she came right over. Fenny loves that French guy who painted naked native girls.’

  ‘You used Tawny as bait?’

  ‘You can’t go in there.’

  Sure enough, Tawny, semi-nude, draped in a sheet, lies on the couch. On seeing Milo she quickly covers up.

  ‘Pablo,’ Fennel says, ‘I told you not to let anybody in here.’

  ‘It’s my house,’ Milo protests. ‘And Tawny is my guest. You have no right to take advantage of her.’

  ‘She’s paying me,’ Tawny says. ‘I need the money.’

  ‘I see. Great, okay, what else will you do for cash because this is the place for it – we’ve got hookers, gigolos, queers, coming and going at all hours.’

  Fennel struts towards him and punches his shoulder. ‘How is this different from you stripping for my art class?’

  There has to be a difference, he just can’t think of one.

  ‘If there was a private room available,’ Fennel says, ‘we’d use it. Even the basement’s booked.’

  ‘Is he still down there?’ Milo asks.

  ‘He’s fixing the kitchen chairs,’ Pablo says. ‘They’re wobbly.’