Milosz (29 page)

‘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 thinking 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.'

Milo descends the stairs two at a time. ‘Would you stop fixing things? Why do you have to
fix
things all the time?'

Gus, screwdriver in hand, nods and smiles. ‘
Cześć.
'

‘This is nuts. You're supposed to have forgotten all this shit.'

‘Milo,' Pablo calls, ‘Tanis wants to talk to you.'

He expects her to hurl accusations or crutches. Regardless, he intends, as lovesick Amy advised, to tell her to fuck right off. But she sits demurely on his steps.

‘I've been thinking about it,' she says. ‘Maybe you should take Robertson to see Christopher. It's not for me to decide. They have to make their own decisions about their relationship. I'll call the centre tomorrow and tell them you're going to take him.'

Great, so what is he supposed to do now? How can he possibly explain? Why did he rush it? Nothing good ever happens in a hurry.

‘Sal misses him badly,' she says. ‘She's always looking for him. Robertson talks to her. I try but she's not interested. I don't speak her language.' She absently jabs the end of a crutch into the dirt. ‘I'm so lonely. I had no idea I could be this lonely.'

He sits beside her, wanting to prolong this intimacy, her vulnerability.

Is lying an option? Would the yoga-panted women join him in collusion and deceit?

‘I've been trying to imagine my life without him. Parents do that, I'm told, when their kids turn into teenagers. They can see it coming: university, lovers, spouses. They have to let go. But I've never even considered that, I mean, that's always been so out of the question with Robertson, I just can't … ' Her voice wavers and he fears she's repressing tears. He has never seen her cry.

‘I mean,' she continues, ‘it's impossible to imagine him being on his own so I don't. I just assume we'll always be together. Maybe that's wrong.'

Milo doesn't know if it is. He just wants to hold her tight, like he held Robertson.

‘I mean, who am I to say what's right for him? I don't know, I just don't know anymore. It was simpler before. I saw a mother in a garden with her three-year-old. He wanted to help her, was busy digging in the dirt. Robertson used to do that.' She covers her eyes with her hand. ‘I miss him so much. But when he screams at me, it's like … I don't know who is he or what he's capable of. I thought I did but I don't. Maybe somebody else can see it more clearly.'

‘I took him to see Christopher this evening,' Milo confesses. ‘They were great together, no problems.'

Immediately the bite is back in her voice and she's pulling away from him. ‘What do you mean you took him to see him? They let you take him out without notifying me?'

‘I had a letter from Christopher.'

She covers her face with her hands and remains scarily still. Somewhere a dog barks, a car door slams, a child's toy squeaks, but Tanis doesn't move.

‘Robertson was really happy to see me.' There's that imprecise word again. ‘I mean, he didn't hesitate to come with me. We had ice cream, and even rode on a bus. We met an amputee who showed Robertson his leg, the false one and the stump. Robertson thought it was totally badass. I think he had a good time. I mean, I think he was glad to get out.' He doesn't mention almost losing him twice.

She reaches for her crutches and stands awkwardly, without looking at him. ‘That's the problem, Milo. As much as I want to, I can't trust you. Please keep me informed about your plans for my son.' She hobbles to her deck.

‘Of course. Are you picking him up tomorrow?'

‘I will seek the counsel of the professionals caring for him and will make a decision based on their feedback. Good night.' The doors slide shut behind her.

Vera's asleep in the chair again. He pats her hand. ‘Vera, I brought your tea and bickies. Drink it while it's hot.'

‘What? Oh yes. Thank you, Milo.'

How cruel the aging process is, he thinks, making us grow to look the same despite life experience making us distinctly different. In every white-haired, wrinkled and shapeless body is an individual screaming to get out.

‘Is Wally back from the office?'

‘I forgot to check.'

‘He's all I've got, Milo.'

‘What about your sisters?'

‘Oh, they have their own troubles. They never forgave me for marrying Wally's father and moving here in the first place.'

‘Why did you marry him?'

‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. England was a mess for years after the war. Did you know he had Parkinson's disease?'

‘Who?'

‘Wally's dad. Wally doesn't like to talk about it, I think because he's afraid he might get it. We didn't know about it till long after I'd left the witless dingbat. He was living in a trailer up north. Wally went to see him. Of course the old man didn't recognize him and was half bats already. He chased Wally out with a fork. Next thing we heard he'd stopped eating and died. It's a good way to go, Milo, if people will only leave you alone.'

‘Yes, but he had a progressive illness. He had a good reason to kill himself.'

‘What's a good reason? I think people drag it out terribly.'

‘A debilitating illness is a good reason.' He offers her a biscuit. She takes one but doesn't bite it.

‘We all have our reasons. Everybody else should just sod off.'

He finds Wallace in an Irish bar he frequents after junk removal. A portly man saws at a fiddle while another, resembling a leprechaun, blows on a pipe. Wallace stares at the musicians but doesn't seem to be listening. Milo taps his shoulder.

‘What are you doing here?' Wallace demands. ‘No way am I buying you a beer.'

‘We're all worried about Vera. We think she might be starving herself to death.'

‘No such luck.'

‘You can't really want your mother to die?'

‘I don't see you too excited about your dad moving in.'

‘I wouldn't want him dead, though.' Or would he?

‘Could've fooled me.'

‘Why don't you just talk to her?'

‘About what?'

‘Anything. All she wants is to be part of your life.'

‘What if I don't want her to be part of my life? What's
my
say in all this?' He muzzles himself with his beer mug, taking several gulps, before slamming the empty mug on the bar. ‘I don't get how we get stuck with these parents. We didn't ask to be born. They screwed and out we popped. Now they're dotty and we're supposed to look after them till they shit themselves to death. It makes no sense.'

‘They looked after
us
.'

‘Yeah, but we didn't ask them to, did we? It's not like we got to choose. We got stuck with them, broke loose and now that their party's over, we get stuck with them again. It makes no sense.'

Milo could talk about duty and responsibility but he doesn't really believe in these abstractions. He tries to think of what Pablo would say. ‘She loves you, Wallace.'

‘She loves her idea of me, dickwad, the little boy in that picture she carries around. She doesn't even fucking know me.'

‘So, let her get to know you.'

‘“Hi, Mom, I'm a sexually disoriented junk remover who suffers from erectile dysfunction and hasn't fucked a woman in years. Sorry about those grandkiddies you've been counting on. Guess you'll have to get some kittens you can kick around.” I'm tired of this game, seriously.'

A tanked man and woman get up to dance but stumble into one another.

‘She told me your dad had Parkinson's.'

‘Yeah, now there's a gift you want to pass on to future generations.'

‘He didn't know he had Parkinson's when you were born.'

‘He didn't know much. That's the problem. People breed like rabbits and don't know shit. And somehow we're supposed to grow up and forgive them.'

‘What do any of us know?'

‘I know I'm carrying around a gaga gene. I know I'm totally fucked up and would totally fuck up Junior. You don't breed for the sake of breeding. We're not animals. It's not like the planet needs more humans. What's the total now, seven billion? We're worse than fucking locusts.'

Wallace has never spoken so freely or frankly to Milo. He can't think of a good argument. If Pablo were here he would tell Wallace about a movie with a happy ending.

•••

He checks his email.
Love, the Final Solution
has not contacted him regarding a call time for tomorrow. Doubtless, Guard Number Eight, in squeak-free boots and an earring, will be doing the whipping scene. Does this mean Milo won't get to die? Guard Number Twelve is supposed to be shot by the Russians. Milo died so well in his audition; surely the heavy-lidded queen will remember and request his participation in the Red invasion.