Milosz Page 5

  ‘We don’t want James Bond,’ the woman quips.

  Milo starts to remove his shirt, surprised by his bashfulness – he who stands naked in front of strangers. Cool air presses against his nipples.

  ‘Good,’ the woman says. ‘Now run around, please.’ She makes a circular motion with her hand, flashing scarlet fingernails.

  ‘Run around?’ Milo asks.

  ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘The room is small.’

  ‘You can’t run around in a small room?’

  ‘Just run around,’ the casting director urges, making shooing gestures. ‘It’ll just take a second.’

  Milo begins to run. Commercial auditions have conditioned him to accept humiliation, to co-operate as though lobotomized, no acting required.

  ‘That’s great,’ the casting director says. Milo feels his gut and breasts bouncing as he runs from one wall to the other.

  ‘Run in circles,’ the scarlet-nailed woman orders.

  The circles are tiny, causing a mild dizziness, but Milo perseveres, dreaming of cheques.

  ‘That’s excellent,’ the casting director says.

  ‘Enough?’ Milo asks.

  ‘Keep going,’ the woman orders, stepping behind the camera. The client and director will view the footage later, will discuss Milo’s bouncing breasts and gut, his Everyman expression.

  ‘That’s excellent,’ the casting director repeats. Panting, Milo feels a sudden urge to remove all his clothes, to wag his penis in the scarlet-nailed woman’s face. His hand moves to his fly.

  ‘That’s enough,’ she commands. ‘You can put your shirt back on in the hall.’

  ‘Thanks for coming in,’ the casting director says, putting a firm hand on Milo’s naked back and ushering him out.

  In the corridor a young woman with pink streaks in her hair and an exposed midriff says, ‘I know you. I so totally loved painting you. Your body is, like, so totally Everyman.’

  Milo has never met one of the artists outside the studio. That this curvaceous young woman has traced his naked contours with a brush causes both mild arousal and embarrassment. He puts his shirt on. ‘Do you work here?’

  ‘I work for the caterer.’ She points to food trays on a cart. Her toenails are painted rainbow colours. She smells of patchouli.

  ‘Do you aspire to being a painter?’ he asks.

  ‘I am a painter. You’re my favourite model, totally. I keep trying to get you back, but unfortunately most of them want this dancer who’s, like, ripped.’

  She has seen him naked and is still willing to talk to him. Astonishing. Freed from concerns that his physique will disappoint in the bedroom, he wants to take her right here on the linoleum. ‘I didn’t get your name,’ he says.

  ‘Fennel.’

  ‘I’m Milo.’

  ‘Nice to see you again, Milo.’

  ‘What’s that clinking sound?’ he asks.

  ‘Ankle bracelets.’ She turns to the cart and he knows time is running out.

  ‘Would you come to my house for dinner?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s money in it. A hundred bucks.’

  She stares at him and the planet shudders. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ he says. ‘It’s an acting job. My friend needs a date to impress his mother. She’s visiting from England and thinks he’s got a girlfriend. All you’d have to do is be nice and polite for a couple of hours. He might even pay two hundred bucks.’ Milo is willing to sacrifice his bonus to prevent Fennel clinking away.

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘Of course. Here’s a down payment.’ He hands her Pablo’s twenties and Wallace’s fifty.

  ‘I know karate,’ she warns. ‘I can inflict bodily harm.’

  ‘I’m sure you can but that won’t be necessary.’ He pulls out his pen and feels around in his pockets for a scrap of paper.

  She holds out her arm. ‘Use my wrist.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nods glumly. He recognizes the resignation, the need for cash. Art supplies don’t come cheap. As he pens his address and phone number on her tender flesh, he senses that she is trying to avoid further bodily contact.

  The door to the audition room swings open and the scarlet-nailed woman prods Milo. ‘We told you to leave.’

  ‘I am leaving.’

  ‘Is this man bothering you?’

  ‘Did he do something wrong?’ Fennel asks.

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  The scarlet-nailed woman points her cell at him. ‘Leave immediately or I’m calling security.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Fennel asks, looking worried, and he feels his chances of recruiting her waning.

  ‘He’s unstable,’ the scarlet-nailed woman says, grabbing a sandwich from the tray. Behind her back, Milo holds his thumb and pinky to his ear to indicate that Fennel should call him but she looks away. He suspects he is no longer her totally favourite model.

  Playing the role of a dad picking up Junior after school, hoping to appear stable while gripping the busted cell, Milo walks purposefully through the heavy doors and scans classroom nameplates until he locates Mrs. Bulgobin’s. She’s still in there, helping a girl with math. Milo lingers in the corridor, leaning against the wall while pretending to be engrossed in texting. Bulgobin leads the girl out. ‘We’ll make a photocopy and you can practise at home,’ she says. They walk past Milo without a glance. He darts into the classroom, spots the hamster cage and fits it into the garbage bag he has punctured with air holes. Back in the corridor he resumes a preoccupied manner with the cell in one hand and the garbage bag in the other. The wiry-haired, stout man who retrieved Robertson from the schoolyard approaches.

  ‘That’s a bit pricey,’ Milo says to the cell, looking down at the floor in an attempt to hide his face. ‘See if you can get him down a bit.’ He pretends to be listening then says, ‘I won’t go any higher. Tell him he’s dreaming.’

  Once the wiry-haired man is out of sight, Mrs. Bulgobin waddles towards him.

  ‘It’s dropped in value by at least half,’ Milo tells the cell as the hamster scurries around in the cage, causing it to shift. ‘That’s my final offer, tell him he’s lucky to get one at all. If he gives you any grief, just pass.’

  Mrs. Bulgobin disappears into her classroom and Milo makes haste before she has the opportunity to notice the missing cage.

  To hone his acting skills, Milo has always sat in public places observing the ebb and flow of humanity, making note of character details: body language, gaits, clothing choices, mannerisms – all tools for his trade. Gus called him the World’s Greatest Loiterer. So waiting outside the Empire Financial building, watching the gainfully employed rush home from the daily grind, feels quite natural to him. He prefers it to being in Gus’s house with Vera and Pablo. How long before she discovers the rodent in the basement? Already she is spending an inordinate amount of time below deck, taking charge of Wallace’s dirty laundry collection. How wonderful to have someone care enough to pick up your socks stiff with grime, and your skid-marked Jockeys. She’s been ‘mending’ Wally’s pants and shirts, sewing on buttons, stitching seams. With her every nurturing gesture, Wallace cringes like a man in torment.

  Christopher appears outside Empire Financial looking as though he has forgotten something. He rubs his forehead, feels in his pockets and checks his cell. He begins walking in one direction then changes course, takes a few more steps then stops again, rubbing the back of his neck. The Christopher that Milo knows never hesitates in this manner. He moves with confidence and purpose, circumventing life’s disappointments. This new uncertainty must be the result of having hit his son, who he would give his life for; unhinged by remorse, he no longer knows which direction to take.

  Abruptly he crosses the street, not bothering to check for cars. Milo ducks into a Mr. Sub until Christopher passes, then begins tailing him. Christopher stares hard at the ground as he walks in the same manner Tani
s does. He stops to buy a newspaper from a box, then stands stiffly for several minutes before heading into a Burger King. Milo slips into the Burger King while Christopher orders, sitting at a table covered in wrappings, hoping to appear as though he has just finished a meal. Christopher, order in hand, finds a cleared table by the window. He sets down his food and his paper but touches neither. He checks his cell again, slides it back in his pocket and sits with his head in his hands. Milo had hoped they could make casual contact, giving him a chance to hint at the growing distress on the home front. Minutes pass but Christopher does not touch his food or look at his paper. A squabbling, overfed family swarms the table beside him. The normal boys fling fries at each other. The father slaps their heads. This gets Christopher’s attention. ‘Eat!’ the father orders. Christopher watches them shoving food into their mouths. The pregnant mother stares at the wall, sucking on a pop. ‘Shut up,’ the father commands when the boys try to speak between mouthfuls.

  Christopher leaves the Burger King without his food or his paper. Milo follows with Pablo’s words in his head: Don’t be afraid to love, Milo, it is the one true thing. People afraid to love are lonely, always. Isn’t Christopher lonely? What has love brought him but suffering? Milo can’t think of one real-life lasting love story. The movie stars acting eternal love, between bouts in rehab, are always divorcing in real life. It’s all illusion. So why bother with any of it? Except for Robertson. He must help Robertson.

  ‘Christopher!’ he calls.

  Christopher, crossing the street without checking for cars, turns his head in Milo’s direction just as a cab, pulling a U-turn, slams into his legs.

  hat kind of name is Fennel?’ Pablo asks, stretching out on the couch.

  ‘It’s a herb,’ Milo says.

  ‘Who the fuck names their kid after a herb?’ Wallace mutters. ‘Get her to change it, just for the night. Make her Debbie or something.’

  ‘I’m not even sure she’s coming.’

  ‘Sabrina,’ Pablo suggests. ‘Or Margarita.’

  ‘I’m not getting her to change her name. It’ll just get confusing.’

  ‘We could call her Fen,’ Pablo suggests. ‘Or Fenny. Fenny’s nice.’

  ‘Call her Fennel,’ Milo says more loudly than he’d intended. Vera’s frying animal parts.

  ‘Anybody for calf livers?’ she calls.

  Wallace leans towards Milo and whispers, ‘Did you see them in the fridge? She soaks the fucking things in milk then dunks them in flour and fries them.’ He puts his finger in his mouth to suggest gagging.

  ‘Have you got any cling film, Milo?’ she asks.

  ‘She means Saran Wrap,’ Wallace explains.

  ‘Sorry, must be out,’ Milo says.

  ‘Add that to the list, Wally.’ Wallace begins to cough. He has been coughing regularly since the vacuuming and has even procured a puffer.

  ‘Something’s not right with your cooker, Milo,’ Vera adds. ‘The heat’s a bit off.’

  ‘Try putting your head in it,’ Wallace grumbles.

  ‘What’s that, Wally?’

  Milo hears banging on the back door. Suspecting it’s Tanis, he considers running for cover. Christopher made him promise to tell her nothing. ‘It’ll kill her,’ he wheezed while Milo covered him with his sweatshirt and shouted at the gawpers to back off. A man in a Detroit Red Wings jacket prodded Christopher. ‘Are you a doctor?’ Milo demanded. The Red Wings fan started to straighten one of Christopher’s legs. ‘Don’t touch him!’ Milo shrieked, shoving the man. ‘Nobody touches him until Emergency Services gets here.’ He stood over Christopher, waving his arms. When Christopher lost consciousness, word went around that he was dead, which caused gasping and hysteria. The cab driver sat on the curb shaking his head and praying.

  ‘The lady from next door would like a word with you, Milo,’ Vera says.

  ‘Okay, tell her I’ll be right out.’

  Pablo winks at him. ‘Don’t be afraid to show your true feelings.’

  ‘What true feelings?’ Wallace asks.

  ‘About the fence,’ Milo says, kicking Pablo.

  Vera picks up Tanis’s underpants. ‘Hel-lo, somebody forgot their knickers.’

  All eyes fix on the underpants.

  ‘They’re Maria’s,’ Pablo blurts.

  ‘Patched things up, have you?’

  ‘Not totally,’ Pablo says. ‘I still have to stay here a couple of nights, if that’s okay.’

  ‘No way are you rutting on my couch,’ Wallace says.

  ‘It’s my couch,’ Milo intervenes.

  Tanis appears with her hair sprung loose and takes her panties from Vera. ‘Those are mine, thank you. Milo, can we speak privately for a moment?’

  He sits on one of Gus’s peeling Muskoka chairs, wishing Tanis would sit on the other one, but she remains standing with arms crossed, the panties scrunched into her fist.

  ‘Remember,’ she says, ‘Robertson had a Halloween party a couple of years ago and nobody came but you?’

  ‘Christopher’s assistant came as Dorothy.’

  ‘You came as Spider-Man.’

  ‘Did I? Hunh. I’d forgotten. I wonder what happened to that costume.’

  ‘Billy Kinney was assaulted by a man wearing a Spider-Man mask.’

  ‘Billy who?’ Milo knows exactly who Billy is.

  ‘He woke up this morning with a headache but it got worse after the assault so his mother took him to emerg. Did you knock him down?’ She stares unwaveringly into Milo’s soul, leaving energy impressions.

  ‘Of course not.’ He did not knock him down. The boy collapsed before him. He can’t say this, can’t admit he was there and fled.

  ‘Where were you this morning?’

  ‘What? Here.’

  ‘Vera says you left early.’

  There’s no question he’s going to have to snuff the old crow. ‘That’s right. I had an audition. That was an experience and a half. I had to run around with my shirt off.’

  ‘You had an audition at eight-fifteen this morning?’

  ‘Correcto, you going to arrest me?’ He tries to sit back casually, crossing one leg over the other. He tries to smile bemusedly or innocently – he’s not sure which. His mouth freezes in the confusion. ‘I’m sorry about the underpants,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how I walked away with them.’

  ‘I know you care deeply about Robertson. But this won’t help him. Please don’t do it again.’ She walks out of his yard into her own, spared the knowledge that her husband is in the trauma centre fighting for his legs and maybe his life. Milo feels so ill suddenly he can’t get off the chair.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ Robertson asks, squatting by the other Muskoka chair and picking at the paint.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You looked like you were sleeping.’

  ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, ice cream. Do you want some?’

  ‘What flavour?’

  ‘Death by Chocolate.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’ He is afraid that Robertson will grill him as Tanis did and he will act equally badly.

  Pablo, Wallace and Vera are watching a reality show featuring a born-again aging bombshell who insists she saves marriages by selling vibrators, fruit-flavoured condoms and lubricants. ‘What about the whips and chains, ducky?’ Vera demands.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re watching this,’ Wallace says but it is Vera who controls the remote.

  ‘Shut up, Wally, you might learn something.’

  Milo scoops massive amounts of ice cream into the bowls, hoping to console Robertson.

  ‘Mum would never let me have that much,’ he says.

  ‘Is that right? Well, you’re in my yard now.’

  Robertson focuses intently on the ice cream, carving it delicately with his spoon. Milo sees Tanis on the deck, presumably looking for Robertson. ‘We’re having ice cream,’ he calls out, attempting to sound cheery. ‘Death by Choc
olate. Want some?’ Tanis doesn’t smile.

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ she calls back. Milo remembers too late that she never allows Robertson chocolate before bed because it makes him hyper.

  ‘How was school?’

  ‘Billy got beat up by a guy in a Spider-Man mask. Mum thinks it was you.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘That’s what I said. I said Milo is way too chicken to do something like that.’

  Way too chicken?

  ‘Who do you think it was?’ Milo asks.

  ‘I don’t know but I’m glad. Billy wasn’t at school. I hope he never comes back. Probably will though.’ Robertson makes little satisfied murmurs as he savours the ice cream. He is entirely in the moment. Milo sees this as one of his gifts. How many people actually live in the moment? Everybody’s always thinking about what’s happening later or yesterday or ten years ago, ten years from now. He hears his screen door open. ‘Have you got any silver paper, Milo?’ Vera asks.

  ‘She means aluminum foil,’ Wallace interprets.

  ‘No, sorry,’ Milo says.

  ‘Add that to the list, Wally. Would you care to join us for a sherry and a spot of cheese, Milo?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Add cream crackers to the list, Wally.’ The screen door closes.

  ‘Who’s that old lady?’ Robertson asks.

  ‘Wallace’s mother.’

  ‘Is she a new boarder?’

  ‘Short-term.’

  ‘She’s loud. Just like your dad. Except your dad swore. It upset my dad. My dad never swears.’

  Milo searches for signs of damage in the abandoned son. Tanis sees it – wears her child’s heart like her own – but to the untrained eye, Robertson just looks like a boy delighting in ice cream. Listening to his contented murmurs, Milo tries to push thoughts of Christopher’s mangled legs from his mind.

  The ten-block walk to the Copper Pipe takes longer than he’d imagined. He tires, leaning against a newspaper box, weighted with sin – why, when he has freed Robertson, however temporarily, from suffering? Did not Billy the Bully deserve a little scare? And didn’t Milo do everything he could for Robertson’s broken father? The firefighters told him he did the right thing, even the EMS team thanked him for not moving Christopher. So why does Milo feel that he has failed? Gus would say, ‘It’s not your concern.’ Nothing was. Gus looked out for Gus and Milo. Everything he did was for Gus and Milo. Except it wasn’t really Milo but Gus’s fantasy of the strapping progeny Milo was destined to become, who would grab a mallet and chisel and emulate the master, carry on the grand tradition of Krupi and Son Ltd. When Gus’s clients grew tired of arguing with him, and hired instead what he called ass-kissers to pour their sidewalks, Gus tried to expand his land­scaping business. ‘People with more money than brains’ wanted stone driveways and steps, fences, flower boxes. But even people with more money than brains grew tired of arguing, which left Gus no one to kick around but his son. He picked fights about anything: stray socks, leftovers, TV shows, lawn mowing. Why? Did he feel guilty for surviving a horrific war? Did he abuse his son by way of penance? Milo can’t remember him once demonstrating affection, although there is a photo of the two of them his mother must have taken. A very small Milo balances on Gus’s knee, biting into a candied apple. Gus looks as though he’s waiting for a bus. And yet Milo’s mother, Annie, in a sober moment, whispered to him, ‘Your dad would do anything to protect you. He’d pick a fight with God if he had to.’ So why didn’t Milo feel protected?