ilo walks stealthily up the walk, hoping to arrive undetected but, of course, Sammy Sanjari is on the couch in deep conversation with Tawny. Doubtless he is considering the potential of a reality show set on the res. Maybe her dead abusive father could show up and blow kisses.

‘Milo,’ Sammy says, jumping up and extending his arms. Milo heads for the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you return my calls, my friend?’

‘I’m not your friend.’

‘You should always return calls as a courtesy.’

‘Fuck that noise.’

‘Tawny tells me your father has settled in bootifully.’

‘He’s nuts, okay, nuts, all he does is fix things.’

‘And cook,’ Tawny adds. ‘You should try his cabbage rolls.’

Milo smears Vera’s cream cheese on crackers. ‘Has Vera come down?’ Tawny shakes her head. ‘Did you take some food up to her?’

‘Gus took up some goh-ron-tseh mleh-koh.’

‘Some what?’

Gus appears from the basement. ‘Gorące mleko,’ he clarifies, nodding and smiling. ‘Hunny vit meelk.’

‘He means milk and honey,’ Tawny interprets.

‘Varm dreenk,’ Gus explains.

‘Gus, my friend,’ Sammy says. ‘How well you are doing with your English.’

Gus nods. ‘Eengleesh. Noh prrroblem.’

‘Bootiful. Well, Milo, I would say you are ready to wrap things up.’

‘I’m not wrapping up anything.’

Sammy’s cell rings ‘Where Is the Love?’ He pulls it out of his jacket. ‘Yes, I’m with Milo now. No worries. It’s looking very good, very promising. Although he is a little reluctant … A little, yes … I understand, but are you sure you don’t want to leave it with me? … I understand.’ He hands the phone to Milo. ‘Birgit for you.’

Milo takes the phone only because he can’t think of what else to do. ‘Milo?’ Birgit says. ‘Milo, are you there? What’s this about reluctant?’

‘I want out.’

‘There is the matter of a contract.’

‘I’ll give you back the money,’ he says, knowing he has already spent the initial grand on utility bills.

‘There are two kinds of people in the world,’ Birgit says. ‘The finishers and the quitters. Which one are you?’

A man who can build a debris hut is no quitter. ‘I’m just not comfortable with this,’ he says.

‘Sammy will make you comfortable. That’s his job. Let him do his job or I’ll sue your ass. Give me back to him.’ Milo hands the cell back to Sammy who listens to Birgit, periodically saying, ‘I understand’ and ‘no worries’ and, finally, ‘bootiful.’

All the while Gus has been making tea and slicing lemon. ‘Herbata,’ he says, lifting the teapot.

‘It’s called tea, asshole,’ Milo says.

‘Milo, is that any way to talk to your father? Come and sit with me.’

‘I don’t want to sit with you.’

Sammy grips his arm. ‘Come, we can fix this.’ He guides Milo to the couch and sits beside him with his arm firmly around his shoulder. ‘I know this has been hard for you, but you know, sometimes we run away from the very thing we need most in the world. Sometimes our heart’s desire is within our grasp but we don’t see it because we have been blinded by our past. The past is over, my friend. Bury the past or it will bury you. You have a brand-new future with your father who is so good at fixing things and making cabbage rolls. Do you know how much I would give to be able to sit down to dinner with my father? I would be so happy to just be with him, healing old wounds and accepting that the past is past.’

Cotton balls plug Milo’s lungs again, pushing up his throat into his mouth and nostrils. Why fight it? Resistance is futile. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Tomorrow night you’ll have dinner together. A nice Polish dinner. Gus will do the cooking and we’ll pretty up the house. No worries.’

‘Have you spoken to Gus about this?’

‘Get Pablo to ask him,’ Tawny says. ‘He speaks Polish.’

‘No he doesn’t.’

‘Whatever, he communicates with him.’

Gus walks in with a tray and sets it on the table. He arranges Annie’s ‘special occasion’ teacups and saucers that have been ignored for years and begins to pour. He has never done this in his life. Milo can’t stand it.

‘Vera?’ He knocks. ‘Vera, can I come in?’ When she doesn’t answer he nudges the door open. Pablo’s sandwiches are untouched, although the teacup is half empty. He replaces it with a fresh cup and the crackers and cream cheese. He pats her hand. ‘Vera? Vera, have some tea.’

‘Goodness gracious, what time is it?’

‘Late. Have a cracker.’ He offers her one that she takes but doesn’t bite.

‘Did Wally come home? He was here, wasn’t he? And didn’t pop in to see me. He doesn’t care one bit.’

‘Oh, I think he does. He’s just been incredibly busy at the office. We told him you weren’t feeling well. He didn’t want to bother you.’

‘What codswallop. Why do you lie like that, Milo?’

This stalls him. He flops onto the marshmallow bed. ‘It’s not just me who lies, is it? Doesn’t everybody make stuff up to make everybody else happy?’ That word again.

‘It doesn’t make us happy if it’s a lie.’

‘You’re not supposed to know it’s a lie. A good lie can keep the masses happy for ages.’

‘It all comes out in the end. Might as well sort it at the beginning, save yourself the trouble.’

‘Okay,’ he says, ‘if that’s how you want it. But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.’ He stares at a crack in the ceiling so he won’t have to see her face as her world implodes. ‘Wallace is sexually disoriented, has erectile dysfunction and hasn’t had sex with a woman in years. I don’t know if this means he’s a pansy but I do know he’s afraid of passing on the Parkinson’s gene, and that he doesn’t see the point of having children on a planet with seven billion people on it.’

‘He said all that?’

‘He did.’

‘There’s a certain sense in that.’

‘I agree.’

‘Why doesn’t he just come out and tell me then?’

‘He’s afraid he’ll worry and disappoint you.’

‘What tosh.’

He still can’t face her but hears her sipping tea. This is a good sign.

‘They advertise pills for that on the telly.’

‘I don’t know if he’s tried medication.’

She sips more.

‘And there’s something else,’ he says.

‘Yes?’

‘He’s not an accountant. He’s a junk remover.’

‘A what?’

‘He removes people’s junk.’

‘That’s his lorry, then, with Friendly Junk Removal on it?’

‘It is.’

‘He doesn’t have a motor in the shop?’

‘He does not. Just the truck.’

‘Is that a good living then, junk removal?’

‘Definitely. Seven billion humans produce a lot of junk.’

‘Why would he lie about it then?’

‘I think he thought accounting was more dignified. He didn’t want to worry or disappoint you.’

‘What tosh.’

Downstairs the misfits munch on black bread with cold cuts. ‘Musztarda,’ Gus says, passing around a jar of mustard.

‘Moosh-tar-dah,’ Pablo repeats. ‘Hey, Milo, look what we bought.’ He holds up another jar. ‘Genuine Polish horseradish.’

‘Chrzan,’ Gus explains.

‘Hshan,’ Pablo repeats.

‘And pickles,’ Tawny adds. ‘Real Polish ones.’

‘Ogóorki kiszone,’ Gus explains.

‘Oh-goor-kee kee-shoh-neh,’ Pablo repeats. ‘Is that right, Gussy? Oh-goor-kee kee-shoh-neh?’

‘Ya,’ Gus says, laughing his hahaha yoga laugh.

Milo escapes to the living room and searches for the remote.

‘Tanis wants you to go over,’ Pablo calls after him.

‘What? How do you know?’

‘I was over there doing some caulking.’

‘Caulking?’

‘Yeah, she’s worried about the mildew around the tub. She thinks it might be bad for Robertson.’

‘Is he home?’

‘He’s still at the centre.’

This is madness. The boy should be home by now. He raps on the glass doors. She pulls them open as though she has been waiting for him. She is newly showered, her Medusa hair soaking the shoulders of her bathrobe. She takes his hand and slides it inside the robe and onto her breast.

‘My husband says you want to fuck me. I haven’t been fucked for a long time, so let’s get at it.’

‘Are you crazy?’ He feels her nipple hardening and all he wants in the whole world is to put his mouth around it.

‘Pick me up,’ she says. ‘I can’t walk.’

With his rib straining he carries her to the futon couch. He lays her down awkwardly, afraid that he will injure her ankle. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asks but she is unzipping his jeans, massaging his groin.

‘I’m so ugly now,’ she says.

‘No you’re not.’

‘I’ve turned into a witch.’ Her mouth feels foreign, so accustomed is he to the memory of Zosia. He slides his lips down her neck to her breasts, which have been hidden for years behind a good marriage and an abnormal child. She spreads her legs and puts his hand between them.

‘I can still get wet,’ she mumbles, exhaling relief or despair, he’s not sure which. She guides his penis into her vagina, puts her hands on his ass and pulls him into her, forcing him to adjust to her slow, rhythmic movements. He tries to kiss her again but she turns her face away. He sucks and caresses her breasts while she manipulates his pelvis until his response is beyond her or his control and he comes fast, as though it is the first clumsy time, and he knows that whatever relief or distraction she was seeking in him has been spent, that he is just another premature ejaculator, failed actor, lover, friend. Longing for fulfillment means you are not living in the moment. Who said that? Sarah fucking Moon Dancer? Wait a minute, didn’t he long to lick Tanis’s legs? And now here she is, open before him. His tongue slides down her thighs in search of her clitoris. While she moans, exposed, he adds more pressure and speed to his oral gymnastics until her pelvic movements become more urgent, beyond the limits of her black-and-white world of right and wrong. Her cry of release he has heard before, through the wall when she has been with Christopher. Within what feels like seconds she pushes him away and rolls onto her side. He pulls up his jeans and sits on the edge of the futon, baffled. Does she want him to hold her? How can he on such a small couch? He tries stroking her back but she is unresponsive. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

‘I forgot for a few seconds,’ she says.

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘People take drugs to forget.’

Screams crash through the wall.

‘It’s your father,’ she says.

‘I know.’

‘You better go to him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s where you belong, not here.’ She stands, cinching her robe. He doesn’t want it to be over, even though he doesn’t know what ‘it’ is. She hobbles to the door and opens it for him.

‘I’ll come back,’ he says.

‘Please don’t.’

His father’s suffering resembles his own: a writhing, screeching, relentless ­torment.

‘Give him the pills, Milo,’ Pablo says.

‘What pills?’

‘His pills that make him sleep.’

‘I don’t know where they are.’

‘You must know where they are. You had them last night.’

‘Go look for them. Check the medicine cabinet.’

Milo hid the pills, fearful that he would shy from this moment and not have the courage to endure his father’s wrath. Gus, the junkie, scowls at him spouting Polish gibberish, with no recognition beyond this is the idiot who gives me drugs, give me my fucking drugs.

‘Try living with your demons, asshole,’ Milo tells him. ‘Try being who you are, you selfish prick, you cruel, unfeeling, stupid fuck. What did you do to my mother anyway?’ He shakes his father’s shoulders. ‘You fucked her to death is what you did. How does it feel to fuck someone to death? Get your rocks off now, dickwad, I hope they shove a stick so far up your ass it kills you. Because you don’t deserve to forget everything and become a dumb-fuck Polish farmer. You killed her slowly, year after year, till she didn’t know who she was anymore, who I was. You were her whole world, you fucker, she tried so hard for you, lived for you, and you killed her.’ Tawny slaps Milo. He tries to fend her off but Pablo pins his arms behind his back.

‘Where are the pills, Milo?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Where did you hide them?’ Tawny demands. ‘It’s not fair what you’re doing. He doesn’t know what you’re talking about.’ Gus, out of Milo’s range, scrambles from the bed and down the hall.

‘That’s good, old man, you run away again, but don’t expect me to come looking for you this time.’

Pablo charges after Gus but Tawny maintains her hold on Milo. ‘Sit down,’ she says.

‘Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?’

‘I’m a friend.’

‘You’re not my friend. You’re Gus’s friend. And Pablo’s. Everybody’s Pablo’s friend. Has he fucked you yet?’

Wallace looms large in the doorway. ‘Cool it, buddy.’

‘I’m not your buddy. You’re a bunch of fucking freeloaders and I want you out of my house by morning.’

‘Quit using bad language,’ Tawny says. ‘It makes you look stupid.’

‘I am stupid.’ He tries to step past Wallace but he blocks his path.

‘Where are those pills, man? None of us are going to sleep tonight unless he gets those pills.’

‘Who are you to talk? You’re letting your mother starve herself to death. All she wants is for you to talk to her and all you can do is lie, lie, lie. What are you so fucking scared of? She’s a little old lady.’

‘And Gus is a little old man,’ Wallace says.

It all seems so pointless, this last skirmish on the gallows.

Vera appears, waving Gus’s pills. ‘He hid them under his pillow. Where’s Gus?’

‘Pablo went after him,’ Tawny says. Vera heads downstairs with purpose. This gives Milo comfort.

No longer restrained or needed, he treads to his parents’ room and collapses on the marshmallow bed, succumbing to its cushiness, drifting down, down, down into the abyss where randomness rules. What must be tears leak from his eyes, although he isn’t certain, so unfamiliar is he with the act of crying. This feeling that something is erupting inside him and must be purged, coughed up, is it grief? For what? What never was? What might have been? How much of it is real? Nothing is real.

‘I made you a rum toddy,’ Vera says. ‘He’s asleep now.’

‘He’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll start all over again.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it? He seems happy.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, as long as he’s happy. How can he be happy with those nightmares scaring the shit out of him? And does he really forget it all day long or is he just in denial?’

‘I think denial works wonders. I’ve never understood why everyone’s so dead set against it.’

‘But you were in denial about Wally and now you know the truth. Don’t you feel better knowing the truth?’

‘Not in the least, but what’s to be done? You have to give things up, Milo, as you get older: dreams, smooth skin, good eyesight. Grandkiddies. Have you ever thought about having children?’

‘God no.’ His chest wrap has loosened as a result of the twisted sex and the tussle over the old man’s pills. He pulls up his T-shirt and hands the end of the bandage to Vera. ‘Can you help me unravel?’

‘Don’t you think the doctor should do that?’

‘The doctor’s two hundred miles away. It’s not doing any good anymore anyway.’

‘Stand up then, and turn around slowly.’ He does, becoming mildly dizzy as he rotates, enjoying the tingling of his newly exposed skin, the freedom from his hair shirt. ‘Why don’t young men want babies anymore?’ Vera asks.

‘Same old, same old. Fear of responsibility, being tied down, although in my case, and I think Wallace’s, it’s got more to do with this no longer being a world of opportunity. The poor get poorer and the rich get richer trashing the planet.’

‘What nonsense. You remind me of those bellyachers after the war. Nothing for it but to get on, Milo.’ She hands him the bandage. ‘We’re all watching telly, would you care to join us?’

‘Now? It’s three in the morning or something.’

‘It’s that picture about Mr. Mandela and the rugby player. Quite inspiring really. Mr. Mandela was very keen to forgive the white people who locked him up for thirty years. Imagine that. He thought hatred was a frightful waste of time.’

Milo has seen this movie. Morgan Freeman says, ‘One team, one Africa,’ and everybody, black and white, stands up and cheers as Matt Damon kicks the ball around. No doubt Pablo will cry at the end of this movie, never mind that black and white are back to hating each other in that sports-loving nation, while the poor get poorer and the rich get richer trashing the diamond continent.

‘Why don’t you have a kip here then?’ Vera says. ‘I can sleep on the couch.’ And she’s off to join the deniers. Milo pitches the bandage in the wastebasket and lies back, gingerly touching his rib. All life forms are connected. Who said that, the Buddhist harmonica player? We’re all just an arrangement of atoms. Atoms that will cease to exist. No pearly gates then. Just The End. So why bellyache and suffer guilt? Surrender to the marshmallow bed, savour your freefall into the void, feel the interconnectedness of all living forms, the circularity of it.

‘I fucked your wife.’

‘I figured.’

The intercom announces a code red in the Cardinal wing, fourth floor.

‘It won’t happen again,’ Milo says. ‘She says I don’t belong there.’

‘Who does? Just the dog.’

‘I hope she’s feeding the hamster. I forgot to remind her.’

‘It’s hard to remember things like hamsters when you’re fucking.’

Sybil, in chartreuse today, pushes her face around the curtain. ‘Would you mind not talking smut?’

‘Is fornicating a better word?’ Christopher asks. ‘It’s hard to remember things like small rodents when you’re fornicating.’

Milo resumes his station in the chair, facing the window. ‘So do you hate me now?’

‘Not right this second. It might take a few minutes to sink in.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, don’t say sorry. It is such an utterly useless word. Be glad you got it out of your system. It is out of your system, isn’t it?’

‘I was a lousy lay.’

‘Yes, well, we’ve all been there.’

‘I don’t understand why she hates me.’

‘That makes two of us.’

The intercom repeats that there is a code red in the Cardinal wing, fourth floor.

‘I remember years ago watching her from a distance,’ Christopher says. ‘We were supposed to meet at the St. Lawrence Market. I arrived early and spied on her as she fondled fruits and vegetables and negotiated with vendors. She was in command of her world. The world was her oyster, Milo. It bent to her will. Then she had Robertson and even though she never said it, I suspect she believes that I am the cause of his problem, that had she fornicated with someone of brawnier stock, she would have had a normal, bouncing boy. She had a tubal ligation, by the way, so don’t worry that you might have impregnated her.’

Sybil pushes her face around the curtain again. ‘You are disgusting. No wonder she ditched you and that freaky boy of yours.’

‘Why,’ Christopher asks, ‘is my friend Travis not joining in this discussion?’

‘He’s wearing headphones, you jerk.’

‘So why are you here, Syb? Can’t hubby watch sports solo?’

Sybil sighs heavily and drops the curtain again.

‘Hospitalization,’ Christopher says, ‘forces one to share the most intimate details with complete strangers. I know when Trav pukes, craps, pisses, farts. We’ve formed an inescapable bond.’

‘Likewise, jerk-off,’ Sybil says.

‘It’s all good,’ Christopher says.

‘When you can get in the wheelchair,’ Milo says, ‘I’ll take you out.’

‘Oh, to the Tim Hortons. How dreamy. No, Milo, you are under no obligation to look after the cripple.’

He still doesn’t know if Christopher remembers that he called his name, causing him to turn away from the cab. ‘You’re my only friend.’ How lame this sounds but utterly true.

‘I guess that’s why you fucked my wife.’

Sybil jerks the curtain. ‘Enough already. There is a lady present, if you please.’

‘I guess that’s why you fornicated with my wife. All best friends share spouses. Maybe you could find that nice Latvian girl and I could fornicate with her.’

‘You told me the field was open.’

‘Oh, come on, Milo, how often do people mean what they say? Anyway, it’s all so yesterday. The reality is when you’re strung up like I am, not sure if you will ever walk again – or live, for that matter – intently focused on things like sitting up and not spilling food on yourself, small matters like fornication don’t hold much sway. You know what Nietzsche said?’

‘Didn’t he say a lot of things?’

‘He said amor fati, which means love of fate. That was his philosophy: as torturous as his life was, he embraced it. He accepted life’s inevitable limitations, no matter what fate had in store for him. “Amor fati,” he said, “is not merely to endure necessity, still less to deny it … but to love it.” He called it his “formula for greatness in a human being.”’

‘What pretentious prattle,’ Sybil says.

‘Milo, I want you to bring Robertson back. I don’t care what she says. Do you understand me? Don’t come here again unless you bring him. This may require some aggression on your part. Can you do that, Milo?’

‘Of course,’ he says, although he can’t imagine it, charging in to the centre and removing the boy by force, fighting off the yoga-panted and Birken­stocked women.

‘I need you to do that.’ The plaintiveness in Christopher’s voice causes Milo to face him. So many tears pour from his eyes he makes Milo think of a candle dripping wax, dripping and dripping until nothing remains but a puddle.

‘I will do that,’ Milo says. Amor fati.