ll morning Gus and Robertson work on the patio. Neither of them respond to Milo’s ‘Hey, guys.’ Even Sal doesn’t bother to sniff him. When Milo sets fire to the box of Polaroids, Gus merely glances in his direction, untroubled by memories of burning children. It seems only his tormentors survive in his dreams. Bullies rule even in the subconscious.

Pablo hurtles out the back door. ‘Milo, you won’t believe it … ’

‘You’re being deported.’

‘Maria wants me back.’

‘Why?’

‘She loves me. She told me she can’t stop missing me even if I don’t believe in God Almighty.’

‘Go fig,’ Milo says.

‘We’re just going to have a simple wedding, like, at city hall, no priest or nothing. She’s downloading a licence. What are you burning?’

‘Garbage. What about Fennel?’

‘Oh she’s totally busy with Vitorio. Painting will always come first with Fenny.’

‘And you think you will always come first with Maria?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good luck with that.’

‘Oh, this is for you.’ He holds out a disk in an envelope.

‘What is it?’

‘Zosia left it.’

‘Zosia was here? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You weren’t here, Milo. It was when we were all getting ready for the show.’

‘I was in the basement, you dumbass.’

‘Before that, when you were out.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘She said, “Give this to Milo.” Her number’s on it. Listen, are you serious about us having to move out, like, today?’

‘Dead serious.’ He isn’t but wants to be obeyed for once.

‘It won’t be easy for Vera.’

‘Vera can stay.’ He can’t have her passing out in some dank hotel room. ‘Until she goes back to England.’

‘She’s not going back.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since her and Wally talked. He’s going to find her a place.’

‘They talked?’

Pablo nods. ‘And Tawny don’t got nowhere to go. Her alcoholic mama shacked up with her alcoholic uncle and he don’t like teenagers.’

‘Tawny can stay too.’

‘What about Gussy?’

‘It’s his house. I’m leaving anyway.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Haven’t decided yet.’ He emailed Sammy demanding payment but doesn’t expect to hear from the head case. Birgit threatened to sue Milo’s ass while the crew decamped and Dina, the wild boar, tore down her ruffled curtains. Only Val seemed sympathetic and insisted that Milo keep the jacket. ‘You smoke in that,’ she said. ‘One of these days you’re going to want to look hot.’

‘Can I stay till me and Maria get stuff figured out?’

‘Did you not say, a mere forty-eight hours ago, that Fennel was all the stars in your firmament?’

‘Things change, Milo. Please. Just a few days.’

‘Whatevs.’

Flames lick Gus and his widows. The shot of Mrs. Cauldershot’s spider veins takes the longest to burn.

‘Vera?’ He can hear her packing. ‘Can I use the computer for a minute?’ He moved it to his mother’s dresser when Tawny took over his room.

‘Of course. Come in, Milo.’

‘You don’t have to leave.’

‘Wally’s going to find me a nice flat with a balcony, he says. I’ve always fancied a balcony. It’ll be splendid with pots of geraniums. I could have my tea on it.’

Milo boots up the computer. ‘Yeah, but he’s not going to find the flat right away, is he? Stay till he finds it.’

‘Are you sure I won’t be any bother?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘I must admit, the good thing about Wally not being the marrying kind is he’s got more time for his mum.’

‘There’s an upside to everything.’ He inserts the disk and waits for it to load.

‘Gus and the boy next door are the best of mates, aren’t they? Tanis says she’s not going to sell just yet.’

‘When did she say that?’

‘This aft. She said she’s never seen the boy so at ease with anyone. She’s going to home-school him till things get sorted.’ This should mean something to Milo but his feet remain set in concrete. Tanis will avoid him and he will avoid her, and Robertson will build with Gus. It doesn’t matter.

‘Hel-lo,’ Vera says, ‘whose is that?’

‘Whose is what?’ On the screen a grainy image reveals a trapped creature.

‘That’s a baby in its mum’s tummy.’

Milo leans closer to the screen and begins to decipher a head and limbs.

‘It’s sucking its thumb,’ Vera says. ‘Cheeky little bugger, finding his thumb already.’

A general trembling overtakes Milo. ‘What makes you so sure it’s a boy?’

‘A girl wouldn’t do that,’ Vera says. ‘It’s marvellous what they can see these days. My nieces always get videos and we all wager on the sex. Five quid that’s a boy. Who sent it?’

‘Nobody.’ Sweat trickles down his temples. He ejects the disk and staggers downstairs where Pablo is making a protein smoothie. ‘What did Zosia tell you?’

‘She didn’t tell me nothing.’

‘Do you know what this is?’ He wields the disk, convinced they’re all in this together. One big fucking joke on Milo.

‘I don’t know nothing. We was busy getting ready for the show. She didn’t want to talk anyway. She looked tired.’

‘Was she fat?’

‘I don’t know, she was wearing a raincoat, Milo. What’s the matter with you?’

He walks fast, out of the house and into the ravine in search of muggers or anything that will offer distraction. What was she thinking? She who carries condoms on her person, the pragmatist, the problem solver, the career woman, the smartest person in the room, what was she thinking?

He clambers through the woods and undergrowth until he finds the debris shelter he built with Robertson. Though still intact, empty beer bottles and trash are strewn on and around it. Milo crawls into the hut, gagging from the stench of piss. A newspaper swats his head.

‘Who are you?’ a ragged voice demands.

In the poor light Milo is able to make out a man with matted hair, covered in blankets. ‘I built this shelter.’

‘Just because you built it don’t mean you own it,’ the man says. ‘It’s city property. Nobody owns it, just the city. You got no right.’

‘I just wanted some peace and quiet. I’ll go now.’

‘D’you have a smoke?’

‘No.’

‘Spare change?’

‘No.’

‘Gum?’

‘No.’

‘Cough drops?’

‘No. I have a disk.’

‘A disk?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s on it?’

‘An ultrasound of a baby.’

‘Yours?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘What you carrying it for then?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And I thought I was fucked. You can sleep here if you want. Nobody bothers you. And it’s pretty dry. Sorry I hit you, but you can’t be too careful.’

Bunking with the vagrant will not ease his mind. He crawls out and rushes on through the ravine, heedless of the branches and potholes. All his life he has taken precautions with women, even when they told him it wasn’t necessary. AIDS was big news during his teens. Emaciated men with scabs on their faces haunted the theatre world. His first summer job was working the box office for a gay theatre company. Pasquale, who ran it, believed that Milo was gay but didn’t realize it yet. ‘Always wear a rubber, pussycat,’ he advised. So this cannot be Milo’s baby. This is a scheme. Like Wallace said, she’s after his fucking wedding vows, forcing him to fix someone else’s mistake. Not this time.

Someone tugs on his arm causing him to spring into Bruce Lee mode. He will not let the fuckers flatten him again.

‘What are you doing?’ Tawny asks.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Following you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re freaked out.’

‘Who says I’m freaked out?’

‘Chill for a second. It’s peaceful here in the woods. It reminds me of home. Too much trash though. People shouldn’t litter.’

‘People shouldn’t do a lot of things.’ He trudges onward with no desti­nation in mind. The effort required to climb over uneven ground shakes the numbness from his legs. Tawny keeps pace with youthful ease.

‘So I guess you think it’s your baby,’ she says.

‘How do you know about the baby?’

‘Vera.’

‘Which means she’s told the whole crew. Thank you so very bloody much.’

The wind picks up, bullying branches overhead.

‘I’d like to have a baby someday,’ Tawny says.

‘Why?’

‘To love. And maybe if I don’t screw up too much, it’ll love me back.’

‘If you don’t screw up too much. Ah, there’s the rub.’

‘This whole thing with your dad is a little retarded. I mean, everybody always thinks a miracle might happen and their parents will change into the people they wish they were, or back to the people they used to be. But that’s not going to happen. And even though everybody knows it’s not going to happen, they still hope it will. It’s retarded.’

Milo squats on a fallen trunk. She sits beside him while the city grumbles and belches beyond the trees.

‘Did you hear about that guy who killed his father with a crossbow?’ she asks.

‘What guy?’

‘A Chinese guy. He hated his father so much he drove all the way from Ottawa to kill him with his crossbow. Shot him in the library, right in front of everybody. That’s how much he hated him, he didn’t care if he got caught, he just wanted him dead. That would take a lot of energy, hating somebody that much.’

‘What did his father do to him?’

‘The usual. Physical and psychological abuse. Plus he beat his mother. They moved to Ottawa to get away from him, but I guess that wasn’t enough. The son had to come back and kill the guy. He shot him from behind. The father fell forward over a table with the arrow sticking out of his back. Now the son will go to prison for, like, forever.’

Milo imagines Gus flopped over a table with an arrow sticking out of his back. The image does not please him. Maybe he doesn’t hate him that much, or anyway, doesn’t have the required energy.

‘Could you show me the baby?’ Tawny asks.

‘Why?’

‘I’ve never seen an ultrasound. On the reservation only high-risk pregnancies get to have ultrasounds, and they have to go to Sudbury for them.’

High-risk? Is that what this is about? Is the trapped creature fighting for its life? Does Zosia fear she will die from complications in childbirth, leaving no one to care for her bastard? Has she turned to Milo because he is a nice guy, a suck, who will do the right thing? Whatever was propelling him is spent and torpor takes hold. Budging from the log becomes unfathomable.

‘A rabbit,’ Tawny says, pointing at bushes. ‘Did you see it?’

‘No.’ Another unsinkable memory bobs towards him. He was five and wanted a bunny. Dean Blinky’s sister had one. Since the moment he could talk, it seemed to Milo, he’d begged his parents for a pet and been told ‘maybe when you’re older.’ Annie was allergic to cats, scared of dogs and repulsed by rodents, so why not a rabbit? ‘Your daddy had a bad experience with rabbits.’

‘What experience?’

‘On his farm.’

‘What on his farm?’

‘Rabbits. They ate them.’

This dampened Milo’s enthusiasm briefly but he understood that farmers ate some of their animals, which was why he didn’t want to be a farmer. ‘So?’ he said.

She sipped more Bailey’s Irish Cream. ‘He loved those bunnies, gave them names and talked to them and stroked their ears. Every Friday night he had to pick one and hit it with a stick till it stopped moving. He always cried and sometimes barfed, but no matter what, he had to choose a bunny and hit it with a stick until it was dead so his mother could cook it. Otherwise his father would hit him with a stick. If he didn’t eat the bunny, his father would hit him with a stick anyway.’

Milo tried to picture his father as a boy, crying and barfing and thwacking a rabbit with a stick. Then being forced to eat the bunny.

‘Don’t tell your dad I told you,’ Annie said. ‘It’s just that rabbits upset him.’

‘He wouldn’t have to kill my rabbit,’ Milo pointed out.

‘Silly boy,’ she said, brushing hair out of his eyes. ‘You need a haircut, monkey.’

He loved it when she called him monkey, and didn’t want to alter her mood by pushing the rabbit issue. He never raised it again.

‘What are you going to do if it’s yours?’ Tawny asks.

‘It’s not mine.’

‘Why would your girlfriend send it then?’

‘She’s not my girlfriend. To force me to marry her, duh.’

‘Showing you an ultrasound of your baby isn’t forcing you to do anything. It’s just letting you know about it, giving you the opportunity to be part of its life. Some men want babies. My cousin and his wife can’t have any. They’ve done all kinds of tests and she takes fertility drugs that make her even fatter. Every time she has her period she cries like her baby died. Your girlfriend’s lucky she got pregnant, especially if it’s yours.’

‘How is she lucky?’

‘Because you’re a decent guy. A little mixed-up maybe, but you’ll get over it.’

‘What?’

‘The father thing. I was pretty mixed-up about my mother hooking up with my dad’s brother. I mean, I thought it was just going to be her and me from now on. I mean, she’s old. She used to say, “I’m done with men.” Then she goes and shags my uncle. I was pretty upset but I got over it. Maybe being a father would help you get over your father thing.’

Of course they all want to see it and lean over him to peer at the screen.

‘Ten quid it’s a boy,’ Vera announces.

‘It’s dollars here, Ma.’

‘That’s a girl,’ Pablo insists. ‘Look at her little hands and feet.’

‘Why is its head so big?’ Milo asks.

‘They always have big heads,’ Vera advises. ‘Think of what has to be packed into that noggin before they pop out.’

‘I can’t get over her not breathing,’ Pablo says. ‘Can you believe that, Milo? I mean, everybody knows babies don’t breathe in the womb but to see her wiggling around like that and know she’s not breathing.’

‘It’s fucking mind-blowing,’ Wallace concedes. He is much more interested in the ultrasound than Milo would have expected. ‘It jerked, did you see that? It jerked.’

‘Those are hiccups,’ Vera says. ‘They all get them. And the mum can feel them, before she feels the kicks, she feels the hiccups.’

‘Fucking unreal,’ Wallace observes.

‘It’s like,’ Pablo elaborates, ‘she’s a fish and then suddenly she’s a human.’

‘It looks trapped,’ Milo says.

‘No way,’ Pablo says, ‘that’s her world, man, that’s her space capsule.’

‘That’s why you swaddle them when they come out,’ Vera explains. ‘Imagine how strange it must feel to suddenly have your arms and legs all akimbo.’

‘And breathing,’ Pablo emphasizes. ‘It must feel totally weird, being underwater then suddenly you have to, like, breathe polluted air. That must be why they cry. The polluted air must burn their little lungs.’

‘And they must be fucking freezing,’ Wallace adds. ‘I mean, the womb must be warm, right, then all of a sudden they’re out where it’s cold and bright and they have to breathe and their arms and legs are flopping all over the place.’

‘I’m surprised they don’t die of shock,’ Milo says.

•••

He attempts to dial the number several times before finally completing the call. Her voice mail sounds officious, which means she must be job hunting again. He doesn’t leave a message but tries again several times before muttering, ‘It’s me, Milo. Call me.’

With the musketeers downstairs he watches the video repeatedly. The raw vulnerability of the creature causes an unexpected heaving and shifting in Milo’s intestines. ‘Don’t come out,’ he whispers to it. Between hiccups it holds up its hands as if to ask why? ‘Too complicated,’ Milo tells it. Its legs look cramped, as though it wants to bust out, and its big head is being forced downward in the tiny space capsule. Maybe it should come out – who wants to hiccup in a cramped swamp? But if it’s high-risk, what awaits it on the outside? Incubators, injections, tubes and wires leading in and out of every orifice? The phone rings.

‘Hello?’

‘Milo,’ she says. She always begins their phone conversations with ‘Milo.’ The other women in his life immediately held forth about their feelings or worries but Zosia just said, ‘Milo.’

‘I got the disk,’ he says.

‘Good.’

He can’t even hear her breathing. ‘Why did you send it?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘I think you want me to think it’s mine.’

‘You don’t think it’s yours?’

‘How could it be?’

‘I’m seven months’ pregnant. Do the math.’

‘But there’ve been other men.’

‘What other men?’

‘The bartender at the Copper Pipe, with the moustache.’

She doesn’t respond, which is not unusual. Unlike the other women in his life, she is comfortable with silence. The alien creature hiccups and holds up its hands again, why?

‘He got shot,’ Zosia says.

‘Who?’

‘The bartender. He was my friend, not my lover. The fact that you are questioning me tells me I made the wrong decision. I should not have contacted you. I’m sorry. Goodbye.’ And she’s gone, poof, just like that. He redials immediately but she doesn’t answer. What was he thinking? Shot dead? Was she kneeling by the fallen man’s side while his brains leaked onto the terracotta tiles?

‘Milo?’ Vera calls. ‘Come have a sanny. You haven’t eaten a scrap all day.’

The creature holds up its hands again. ‘I’m sorry,’ Milo whispers to it while his guts heave and shift. The creature shrugs as if to say, it’s okay, and suddenly Milo is awash in an ocean of entitlement. It is his baby, is it not? She has no right to prevent him from having his baby. It needs his help, his protection in a violent world, and this gushing well of emotion that might be love. Seven months? No wonder the head is so big compared to the rest of it. Those little stick arms and legs will fill out, the tiny shoulders and chest will broaden against the onslaught of human ignorance. And Milo will be waiting for it, ready to do whatever it takes to protect his vital organ outside his body.

He can’t sleep, of course, and calls her countless times between bouts of twisting himself into contortions on the couch. He managed to eat a peanut butter sandwich, understanding that Vera’s right: faced with new responsibility, he must keep his strength up. He has told the musketeers nothing. They think he hasn’t returned Zosia’s call, that he is experiencing typical my-­girlfriend-got-pregnant angst. Tawny has disappeared again, padding off soundlessly.

The La-Z-Boy creaks. ‘Milo? Are you still awake?’

He plays possum.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Maria’s cousin freaked when he found out his girlfriend was pregnant. She was working in a flower factory so he was scared the baby would be born with flippers from all those pesticides. He told her to abort it, said he’d pay for it, but getting safe abortions in Mexico is hard. Anyway, she didn’t want to.’

Milo waits for the blabbermouth to finish the story but no, the muscle­head unwraps a stick of gum and chews on it. ‘What happened?’ he asks, finally.

‘It was stillborn.’

‘Oh my god.’ The thought of the little trapped creature being born dead causes a crack in Milo’s foundation that expands with every breath, widening into a chasm. In seconds, everything he has ever cared about is sucked into cold, dark infinity. Only the little creature remains, teetering at the edge of the precipice, hiccupping and holding up its hands, why?

‘I think you should call her Valentina,’ Pablo says. ‘Then you can call her Tina or Val. Or Teeny. Teeny’s nice for, like, when she’s little.’

‘Shut up,’ Milo says.

He sleeps fitfully, dreaming of rabbits spurting blood as Gus thwacks them with a stick. He hears noises in the kitchen and finds Tawny back at the books. ‘Did you call her?’ she asks.

‘I pissed her off. Now she won’t answer my calls.’

‘How did you piss her off?’

‘I questioned its paternity.’

‘Bad idea.’

‘I realize that.’

‘You want me to call her?’

‘You?’

‘I could call her from a pay phone. She won’t know who it is.’

Is he really so desperate that he will put his life in the hands of a fifteen-year-old? ‘Okay. When?’

‘Whenever you want.’

‘Now.’

‘You want me to call her at four in the morning?’

‘She’s an early riser.’

As they plod to the pay phone, she asks about Gus, and Milo realizes that the old sadist has not screamed for dope. Is it possible that the patio project has calmed his core as it has Robertson’s? Not once in the past twenty-four hours has Milo heard screaming through the wall or head-banging.

‘What’s the number?’ Tawny asks. He points to the envelope, sweaty from his grip. She punches the numbers then shoves him out the sliding doors. ‘Don’t listen. I have to tell her honestly that you’re not listening. Go over there.’ She points to some newspaper boxes.

‘The whole point in you calling her was so I could talk to her.’

‘I have to talk to her first.’ With the receiver pressed against her ear, she shoos him with her free hand. He stands by the newspaper boxes, a man on a deserted island hoping for a passing ship. Tawny turns her back on him as she talks. He can deduce nothing from her body language. This child of alcoholics, possibly suffering from the lasting effects of fetal alcohol syndrome, is toying with his fate. What was he thinking? Should he snatch the phone and demand to be heard? It is his right, is it not, as the father of the child? Father of the child. The very words cause his ribs to jam. A child who might love him if he doesn’t screw up too much. Isn’t he screwing up too much already? But who will care for the child if not him? Liquid explodes behind Milo’s eyeballs, enabling the confusion inside him to spew out and pool around his feet. Like Christopher he will burn and drip until nothing remains but a puddle.

Did she laugh? What’s so funny? Are they laughing at him? He takes a step towards the phone booth but shame and fear harness him. More rejection he cannot endure.

She hangs up. Hangs up? And steps out of the booth.

‘You were supposed to let me talk to her,’ he protests.

‘She doesn’t want to talk to you right now. She has to think about it and wants you to stop calling her.’

‘But … but … ’

‘But nothing. Quit stalking her. She has to think.’

And that’s it. Poker-faced, the fifteen-year-old pads back to base camp.