hristopher slumps on a stool at the Quick Fixins counter with his head in his hands. It would have been preferable to have this heart-to-heart in a private office with a window overlooking the city. Milo could have paced as he explained the gravity of his mission, gazing sorrowfully out the window as he searched for the right words. But Christopher appears to have come down in the world and has only a cubicle. Milo isn’t sure what his job is. Christopher used to manage other people’s money, or lose it, which may be why he is now in a cubicle.

‘I will always support them,’ he says.

‘No one doubts that.’

‘You swear she doesn’t know you’re here?’

‘Scout’s honour.’ Christopher was a scout leader so Milo feels this oath is appropriate. Scouts had been an escape for Christopher as a kid and he’d hoped it would be the same for Robertson. But Robertson never moved with the crowd, instead lingered over anything that caught his interest.

‘She thinks he can be normal,’ Christopher says. ‘I know he can’t.’

‘Don’t you think normal is overrated? I mean, who wants to be normal? Robertson has a concentration, an intensity of thought, a single-mindedness, a ... ’ The words Milo so carefully chose to describe the wonder of Robertson escape him. He is drying, as they say in the theatre, and there is no prompter to feed him his line. ‘What I mean is,’ he stammers, ‘he has a tenacity, a … a directness. He can’t lie. How many people do you know who can’t lie? He’s incapable of dissembling.’ Dissembling is a word he’d thought would impress, but Christopher remains inert. ‘Robertson is unique,’ Milo sums up. ‘No one thinks like he does. I think he’s quite noble.’

‘He can’t control himself. And he’s getting bigger. I’m scared he’s going to kill her.’

‘Shouldn’t you be there to prevent that from happening?’

‘She won’t let me. She thinks she can handle him. She thinks I put his back up.’

‘Maybe you do. I find it’s best to give him space when he fixates on ­something.’

‘So he grows up expecting people to get out of the way when it suits him? What kind of an adult will that make? Nobody will be able to stand him.’

Milo shifts a stir stick on the counter. ‘Maybe he’ll find a niche. There’s an autistic woman who designs machinery for slaughterhouses. She’s number one in her field.’

‘Yes, we’ve all heard about the ones who have “special gifts.” Robertson has no special gifts. It’s not like in the movies. Most of them aren’t math geniuses, most of them stay angry in institutions, banging their heads into padded walls.’ Christopher rubs his face in the same manner that Tanis does.

‘I think he has special gifts,’ Milo says.

‘Like what?’

‘His relationships with animals.’

‘Try looking at his report card, Milo. He’s a C average. This is no wonder kid here.’

‘All I’m saying is, don’t give up on him. You’ll lose him and you’ll lose yourself.’ This sounds like something Pablo would say. ‘Forgive him, Christopher. We all have to forgive.’

‘Forgive him for what?’

Milo isn’t sure. He is acting badly again. ‘A friend of mine believes that life’s challenges are lessons.’

‘Really. Well, I’m tired of learning the same lessons.’

‘My friend says that we learn the lessons more deeply the second time around.’

‘Is your friend graduating any time soon?’

‘Not in this life.’

‘Ah.’

Christopher stares at the Enjoy Our Comfort Food, You Know You Want To!!! sign beside the coffee maker.

‘They both need you,’ Milo says, feeling the words clumsy on his tongue. ‘I know it’s easy for me to talk … ’

‘Yes, it is easy for you to talk. You don’t live with it every hour of every day.’ He bunches up his napkin and pushes it into his empty cup, then sits motionless. ‘I love those two more than my life. I would give my life for them, would gladly die for them. Unfortunately that wouldn’t help.’ He slides off the stool without looking at Milo. ‘Thanks for dropping by. I appreciate your concern.’ As he speeds past, he sniffles and wipes his eyes. Milo envies him for knowing how to cry.

‘Maria threw me out,’ Pablo says, beached on the couch.

‘Why?’

‘She wants me to be a Catholic.’

Vera mashes potatoes with verve. Milo hasn’t seen the masher in years. Mrs. Cauldershot used it to pulverize potatoes, squash, turnips and parsnips. Milo’s mouth would fill with the formless sludge and he would consider spitting it back at her but instead forced it down – it was easiest to just obey.

‘Don’t you look nice, Milo,’ Vera says. ‘All dressed up like a banker. What’s the occasion?’

‘Do you hear what I’m telling you?’ Pablo wails. ‘Maria wants me to believe in God Almighty.’

‘That’s just plain unreasonable,’ Vera says. ‘If she loves you, she must respect your beliefs.’

‘Where’s Wallace?’ Milo asks.

‘He just got in from the office and went to freshen up a bit.’

‘The office?’

‘She gave me back the ring,’ Pablo whimpers, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. ‘Can you believe that? She gave me back the ring.’

‘She’ll come round,’ Vera says, mashing. ‘You wait and see. Fancy some bangers, Milo? We’ll fry you up a couple. Wally adores bangers and mash.’

‘What’s she want from me?’ Pablo cries. ‘I love her.’

‘Leave her alone for a bit,’ Vera advises. ‘Nothing makes a girl’s heart grow fonder than a bit of rejection.’

Sprawled on Milo’s bed, Wallace looks fearful.

‘What are you doing in here, Wallace?’

‘She won’t look for me here.’

‘You can’t stay in my room. This is my room. You don’t pay for this room.’

‘She’s frying, isn’t she?’

‘Yes. Bangers and mash. Your favourite.’

‘That kind of food kills you. If you don’t stop her she’ll just … she’ll just … you have no idea.’

‘Wallace, you’re a grown man, buck up.’

‘She thinks I have a job.’

‘You do have a job.’

‘She thinks I have a respectable job.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Accounting.’

‘What’s wrong with junk removal?’

‘Are you fucking nuts? Don’t blow my cover. Pablo’s in on it. I’m paying him a bonus to shut his trap. Same goes for you.’

‘How many bonuses are you paying me? Are you keeping an account of my bonuses?’

‘Very funny.’

‘I need my room now, Wallace.’

‘Waal-leee … ?’

Milo holds the door open. ‘Out.’

Burping bangers and mash, he presses his ear against the wall. He knows they’re home because the lights are on, but he hears nothing, not even the television.

‘Have you got rats?’ Vera asks.

‘No.’

‘What are you listening for then?’

‘Oh. Just my neighbours.’

‘Spying on them, are you?’

‘I just want to make sure they’re all right.’

‘Might be better to pop round for a visit. Have you got a Hoover?’

‘A what?’

‘She wants to vacuum,’ Wallace moans, climbing the stairs like a dying man.

‘Oh, that’s not necessary,’ Milo says.

‘It needs doing,’ Vera says.

‘I’ll get to it.’

‘That’s what Wally’s witless dingbat of a father used to say.’

‘Ma, can you just leave it alone?’

‘It’s not good for your asthma, Wally.’

‘You have asthma?’ Milo asks.

‘His father smoked,’ Vera says.

Wallace drags the vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet. ‘Here,’ he grumbles. Milo marvels at his restraint regarding the F word.

‘Jolly good. Now everyone clear out.’

The three of them seek refuge in the living room, sitting with bowls, spooning Vera’s instant pudding into their mouths. Pablo repeatedly checks his cell for texts from Maria. ‘Women,’ he sighs.

Wallace whispers, ‘So, Milo, when are you going to set me up with a ­girlfriend?’

‘I’m not. That is so … ’

‘Retarded,’ Pablo offers.

‘Look who’s talking about retarded,’ Wallace says.

‘Get your own girlfriend,’ Pablo says.

‘Looks like you just lost a girlfriend, asswipe.’

The vacuum switches on again. They can hear her banging it into ­furniture.

‘She’ll want to do the windows next,’ Wallace warns.

‘You should be nicer to her, Wally,’ Pablo says.

‘Don’t call me Wally.’

‘You’re lucky you have a nice mother. I saw this movie about a guy who hated his mother and then she died and he was really broke up about it, couldn’t do nothing, eat, sleep, go to work, nothing. He had, like, a total nervous breakdown.’

Wallace turns on the TV and grimaces at players slamming a puck around.

‘So then the mother comes back as a ghost,’ Pablo continues. ‘At first the guy’s, like, totally freaked out and everything.’

The vacuum shuts off again and Milo thinks he can hear Robertson on the trampoline.

‘But then the guy’s like, coño, I can say things to my mother I never could when she was alive … ’

‘Like “get the fuck out of my face,”’ Wallace says.

From the kitchen window, Milo sees Robertson jumping on the trampoline, flapping his arms. He can do this for hour-long stretches, going into a kind of trance. Tanis says it releases tension.

‘After the guy gets used to his mother being a ghost,’ Pablo elaborates, ‘he asks her things he couldn’t ask her when she was alive because he hated her so much.’ He points his spoon at Wallace. ‘Hate blinds you, Wallace. Don’t hate your mother.’ The vacuum starts up again.

‘How does it end?’ Milo asks.

‘She explains everything. Like why she had to be so mean. She was trying to protect him. Your mother is just trying to protect you from the dust bunnies, Wally.’

‘Don’t fucking call me that.’

‘Does the ghost just vanish again?’ Milo asks.

‘Sí. She has to go back to the other side. It’s really sad because the son tries to hug her for the first time in his adult life but he can’t because she’s a ghost, right? So he tells her he loves her and they blow kisses. It made me cry.’

‘Everything makes you fucking cry,’ Wallace says.

The vacuum shuts off again. ‘Waal-lee … ? Can you move the beds for me, love?’

The baby spider plants should catch Robertson’s attention. Several have sprouted from the mama plant and require transplanting. With his fingers Milo digs a hole in the soil and carefully lays a baby spider plant in it. Before filling the pot to the rim, he waters the roots. Once he has patted down the soil he places the pot on the back steps and repeats the procedure with the next plant. He knows he has too many spider plants. Zosia referred to his house as ‘the jungle.’ Whenever possible, he gives plants away. He has never dared offer one to Tanis because the plants in her house are carefully selected for light conditions, and planted in glazed pots to complement their foliage.

Vera shakes a broom out the back door. ‘All that bouncing is going to make that boy’s brain leak out his ears. Have you seen Wally?’

‘Try my room,’ Milo says.

‘What’s he doing in your room?’

‘He likes the view.’

The screen door slams behind her. The trampoline becomes silent.

Milo doesn’t look around for Robertson but tries to appear absorbed in his planting while contemplating the apparent non-existence of ghosts. If they don’t exist why do they keep popping up in movies, books and memories? Two thousand years of civilization and we’re still obsessed with spooks. Is it because death is the ultimate reproach, a constant reminder that you never resolved anything? You sat in your jungle and pretended it didn’t matter, told yourself that once he was dead it would be over. Which of course it isn’t. If a ghostly Gus showed up would he explain why he was such a prick? Would Milo attempt to hug him?

Robertson hands Milo the next baby spider plant. ‘Can I put the earth in?’

‘Of course.’ Milo watches as the boy slowly, deliberately, pours the soil and hollows out a space for the roots. ‘Did you go to school today?’

‘Yup.’

‘How was it?’

‘Sucked.’

‘Did you have to apologize?’

‘Yup.’

‘How was that?’

‘Sucked.’

‘Is Billy off your case?’

‘They were passing around notes.’ Robertson carefully tips the watering can over the plant. ‘They’re not supposed to. Mrs. Bulgobin told them not to but they do it anyway. They pass them when she isn’t looking.’

‘What’s in the notes?’

‘They say I’m a fag and that I blow Mr. Hilty.’

That eleven-year-olds are homophobic and know about blowing shocks Milo but he tries to appear unfazed. ‘How ignorant,’ he says finally.

‘Don’t tell Mum. She’ll call the school and I’ll get into more trouble.’

‘How do you know what’s in the notes if they don’t pass them to you?’

Robertson digs in his pocket for a crumpled piece of paper and hands it to Milo. Scrawled on the paper in black marker is ‘Robertson blows Mr. Hilty.’ ‘They always call me a fag but they haven’t said I blow Mr. Hilty before.’ Robertson speaks without malice, as though he’s not hurt by the slander but understands that it’s intended to humiliate.

‘Whose handwriting is that?’ Milo asks.

‘Billy’s. He can’t write for shit. Mrs. Bulgobin has to get him to do his homework over so she can read it.’

‘This is evidence,’ Milo says, handing the note back to him. ‘You could get Billy Butthead into serious trouble if you hand this over.’

‘Can I give a spider plant to Mrs. Bulgobin?’

‘Of course.’

‘She doesn’t like me.’

Robertson frequently declares that people don’t like him. Milo has tried asking, ‘What makes you think that?’ but the alienation is firmly entrenched, and now he thinks his father doesn’t like him either.

‘Mrs. Bulgobin brought a hamster to school. She’s leaving it in the classroom, which isn’t right. Hamsters are nocturnal; they shouldn’t be disturbed during the day. When I told her, she said Puffy would adapt. I said how would you like it if somebody put you in a cage and forced you to stay awake when you should be sleeping?’

‘What did Mrs. Bulgobin say?’

‘Nothing. She was handing out worksheets.’

‘I think hamsters in classrooms are pretty common,’ Milo says.

‘That doesn’t make it right.’

Milo approaches Tanis while she’s hanging laundry. In the old days, before the increased debt load, she would use the dryer. He hasn’t seen her hanging it in the evening before.

‘They’re talking about rain,’ he says.

‘It’s May, monsoon season is supposed to be over.’ She struggles with a sheet. He grabs one end and stretches it away from her. She tosses him a clothes peg. They work side by side hanging the remaining clothes. Tanis seems unconcerned that he is handling her undergarments. The simplicity of her panties moves him: no lace, no leopard spots or zebra stripes, just dove grey. He has admired them flapping on the line, but feeling them is a revelation. He shoves a pair in his pocket.

‘Has he talked to you about the hamster?’ she asks.

‘Yes. That’s unfortunate.’

‘That’s all he talks about, not what those little pricks did to him or about his dad leaving. It’s all about Puffy.’

‘Maybe he can’t talk about the other things.’ Milo knows he must remain silent re Billy’s note and the alleged blowing of Mr. Hilty. ‘Would it be possible to rescue Puffy?’

‘What do you mean “rescue”? It’s a classroom hamster.’

‘What if we offered to buy it?’

‘They’re not going to sell the classroom hamster. And anyway, they’d just get another rodent, and Robertson would obsess over that one. It’s hopeless.’ She shakes the last towel hard before pegging it on the line. ‘He’s not supposed to feel hurt, but he does.’

‘Have you tried calling Christopher?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Don’t you have to sort out visitation rights? And you could tell him about the bullying.’

‘There’s always bullying. Billy’s mother phoned and gave me an earful, threatened to press charges.’

‘Did you tell her Billy hit Robertson in the head with a basketball?’

‘Of course. “Not my Billy,” she said. “He wouldn’t do that. Sometimes them other boys get rough but not my Billy. Your son should be in a special school for boys like him.”’

‘Did you tell her there are no special schools?’

‘Why bother?’

With the laundry basket empty there is nothing left for them to share. He hopes she’ll offer him a glass of wine. They could sit at the kitchen table, conversing easily as the light fades.

‘Good night, Milo.’

‘Good night.’