Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholden

‘I’m Milo,’ said Milo. He stuck out his hand.

‘I know who you are,’ the girl said. She looked at his hand as if it were a leper’s, but reached out quickly and shook it. She let it go just as fast. ‘There, that’s done,’ she said.

‘You’re supposed to tell me your name now,’ Milo said.

‘Ginger,’ she said, then added: ‘Ginger – Baker.’

‘Ginger because of your hair?’ Milo asked, curious. ‘My name’s also a –’

‘Just Ginger,’ the girl cut in. ‘It’s not a nickname. Not like yours.’

Yours.

Milo noticed Ginger was clenching and unclenching her fists.

‘So. This is where your mother lives.’

Was that a question or a statement? What a pity you couldn’t see question and exclamation marks when people spoke.

Ginger looked as though she expected a reply. Milo obliged. ‘Not anymore.’

Ginger nodded. Suddenly, her eyes went to the fireplace. She snatched a family photo from the mantelpiece and took a long, hard look. She shook her head, angrily. ‘Don’t know what Dad saw in her.’

‘Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholden,’ Milo quoted Fluke.

Ginger shot him a look. ‘Yeah, right.’ She prowled around the place like a burglar, looking in cupboards, peering in drawers.

‘Did you lose something?’ Milo asked, puzzled.

‘Apart from my dad, no.’

She moved to the kitchen and rummaged around some more. No cupboard remained unopened, no drawer contents untouched. She examined the pantry, the laundry. Finally, she sighed. ‘I can’t figure it out. This place is no different from ours.’

‘We have a cellar,’ said Milo. ‘Dad had it put in because Mum loves expensive wine. Most houses don’t have cellars.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘We don’t use it anymore.’

Ginger closed her eyes and counted to five, mouthing the numbers silently. ‘I meant, why would my dad leave us and our house for your mum and your house?’

Milo shrugged. ‘For the same reason my mum left us and our house for your dad and your house?’

Ginger sagged a little. ‘It’s got me stumped,’ she said. ‘I just want my dad to come home.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Milo.

‘Why, are you deaf?’

Milo was about to say that no, he wasn’t, but Ginger interrupted him. ‘So why don’t you just ask her why she left?’ She rested her head on her hands, with her elbows on the table.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ Milo said.

‘So go to her workplace.’

‘She’s a writer,’ Milo said. ‘She works from home. Why don’t you go ask your dad why he doesn’t come home?’

‘Dad’s work shifted him. And they don’t tell anyone where people are. It’s confidential.’

‘You could hang out on different streets,’ Milo said. ‘He’s bound to deliver mail to one of them.’

Ginger counted to five again. ‘Milo, do you know how many streets there are in this state? Thousands. I’d be collecting my pension before I covered half of them. If I didn’t get hit by a car first, that is.’

Milo blinked. That was it. ‘If something bad happened to you, something real real bad, would your father come and rescue you?’

‘You threatening me?’ Her face turned pugnacious.

‘Sometimes, you know, you’re really weird.’

Ginger looked so startled that any other time Milo might have laughed. ‘I’m weird? Me?’

‘Well, would he? Would he come to rescue you?’

Ginger appeared to consider this. ‘Maybe. But why don’t you do something “real bad” and see if your mum comes for you.’

‘I did,’ Milo said simply. ‘I killed a woman. Twice. But I think if we both did it, it might work. It’d double our chances.’

Ginger started pacing. ‘Let’s put that on the backburner for now, okay? What else have you tried, aside from killing the neighbours?’

‘I put up some posters,’ said Milo. ‘But the council said I was breaking by-law section three-oh-two-one, paragraph 7C. Besides, it rained and the sticky tape came off.’

Ginger nodded as though she sympathised. ‘How about your mum’s rellies? Surely they know where she is.’

Milo shook his head. ‘She hasn’t been in contact with them.’

‘Yeah, same thing with Dad,’ said Ginger.

‘Mum has a post-office box on Dunstall Street,’ Milo said suddenly. ‘I waited outside a couple of times but she never cleared the box.’

‘And your point is?’

‘She must live nearby if she’s got a post-office box there,’ Milo reasoned. But Ginger was slowly shaking her head.

‘That’s why they have redirected mail,’ she said. ‘Your mum could live in Timbuktu and still get her post without coming anywhere near her mailbox.

‘Do you need to go to the toilet?’ Ginger asked. ‘You’re wriggling about like you have to go.’

‘I’ll be right back.’ Milo raced to the bathroom and immersed his head in cold water.

Moments later, Ginger suddenly tapped him on the back. He jumped and hit his head on the tap.

‘Owww!’

After he had danced around the bathroom holding his bleeding head, Milo let Ginger apply antiseptic gel with a cotton bud. ‘You should be a nurse,’ he said.

‘Shut up.’

But he couldn’t. The water trick had worked its magic once again. He let out a gigantic whoop, which, in the confines of the bathroom, was deafening.

Ginger stuffed her fingers in her ears and glared at him.

‘I know what we have to do!’ he crowed.