Unexpectedly, Milo - Matthew Dicks [106]
He was beginning to think that this trip had more to do with his getting away from Christine and from Connecticut and less to do with some wistful, near impossible undertaking. Perhaps this had been an opportunity to take a vacation from his problems and find some excitement by living out a fantasy that offered no hope of success.
Perhaps he had needed this distance in order to come to terms with the end of his marriage.
Still, he decided to finish the job. Complete his due diligence. Even if he was likely to fail, he thought that he owed it to Freckles to at least try. So with a forced smile, Milo arrived at 107 Federal Street, a white and green ranch with an overgrown lawn and a sagging garage, hoping against hope that the solution to his dilemma lay behind a front door that still sported a plastic Christmas wreath.
Emily and Michael Bryson turned out to be a half-ton of peculiarity. They were considerably less nervous than Kelly Plante, but Milo thought that the couple had little to be nervous about. Given their enormous girth, he wondered if a bullet could even penetrate the layers of fat surrounding their theoretical muscle. Emily Bryson was the largest woman Milo had ever seen. Round was the best word to describe her, as her torso seemed to lack any specificity of dimension. Beginning around her ears and ending around her knees, her body was composed of opposing parabolas of fatty tissue, expanding to her midsection before narrowing off at either end, thus eliminating any possibility of a neck, waist, or thighs. In fact, she looked more like one of Milo’s Weebles than an actual human being, much more so than Pete at the bar, and by the time he was able to leave her home, Milo found himself half-wanting to jam her in a door frame and watch her pop. She wore a pair of denim shorts and a pink sweatshirt that were somehow too big for a woman who looked as though she could wear a tent, and her feet were dirty and bare. Her face was red and streaked with sweat, and she breathed like a racehorse having sex.
Nevertheless, she also possessed a radiant smile and a surprising spring in her step, both of which were in full force as she herded Milo into her kitchen before he could even tell the woman his name. Seconds later, he found himself sitting at a cluttered table in an impossibly cluttered kitchen, being served biscuits on a paper plate.
Milo was stunned at the sheer volume of items in the kitchen, and from his brief view into what might have been a living room or dining room, he noted that this was not the only space in the home that the Brysons had filled. The countertops were piled high with magazines, newspapers, empty cans and jars, pots and pans, bowls filled with nails and screws, the plastic lids to water bottles, keys, and other assorted items. Boxes and baskets were piled alongside the walls of the room, and random pieces of furniture, including a rolltop desk, several lamps, and a baby changing table were pushed into the corners, covered in dust. It was a wonder, Milo thought, that the kitchen hadn’t collapsed into the basement long ago.
Milo attempted to introduce himself and explain his situation, but every time he tried to get her attention, Emily Bryson began moving again, first to the refrigerator, where she poured Milo more than a pint of milk into what appeared to be a pickle jar, and then to the stove, where she began frying sausage links and mushrooms in a cast iron skillet. “Just gimme two shakes and I’ll have some of this ready for you, mister.”
“Please, call me Milo,” he asked for the third time. “If I could just have a minute to explain—”
“You like grits?”
“Huh?”
“Do you like grits?” she repeated. “I still got some from this morning.”
“Mrs. Bryson, I just ate dinner. I’m really not hungry.”
“I know. I know. That’s why I’m not going overboard.