Unexpectedly, Milo - Matthew Dicks [57]
“Milo, you asshole. Phil’s wife died last year in a car accident. Don’t you fucking remember?”
He remembered. It had been just after Christmas. Phil (he had been Philip back then), his wife (Mary Liz or Mary Claire or Mary something-or-other), and their daughter had been on their way to Vermont when a truck jumped the median and side-swiped their car. Milo had forgotten the names of the people involved, at least until now, but he remembered the accident, the phone call in the middle of the night, and the argument that had ensued when Milo refused to cancel a trip with Arthur Friedman to a diabetes specialist in Albany in order to attend the funeral.
“Oh … Jesus,” he stuttered. For the first time since he had approached the Jeep, Milo realized how crazy he sounded. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Phil said, turning to check on his daughter, who was still sound asleep.
“I saw the two of you together and the playpen in the bedroom and … I don’t know. I just sort of went a little crazy. God, I’m sorry, man.”
Phil nodded behind his mirrored glasses and said nothing more.
“Go home, Milo,” Christine said, finally releasing his arm. “I’ll call you later.”
He did.
Two hours later, Christine called as promised, not wasting a second before screaming obscenities.
“Look, I’m sorry, Christine. You’re right. I should’ve trusted you. But I didn’t know what to think. I’m sorry, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. It was embarrassing and ridiculous, Milo. I work with Phil every day. How the hell am I going to show my face in the conference room tomorrow? Jesus, Milo. You acted like a lunatic.”
“I know, but I’m sure he understands, Christine. We’re not the first people to have trouble with their marriage. Do you want me to talk to him? To apologize again? I will if that’s what you want.”
“Forget it. There’s nothing that you can do. I’ll clean up this mess myself.”
Then she hung up.
Despite his desire to continue the conversation with Christine, to avoid another three days of awkward silence, wondering when and if he should call, he was relieved when she hung up the phone.
He had been waiting at home for more than two hours, the pressure of “99 Luftballons” building with each passing minute. He had attempted to release some of it by opening a jar of jelly and popping some ice cubes, but as expected, this had failed to achieve any noticeable results. At times, there were things that Milo could do to alleviate the pressure of a demand when satisfaction was impossible, but these strategies did not always work. Milo suspected that the anticipation of Christine’s call only compounded the mounting pressure, making any temporary relief impossible.
Eventually he had removed the Highlights poem from his pocket and had begun reciting it again and again, unsure of why this might help but doing so nonetheless. It just felt right.
But Nurse Mancuso found the cure.
She told me not to scratch.
And it worked.
It didn’t hurt anymore.
Though he hadn’t understood his initial fascination with the poem, the repeated recitation, more than a hundred times in total, had caused Milo to develop a newfound admiration for the author. If only he had the same self-restraint as the boy who was able to resist scratching his rash. Milo thought that the demands of the jelly jars, the ice cube trays, and the incessant pounding of “99 Luftballons” in his head were similar to the author’s rash. They also required scratching, but unlike the author, Milo couldn’t ignore his demands. Doing so would only increase their intensity to the point of debilitation.
Yet he recited the poem anyway, hoping to somehow discover the child author’s inner strength. With nothing left in his bag of tricks, it was all that he could do.
Like the Borg, Milo thought, resistance is futile.
This was why Milo was secretly pleased when Christine hung up on him. The pressure of the demand had increased to a boiling point. The Point of No Return was fast approaching. In short order, Milo’s ability to focus would be compromised by blinding pain in the center