“Yeah?” He looked up, bleary-eyed, gripping his stein with both hands. “I hear stuff like that from the juvie gals.”
“That’s the way they think when they’re little, egocentric. Like they’re the center of the world. Mommy slips, breaks a leg, they blame themselves.”
“How long does it last?”
“In some people it never goes away. For the rest of us it’s a gradual process. By eight or nine we see things more clearly—but at any age an adult can manipulate kids, convince them it’s their fault.”
“Assholes,” muttered Milo. “So how do you get their heads straight?”
“You have to know how kids think at different ages. Developmental stages. You talk their language—you become a language specialist.”
“That’s what you do?”
“That’s what I do.”
A few minutes later he asked: “You think guilt is bad?”
“Not necessarily. It’s part of what holds us together. Too much, though, can cripple.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I like that. Shrinks always seem to be saying guilt is a no-no. Your approach I can buy. I tell you, we could use a lot more guilt—the world’s full of fucked-up savages.”
At that moment he got no argument from me.
We talked a bit more. The alcohol tugged at our consciousness and we started to laugh, then cry. The bartender stopped polishing his glasses and stared.
It had been a low—a seriously low—period in my life and I remembered who’d been there to help me through it.
I watched Milo nibble at the last specks of pear with curiously small, sharp teeth.
“Two hours?” I asked.
“At the most.”
“Give me an hour or so to get ready, clear up some business.”
Having convinced me to help him didn’t seem to cheer him up. He nodded and exhaled wearily.
“All right. I’ll give a run down to the station and do my business.” Another consultation of the Timex. “Noon?”
“Fine.”
He walked to the door, opened it, stepped out on the balcony and tossed the pear core over the railing and into the greenery below. Starting down the stairs he stopped mid-landing and looked up at me. The sun’s glare hit his ravaged face and turned it into a pale mask. For a moment I was afraid he was going to get sentimental.
I needn’t have worried.
“Listen, Alex, as long as you’re staying here can I borrow the Caddy? That,” he pointed accusingly at the ancient Fiat, “is giving out. Now it’s the starter.”
“Bull, you just love my car.” I went into the house, got the spare keys and threw them at him.
He fielded them like Dusty Baker, unlocked the Seville and squirmed in, adjusting the seat to accommodate his long legs. The engine started immediately, purring with vigor. Looking like a sixteen-year-old going to his first prom in Daddy’s wheels, he cruised down the hill.