Wild Milk

by Sabrina Orah Mark

  Before the endless rain, before my nine sons turned into nine daughters all at once, I was the Lice Lady. The town’s only one. There were stories about my metal comb. My impeccable work. Although it is possible I was the best Lice Lady on Earth, no one to this day has sent me a letter of recognition. Nowhere have I been honored in a large room with chandeliers and steaks. But I did beautiful work. I would tell the child to sit still, melt a tablespoon of margarine, rub it all over the head, and then from crown to end go hair by hair, taking special care around the ears while the mother sat there pale and bereft. With a paper towel, I would wipe the lice from the comb, and like handwriting the lice would settle into the creases. I have the patience of the dead.

  I even taught my sons how to comb. Before they turned into daughters all at once.

  With infestation comes a shame that can pull even the richest off their high horse and knock them to the ground. And it is from this low place the mothers and the children come to me. I open the door. A thick little gray cloud, shaped like two hearts stuck together, hangs over our house. “Something is brewing,” says the mother, looking up at the sky. She pushes her misty children toward me. The taller one is holding a large loaf of bread. “Do as she says,” says the mother. And they nod.

  I comb in the kitchen where the light is best.

  The boy with the bread sits perfectly still. I part and comb, part and comb. A piece of me already knows, when I wipe off the comb, and the dead lice spell out five of my sons’ names, marking the paper towel like it is a birth certificate, that something terrible is about to happen. Each name perfectly spelled, perfectly legible. The boy with the bread looks straight ahead, never blinking. His sister is next. A stiff, quiet child. When she sits I hear her bones creak. What comes off her head are the rest of the names. The color of wheat and ash. A piece of me knew even before the lice. For days my sons’ ears appeared to be softening, and I could already smell the mean lilac. The small crack on the kitchen ceiling, shaped like a hand, was spreading. I had heard of this happening. But not to nine sons at once unless they were all tucked away in cupboards by a stepmother with no name. Or maybe on a back road thick with sycamores. Or at the very top of an old hill. But not here. Here when I pull the metal comb through the hair the lice come with it. They don’t turn into butterflies. They don’t turn into sparrows or soot. Here trees live and die as trees.

  The sky darkens, and I worry. It is almost five o’clock. It is almost time to wash my sons’ feet, but I am still combing. The rain begins and the mother pays. My oldest son puts his hand on my shoulder. Soon I will love them all less.

  After seven to ten days, the nit hatches and becomes what is known as a nymph, or a young louse. Cycles are essential to life. Without patterns our bodies would wander off into the middle of a parched field and just stand there staring up at the sky. And so everyday at five on the dot I wash my sons’ feet. Nine sons. Eighteen feet. I go down the line with my bucket. The suds grow feathery between their toes. I slowly scrub their heels with a stone, releasing a small puff of dust. A sob. My sons’ beautiful faces begin to blur and I know it is happening. I know it is about to happen. If they have to change into something maybe they will change into wild swans. Anything but daughters. The phone rings. A mother. Her children are scratching. She will come first thing in the morning. When I return it’s too late. Instead of my sons, there is a spray of half-finished daughters, each holding her nose. Their legs extended. Their toes in the horrible air. “Ew, lice,” bleats the oldest. Maybe goats, for a moment, I pray. Hooves, I pray. Anything but daughters. It’s too late. They are coming into focus. They are all gigantic. And they are daughters. The soft smell of lavender soap goes sick, feverish. The air fills with the smell of dead fruit.

  “Give them some sand in a teacup and tell them to pretend it is cake,” says my husband. It is possible he has been here the whole time.

  When I was a child, everyday I wore the same yellow, wool cardigan. It had a little rainbow patch to hide a hole on the left elbow. Each button was a different color star. Eventually, my body burst out of it leaving me without a childhood.

  I don’t like change and I don’t like daughters.

  And now here they are. Sleepy and dumb, like honey. They open their mouths and I shine a light down their throats, and it’s just as I’d suspected. Nothing but wildflowers and grass. I would send out a search party, but what is lost is all here.

  This is what I remember most about my sons: they were always thirsty, and they were wildest at dusk, and they were always kind. Their eyes were soft and bright like snowy windowsills.

  Now I have these gigantic daughters eating up all the strawberries and staring at me, accusingly. I look out at the empty hills. My sons once, yesterday, ran up and down those hills. Dirt and twigs in their sweet curls. The largest daughter steps on my foot. She reminds me of a full, angry moon. Tomorrow is her birthday. And the next day is her birthday too.

  I take a metal comb to their heads. The lice come out in thick batches.

  I line them up from giant to giantest: #1 face of a pink eraser, #2 riddled with holes, #3 opening up a small brown package, #4 smells of flooding, #5 with a pencil she is drawing her sisters with no hands, #6 afraid, #7 asleep, #8 famished, #9 glares.

  I am their mother.

  The rain is getting heavier. In our living room is a leak. The daughters take turns standing under it, mouths open, until I replace them with a bucket.

  The daughters are deeply infested. It will take me days, weeks, months to comb them all out. I cancel my appointments. “Melody,” says a daughter. How does she know my name? “No,” I say. “No.”

  For months and months I comb, but as soon as a head is clear it freshly blooms with new lice. “We are under a spell,” whispers my husband. He shaves off his hair and stands in the cold bedroom. In the afternoons I watch him through the keyhole. The daughters have caused us to creep around each other, never touching. They cling to him. They chew on his sleeves.

  I dream my sons return to me, floating through the kitchen with bundles of wood. They have returned to build a boat. My youngest son, as he saws, begins to sing. Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream. Pregnantly, pregnantly, pregnantly, pregnantly life is but a dream. One piece of wood is pocked with rows of tiny holes I can’t stop licking. I don’t know what I’m doing with the wood. I sand and carve and saw. I lick and I lick. “Don’t worry,” says a son. “This is the part that doesn’t matter.”

  I wake up with a horrible headache. My husband hands me a fistful of pebbles and I swallow them all.

  My husband and I display ourselves to the daughters at dinner. We stand side by side. We do not quarrel. Peace is what pain looks like in public.

  I give the daughters a head of lettuce. A faint smile slowly spreads over their mouths. Like a baby snake crawling over white, boring sand. They tear the leaves from the head and eat.

  Inside the walls it is raining. Inside my husband it is raining. Lice can survive under water for several hours by holding their breath. Puddles quickly begin to dot the house. A small puddle forms under each daughter. The floorboards swell.

  I crawl beneath my bed. They are always looking for me. “What are your names?” I finally ask. “Alice.” And then the next one says “Alice” too. They are all named Alice. It’s unbearable. They sit in the puddles, heavy-lidded.

  Lice favor the nape of the neck and behind the ears. A louse will die within one to two days off its host.

  I hate these daughters. When they appear to me again their heads are shaved and they are wearing little golden crowns. “Where did you get the crowns?” I ask. “From Papa,” they swoon. My husband laughs little yellow stained laughs. And then the Alices laugh little yellow stained laughs too. It’s so disgusting. “Go out into the world and get your own living.” But they cannot go out. Our house is surrounded by water. Our streets have turned to rivers. My sons are gone and not once did a single trumpet cry out. Not once. Out of paper, I fold a boat. A
nd then I fold another, and then another. But they’re crooked and torn. Like a single misshapen body the Alices try to climb into one. “That’s not your boat,” I say, crumpling it up. With a broom I shoo them all away.

  Now that their heads are shaved, the lice find other spots. I watch the Alices pull lice out of each other’s knees. They leave the bodies in a bowl beside my bed.

  My metal comb rusts. My fingers are dotted with mold.

  Damp and cold from endless rain, the daughters huddle like nine enormous hard-boiled eggs, peeled and crowded in a bowl. Without my sons, my fingers grow long and shriveled. I miss my sons and all the air once between them, crisp like split pine. I miss their handsome faces. I cannot breathe. My nose hooks. My feet curl and root. My husband reaches for me, but I’m more tree than woman. My limbs are old, mean branches. Occasionally a lost flower blossoms on my hand, but quickly withers and drops to the ground. A daughter shoves it in her mouth. Every single time. The house is filling up with water. One foot high and rising.

  It took me years, but if you listen very carefully you can hear the lice. They go tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. Their stories are thin and dark. For the last few days all they’ve said is “mother,” over and over again as the daughters thickened into a fog.

  But now they finally begin to tell me this story.

  “Even if we wanted to,” it begins, “where would we go? There is nowhere to go. We sleep on the roof now. Until the water carries us away.”

  My husband and daughters touch my bark. I stand very still. Soon they will chop me down and use my body to save themselves. A log to hold onto. A Melody to row them all the hell away.

  THE VERY NERVOUS FAMILY

  Mr. Horowitz clutches a bag of dried apricots to his chest. Although the sun is shining, there will probably be a storm. Electricity will be lost. Possibly forever. When this happens the very nervous family will be the last to starve. Because of the apricots. “Unless,” says Mrs. Horowitz, “the authorities confiscate the apricots.” Mr. Horowitz clutches the bag of dried apricots tighter. He should’ve bought two bags. One for the authorities and one for his very nervous family. Mrs. Horowitz would dead bolt the front door to keep the authorities out, but it is already bolted. Already dead. She doesn’t like that phrase. Dead bolt. It reminds her of getting shot before you even have a chance to run. “Everyone should have at least a chance to run,” says Mrs. Horowitz. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Horowitz?” Mrs. Horowitz always refers to her husband as Mr. Horowitz, should they ever one day become strangers to each other. Mr. Horowitz agrees. When the authorities come they should give the Horowitzs a chance to run before they shoot them for the apricots. Eli Horowitz, their very nervous son, rushes in with his knitting. “Do not rush,” says Mr. Horowitz, “you will fall and you will die.” Eli wants ice skates for his birthday. “We are not a family who ice skates!” shouts Mrs. Horowitz. She is not angry. She is a mother who simply does not wish to outlive her only son. Mrs. Horowitz gathers her very nervous son in her arms, and gently explains that families who ice skate become the ice they slip on. The cracks they fall through. The frost that bites them. “We have survived this long to become our own demise?” asks Mrs. Horowitz. “No,” whispers Eli, “we have not.” Mr. Horowitz removes one dried apricot from the bag and nervously begins to pet it when Mrs. Horowitz suddenly gasps. She thinks she may have forgotten to buy milk. Without milk they will choke on the apricots. Eli rushes to the freezer with his knitting. There is milk. The whole freezer is stuffed with milk. Eli removes a frozen half pint and glides it across the kitchen table. It is like the milk is skating. He wishes he were milk. Brave milk. He throws the half pint on the floor and stomps on it. Now the milk is crushed. Now the milk is dead. Now the Horowitzs are that much closer to choking. Mr. and Mrs. Horowitz are dumbfounded. Their very nervous son might be a maniac. He is eight. God is punishing them for being survivors. God has given them a maniac for a son. All they ask is that they not starve, and now their only son is killing milk. Who will marry their maniac? No one. Who will mother their grandchildren? There will be no grandchildren. All they ask is that there is something left of them when they are shot for the apricots, but now their only son is a maniac who will give them no grandchildren. Mr. Horowitz considers leaving Eli behind when he and Mrs. Horowitz run for their lives.

  POOL

  Jump into the pool, says Brother.

  I do not wish to jump into the pool.

  For old time’s sake, says Brother, jump into the pool.

  This pool looks different from the pool of yesteryear.

  Make a splash, says Brother. Set an example for all the merry children lining up behind you, says Brother.

  I turn around. These children do not look merry. They look very unmerry. Unmerry as fossils.

  Jump into the pool, says Brother.

  I do not wish to jump into the pool. There is a tree in the pool.

  That is not a tree. That is Grandmother.

  Grandmother, is that you?

  No answer.

  She is in the deep end trying to be misteriosa, says Brother.

  I can assure you that tree is not a tree but Grandmother, backstroking.

  More children are lining up behind me. Some appear to be geniuses.

  Dip the big toe first and the body will come along after, says Brother.

  How soon along after?

  Depends, says Brother. A day at most.

  Is there a plethora of ways? I ask.

  There is a plethora.

  Go on, I say.

  You can jump into the pool, suggests Brother.

  Go on, I say.

  Or you could jackknife, bellyflop, pencil drop, cannonball, face the music, live the life, knuckle the mouse, happy-go-lucky, bury the hatchet, or hubba hubba.

  Or I could sink, I say.

  Or you could sink, says Brother.

  Grandmother? No answer. Grandmother, is that you? No answer.

  I do not like this pool.

  I point north. Would it be possible to jump into that pool?

  Brother squints.

  Brother scratches his head.

  It seems to be a better pool.

  From faraway, agrees Brother, it does seem to be a better pool.

  A much better pool.

  Loads better, says Brother.

  I turn around. There appear to be hundreds of children lining up behind me, possibly thousands.

  Jump into this pool, says Brother. Afterwards, you can have a snack at the snack bar.

  I have been to that snack bar. It is a hideous snack bar.

  It is a very hideous snack bar, agrees Brother.

  I know no snack bar more hideous.

  Any snack bar anywhere would be less hideous.

  The popsicles are gaunt.

  Impossibly gaunt, agrees Brother.

  Grandmother floats by.

  I am going to die soon, sings Grandmother.

  I do not know that song.

  Nor do I, says Brother.

  Jump into the pool, says Brother.

  Don’t look, I say.

  They’re here, I say.

  Who? asks Brother.

  Our parents.

  Where? whispers Brother.

  At the end of the line.

  They are younger than they should be, says Brother.

  They appear to be teenagers.

  They are very beautiful, says Brother.

  Remarkably beautiful, I agree.

  Mother is holding a hot pink inflatable ball.

  Father is laughing.

  Their intention is to jump into the pool and play.

  Little do they know, says Brother.

  Little do they know! cheer the children.

  Little do they know, sighs Grandmother.

  Jump into the pool, says Brother.

  Hurry up, says Brother, it is time.

  Some of the children, from the heat, are drying up.

  It’s a cruel world, says Brother.

  There is n
o world more cruel, I say.

  A crueler world, says Brother, there isn’t.

  Do you know Gloria? asks Brother.

  I do not know Gloria.

  Suddenly I find myself in love with Gloria, says Brother.

  I must go to her, says Brother.

  If you go to Gloria who will tell me to jump into the pool?

  Brother thinks.

  Grandmother floats by.

  Brother thinks more.

  Our parents are too far back.

  No one, says Brother. If I go to Gloria, no one will tell you to jump into the pool.

  And yet the pool will remain?

  Possibly, says Brother.

  And I, unjumped, will remain?

  I believe you will remain, says Brother.

  Then obviously you must go to Gloria.

  Without a doubt, says Brother.

  Minutes go by.

  Brother is still.

  Brother?

  One whole day goes by.

  Evening surrounds us.

  Morning comes.

  Although I am in love with Gloria, resumes Brother, I have not the heart to go to Gloria until you jump into the pool.

  Could Gloria come to you?

  Her magnificence makes this impossible, says Brother.

  I just had a thought.

  What’s to think about? asks Brother.

  The pool.

  What else? asks Brother.

  Jumping into it.

  What else? asks Brother.

  The Balkans.

  Their winters are heavy, says Brother.