Wild Milk

by Sabrina Orah Mark

  We wished we had no inboxes. We were mad.

  Mad at Father?

  Yes, we were mad at Father. But we were mad mostly at ourselves. And at Mary Helen for sending the message. And we were mad at our inboxes.

  We were mad as beets.

  The conundrum as we saw it was that Father loved us. The larger of two carts for moving things did not love us, nor did Mary Helen, nor did our inboxes. It was in our best interest to take Father’s side, to believe there was a flood of carts, a deluge of carts, and the cart now being pulled around our living room like some heartbroken farm animal was not the same cart that had mysteriously gone missing. “But all the evidence,” piped up Mendel, “points to Father’s malfeasance.” Mendel was the smallest of us, and the most committed to truth. I sniffed Mendel’s head. He smelled like cucumbers.

  It was the last thing we wanted to do, but on Mendel’s behest we tromped to our inboxes to further examine the message.

  A significant amount of moss had grown over Annette’s inbox, which concerned us, but today was not about Annette or her inbox. Today was about Father.

  Over Father we were agog. We were gaga. If he told us to hold our horses, with all our might we’d hold our horses even until they all stopped breathing. If he urged us to flee, we’d flee. We glowed like a mob that came night after night only for him. And now just a mouse click away from possible ruin, our child-sized hearts were disheveled with worry.

  “This is not the same cart,” Father assured us. “This is a different cart.”

  Which is not to say we hadn’t worried before. We had. But the jig that had stayed down for years was now ascending like a tired balloon. “Why,” asked Annette, “does there even need to be a jig?” She was pulling on her skirt, as if pulling on her skirt would pull the jig down. She asked this, but she knew. There always has to be a little bit of jig so as to keep our brains from softening. Even so, the very last thing we ever wanted to say to Father was “gotcha!”

  The stories Father made up, in the beginning, barely grazed us. He would tell us about all the years he spent with Mother battening down the hatches when we knew very well there was no mother or hatch for miles. We knew if given the chance Father would have no idea how to batten anything. But we listened, and we forgave.

  This was before we had inboxes.

  The old ladies would be showing up soon to help us, but in the meantime it was up to us, Father’s son and daughters, his “henchmen” as he called us in the summer, his “poppets” as he called us in the winter, to get to the bottom of Father. “The larger,” read Mendel, “of two carts …” We looked from our inboxes to Father. We looked from Father to the cart. The cart was large. Some might even say obese. But how could we be certain the missing cart was not more obese? Father was curled up on top of it like a house cat. He had one gray eye open. We wished the old ladies would hurry up.

  We were still huddled over our inboxes when we caught Father sneaking up on us. “Hi,” he said. “Hi,” said Annette, a little too loudly. “Did you know I was the sine qua non of the avant-garde?” asked Father. We shook our heads. “The President called me. Soldiers are shooting at me.” “Right now?” asked Mendel, steadily. “Earlier,” said Father. The cart looked incredibly sad.

  Father wandered out of earshot.

  “There is something wrong with it,” I whispered to Mendel. “Who?” asked Mendel. “Father?” Well, yes, Father. Often Father. But what I meant was the cart. It looked like it might be sick. There were flies.

  The situation was delicate. What we couldn’t allow was Father’s enthusiasm over us to diminish. “I would absolutely die,” said Annette, picking at the moss.

  Neither Mendel, nor I, nor Annette, nor Father wanted Annette to die. “If we broke the lines,” Mendel suggested, “maybe we could free Father from our suspicions.” This was a very good idea.

  The larger of two

  carts

  for moving things is missing

  from room 255

  if you have it

  please return

  asap.

  It is needed.

  We were pleased. That the message was now a poem made it no less a beast, but this beast might one day grow to love us. “All it needs is a title,” said Annette. “‘Where Is the Cart?’” suggested Mendel. “Or ‘The Cart Is Missing.’ Or ‘What Is Wrong with Father?’ Or, simply, ‘The Cart.’” I liked the last best. Father said if it was his poem he’d call it “L’état, C’est Moi,” which meant, “I Am the Cart.” But we knew very well it did not mean that.

  The old ladies arrived at approximately five o’clock, which was too late to change the course of our childhoods. We were, as Annette put it, “poem or no poem: fucked.” “Annette!” we cried. “That is such a curse!” There were so many times Mendel, Annette, and I wanted to just look out the window of a moving car and regard the terrain, but with the old ladies showing up as late as they did, and the cold fact of our inboxes, and our motherlessness, and the cart possibly dying in our living room, and god knows what always wrong with Father, we knew that wish was a long way off. We were not the kind of children who would ever one day be passengers. We showed the old ladies the poem. “C’est magnifique,” said the old ladies, kissing the tips of their fingers.

  By dinner Father was still going at it. “Among the Lebanese poets,” said Father, “I’m considered a real mucka-muck. Among the French, I’m practically Pulitzer.” Annette was cutting a piece of steak so hard her knife slipped on the plate and flew across the room, landing on the cart. From where I was sitting it looked like the knife had cut the cart. It looked like there was a little blood.

  At first, we thought Mendel got up from the table to nurse the wounded cart, but his brow was furrowed in another direction. Our appetites were gone. The soup the old ladies had brought us was cold enough to taste ruined. I looked over at Annette. Something very unsunlike shone on her face. It was our inboxes again. Our inboxes were blinking. That was where Mendel was going. To our inboxes.

  The recipients were us. The sender, as always, was Mary Helen. Our inboxes held the message, freshly opened, like a bag of fake bread.

  “We are children, for christsake,” cried Annette. “Why do we even have inboxes, when we barely have money? Even Father has no inbox.” This was true. Father’s inbox, he claimed, had been taken away. “One day,” Father whispered, “a man I’d never seen before just yoinked my inbox out from under me. You’re lucky you still have yours.” And when Father told us this we felt lucky. Luckier than ever. Now we were not so sure.

  Dutifully, Annette and I tromped back to our inboxes and joined Mendel. “The larger of two fathers for moving things,” read the message, “is missing from room 255. If you have him please return asap. He is needed.” We looked over at Father. He wasn’t where we left him. We looked over at the cart. A small pool of blood had settled under its left hind wheel. Outside, it was raining. Had we ever really been children, we definitely were no longer. We were old. Older than Father. Older than the old ladies. Older than the dying cart. Our inboxes were receiving messages we really could no longer accept. Mendel wheeled the cart outside. We knew by morning it would be dead in our yard. From what Father had taught us, we understood there was no way to stop the dying from dying. If this, in fact, was true. There was nothing we could do to save it. We had no way of knowing anything.

  I DID NOT EAT THE CHILD

  A stepchild, I’m sorry, is a ghost. Mine is called Ugrit.

  To her face, her father calls her Ugrit the Holy. Holy, for short. To not her face her father calls her nothing, barely remembers her. “Where did you put Ugrit, Husband?” And Husband says, “Who?” And then he touches his beard and remembers. “I put her outside to dry.” And there she is, pacing back and forth beneath a clothesline, parched and gigantic.

  I open the screen door. “Ugrit, come in.”

  Over Ugrit, my heart is a fistfight. She is never my progeny, but when there is the hen for dinner I must buy Ugrit
the hen. Husband and I have other, real children for whom I never question buying the hen. Only for Ugrit do I question buying the hen, as I question buying the surrounding vegetables, as I question buying the cold milk and the underpants.

  “I do not wish to buy and cook and slice and serve Ugrit the hen.” “Who?” asks Husband. “Ugrit! Ugrit!” “But there is leftover hen,” says Husband. “There is so much hen. Give Holy some hen.” It is true. There is so much hen. But I am exhausted of Ugrit and the hen she needs. “She needs so little hen,” whispers Husband. “Just give her some hen. She is my flesh and she is my bone.” I do not wish to give Ugrit the hen, but without me she is so henless. It is too much henlessness to bear. And so I give her hen too. This is the problem with hunger. This is the problem with love. There is no end in sight.

  Sometimes I think what does it matter. Like all the hens I’ve ever forgotten for whole entire days, and there have been many, we too will one day shrivel up to nothingness.

  Ugrit the Holy. Ugrit of Over There. Ugrit the Ghost. Ugrit of Not Mine.

  “How is the hen, Ugrit?” “Gaunt,” she replies.

  After dinner, she creeps up to me. I cannot tell if she is sleeping or awake. She is hunched, like always. I throw bunches of roses at her, hoping a curtain might come down followed by great applause, hoping to end the scene of Ugrit. But she keeps coming closer. Her mouth is a thin moon of frantic light. I kiss her on the cheek and she coughs up a heart the size of a marble. She spits it into my hand. “Whose heart is this, Ugrit?” It is wet and I am disgusted. She shrugs. She pretends she doesn’t know the heart is so obviously her mother’s. And then she creeps away.

  I do not want this tiny mother heart Ugrit coughs up. I give it to Husband, which I know is a mistake. He tells me he’ll bury it before it grows wild. But he never buries it. At night I hear it clicking against his teeth. It moves around his mouth like a hard candy animal, circling for comfort.

  This child named Ugrit is not my child. She is another woman’s child. Being near Ugrit makes it impossible to be near a beautiful sea.

  “How is the hen, Ugrit?” “Gaunt,” she replies.

  For my birthday Ugrit bakes me a cake. The piece she slices for me is still pinkish and mewing. The rest of the cake is still. I tell Husband I want him to send Ugrit away. “Who?” asks Husband. “Ugrit! Ugrit!” He bounces the other, real children on his knee. They are so healthy and cheerful! “Who?” asks Husband. “Ugrit!” I say, but he cannot hear me over our other, real children.

  Sometimes I wonder if Ugrit even knows my name.

  “Happy Birthday, Stepmother,” says Ugrit. “Thank you, Ugrit.” “Are you happy, Stepmother?” I look at Ugrit. I really look at her. She is not resplendent in her heavy corduroy pants. “No, Ugrit, I am not happy.” “Because your slice is pinkish and mewing, Stepmother?” “Partially, Ugrit.” “What else, Stepmother?” “Because, Ugrit, I do not know what to carry into this unfolding epoch.” Ugrit brings her face close to mine. “Shovels and water?” she asks.

  In the morning there is a bucket and a small, shiny shovel leaning against my bedroom door.

  “Thank you, Ugrit.”

  I cannot find the rest of Ugrit’s story. Believe me, I search. I go out walking. I wait for the air to thin so I can for once see something clearly. But the air rarely thins, and even when it does it’s always just Ugrit standing there. Staring. Waiting for something I will never dream up. She does not cry, but sometimes she holds my own crying mother in her arms. My own inconsolable, crying mother.

  I cannot remember life without Ugrit.

  “Stepmother?” “Yes, Ugrit.” “May I have more?” “More what, Ugrit?” “Never mind,” says Ugrit. “Please Ugrit, more what?” “Ugrit. More Ugrit.” “Take as much Ugrit as you’d like.” She goes to the place where Ugrit is kept and she takes more. She knows I disapprove, but she cannot help it. When Ugrit helps herself to more Ugrit there is a humming in the house that lasts for days. One day we will run out of hen, but we will never run out of Ugrit. Of Ugrit there is galore.

  I ask Husband again to send Ugrit away. “How can I choose,” asks Husband, “between Heaven and Sorry?” And I know he’s right. It’s impossible to choose. She will stay. The other, real children will grow up and kiss me on the forehead and leave. But Ugrit will stay.

  “How is the hen, Ugrit?” “Gaunt,” she replies.

  Click, click, click goes the tiny mother heart.

  While Husband and Ugrit and the other, real children sleep, I sneak into Ugrit’s room. I pile on all her clothes. I enter the cotton and corduroy and fleece and wool until I can barely move or breathe. I do not know why I do this. I want to tell Ugrit to go on without me, but it is becoming harder and harder.

  In the morning, it is Ugrit who finds me. She lifts me up out of the cocoon. “I am so hot, Ugrit, and so thirsty.” She brings me the bucket of water. It is the same bucket she left for me to carry into the unfolding epoch. I take a sip. The water tries to climb up out of my mouth. I swallow hard. It is like slaughter. “I cannot drink this water, Ugrit. This water is alive.” Ugrit takes the bucket away. I wipe my mouth. I notice a bruise on Ugrit’s arm. It too is alive because everything is alive. The bruise on Ugrit’s arm is in the shape of a hen. It is walking toward me. A magnificent hen. Far more beautiful than any hen I’ve ever cooked to perfection. “Where did you get that hen, Ugrit?” It keeps walking toward me. Ugrit needs to turn that hen around. “Turn that hen around, Ugrit.” It walks fast. No hen should walk that fast. “Who hurt you, Ugrit? Why is there a hen on your arm?” The hen looks at me hard. If it were up to me, I would cook her and eat her. I would give some of her to Ugrit too, angrily. Torn. Ugrit hands me the small shiny shovel. The hen walks toward me fast. I take the shovel. I hold it up. It is so shiny. Here comes the hen. I can almost see my face.

  LET’S DO THIS ONCE MORE, BUT THIS TIME WITH FEELING

  Louis C.K., my husband, piles all my seahorses in the middle of our king-sized bed and starts shouting. I see moon-and-stars seahorse, and green seahorse, and the one with no eyes, and pink seahorse, and says-things seahorse, and pregnant seahorse, and I see the sad one, but I don’t see black seahorse. “Where is black seahorse, Louis?” This makes Louis C.K., my husband, even angrier. In a fake little girl voice, all sing song, he goes “WheRe is BlAcK SeAhoRSe, LoUIs!?” My husband, Louis C.K., is not being very nice. So I say, “No, not black seahorse Louis, just black seahorse,” which makes Louis roar. So I say, “What’s the matter Louis? Why so boiled?”

  “What does your anger, Louis, have to do with my seahorses?”

  We go through this every night.

  In the morning everything is fine.

  Louis C.K. and I hold hands. We go to the meadow and make love. We do not bring up the seahorses. Louis pulls my head all the way back. He kisses my throat. His lips are rough like rope. I call out, “Sweet, Sweet Nothing.” “Who?” asks Louis. He looks around. “Who,” he asks, “is Sweet, Sweet Nothing?” “You,” I say, though it’s impossible to be sure.

  I cannot explain it but ever since the seahorses Louis and I have become less and less human. Our ability to speak has gone from stratospheric to cloudy. “Tell me about eternity, Louis.” And Louis tells me all about eternity using mostly the wildflowers from the meadow. For hours and hours, with the petals and stems, he builds boats and whole entire cities and nations of people with terrible long flowing hair, but nothing really comes of it. He speaks for a long time, but the words are few and far between and half-finished. Like somewhere in the middle of being words they closed their eyes and fell asleep and dreamed they were seahorses.

  When we get home Louis C.K., my husband, piles all my seahorses in the middle of our queen-sized bed and starts shouting. “I thought, Louis, we had a king-sized bed.” Our bed now is unquestionably queen, which makes the seahorses look larger than they did the night before. Black seahorse is still missing. Louis doesn’t answer or look at me. He just keeps piling and shouting and piling and
shouting. I see super seahorse and old seahorse and nowhere seahorse and sorry seahorse and the one the other seahorses call the Saint and the one they call the Fool.

  We go through this every night.

  In the morning everything is fine.

  Louis C.K. and I go to the diner. We sit in our favorite booth. “I love you,” says Louis. “I love you more,” I say. We hold hands. We are very alive. The waitress takes our order. Louis orders two soft-boiled eggs, coffee, and toast with strawberry jam. I order the same. We do not bring up the seahorses. The waitress’s name is Poppy. She is wearing a T-shirt with a blue and red rocket ship. Poppy serves us our breakfast. “Where is the rocket ship going?” asks Louis. Poppy looks at me. I shrug. I have no idea. Poppy looks at Louis. She looks down at the rocket ship. “Isn’t it always going to the moon?” asks Poppy. “I guess so,” says Louis. There is a little bit of jam on Louis’ cheek. Poppy dips a napkin into my water glass and wipes it off. She kisses Louis on the mouth. He kisses her back. They kiss for a long, long time. “Don’t be wounded,” she whispers. “Don’t be wounded more,” he whispers back. While they kiss I build a tower out of all the jams and pats of butter and honeys. I collect them from all the booths. The tower is so high I have to stand on the table to keep building. At the very top, I imagine perching hold-me seahorse and never-let-me-go seahorse, but seconds before Louis and Poppy finally stop kissing the whole tower comes toppling down.