Spilt Milk: A Collection of Stories

by D. K. Cassidy

  The octopus was plaid. The strangest costume the sisters had ever seen. At school they’d studied marine life and not one photo showed a plaid octopus. “Everyone already knows we’re poor. If I wear this I won’t be able to go back to school!”

  The mother lay on her bed. Two Valium not helping, the only thing for it was a nap. Lights off. Shades drawn. Still. Quiet. Another migraine headache. She wouldn’t get up for three days. Kim rolling over pushes thoughts of the day behind her. Her headaches always brought on recollections of her childhood, a lingering, unhappy memory of Korea. Drifting, she thought back about the journey that brought her here.

  Time to head south and look for her uncle. She didn’t have the luxury to wait for strength to return. Luxuries were a memory. Hundreds of miles left in Kim’s trek. The South promised freedom from war. Dreams of abundant food. Safety and security. Her mother had promised it would. Kim, a princess child. Mornings a servant brought her a ‘honey bucket’ to relieve herself. Nothing in her earlier life trained her for this.

  Kim heard a car pull up to her house. Too hollow to look out the window, she shifts in her bed, the pain rushes though the movement and pins her. Only the act of thinking moves her to return to her memories. Her migraine wins as she watches her younger self suffer.

  The pungent odor of garlic and rice clinging to her tilted dark head, shadow obscuring her vacant face. Soldiers from Kaesong in the next room asking for more. “More rice! Hurry up. Don’t forget our kimchee.” A young Kim, the steaming bowls, bowing, apologizing. Not daring a look into anyone’s eyes. Craving behind those gaunt gazes. In the tiny kitchen, her small, chipped bowl. Only one bowl allowed a day.

  A timid knock on the door; her child disturbs Kim’s childhood. “Mommy? Mrs. Carry is outside. I’m leaving now. Mommy?” Dana backs gingerly away not wanting to be flattened by a door flung in anger. No strength to answer her daughter, drawing the shades used the last remnant. Kim’s eyes flutter then close, returning to her reflections.

  In the same place too long. If she started again, Kim’s life might change. She packs the few belongings she still owns. Her mother’s book. A sewing bundle. A few tattered sheets of rice paper. Her Uncle’s photo. His last known address her chant as she walks. A real princess, treated as one. Trained as an obedient girl. Her uncle’s a wealthy man.

  From her nightstand a hidden bottle of soju called to Kim. She relented, a gulp of wine will ease the ache; boost the effect of the Valium, too. The refrigerator and cabinets slapped open and slammed shut, Faye crawling up on the counters for food. The girls knew to respect the closed door. Fending for herself, knowing she’s on her own for now.

  Kim’s back at that day her mother sent her away, saying “Keep walking south.” And more. “Avoid being swept up into the army.” Maybe better than almost starving. Walking until her fragile body quivered. Not sure if she would ever see her Uncle and on some days, that little Kim didn’t care. Her persistent wish a full belly and a safe, clean, bug free place to sleep.

  Nearing the release of sleep, she laid her head on the lump of her pillow. Smelling the familiar food of her distant home, mixing with thoughts of the last meal she’d shared with her mother and brother. Kim’s hands covering her eyes to keep out the pain.

  The men are always more important then a humble girl. Kim, pass the kimchee to your brother. Your brother gets the best and choicest bits of everything just like your father did when he was alive. Why aren’t you eating? You think rice will be waiting for you every few feet as you travel to your Uncle’s home? Do not disgrace me! Do not be an ungrateful girl!

  The contestants of the Halloween contest circled the room, trying to catch the attention of the parents watching. A clown. A skeleton. A princess. A ghost. One costume stuck out, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room, a skinny girl’s costume. A little plaid octopus.

  Her head lowered, Dana followed the others in shame.

  The judges conferred for a few moments. Reaching an accord, one stood to pronounce the winner. “You should all be proud. All of you have such great costumes. We’ve decided the winner this year, with the most creative and unusual costume…”

  Dana’s classmate had to nudge her; lost in dishonor, wishing the journey was over.

  Dana ran into the house. Feeling rare. Excited. Happy. “Mommy! Mommy! Guess what? I won!” The sisters now knocked. Neither expecting an answer. Dana whispered once before turning. “Mommy I won.”

  “I’ll have one dozen donuts. Picking up treats for the office. How about four maple bars, four cream filled with chocolate, they’re called Bismarcks right? Do not know how I know that. Me? I never eat donuts. Let’s make the final four apple fritters.”

  George tried to contain his excitement as the clerk filled the pink box; always-pink boxes it seemed, with delicious contents. A food orgasm, wave after wave, engulfed him as he watched each luscious bit of doughy goodness plop into the flat box. He disassociated for a moment, the shop became hazy around him and his vision swirled. He had to stop himself from grabbing at the hallucination circling just above the register.

  After tossing money on the counter, not waiting for change, he rushed to his car, salivating. The first donut crammed in his mouth before the door opened. The second one he wolfed down as his seatbelt snapped, the third once he’d turned the ignition. Donuts four, five and six, inhaled within two miles. By the time he’d reached the next shop, a mere five miles later, George finished box one.

  Checking his face in the rear view mirror for any telltale crumbs or frosting, brushing away evidence, George clumped into his next nirvana.

  “I will have a dozen donuts. Picking up treats for the office. How about, umm, four maple bars, four cream filled with chocolate, they’re called Bismarcks right? Do not know how I know that. Me? I never eat donuts. Let’s make the final four apple fritters.”

  In his car George again munched on this latest dozen and thought about whether he wanted diet cola or chocolate milk with dinner. Diet cola won out. He made a third stop at the grocery store. He bought three 2-liter bottles, then waddled over to the deli.

  “I will take four orders of General Tso’s Chicken with fried rice. I’m having some people in later. Why don’t you throw in a dozen fried pot stickers? And some extra sauce for that chicken.”

  He entered his first floor apartment, turning on the lights.

  “Hello everyone, sorry to be late, had to make three stops tonight. Who wants a donut? Cola? Got some delicious General Tso’s Chicken too.”

  Everyone remained silent.

  “Really? No one? O.K. More for me.” He bent down. “How about you kitty?”

  George gave his hefty cat half of a pot sticker and watched his pet gobble the treat.

  He settled on the couch and surveyed his friends: Captain America, Data, Aqua Man, Captain Kirk, Iron Man, Captain Picard, and Wonder Woman. George pulled the coffee table closer.

  At a younger age, his mother didn’t want to let him out of the house; she didn’t like her neighbors. Too busy showing off to take proper care of their children.

  George became a computer programmer to please mother. The online course he passed gave him skills to earn a living but not ones to work in an office. The occasional freelance job was enough to pay the rent and feed him. George never wanted to be the object of her displeasure, never wanted to see her angry again.

  Setting his culinary treasures in front of him, he smiled. He had such a diverse set of friends. No one accused him of being exclusive. He welcomed any and all who wanted to hang out.

  In fact, he’d considered inviting Spock next. George held off hoping to invite Darth Vader, finding that Darth did not come in the size he preferred at his local friend store. His entire entourage had come from SuperFriends. George didn’t like calling it a comic book store, like mother would. What he frequented definitely was a friend store. One of the few stores in which he could be himself and not what he thought people expected.

  The cell phone rang
disturbing his revelry; he knew it. Mother. Before even answering. No one else ever called. His group of friends didn’t own phones. Her programs of choice, soap operas, televangelists, an occasional shopping channel, must have bored her. George braced himself for the onslaught he knew to expect. Taking a deep breath, as deep as he could manage, he answered.

  “Mother. Hello. How are you?”

  “You did not call me this morning. I could be lying on the floor dead. You wouldn’t even know or care! You promised to call. Every morning and at least say hello. Why can’t you do anything right? I need to depend on you. Didn’t I always protect you from danger when you were a boy? Now I don’t know what to do! I don’t feel well, since noon, my heart is thumping, I feel faint…”

  During her tirade, George continued to nod, stuffing food into his mouth, steady methodical movements matching the rhythm of her complaints. When his mother took a breath he jumped in with his usual reply.

  “I forgot mother. And I am very sorry. This morning’s—very busy, Things to do. A–a–nd forgot to call.”

  “You busy? You don’t have a job, what would you do that kept you from calling your mother?”

  “You seem OK, right mother? I promise to call. Tomorrow morning. I’ll even write a note and stick it on the refrigerator. Won’t forget. Will that be OK?”

  After his mother hung up, George felt hungry all over again. Time to look for his next meal. It had been a long time, at least a week, since he’d gotten Italian food. He remembered the hours for his favorite restaurant, calling in his order.

  “Yes, I am having a small gathering at my home this evening. I would like to order lasagna with sausage. Cannelloni. Umm, two orders of your special ravioli. One Caesar salad without chicken; one of my friends is a vegetarian. Four orders of garlic bread, and a pint—no make it two pints of spumoni ice cream. Thank you.” He smiled, promising to be there in minutes.

  Turning to his friends. George told them all he’d be back and not to tear up the place or leave before he returned.

  They all stared at him in mute agreement. Intelligence and kindness in their stares. No one would misbehave. George lumbered out the door and wedged himself into his car. Backing out of the driveway, he cursed himself for not bringing a snack. He feared he might get hungry on the trip.

  His Italian food on the coffee table, the only place he ate anymore, George flipped on the television, and found something to distract him for the evening. His mother’s favorite reality show about losing weight was not on tonight. He settled for watching a program about the best places to eat ice cream.

  Someday he’d like to go on a road trip and visit every one of those shops. He couldn’t imagine a better way to spend his time. Unless of course he could visit the best All You Can Eat Buffets around the country. Then again, George would be too self-conscious to eat in front of anyone other than the friends who lived with him. These friends had never called him fat. Or worthless. Or freak.

  Mother thought he’d build character if she constantly told him about his shortcomings. It was kinder, coming from someone who loved you.

  At midnight George turned on his computer and began to play THE game. The one that let everyone role-play. You could be anyone you wanted. No one knew what you looked like. This activity was his favorite. Well, his favorite was eating, but gaming definitely stood a close second.

  He logged on: Blue Freund, his character’s name, and looked for a group to join. His character a tall, thin, blonde elf with powers to use magic spells. Blue Freund yielded a powerful staff.

  The battle about to begin and his request to join accepted. George had just enough time to stock the area around his computer; battle always made him hungry and thirsts must be quenched. His kitty and his silent friends looked on as George slew his enemies and looted their dead corpses.

  Despite what Mother had said, the night was going to be a great.

  Caleb’s father started the day as usual. As he always did, ignoring his son. At breakfast he downed his coffee. Mixed with whiskey. Inhaled his cigarette, and watched TV. Caleb made his own breakfast, fake Coco Puffs doused with chocolate milk. It didn’t take much; spilled cereal scattered on the floor set off his father. Any excuse for punishing his son.

  “Idiot!” his father yelled, “Stupid moron.” This litany was a morning beat Caleb knew well.

  Tradition. Reaching over, he punched Caleb.

  “Clean it boy.” His father kicked him with each word, punctuating his threat, “or you’ll really be hurting.” Caleb scooped up the cereal, put it in the garbage. He understood his job.

  Paralyzed, he stood outside himself as he got to it. The kitchen became cold and Caleb’s vision whitened. His heart sped up until it might explode and take him out of his misery. He shivered waiting for that merciful moment. Caleb floated, leaving his body to his dad, morphing, disinterested in what might happen next. With no place in him to ignore his father, his shaking intensified.

  Caleb observed himself glance at the wooden block on the counter. He stared at his hand as it grabbed a shiny steel blade. His reflection unrecognizable; eyes empty, cold, expressionless. All emotion extracted there. Walking up behind his father, Caleb now stands. Waiting.

  The sound blaring off the TV completes the weird moment. A local news story about happy families celebrating great fathers.

  His shaking stopped; he became calm. Caleb saw himself almost do it. He’s taking a breath. He’s held it. Without intention he’s nodding three times.

  The knife plunging into his dad’s neck, surprised to feel the slit reached all the way around. Squirting blood formed a graceful arc over the kitchen table, just missing Caleb’s bowl, empty of cereal.

  Dead in seconds, Caleb didn’t feel finished. He took to the next job.

  Caleb talked to his father.

  “Hate you.” He said. Using the knife. “See your blood in my bowl? I’m not cleaning up this mess. Hate you.” Ignoring the blood as he sawed. “See your finger in the ashtray? I’m gonna make the biggest mess you’ve ever seen, you idiot!”

  He wondered as the TV droned, would they say things about him? Not on the news, that’d be boring. On one show some celebrity had given birth to a baby boy. She declared her love, naming him something unique and unpronounceable. Then the World Series was on. Caleb kept on with his job. Then contestants on a singing show, trying for reality in the final week.

  Nobody cared about an unimportant murder.

  His task was complete. But it was another two hours until he picked up the telephone dialing 911, to inform the dispatcher about his deed. Hanging up, Caleb pulls his bowl of cereal nearer.

  She dreamt she was a mermaid. Not the fairy-tale type, instead a proud mythical creature. Swimming the ocean free from the limits of gravity or dread.

  Once, a stranger shot Naiad. At the trial he testified; he’d tried to slay his ex-girlfriend. Wearing her hair in just the right way, dressed as he remembered her, at his conviction he professed Naiad ‘had to be the one’. He pleaded. “Recognize me.” The guard dragged him from the courtroom. A photo appeared in the local paper. It’s true, it could be her.

  Wade, her physical therapist, promised to help her heal. Naiad’s prospects for walking impossible, she became a brave-faced cripple. Yes, she called herself a cripple but didn’t give anyone else permission. It wouldn’t be right, wouldn’t be kind. It wouldn’t make one feel virtuous. But Naiad loved to label herself cripple. To wallow in her private self-pity, then put on an opaque public face when on land.

  Naiad’s innocent family assumed a fancy wheelchair made her malformed self feel normal. Not the prior normal. Nothing could be normal again. Time to create a novel reality. Time for Naiad to become a mermaid.

  The therapy pool, warm and shallow, full of bobbing white-haired wonders appreciative to be breathing. Naiad dropped into the pool via a lift, that’s how all cripples entered the pool. Feeling sympathetic eyes of the old women shame her. She wants to shout, ‘Don’t look, don’t feel
sorry, leave me alone!’

  Hating attention, she closed her eyes until the chlorinated warmth enveloped her body. Her being drinking in the peace of floating. Aloft. Naiad became an abled woman again. The ‘dis’ abandoned on the pool’s deck. Refusing to acknowledge her nemesis waiting staunchly by the lifeguard, her new body turns away.

  Her folks named her Naiad. Water nymph. Her fanciful parents admirers of mythology. Naiad not so much. She did not have long flowing hair, and up until now, loathed the water. Never dreamt of swimming. The dream of an offspring with the attributes of a water nymph evaporated the first time her daughter jumped into a pool. Mother and toddler swim lessons a disaster. Her little water nymph screamed, until the instructor advised them to leave. Too late to change her name.