Spilt Milk: A Collection of Stories
Page 4
Reading out loud again, made George feel his luck was genuine. More solid. “Your qualifications seem perfect for the position. I will pay a finders fee for any items I deem worthy for my use. Please meet me Friday evening behind Hillcrest Medical Center. Bring latex gloves and dress in dark clothing. I look forward to our joint venture. Regards, Caleb”
Caleb was waiting by the medical waste dumpster, an excited grin spread across his thin pale face. George’s extended hand rebuffed, “Sorry, I don’t touch living people.”
Without a word, gloved and ready, the pair dove into the treasure box of red Biohazard bags. Meant to be incinerated in the morning, this waste material from doctors and dentists offices. George began to feel a chill run up his spine, a good chill, something close to happiness. They were compatible collectors. Caleb wanted femurs for making flutes; George wanted more teeth for…he wasn’t sure.
Entering his dark apartment, George looked to the half empty bookshelf. He felt the shelves needed more decorations. He placed tonight’s haul next to its current occupants. Until now, everything had been rather small. Now George had larger items to display next to their miniature versions. His collection was getting diverse.
The muscles on his face trembled then formed his version of a grin.
The third time they met, George worked up the nerve to ask Caleb why he was drawn to making flutes. Caleb’s reply, the longest conversation they would ever have, commenced, “I read the Neanderthals made flutes from the femur of bears. I decided to experiment on other bones. Human bones have the loveliest tone and the best tasting marrow.”
“Mother, why are you throwing away my friends?”
“You are a grown man. Grown men do not play with DOLLS!”
George began to see his mother’s therapist soon after the disposal of his friends. Tired of being alone, wanting to lead a normal life, he sought the help of Dr. Tine, after lunch with mother one Friday. Always one to interfere, his mother slipped one of her Xanax into George’s milkshake. Relax him a bit.
This psychiatrist understood George. He dispensed with the usual questions and asked George about nightmares.
“It’s this same dream two months now. It just won’t go ’way. I wake up in a sweat and hot. Like it’s happening to me. I’m walking down my old street. It’s night. All alone not scared or nervous. Just looking around and thinking, why am I on this street at night? Feels pretty late. Maybe one or two in the morning. My mother’s house is on this—the street; it’s dark and— very still. I think, that’s strange. ’cause she leaves the porch light on when I’m out. I look. And think, that’s kind of strange. Then I think I see some thing. It moves. Up in the attic.”
George pauses to take a breath. His sentences came in monosyllables, not narratives. Dr. Tine shifted in his seat, never taking his eyes away. From where George sat he could almost count the Doctor’s front teeth. George stops again to wipe the sweat from his upper lip.
George sits in the darkest corner of the pub watching the Irish fiddler set up his music stand. He’s dropped mother off. She was angry at his terseness this last time. Now he sips his Guinness as he has for the previous three Fridays. Maybe therapy was working.
George shifted on his barstool to reach into his pants pocket. Fondling his treasures, deciding what to do with his cache. He jerks his hand away looking around to see if anyone noticed. The musician starts to play, the crowd expectant. Georges scans the couples, reminding him of the emptiness in his gut. His hand returns to his pocket caressing his enamel nuggets of joy.
The lights come up, old and new friends float away. George moves past these couplings longing to be one of them. He boards a bus headed to where? Home was no longer a description of his apartment. It was a place to sleep, play games, and pass the time. His friends evicted last year.
The drill bit worked quite well. A 1mm hole bored in the lateral side allowed the string through. His collection totaled thirty-two, the average number for most people.
Drill, string, tie a knot, repeat. The glittering enamel necklace ready just in time for Mother’s Day. The Doctor helped so much. And Caleb can show him how that flute sounds.
Couldn’t night take over and leave the day to those who deserved it? Why does morning always arrive? She stretched, hitting the snooze button again. Who thought they deserved to leap out of bed, and ‘seize the day’? God, that’s such a stupid saying. The muslin light filtering in through the curtains continued pissing her off.
Groping for her cigarettes with closed eyes, Joy expertly lit a smoke, rolling over in one smooth motion. Unable to delay any longer, she sat up. Yesterday’s coffee sat in the mug. All right. It’d just needed one minute in the microwave to be drinkable.
She brushes her hair automatically; it gleams with the oils from her filthy scalp. Although still early, Joy feels fatigued. Anxiety a constant companion whining for attention, while she contemplates her slippers.
Now for the mental list of things not to do today: Panic. Feel regret. Drink any alcohol. Take more than 2 naps. Things not to forget: Car keys. Feed cats. Take shower. Xanax, renew my prescription.
The crust on the cat food just needed to be stirred a bit. All right. The litter box out of sight; smell tolerable. Deal with it later. There were things to lay out. Things to let go to Goodwill. How exhausting. The recliner beckoned, fifteen feet to her chair. She counted it as her daily exercise. All right. At least she moved, didn’t that count?
In two weeks. Fifty. At least that’s what her birth certificate said. In her mind her early twenties held sway; still beautiful and desired. When did that change? Passing a mirror, even if she squinted, all Joy saw was some stranger. Nothing particularly glamorous or exciting, a spreading matron.
This bra feels tight. Could it be shrinking? I should buy an extender, till I start loosing weight. Maybe take ice cream off the list? Then how will I get through the night? Why did that man bump into me? What am I, invisible? Is wine better than ice cream?
Juggling bags from the pharmacy, pet store, and grocer, Joy felt like a circus act not worth paying for. Wild hair and baggy pants might let her pass for a clown. Damit. Her car sat wedged between two huge SUVs. In anticipation of the squeeze she held in her stomach, breathless. A numb thumb and finger finally easing the key into place.
Cleaning the car never makes it on her list of things not to forget. Eating a hotdog while backing out of a parking space was perfected after trading in the stick shift for an automatic. Joy felt at home in her car. Trash filled, so what. Toss it over your shoulder, it disappears. Forgotten.
At a red light Joy glances to her right at a blue Toyota. Inside a man in his teens texting. His concentration intense, the world outside the 4-inch screen non-existent. At one point in her life she’d known that kind of intensity; it had been directed at her. At that moment, he looked over, moving his gaze past the outline of her vehicle, never meeting her eyes. Looking through her. Her stubby icicle fingers clutched the steering wheel the rest of the way home.
Was it already ten years since her second husband? She wasn’t sure how he did it, but thought perhaps he just willed his heart to stop. She knew he’d wanted to die. An avid runner, a healthy eater, the only thing remotely stressful to him was Joy.
Every time she opened her mouth Joy had a way of making him annoyed. He’d say, I buy you something, you lose interest. He always griped, Nothing’s good enough or expensive enough for you. Her appetite never sated. She didn’t know if it ever would be. On to the next thing.
For Joy it somehow made her feel better to place the blame on him. Like tossing a hot dog wrapper behind her. Age had not given her any sense of perspective or sense. Underneath the frumpy exterior, lived the shallow, conceited woman she once was and always would be.
As long as she avoided mirrors, she could remember herself as the beauty just out of nursing school. Ready to take on the world and any man who looked at her. Her confidence was always her best asset.
As she pulled into her d
riveway, Joy remembers her lists of things today. All right. She’d feed her cats and call her lists complete. The shower would wait. The Xanax would keep her serene. A glass of wine after the parking lot. If she didn’t drink, she would feel regret. She did need beauty sleep. Of course, a nap.
Joy unlocked her door, adjusting her eyes to dimness. She must have flipped off the lights when she’d left. The tall trees in her yard always made her house seem dark, another thing she hated about this place.
Her old nurse’s uniform draped over her recliner, inviting her to sit. White shoes and stockings were there as well, to complete her ensemble. Yes, it would all go. On the TV tray that tubing. So familiar. She’d quit being a nurse thanks to her husband. Beneath her to nurse now. Her eyes drawn back to the tubing.
The front door slammed. Joy recognized that staring man, the one who’d ignored her. Familiar. The guy texting on his phone. Without eye contact, he’d looked over her. Around her. Never at her.
Not panicking, Joy continued to stare. His right hand draped in surgical tubing. Why was he here? Why didn’t he speak to her? Who’d sent him? Joy backed away. He matched her step for step until she felt the far wall of her living room with her cold, cold fingertips.
At last he made eye contact while humming the birthday song.
Just one more. OK another one. Pria couldn’t help herself. Well if I pluck one more on each side they’ll be even. She loved to pluck her eyebrows every other Sunday.
On Mondays, Pria plucked her guitar for exactly twenty-five minutes. No particular tune. She couldn’t read music. Plucking the strings one at a time.
E, A, D, G, B, E.
Tuesdays were for plucking up her courage to try new things. This week: riding the bus across town alone. She plucked exact change out of her purse. The bus driver stared; she saw that, perhaps he was fascinated by her skill. Pluck, pluck, plucking up courage.
Wednesday, oh Wednesday, her favorite plucking day of all. Pria went to Central Park to pluck pigeons. The covetous birds loved the crumbs of cornbread she used to lure them. Closer they ventured, greedily pecking at the morsels of golden goodness. Pria only plucked two feathers from each plump bird. It was perfect. Once she’d acquired twenty-one feathers she stopped. Seven goes into twenty-one three times.
On Pria’s non-plucking Sundays she rested. Eyebrows required the time to grow. Plucked cuticles needed to repair themselves. Her busy brain wanted to reset for another week of plucking.
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were workdays for her. The pickle factory. Her job was quality assurance, she never called it QA. As the thousands of pickles flew past on the conveyor belt, Pria paid, yes paid, to pluck bad pickles and toss them into a bin behind her. She relished her job.
Her days at work were planned so she seemed to fit in. Chatting with co-workers, yet never going out with them. They pluck so unmercifully at people they laughed at. Seldom reaching for her eyebrows in front of others. Didn’t want to be ridiculed. Her brain trying to manage busy fingers. Reading a book, turning the pages in a smooth open-handed motion. Ignoring the itchy twitching in her mind. Being someone else to survive.
Reaching for her time card last Thursday, her supervisor gave her a pink slip. Pria decided not to panic. She plucked it out of his outstretched hand using her public smile.
Entering her apartment, Pria carried on. Plucking calendar pages, surveying ways to track the passage of time. Washing a handful of grapes, setting them aside. She would take care of them later. No time to enjoy them now. The room began to spin, her head pounded, her fingers grasping then plucking at her lips.
Rising from the floor she resolves to find a new job. Pria enjoys the fruit, plucking one dark orb at a time from its stem, planning her new life. Pulling grapes, the quiet snap relaxing her. The rhythm of her fingers reassuring.
The morning paper gifted her a job. She spotted the tiny ad on the bottom of page pigeon. Pigeon, Pria’s name for twenty-one.
“Florist assistant. Thursday through Saturday. No experience required. Must be available immediately,” she breathed softly, luring the job closer, it seemed.
“Have you ever done any gardening? Deadheaded flowers? Can you work 6am-2pm? Can you start tomorrow?” The florist’s rapid questions continued for another three minutes. Stopping, he peered at Pria over his half-moon glasses. She nodded yes. Yes to it all. The deal done. For once he wouldn’t have to deal with a chatterer.
Fired after one week. Pria couldn’t stop deadheading the faded blooms. She plucked and plucked until all the flowers were bald. Ruining the blooms not the goal but rather the outcome. Once she started, her fingers wouldn’t let her stop. Her trip home on the bus allowed a time for reflection. Pria’s left hand crept up to her eyebrows.
Picking fruit, her next endeavor, lasted three days. Stock clerk, seven. Dog walker lasted pigeon days. Somehow, the owners found out she’d tied the dogs to a tree in Central Park. Visiting her pigeon friends, instead of exercising their precious pets.
Refusing to become despondent, Pria used her bus rides to make new resolutions. Her left hand remaining motionless in her lap.
Never using her fireplace, she decided this was the day to christen it. She placed her feathers in a pile on the floor. With the guitar set on her lap she cut the strings, listening to twangs of pity. She didn’t need wood to build a healthy fire, her guitar worked well. The feathers sizzled rather than burned. Her pluckers held over the flames for a count of pigeon. Goodbye cuticles. The cleansing flames healed her.
A pleased Pria stared at her bandaged hands, dreaming at last of a future without plucking.
To Arlene V., Barb B., Jean T., Ken T., and Michelle B. I am grateful for your support. I could not have written this without the nudges and encouragement from each of you. My dream is now reality.
To EJ my patient editor, thank you for helping me see the golden bits buried in piles of garbage.
D.K. Cassidy has been scribbling stories since she was a child and loves to write in various genres including Magical Realism, Urban Gothic, Science Fiction, and Literary Fiction. She has a B.A. in English Literature from the University of Washington.
D.K. Cassidy lives in the Pacific Northwest with her greatest fans: her husband Mark, twin sons Aidan and Jared, and three cats. When not writing, she loves to travel, run, knit, use the Oxford comma, and of course read!
If you like her work please follow her:
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Table of Contents
Cover
Titlepage
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Bee's Knees
George
Heel Toe
Octopus
Super Friends
Spilt Milk
Fish Tale
Decaf or Regular?
Birthday Boy
Tooth Fairy
Invisible Joy
Plucker
Acknowledgments
About the Author