The Milkman

by Tabatha Kiss

  I cringe again. “Jesus, Mom—”

  “How about a roommate?” she asks.

  I deflate, exhausted. “No, I live alone.”

  “A stable job?” Her lips curl. “Even I know you haven’t worked anywhere long enough to accrue the three days of vacation you’re using just to be here right now.”

  “Okay, fine. I don’t have much but it’s better than being a damn dairy farmer!”

  “All right, then. Convince me. Say we do it. Say we sell off this land, this house, everything your family has spent four generations building. What would you do with all that money? Blow it all away? Invest in your own business? Invest in someone else’s? If you were to die in your sleep a year from now, how are people going to remember Nathaniel Scott?”

  “I...” I exhale. “I don’t know.”

  She nods her head slowly. “I’m not selling my home,” she says. “And I’m not going to force you to live the life you don’t want, either. Never have, never will.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I will ask that you stay here and help me out until I can find a few ranchers to employ full-time. Then,...” she waves a hand, “you can piss off back to whatever non-life you live out in God-knows-where. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

  “Help you for how long?” I ask.

  “A couple weeks?” she says. “Three, tops.”

  I wince inside but it’s not like I can leave my own mother hanging out here.

  “Fine,” I say. “But only if I don’t have to clean out the stables.”

  She chuckles. “Oh, I have a very specific job in mind for you.”

  I ease back nervously. “What?”

  She lifts the white hat off the hook on the back door and drops it on my head with a wide, sinister smile.

  I glare at her from beneath the shiny, black rim. “Oh, come on…”

  “It’s easy!” she says, throwing her hands up.

  “Not the milk route,” I say with a groan. “Anything but that.”

  “What’s wrong with it? You worked it throughout high school.”

  “Exactly. It was the most embarrassing experience of my life.”

  She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

  “Three.” I hold up three fingers. “Three housewives on my route got knocked up during my junior year and Bryan Sumner started a rumor that I did it. The milkman.”

  “They were just joking, honey,” she says, chuckling.

  “The council had a town meeting about it!” I say. “I got pulled out of class and questioned by the sheriff.”

  “Well, did you do it?”

  “No!”

  “Then, who cares?” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t let the bored busybodies of Clover keep you from earning an honest living, Nate. I told you that then, I’m telling you that now.”

  I pull the hat off my head and stare at the hand-drawn cow logo on the front.

  Scott’s Dairy.

  We’re always there for you.

  “Three weeks, tops?” I repeat.

  “I swear it on your father’s grave,” she says.

  I blow out, accepting the inevitable. “Okay. I’ll work the damn milk route.”

  She smiles. “Perfect.”

  We turn our heads toward the driveway, both of us hearing that crackle of gravel again.

  My mother straightens up, her expression shifting. “Lord, give me strength,” she murmurs.

  I withdraw my flask from my suit pocket and offer it to her. She raises that stern brow again but swipes it from my hand and takes a quick swig anyway.

  Two

  Kimber

  I stare at my black-gloved right hand sitting in my lap. The air in the office is heavy and quiet, just a bit too cold to be comfortable but I’m not one to complain.

  I turn my head and glance at the empty armchair beside me to the right.

  “Are you still painting?”

  I look up at Dr. Sumner on the couch across from me. She puts on a short smile as she stares back, her friendly gaze iron-locked on my exposed left eye.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Do you still find it helpful?” she asks, gently tapping her pen against the notepad in her lap.

  “It is,” I answer. “Can’t hold the brush for too long yet but... it’s getting better, I think.”

  “Keep it up,” she says. “Just a little every day should help.”

  I nod, biting my cheek.

  Sumner’s eyes drop to my glove and she jots down a few words on her pad. What she could possibly find interesting about that, I don’t know. Maybe she’s just bored. I would be, too.

  The door opens and Curtis walks in. I look up at him, hoping to catch the start of an apology but he just stares at the floor with a fixed jaw as he nudges the door closed again.

  “Good evening, Mr. VanHouten,” Sumner says, forcing a smile. “Lovely for you to finally join us.”

  Curtis plops into the empty chair beside me. “It’s been a busy day,” he says.

  Look at me, I think to myself. Just for one goddamn second.

  He doesn’t.

  Sumner clears her throat and sits up. “So, we ended last week with a goal. How’d that go?”

  Her eyes bounce from him and me and back again, though I suspect she already knows that answer.

  I wet my lips. “We didn’t—”

  “We didn’t have time,” Curtis says over me.

  She nods. “Mr. VanHouten, the point of the exercise was to make time for—”

  “Well, we didn’t.”

  I take a breath. “He didn’t,” I say. “He didn’t make time for us.”

  “Christ, Kim. Really?” He crosses his arms. “I just sat down. You can’t wait five minutes before blaming me for your problems?”

  “You’re twenty minutes late.”

  “I said I was busy.”

  I press my lips together.

  “Mr. VanHouten,” Sumner says, tilting her head, “what’s been going on in your life this week?”

  “Work,” he merely says.

  “How about at home?”

  He glares at her, impatient. “I wake up, I go to work, I come home, go to sleep, and then I get up and go to work again. I do not have time to coddle her.”

  She looks at me. I keep my head down.

  “Therapy only gives what you put into it,” she says slowly. “Now, you and Kimber have been through a lot — almost too much for any marriage to undertake. Your issues will not solve themselves. It’s important to make time for intimacy, just as you would make time for eating, sleeping, or working.”

  Curtis exhales hard but stays quiet.

  “Maybe we’re moving too quickly here,” she says, shifting forward. “Let’s go back and talk about what the two of you want out of this marriage. Mr. VanHouten, during our first session together, you said you wanted Kimber to heal. You wanted her to, as you put it, be alive again. Do you remember that?”

  I look at him out of the corner of my right eye, my vision slightly obscured by the curtain of my hair between us.

  “Yes,” he says.

  Sumner shrugs. “Is that still what you want?”

  Curtis flexes his jaw. “No.”

  “What do you want now?”

  “I want my wife back,” he says.

  “She’s sitting right next to you.”

  “No, she’s not.”

  I swallow hard, forcing the lump in my throat to cease growing.

  “Kimber.”

  I turn my head up an inch.

  “Do you remember what you said during our first session?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  She nods. “Is that still what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  I look at Curtis, his expression hard and sharp. “I want you to tell me I’m beautiful.”

  “Well, you’re not!” he says, finally looking at me.

  I recoil from the boom in his voice, closing my eyes to h
ide the tears. I listen to him beside me. Breathing hard, his hands shifting on his knees. For a moment, I rationalize it. I tell myself that it’s just a one-time outburst. He’s in pain, it’s understandable. I’ll forgive him if he just says that one word to me. I’ll forgive him... if he just tries.

  “Mr. VanHouten,” Sumner says. “I think—”

  “This is stupid,” he says, standing up. “I’ll be in the truck.”

  I open my eyes as he passes in front of me. The door slams behind him, gently shaking the picture frames hanging on the wall beside it. I focus on them. Happy, smiling faces. Sumner and her husband. Their grown children, both of which I went to high school with. A grandchild.

  A perfect life.

  “Kimber?”

  I stop a tear on my cheek with my glove. “I’m sorry about that. He’s just...”

  “You don’t have to apologize for his behavior,” she says.

  My breath shakes as I force it out. “So, what do you think?” I ask, my face burning.

  “Well... in my professional opinion, you two still have a long way to go. As always, I’d recommend a few private sessions where I can speak to both of you separately, but we already know his opinion on that.”

  “Yeah.”

  She stands up. “But if you want my personal opinion?” she says. “Kick him to the curb, honey. Ain’t no woman deserves this.”

  I nod, though I’m not sure I believe her.

  Sometimes, we get exactly what we deserve. And nothing more.

  I sit still for another moment before leaning down to grab my purse off the floor. “We’ll see you next week,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  I pause.

  “Try something small this week,” she says. “Say hello to a neighbor. Have lunch with a friend. Something small.”

  I bite my lip, considering it. “I’ll try,” I say.

  She feigns another light smile. “Goodnight, Kimber.”

  I raise the hood on my sweater before opening the door. “Goodnight, Dr. Sumner.”

  Curtis sits idle in his truck in the driveway. The headlights blare in my eyes as I walk around the house from the back office entrance and my gut rumbles as he quickly turns the engine.

  I tighten my hood and head for the sidewalk instead.

  “You walking?” he asks.

  “It’s just a few blocks,” I say as I pass his window.

  “Fine.”

  His window slides upward and he shifts into reverse, quickly swinging out onto the street. My entire body clenches as the tires loudly squeal. I hold my breath until I can’t hear it anymore but even then I just stand here, fixed in place on the quiet street.

  I wrap my arms around me, embracing the smooth, warm night air as I begin the short walk home. I breathe easier than I did inside. Street lamps illuminate the way, lighting the left side of the road. I stick to the right side, lingering on the edge with the shadows.

  I take my time getting home, traversing the quiet streets of Clover. I go the long way around the town square, passing in front of Marv’s Auto Repair because it’s always closed at this hour. It’s still early enough for other businesses to be closing up and the teenagers like to hang out by the gazebo across from the Sheriff’s station. I steer clear of them with my head down but I can hear them, joking and laughing to themselves.

  I exhale the tension as I step off the square onto First Street.

  Curtis’ truck is already parked in our driveway. He’s long been inside, obviously. Most likely sulking in his study or lounging in front of the television with a beer.

  I walk past the porch, following the sidewalk around the house toward the back door instead. I push it open, instantly pausing in the kitchen as a few voices echo in from the living room across the house. Television it is, then.

  I unzip my hoodie and hang it on the coat rack behind the door. My tongue is dry and I feel a headache coming on. A glass of warm milk should help relax me before I head to bed.

  I pull open the refrigerator and reach inside for the glass milk carton with the familiar cow logo on the label.

  “I told you to stop buying that shit.”

  I pause, letting the cool refrigerated air linger on my face for just a moment longer before closing the door and turning around. Curtis tosses his empty beer bottle in the recycle bin by the trash can. I take a wide step back out of his way as he walks up and fishes a fresh one out of the refrigerator door.

  “It’s just milk,” I say as I set the glass carton by the stove top.

  “You know what I mean.” He twists the cap off his bottle and tosses it toward the trash. It bounces off the wall and falls to the floor. “If you need groceries, go out and buy them yourself like a normal person.”

  “I’m not ready yet.”

  He scoffs beside me. “And yet you’re ready enough to keep dragging me out to that fucking quack once a week. At 8 P.M. After the sun goes down. Like a damn vampire.”

  I grab a small pot from the drying rack by the sink. “It’s helping me...” I mutter.

  “Yeah, right. You know what would really help you?” He reaches toward my face. “If you stop living behind your stupid hair and—”

  I jolt backward as he tries to push it aside.

  He laughs and takes a swig from his bottle. “Uh-huh. Damn fine progress you’re making there, Kimber.”

  “Stop,” I whisper.

  “And you wanted me to fuck you this week? Wasn’t that our goal? You barely even let me touch you at all, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Stop.”

  He leans in closer and I recoil from the beer on his breath. “You want me to hug you? And kiss you? Whisper sweet-nothings in your ear after we make love at the stroke of midnight?” He cocks his head. “You want me to lie to you and tell you I desire you? Do you think that’d help?”

  I wipe away a tear with my glove. “Yes,” I answer.

  Curtis shakes his head. “That’s real pathetic, you know that?” He steps back toward the living room. “Real pathetic.”

  I take a quick breath, feeling a burst of adrenaline and courage in my veins.

  I’ve rehearsed this. I’ve told myself the next time he does this or says that, I’d do it. I’d ask for a divorce. I’d be done with this, as he’s obviously done with me.

  A hundred times, the moment passed. I made some excuse, told myself to wait for the next time he makes me feel this way. Maybe that was the last time. Maybe it’ll get better now.

  Or maybe it won’t. Maybe it’ll be the same old shit.

  “I want a divorce,” I say.

  Curtis stops in the doorframe and gazes back at me, his eyes twisted with amusement.

  “Drink your milk and go to bed,” he says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  He continues on, leaving me alone.

  My life wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  The world was my oyster, as the saying goes. I had youth, talent, beauty. All I had to do was run up and seize any opportunity I wanted.

  I took Curtis’ hand instead. Still, I thought I had it all. I had my youth. I had talent to spare. And I had a husband who told me I was beautiful every day. I thought life was going one way… until it suddenly stopped cold.

  I’m sick of standing still. I’m ready to break free and pick up the pieces of the girl I used to be. The girl Curtis says he wants. I’m still young. I’m still talented. Is it really too much to think beauty isn’t just on the outside? Is that all Curtis ever saw in me at all?

  I drink my milk and go to bed.

  I’ll feel better in the morning.

  Just as dear husband requested.

  Three

  Nate

  My alarm clock rattles on the bedside table.

  I groan, still half-asleep. Surely, it’s not four already. I just lied down.

  I reach in the dark, a long forgotten instinct somehow managing to let me push the right button to shut the damn thing up.

  Rise and shine, Nate. People need..
. their... milk...

  I start to drift off again, clutching the thick, warm pillow beneath my head.

  “Moo-OOOO!”

  I shoot up in my bed and come face-to-face with a cow poking her head in through the window above the bed.

  “Hey!” I rub my eyes. “Shoo! Go away.”

  She stares at me as she licks her lips every few seconds.

  “Moo-OOO!” she says again.

  I blink repeatedly as I adjust to the light and throw my feet to the floor.

  “Okay, fine,” I spit. “I’m up, you stupid heifer.”

  The cow takes a slow step back and wanders away from my window.

  Well, I sure as hell don’t miss this. The middle of the night wake-up calls. The scent of animal shit and morning dew drifting in the windows. And, oh yeah, the occasional roaming cow to chase down because somebody left the barn unlocked last night.

  Okay, fine. That somebody was usually me but I didn’t do it this time.

  I hop in the shower for a quick blast of cold water to wake me up. That along with a few cups of coffee is what got me through my teen years at this place. Still, I feel sluggish as I tear open my duffel in search of a shirt and jeans.

  I toss on some socks and grab a pair of old work boots from the closet before making my way toward the kitchen. My nose twitches with the scent of coffee before I even leave my room. Of course, Mom’s already up and motivated.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say mid-yawn as I walk in. “One of the cows got out.”

  Mom glances out the window above the sink as she sips her mug. “Yeah, that’s Gertie,” she says, pointing a pinkie. “I’ve been keeping an eye on her so I don’t lose her before I can get out there.”

  I sit down at the kitchen table to slip my boots on. “She do this a lot?” I ask.

  “No,” she answers. “First time.”

  I chuckle. “Must be me, then. Caught her poking her head in my window.”

  Mom grabs a travel mug from the cabinet and fills it with coffee. “Well, you know what your dad used to say. ‘A cow who roams,—’”

  “‘—roams for a reason,’” we say together.

  “Yeah. Thanks,” I say as she lays the mug in front of me. “Apparently, Gertie’s reason is to get me out of bed.”