by Tabatha Kiss
Mom smiles. “Good cow. Want some toast?”
“Sure.” I gesture to the stack of papers on the table beside me. “This my list?” I ask.
“Yes, sir.”
I flick through the pages and scoff. “Why do this many people still get milk from the milkman?” I ask.
“It’s tradition,” she says as she pushes two slices of bread into the toaster. “One that puts food on our table, so don’t knock it.”
“I’m not knocking it. I’m just curious.”
“There was a time when nearly every growing child in Clover was raised on milk from our farm—”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, hearing it all before.
I scan the list and one name jumps out at me.
“VanHouten?” I ask out loud. I look at Mom. “Why do we deliver to the VanHouten house?”
She turns away from the toaster and sighs. “Oh, that poor thing.”
“What poor thing?”
“Curtis’ wife. You know her.”
“I do?”
“She was in your class. Oh, what’s her name?” She snaps her fingers twice. “Kim — Kimi? Kimber! Kimber VanHouten.”
I raise a brow. “You mean Kimber Kyle?”
“Yes! That’s her.”
I snort. Can’t say I’m surprised to hear the head cheerleader married an ass like VanHouten.
Again, my mother sighs. “Poor thing.”
“Why is Kimber Kyle a poor thing?” I ask.
“You didn’t hear?”
“No.”
The toast pops up and she quickly slathers a layer of butter on them with those swift, motherly skills. She wraps them in a paper towel and sets it on the table as she sits in the chair across from me.
“About a year back,” she says, “Curtis and Kimber were driving home late one night. Came up and around that curve on 70 when another driver fell asleep at the wheel. He turned out of the way in time to miss him but rolled his truck twice and got slammed by another car passing in the opposite lane.”
My guts churn. “Whoa.”
“Curtis walked off with barely a scratch on him, but Kimber...” She shakes her head. “Crushed her whole right side. Her arm, her hand, her foot. Almost lost it all.”
I sit back. “Jesus.”
“And if that weren’t enough, her face got scratched up, too. She rarely leaves the house now. Just sits up there on her own all day…”
I nod as I read the list. “And we deliver her groceries on Fridays?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Why doesn’t her zillionaire, corporate-douche husband do that?”
“Nate…” She glares at me. “Kimber was one of those kids raised on Scott’s Dairy milk. She requested our services and your father obliged. That’s all you need to know.”
“Fine, fine.”
I bite into my buttery toast as I flash back to high school.
Tall, blonde, and beautiful Kimber Kyle. I haven’t thought about her in a while but she definitely spent a lot of time in my head when I was a teenager. Long, mermaid hair. Short, cheerleading skirt.
I swallow my toast and reach for coffee. “Hard to imagine the Prom Queen being a shut-in now,” I say.
“Life isn’t always kind to us,” my mother says. “You know that.”
“Neither was Kimber Kyle,” I mutter.
She points a stiff finger at me. “You leave that girl alone. She’s been through enough.”
I raise my hands in surrender and stand up. “All right. I’m gonna go load the truck.”
I hold my toast in my mouth, grab my coffee and clipboard, and head for the back door.
“Don’t forget the hat!”
I glare at Mom as I take the stupid, white hat off the hook and drop it on my head.
She winks. “Gorgeous!”
I roll my eyes and walk out.
Drive, drop, and go.
The life of the local milkman.
Drive up to the house, drop the order outside their preferred door, and go on to the next house. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. It’s easy once you get the hang of it. I used to pretend I was a secret agent performing a dead drop. Slinking up the lawns, checking over my shoulder for enemy targets. National Security in the palm of my hands.
The fate of the country is on you, kid. We’re all counting on you.
But in the end, it’s just milk. Some families take advantage of our fresh veggies and free-roam eggs, but mostly, it’s just milk.
At least it’s quiet.
Or it should be.
It seems every housewife in Clover is up bright and early this morning to pay their respects.
I’m so sorry to hear about your father.
The service yesterday was beautiful.
How is your mother?
Are you holding up all right?
It’s so sweet of you to come home and take over for your father...
I just smile and nod a thank you. No sense in getting into it.
A few, on the other hand, have very good memories — particularly Mrs. Clark, the pastor’s wife. She looks at me in this white hat and her eyebrows fire up into the sky.
It’s that Scott boy! Bet he doesn’t even pay child support to the families he’s ruined.
He never should have come back.
I just laugh and flash her a wink. She lets out a gasp and runs back inside, pearls tightly clutched.
Get a hobby, ya old crone.
Finally, I reach First Street, home of the last houses on my list. It’s the nicest street in town with big, family homes and trimmed lawns full of fancy gnomes that I might have stolen or shuffled around to other gardens as part of my misspent youth. I’m not proud of it. Not all that ashamed of it, either, come to think about it…
I round a house, grab the two empty bottles off the stoop, and replace it with two fresh ones, moving extra quiet so I don’t have to endure another awkward conversation with—
“Well, well. Look who’s back in town...”
Well, crap. I guess the country is screwed.
I glance up and instantly smile at the woman with long, brown hair standing behind the screen door with an infant balanced on her hip. I blink twice on her familiar face, wondering if I’m imagining it but no. It’s her.
“I should say the exact same thing,” I say. “How have you been, Jovie?”
Jovie Ross nudges the door open and I step forward to grab the bottles for her so she doesn’t have to bend down.
She hooks the containers with her free fingers and lets them hang by her side. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m doing pretty well.”
I gesture to the child. “Yeah, I can see that. She’s a cutie.”
“Of course, she is. She takes after me.”
“What’s her name?”
“Joanne,” she answers.
“Pretty.” I chuckle at the house. “I thought you ran off for good like I did. What are you doing back here?”
She shrugs. “Eh. I went, I lived, I came back, I live again.”
“On First?” I ask. “We used to TP this whole street every Halloween.”
“Turns out, some people really do change,” she says.
“You, though?”
“Strange, I know.” She laughs but then, her voice goes soft. “Sorry about your dad.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“Did you come back to help your mom out?”
“Yeah, it’s just temporary.”
She smirks and bounces the baby on her hip. “That’s what I said, too.”
“Hey, Jove, who are you talking to?”
“Come see for yourself, Will,” she says over her shoulder. “The cat hath dragged in a good one.”
A man in a mechanic’s jumpsuit pauses over her shoulder and grins at my hat. “Nice.”
I sigh at my old friend. “Hey, Myers.”
“Back on the milk route, eh?” He grins. “Clover, hide your wives.”
“Very funny,” I mutter.
Jovie gives him t
he milk cartons and he sets them on the counter behind them.
“You back for good?” he asks.
“Oh, it’s just temporary,” Jovie answers.
He chuckles. “Sure it is.”
“A few weeks,” I say. “Just until my mom can hire some ranchers.”
“Sweet.” He runs a hand through his brown hair. “Want to get together for a drink before then? Catch up?”
Jovie brightens. “Oh, that sounds amazing! I’m in.”
I laugh. Will and Jovie always did come as a pair. “Sure,” I say.
“Lucky’s bar?” he asks. “Tomorrow night? We can get a sitter by then, right?” he adds for Jovie.
“Uh, I will make it my own personal mission,” she says. “Mama needs a night out.”
“Tomorrow night works for me,” I say. “Is seven a good time?”
“Hell yeah!” Jovie says.
Will scolds her and plants his palms against the baby’s ears.
“Hell yeah,” she whispers again, prompting him to roll his eyes. “Meet us here. I’ll drive us over. I’m still technically in the designated driver phase of motherhood.”
I raise a thumbs up. “Will do. I’ll see you then.”
Jovie grips Joanne’s hand and makes her wave at me. “Say, ‘Bye, milkman!’”
I wave to the baby. She is really cute. “Bye, Joanne!”
“Bye, milkman!” the two of them say in unison.
“Stay away from my wife,” Will says.
I flash him my middle finger, prompting Jovie’s loud cackle to echo through the neighborhood.
I head back to my truck on the street, ready to bolt in and high-tail it back home so I can catch up on sleep but I notice the last few bottles in the back.
Oh, right. The VanHouten house. At least I don’t have to travel far. It’s right next to Will and Jovie’s.
I fill an empty crate, packing it with a half-dozen eggs, some fresh veggies, a loaf of bread, cheddar cheese, and two bottles of milk. It’s the largest order on the list but if Kimber VanHouten, nee Kyle, doesn’t leave the house anymore, as my mother claims, then it’s understandable.
I grab the crate and walk down the sidewalk toward their house.
The difference is night and day. The rest of the lawns on First Street are neat and trim, while the VanHouten’s is overgrown. The porch could use a fresh coat of paint. Dead daisies fill the flower beds. Gnomes lie on their sides. You’d think the corporate-douche would hire a gardener or something to help out.
I carry the crate, following the sidewalk around to the back door. Every window I pass along the way has thick, black curtains blocking out every possible angle to peek inside. I scowl in disappointment. I’d hoped to catch at least a little glance of Kimber.
I reach the back door and I pause. It’s open slightly and I hear a light scratching noise coming from inside.
I ease closer, tapping into my previous oh-so-important government stealth training. I peek in through the crack in the doorway, just barely ajar enough to make out the shape of the woman standing in the kitchen with her back to me. Dressed in black from head-to-toe... to-fingertips, too. But the long, blonde hair gives her away.
Kimber.
She stands before an easel, her left hand tapping dark blue paint along the bottom corner of a canvas with a thin brush. I lean to the side, trying to peek around her and get a better look at what she’s painting.
The rim of my hat pushes the door forward and it creaks loudly.
Kimber twists around, knocking her stool to the floor. I blink, nearly gasping at the series of deep scars trailing down her right cheek.
She flings the hood of her sweater over her head and turns away.
“Who’s there?” she asks. “What do you want?”
I jump back from the door. “I’m sorry—” I hold up my hands, thinking fast. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just making a delivery in your back door — at your back door. I’m the milkman.”
I cringe at myself. I’m the milkman.
I shake it off and wait, listening closely to any movement inside. After several silent moments, I finally hear the soft shuffle of feet and the door slowly opens on her.
Kimber peeks out at me, showing nothing by the left side of her face around the black hood. Her blonde hair has been strategically pushed over to obscure everything to the right of her nose.
My chest skips at the sight of her bright, blue eye peeking out at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“It’s okay,” she says, looking at the crate in my hands. “You can just set it on the table.”
She opens the door a little wider and I step inside.
I do as she asks and set it on the table, letting my curious gaze drift to the canvas in the corner. It’s a stunning landscape. Jagged and a bit sloppy, but still stunning with a smeared purple and blue sunset.
“You’re Nate, right?”
I turn to her. “Yeah,” I answer.
She nods. “I was sorry to hear about your dad,” she says. “He was real sweet to me.”
I chuckle. My father? Sweet?
“Thanks, that’s... strange to hear, honestly. But thank you.”
She widens the door again, hinting for me to leave, and I quickly walk through it.
“Give your mother my best,” she says.
“I will.”
I linger by the door, still drawn to her. Is this pity? Or sympathy? Or some twisted satisfaction of seeing the most popular girl in school cowering in the shadows? The girl who never looked twice at me, no matter how long I stared at her.
“It was nice to see you again, Kimber,” I say.
She stops, her hair gently shifting as she inches the door open again. “I didn’t think you remembered me,” she says, amused.
I scoff. “Are you serious? I’m shocked you even know my name.”
“You’re the milkman’s kid,” she says, her voice lighter. “Kind of hard to forget.”
I wince. “Yeah, I guess.” I look at the painting again. “Did you do that?” I ask.
“Uh...” Her head turns down. “Yeah, I just... it’s supposed to help me...”
Her words fade off as she flexes her gloved right hand.
“Well, it’s great,” I say.
Her shoulders bounce beneath her hood. “It’s all right.”
“No, you’ve got style,” I say. “I like it.”
She hums a soft laugh. “Maybe.”
“Anyway... I’ll let you go. Again, I’m sorry I scared you.”
“It’s all right. Really. I’m just jumpy.”
I take a slow step back. “Have a good day, Kimber.”
“Thanks.” For a second, she smiles. “You, too, Nate.”
She closes the door and I let out my breath.
Well, I can’t say I miss this feeling of breathlessness. Kimber Kyle showing me attention usually knocked the wind out of me when I was fifteen but I didn’t expect that instinct to still be there.
I didn’t expect the scars, either.
I step away from the door and head back to the truck, actively shaking the willies out of my limbs. I can’t begin to picture what that must have been like for her. Not sure I even want to try. To go from the queen of Clover High to… what she is now.
Some people really do change.
Four
Kimber
I unpack the crate of Scott’s Dairy goods, or as Curtis loves to call it: “That shit I could easily go out and buy myself like a normal person.”
He’s not wrong.
What dear husband doesn’t seem to understand is that healing takes time. I may never become one-hundred-percent of who I used to be. Correction: I will never be. I might not be in physical pain anymore but I can still hear the crack of bones if I let my mind wander for too long.
But I’m trying. I would like nothing more than to be her again but I need him to meet me halfway.
Is it really too much to ask that my husband meet me halfway?
I think not.
I open the refrigerator and I realize I forgot to set my empties out again but I’ll do that next time. Mr. Scott always forgives me. No big deal, he always says.
Or said.
That’s the last thing he said to me, now that I think about it. I bite my lip, feeling a sudden rush of grief in my stomach. I’ve known that man since I was a child and now he’s gone. I’ve known his son since our first day of kindergarten.
Nate Scott. Can’t say I ever thought twice about him, outside of the silly high school rumor-mill, naturally. I hope he’s doing okay. He seemed all right.
I put the groceries away. As the cool, refrigerated air touches my face, I notice the soft upward curl on my lips. I’m smiling. Feels good.
I pause and wonder where it came from.
You’ve got style.
I’ve never shown anyone my paintings before, not even Curtis — though, that’s not for lack of trying in his case. To be honest, I think they’re shit. I don’t paint for art’s sake, after all. I do it to try and train my hands again. Not everyone remembers what it was like to learn how to hold a pencil or a brush and even fewer know what it’s like to learn it with only two working fingers on your dominant hand.
But alas, I smile.
Because a cute boy told me I’ve got style.
Maybe Curtis is right. I am pathetic.
I wander across the house, letting light feet guide me toward the library just left of the stairs. It wasn’t always a library. It was going to be a nursery but the accident put those plans on hold. I couldn’t use the stairs for several months afterward, so Curtis set this room up for me. A single bed so I could sleep alone without Curtis accidentally moving around too much and hurting me, a big chair for me to lounge in, and a large bookshelf packed tightly with dozens upon dozens of books. Reading was all I wanted to do when I finally came home from the hospital. TV screens, computer monitors, and even smartphones hurt my eyes and give me headaches nowadays, but I can read. So, that’s what I do now.
I read and I paint. Alone.
That last bit is all my fault, though. Friends reached out. Family overstayed their welcome. In the end, I couldn’t stand the way they looked at me anymore. I stopped returning calls. I ignored texts and emails. Eventually, they gave up and stopped coming around at all. It made me happy, for a while. I had Curtis.