The Milkman

by Tabatha Kiss

  Home.

  I sit in my car, staring out the window at the house I grew up in, trying to gather the courage to make a choice. Stay or leave. Laugh or cry. Live or die.

  I suppose I should be thankful. Some of us don’t get that choice.

  I push the door open slowly to keep the rusty squeak from echoing too loudly. The last thing I want is for Mrs. Clark to poke her little head out of the window and sneer at me, if she hasn’t done so already, of course.

  The house looks as dark and stale as always but the flicker of bluish light in the living room gives him away. I walk up the porch steps and pause with my hand rolled into a delicate fist. I remind myself again. It was all my idea to come back.

  I knock twice and twist my head around to take a cursory glance across the street again. Still no peeping old ladies.

  The door opens and my father stands there in jeans and a red flannel shirt. His way of dressing up for Valentine’s, I guess.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say.

  “Jovie.”

  “Can I… I need to ask you something.”

  He shifts on his feet. “All right.”

  I swallow. “What did I do?” I ask, my hands shaking. “What… what could I have done differently to make you care about me?”

  His stone-cold expression barely moves.

  “Why didn’t you ever care?”

  I choke on a sob as my legs twitch and my heart aches but I wait for an answer. It doesn’t matter if he’s even truthful about it. I just want one word, one solitary reason to cling to as some kind of closure.

  Hank’s eyes fall to my ankles and he nods. He steps back and walks into the house, leaving the door wide open for me.

  I slink forward, broken and defeated, and close it behind me to lock out the world. I don’t want to linger in this house. It’s not what I came here for. I stay by the front door with my hands in my jean pockets and this is where I’ll stay until he gives me a damn answer.

  Hank returns from the kitchen with a can of beer in each hand. He pauses and extends one to me.

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  “Take it,” he says. “You’ll need it.”

  I let out a scoff and snatch it from his hand but I keep it held down at my side. He wanders over to his chair and flicks his can open as he sits down. Foam rises from the opening but he drinks it down before it can spill over.

  “Well?” I ask, growing impatient.

  He takes his time, picking up the television remote and tapping the volume down to a quiet hum. Then, he bends over and reaches into the small drawer in the bottom of his end table. When I was a kid, this thing was usually stuffed full of cigarettes and chewing tobacco.

  I pause as he pulls out a stack of postcards about an inch tall, wrapped together with an old rubber band. The edges are worn and slightly crinkled and not from your standard post office abuse either.

  “I was so proud of you, Jovie,” he says.

  I struggle to take in a breath. “What?” I ask.

  “I used to look forward to getting the mail every day, just in case you sent me another one of these.” He taps the stack against his leg. “It meant that you weren’t here. You were out there… seeing things I never saw, doing things I never did. Living the life I never had. ‘Where are you going next, Jovie?’ I’d ask myself and I’d hope to God that the answer wasn’t Clover, Kansas.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  He takes another sip from his can. “Because I didn’t want you to slip into a mold and get stuck here like I did or how,” he pauses, “or how she did. Joanne hated it here but she stayed because of me and because we had you. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to you, so… I did the only thing I knew how to do and I pushed you away. I didn’t want you to get too attached to this place but then you started dating that damn kid.”

  My lips twitch. “Will?”

  He nods. “You fell so hard for him. Before that, you used to talk about traveling the world and getting out of this place after graduation but you stuck around because of him. Then, things happened the way they did and you took off. For that, I was proud of you.” He looks up at me. “Does that answer your question?”

  A tear escapes down my cheek but I wipe it away before it reaches my jawline. I feel the ice cold drink in my other hand and I walk over to the couch to plop down.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I say as I pull the tab.

  Hank tosses me the stack of postcards. They land just off my lap, still bound tightly together as they bounce onto the cushion beside me. I pick them up and turn them over in my palm to read the back of the last one I sent him. Greetings from Denver.

  “Where are you going next, Jovie?” he asks me.

  I close my eyes, willing my head into a blank slate. I could repeat history all over again, just like they all expect me to. It’s a tempting thought. There’s still so much of the world I haven’t seen yet but there’s no guarantee I’d ever find somewhere else to call home, as much as I’d hate to admit it. I don’t imagine mountains or city skylines or oceans along that slate. I imagine Will’s face instead.

  “I love him,” I finally say.

  “And he loves you.” He nods. “But is that enough?”

  I stare at the stack in my hand for several moments before exhaling hard. “Well, you were right,” I say, raising my beer. “I did need this.”

  He chuckles. “If there’s one thing I’m well-educated in, it’s when to get shit-faced.”

  I laugh. “It’s a far more useful skill than anything I’ve got.”

  His head tilts. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  I smile, ready to blow off the sentiment, but something about it clings to the back of my head like a word you need but can’t quite remember.

  I look at my father again and he nods.

  Thirty-Six

  Will

  We go through so much to become who we are.

  Every series of events, every moment and thought is just one piece of a fine-tuned engine that makes up ourselves. Parts degrade and get replaced over time but the layout and basic function remain the same. We can generally predict what our reactions will be to just about any situation. Fight or flight. Laugh or cry. Trust or suspect.

  Losing Jovie the first time inspired a heavy upgrade. I ditched the attitude. I started buying clothes that fit me. I went to school and got a job to be more independent and responsible. I kept the leather jacket and the bike as a reminder, but mostly because that look will never not be cool, even on the uptight streets of Middle of Nowhere, Kansas.

  But still, even through all that change, I’ve always expected the worst from Jovie Ross.

  I found out the truth and my first thought was that of suspicion. As if to say her most probable reaction to our breakup was to enact some form of revenge on my desire for a family. I know her better than that. She’d never do something like that to me, not in a million years, and yet, my fine-tuned, newly-upgraded engine of independence and responsibility latched onto the worst case scenario first because that’s just what I’ve always done.

  You can’t upgrade or replace everything. Some things you’re just stuck with. Old habits.

  Jovie’s gone through her own set of upgrades. She’s more patient. A kinder, gentler Jovie. No less sardonic but I’ve always considered that to be her strongest asset. But if she can grow and change just as I have then it’s not outside the realm of possibility that there are pieces of her deep inside that remain untouched.

  Her reaction back then was to run and hide, even from the one person she always thought she could run to. Did that reaction end up in a bin with the rest of the degraded parts? Or is it still there, connected to everything else, just waiting for the right series of events to set it off again?

  She’ll come back.

  And I’m not leaving our home until she does.

  I will sit here until I hear her key in the door again. Until she walks into this room and gives me that knee-crippling smile again. And if she d
oesn’t, then I will go out there, find her, and I will bring her back here myself because I will not give up on Jovie Ross just like everyone else did. Just like they all told me to do.

  A soft knock taps on the door. I bolt off the couch to answer it, kicking away the blanket as it gets wrapped up in my foot.

  I pull the door open and exhale the hope from my chest.

  “Jesus…” Sara looks me up and down. “What happened to you?”

  I glance at my wrinkled suit pants and untucked shirt. “Nothing,” I say, stepping away.

  She follows me in and closes the door behind her. “I got your message.”

  “Okay.” I sit down on the couch, sinking deep into the cushions. “Did you find someone to take him?”

  “Yeah.” I feel her staring at me. “Mom has the day off, so she’s watching him. I figured you had to take a shift so I stopped by the shop. Marv said you called in.”

  “Yeah,” I say again.

  “You sick?”

  “No.”

  She paces toward the hallway. “Passed by the toy store. Looks like Jovie didn’t show up to work today either.”

  “Don’t you have a class or something?”

  I look up and she’s staring at me like I’m some kind of wounded animal.

  “Will, what happened?”

  “Sorry I couldn’t hang with Andy today. I’ll make it up to him next week.”

  “Will.” She crosses her arms, digging her stance into my carpet. “Where’s Jovie?”

  “Do you really care?”

  Her brow rises with amused interest. “Did she leave?”

  I sit back, feeling a rush of anger but I keep it behind clenched teeth.

  “Well, it’s about time,” she says. “I told you from day one. It wasn’t if. It was when. I mean, jeez, you’d think she’d—”

  “Get out,” I say.

  “Exactly. She shouldn’t have come back at all.”

  “No, I’m talking to you.” Her face falls. “Get out.”

  Sara takes a step back. “Excuse me?”

  I stand up again. “Leave and don’t come back for a while. Don’t even call me. I don’t want to speak to you right now.”

  She grows tense. “What’s this about? Did she say something to you?”

  “About what?” I wait for her to answer but she just stares. “Go on, Sara. What could Jovie Ross possibly say to me that would make me want to kick you out of my life?”

  Her face flinches with fear. “Okay, Will, whatever it is she told you, you have to remember that Jovie is a liar—”

  “That’s enough.” I walk toward the door and she follows.

  “She’s manipulating you, Will.”

  “And what would you call what you did?” I ask. “Deception? Betrayal? Treason?”

  “Protection. You’re my little brother. I did what I knew was best for you. If Jovie cared about you at all, don’t you think she would have stayed? Wouldn’t she have fought to keep you two together?”

  “So, it was all a test? Just a thousand-dollar gambit?”

  “Yes. And she failed,” she says, her voice rising. “Jovie made her choice. She took that money and ran off because that was more important to her than you.”

  I stare at her. My sister. The stranger in my living room.

  “You paid her to get rid of my baby,” I say. “How do you justify that?”

  “If I hadn’t, she would have used it to trap you and you wouldn’t be where you are right now.”

  “No, she wouldn’t have, because she lost it…” My voice cracks and her mouth closes. “And because I listened to you and bought every word of your bullshit against her, I wasn’t there. She left because I wasn’t there for her when she needed me the most... and I’m not sure I can forgive you for that.”

  Sara’s eyes slip down as I yank the door open wide enough to let her through.

  “Now, get out,” I repeat.

  She gives me one last silent glance before walking out onto the porch. I feel her turn around to say something but I slam it closed before she can get a word in. She won’t get the last word on this one. She doesn’t deserve it.

  I return to my place on the couch.

  She’ll come back.

  Thirty-Seven

  Jovie

  I read somewhere that when you remember something, you’re not really remembering the event itself. You’re actually remembering the last time you remembered it. Details fade. Colors become less vibrant. Voices get distorted. It’s like playing telephone with your own brain. Sooner or later, you won’t be able to picture things the same way as you used to but you’ll be none the wiser.

  That’s what they mean when people say that time heals all wounds. Memories fade as quickly as any bruise or scar. Some take longer than others but, eventually, it all disappears because emotions, painful or otherwise, are only as present as the original event that made them.

  So, we keep mementos and keepsakes. Tie a memory to an object, something real and tangible, and that memory becomes one with that object. It can be simple. A coin or a ring.

  Or, for an average wanderlust like myself, postcards.

  I sit at the kitchen table in my father’s house with all of them spread out in front of me. Each a photo of a landmark. I made sure to pick out postcards with some significance, some memory that I could easily tie to it and recall five, ten, or even twenty years from now. Some bad. Some good. All worth remembering.

  I grew up between these postmarks. I learned how to talk to strangers in the big city. How to stretch every dollar. How to stay alive, even after the last penny was spent and all I could do to stay warm was laugh at myself.

  But there’s still so much I don’t know. The education of Jovie Ross is far from complete.

  I get up to refill my water glass and glance out the window above the sink. A tuft of brown hair pokes up and I lurch so badly I nearly drop my glass.

  “Jovie? Is that you?”

  I gawk at her. “Sara?”

  She stretches on her tippy toes. “Can you let me in? I need to talk to you.”

  I sigh with rolling eyes and set the glass down before walking to the back exit.

  “What are you doing?” I ask her through the closed screen. “We have a front door, you know.”

  She checks the bottom of her shoes for mud and leans down to swipe a dead leaf off her scrub leg. “Would you have answered it?”

  “No,” I say, truthfully. “What do you want?”

  Her head nods over my shoulder into the kitchen. “Please? It’s about Will…”

  “Is he breathing?”

  “Yes,” she answers.

  “Cool. Thanks for the update.”

  I move to close the door.

  “He told me what really happened.”

  My muscles lock as hesitation sets in.

  “And then…” she sighs, “he kicked me out of his house and slammed the door in my face.”

  “Wow. Sucks to be you,” I mutter.

  “My brother has never talked to me like that before. But, in his shoes, I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same. He was just protecting what’s his.” She pauses, pressing her lips together. “Can I please come in? I’d rather not discuss this outside.”

  I study her desperate face and tone. It’s honestly fascinating, like watching a bird try to swim through jello.

  “Fine,” I say, stepping back. “Make it quick.”

  Sara opens the screen door and carefully wipes her shoes on the mat as she walks inside.

  I plop back down into my chair at the table and quickly start stacking the postcards away.

  “What are these?” she asks over my shoulder.

  “Never mind.”

  She keeps moving to the other side of the round table, taking the hint not to ask again but she can’t help but glance at the last few remaining postcards before I can get to them.

  “Is Hank around?”

  “No, he’s at work.”

  She clears
her throat. “So, I guess you and Will didn’t have that great of a Valentine’s Day.”

  I set the pile to the side. “We never do.”

  “But the dance was a smash. People really liked the band. Natalie told me that was all you…”

  I glare at her, urging her to get on with it.

  “Okay, Jovie…” she exhales, “there’s really no great way to lead into this so I’m just going to say it. You… your baby.”

  “What about it?”

  Her hands twitch at her sides. “If you hadn’t have lost it, would you have kept it?” she asks. “Even with the money I gave you to…?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation.

  “Really?”

  I grit my teeth. “I’m sorry, did you come here for any other reason than to humiliate me or to make me feel like dirt? Because I have better things to do…”

  “I lost a baby, too,” she says, lowering her voice. “After Andrew. It was a girl.”

  My heart clenches as she hangs her purse on the back of the chair and sits down across from me.

  “Jovie, I know that I can be…”

  “A massive bitch?”

  “Difficult. Especially when it comes to Will. Our parents were always so busy and it was on me to look after him. I went too far with you. I was young and stupid and I’m sorry.”

  “So, what?” I ask. “You discover empathy and, all of a sudden, it’s bygones?”

  She hesitates. “I’m trying here, Jovie.”

  I sit back to let her speak.

  “We’re so secluded out here that we…” she scratches behind her ear, “we get so caught up in our perfect, little lives that we tend to forget that bad things happen and often to good people.”

  I raise a brow. “Are you calling me a good person?”

  “Well, I mean…” she scoffs, “on a scale of Charles Manson to Mother Teresa, you rank okay.”

  “Oh.” I nod. “Neat.”

  “I just mean to say that if you ever need to talk to someone whose been there before, I’m here.”

  I look to the far corner of the kitchen. “I’ve kind of had a few years to digest it already, so…”