Spilt Milk, A Collection of Stories
Copyright © 2014 by D.K. Cassidy
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in print, scanned, electronic or audio means or other means without the prior written permission of the publisher, Pluvio Press.
This is a fictional story. The events, names and characters are fictitious, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.
Interior Design: NovelNinjutsu.com
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
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my husband Mark,
my sons Aidan and Jared,
and to my sisters Joan and Fran.
Their love and confidence emboldened me
to step into a new world.
They lifted her off the first table and put her on a cold steel platform. Just in case. The nurse transferring all her tubes with a veteran’s efficiency. Trying to maintain her dignity by covering the woman’s body.
Feel great, she joked. The fast ride through the hospital corridor, the orderly weaving between oncoming groups of people, made her remember amusement rides. He backed into an operating room and stopped next to the table that was to be the new mother’s place for the birth of her child.
Like a magician’s assistant, body sawed in half, the epidural made her think, Magical! She glanced down to the chilled table, not sure the orderly remembered to transfer her lower half.
Buzzing in her toes alerted the young mother. She wasn’t supposed to be feeling anything. The bees crept up her knees. Then she saw panic in her doctor’s eyes.
“What’s going on? What am I feeling?”
The bees were up to her thighs. The word magical replaced with idiot in her mind. Her body was reconnecting; the magician snapped the box together making her miserably whole. Around her pelvis the bees buzzed furiously. They spread fire. Searing fire, forming a dark cloud around her. Then the tearing and screaming, she called for relief and saw only the staff’s apologetic eyes.
“It’s too late.” one said. “We can’t do anything.” Several disjointed voices. “It’ll be over soon.” None of them any help. “Breathe. Breathe. Pant. Pant.”
“You breathe. I want off this table. I…” The fire started to die. “It’s your fau—”
The bees were replaced, by fluttery moths. They twitched, crowding together.
At last she heaves, moans. Rests. Looking once into the tiny face of her son.
Brief thoughts mixed together in her exhausted mind.
Disappointment. Relief.
No trace of her husband in those brown eyes.
Guilt.
She said her newborn’s name once, Caleb. Her eyes flutter. Close. Permanent darkness follows. Her last breath enveloping her new son, an air of desperation marking him.
The agony of withdrawal followed in a few hours; cries of a newborn not understanding his new world of pain. The infant’s crying baffled the doctor until she looked at the sparse intake records, not enough information. Heroin, too late she realized what the dead woman was.
The staff in the room quiet, absorbing what just occurred. The anesthesiologist the first to move, pulling on tubing then making notes on his chart. The obstetrician remained still for another minute, thinking what?
Caleb’s father sat in the waiting room drinking enhanced vending machine coffee. Johnny Walker. The birth of his child. He wasn’t going to drink his usual cheap stuff. He was celebrating. Celebrating with Johnny. Later he’d tell his mother she had a grandson. But first another drink before he visited his wife and the boy.
George always felt safe in his closet, the only place in the small house that belonged to him. He slept, read, brooded, ate, and sometimes dreamt there. This four-by-six foot world decorated with the things he’d accumulated, was out of bounds for all including his cat.
The previous occupant built a wall of shelves intended to hold whatever a hanger couldn’t. His father didn’t enter the closet, not out of respect, but neglect. As long as George remained out of his sight, he didn’t bother with him. He might walk into George’s bedroom looking for the cat, but he never opened the closet door.
On occasion he heard his father walk by but not to seek George. The bathroom stood next to his sanctuary. George blocked out the disturbing sounds of elimination and drunken stumbling by listening to a little clock radio he’d found in someone else’s garbage can, humming along to the music.
Five and a half year old George stood in his closet, looking at a book he’d stolen from the library.
Learning to read, still a few months away, wasn’t a reason to stop taking books. It felt more exciting to take what he wanted, returning the books whenever he got around to it, if ever. The only books to make it back to the library were the ones he tired of.
He’d been doing this for months, the first time without intent. He ran into the library to avoid the rain on his solitary walk home from kindergarten. A colorful book with pictures of dragons on the cover lay on a table near the door. George picked it up and decided he liked these pictures. He wanted to bring the book home.
He had no idea about the system in place to check out items, so he’d stolen the book. Now he had a use for the almost empty backpack he transported to and from school. Later that month, his teacher talked about going on a field trip to the library, getting the class signed up for cards.
George developed a way of blending in, becoming invisible. A book about knights slid into the red backpack at his feet. Instead of feeling guilty he’d taken it, George felt a chill run up his spine, a good chill, something close to happiness. His beleaguered teacher never noticed he stayed away from the desk issuing library cards.
Each year George became interested in a new thing to collect. He discovered plastic army men when he was six years old accompanying his mother to the drugstore, while she picked up her depression medication. While she spoke to the pharmacist, he wandered in a state of boredom through the store.
On aisle three he saw a display of cheap plastic toys, designed to entice last minute shoppers, guilty divorced dads, and unsupervised children.
Located on the top shelf sat a round plastic container with the words, “Paratroopers, Complete with Parachutes”. Due to his stolen books, George was an excellent reader for his age. He recognized the word parachute. He wasn’t certain about the meaning of paratroopers but decided it had to be worth a look.
The toy sat just out of his reach, so he climbed onto the first shelf and grabbed for it. When he looked inside, he discovered his newest passion, army men. He knew this container would be too large to take, so he needled his mother until she relented; she didn’t want George to start screaming in the drugstore.
He supplemented his collection with stray army men found on playgrounds, in classmate’s backpacks, and smaller packages from local stores that were easier to steal. His armies lined the shelves of his closet and formed groups on top of his books, ready for action.
Eight-year-old George enjoyed counting the battle cards he’d taken as part of his current obsession. He never played the game, but loved to read the powers, abilities, and fight tactics of the illustrated creatures on the decks. Last year’s assortment of dump trucks taught him the important lesson of conservation of space. Being practical, he realized collecting
smaller items meant room for a more diverse array of objects to hide and display in his world.
Almost every surface of the shelves stood piled high with books, army men, and trucks. He collected thousands of these cards, using up a few inches of space on a stack of books. He was careful to maintain a clear space to lie down and enjoy his collections.
At ten years old, a pillow, some snacks, and his radio turned low, were all George needed to maintain his sense of security. Stockpiled batteries he’d taken on his last trip to the drugstore ensured his radio never stopped playing. The one and only time he couldn’t play his radio taught him to stay vigilant about his power sources.
Six months earlier his radio had stopped playing, the batteries dead. George heard the conversation going on in the living room, which in this tiny house was quite close. His father and mother were fighting again. Much of the argument made no sense to him. Then they started making other noises that George hated to hear, noises that made him feel strange and sent chills up his back. Normally his radio hushed the noises nearby. From that day on George always stole batteries.
George’s mother, a thin dry woman, doled out her version of love via food. Never hugging George or her late husband. She rarely spoke. Instead choosing to watch television. George would watch TV with her, only if he finished his food. If he disturbed her, he could expect a slap or worse. She’d already dispensed with his father after one of their arguments. George didn’t want to disappear. He did what it took to please her.
Soon, George’s collection included magazines he discovered at the local convenience store. These publications were out of sight, covered, and in the corner away from the front window. On most days, there were a few older guys milling around flipping through the glossy pages.
One afternoon on the way back from school he noticed no one in that corner. The store clerk busied himself stocking the cups for the self-serve coffee. George headed straight for that corner, picking up the nearest magazine. One glance and he knew he’d discovered his next obsession.
With smooth, practiced motions, the magazine slipped under his jacket. George walked out of the store. That familiar tingling shooting up his spine. Once down the block, he ran home eager to enjoy his new acquisition.
From the dim kitchen, George skipped his typical after school snack, heading straight for his world, shedding his heavy jacket and backpack on the way. He ignored the door, slightly ajar. Turning on the light, he climbed onto his shelf.
He breathed hard from the run, so he didn’t hear the sound of his visitor Milky. That cat liked to follow him into the yard then meow until he picked her up. When he was younger, George used to pet and hug Milky until she hissed.
In the closet his hugs kept getting tighter and the petting rougher. The hissing made him mad; he couldn’t understand why she didn’t enjoy his attention. Today, he kept hugging Milky until she stopped meowing and relaxed. That evening George stole out of his house and deposited a limp Milky in the neighbor’s garbage can.
Once the house quieted down, he opened the magazine and stared at the women. The only females he’d seen up close were his teacher, mother, and clerks at the drugstore. None of them looked like this or made him feel funny. He tried to figure out what he felt and knew it to be something good but still quite strange. It was the same feeling he had when his parents used to make noises.
Later that night George decided he wanted to see Milky again. He snuck outside after his mother was asleep and crept into the neighbor’s backyard to retrieve his only friend from the garbage can.
The high court insists I discuss my ‘crimes’. Ridiculous. What crimes? I think therapy is not necessary! I was only attempting to be a good mother. My two beautiful daughters needed help getting the attention of the handsome prince. Their annoying stepsister Cinderella constantly thwarted them. Any mother would have acted as I have.
The man in a brown cardigan sat before her, not what she’d expected. “Can you elucidate why you asked your eldest daughter to, ” he pulled down his pince-nez, reading from the transcript, “Cut off her big toe?” Dr. Brothers made the attempt to glance up from his scribbles.
“That arrogant young man. How dare he question me? Me the Lady Jewel!”
Constance, The Lady Jewel, blithely continued without catching the doctor’s grim demeanor. She glared at his cardigan. Brown. More like a farmer. How could he judge her? She contended, “When the prince stopped by to find his mysterious princess I knew it had to be one of my beautiful daughters.”
“But what does that have to do with your own daughter’s severed toe?”
“The prince insisted. Yes! Insisted—as if I were a commoner—that my daughters pass a test. She had to fit into a slipper. Some dreadful thing left behind at the ball. It is all written down in your horrid brown file. Obviously.”
“And that is relevant why?”
“Her foot was too big!” Oh he was an annoying little man. “My daughter may be beautiful, but she has no common sense. I told her all she had to do was eliminate her big toe. Problem solved, you see.”
At this Dr. Brothers did look up. Pausing from his doodle, he inquired, “You see no problem with asking your daughter to cut off her toe?”
“You are an insipid little man. Why would she need a toe if she is married to the prince?”
“Tell me about the other incident. With your youngest daughter.”
“That annoying prince. He claimed my eldest could not possibly be his princess. And, upon noticing the minimal amount, a trifling truly, of blood seeping out of the shoe…” The Lady’s lacquered bejeweled hand addressed the brown file in Dr. Brother’s lap. “He demanded I bring out another daughter!”
Was that judgment in his eyes? How dare he! Obviously he does not have beautiful daughters. “My youngest entered the room, curtsied, as any well bred ingénue of quality would. And, she offered to try on the slipper.” Lady Jewel’s breast rose and fluffed, hen-like. “Her delicate toes fit just fine—a relief. Her damnable heel would not slip in. So I…” At this she gave the tiniest of headshakes, side to side, as if erasing something from where it stuck in her mind.
Dr. Brothers wanted to be wrong, but braced himself for her answer. “You told her to cut off her heel?”
“Of course I did. What else was there to do? She did, as I demanded, being an obedient daughter. The shoe fit. End of story.”
“Did she and the prince live happily ever after as is the law of our land?”
The Lady Jewell stared out the window at the castle on the hill. It was to have been her new home. She had already selected her suite of rooms.
“My inconsiderate daughter decided to bleed into the slipper just as her older sister had. So selfish. Neither of them thinks of me. So self-absorbed. Ungrateful.”
The jailer led Lady Constance Jewel away. She had been granted her wish, a residence in the castle.
Just not the suite of rooms she’d planned for.
The old Singer sewing machine hummed as the mother bent over her work. Depress the pedal. Sew two inches. Stop. Start again. She looked up at her children, huddled on the couch, the television blared the theme song from The Brady Bunch. Two skinny girls.
One of them stepped near her mother then stopped. No words exchanged, a waiting game, watching her creating the costume.
Finally, “Mommy, will it be ready in time?”
No answer.
The mother’s right hand begins to hit the black-enameled metal. Over and over. In a trance-like state, she shatters the jade in her ring. Silence. Looking at her daughter, “Leave me alone. It’ll be ready.”
Dana returns to her sister, Faye. "I can tell, it’ll be ready soon."
The two sisters exchange knowing glances. Dana didn’t sit. Toward her mother, she spoke. “The Halloween party’s in two hours. Mommy will have my costume ready.”
The sewing machine came to a stop. At the silence, Dana returned. Their mother stared at the costume. Again, the slamming came, her hand now on the s
ewing table. “Didn’t—I—tell—you—leave me—alone.”
Her free hand rose to rest on Dana's crown. Fingers closed around a clump of hair and yanked. Once. “Didn't I tell you to leave me alone?”
Dana refused to cry; her power was in not crying. She would not let anyone know she is hurt. She’d decided to be the protector by always drawing her mother’s wrath from her sister. Biting her lower lip she stared with insolence.
This battle of wills lost, in resignation grasping fingers relaxed. Returning to her sewing chore. Stop. Go. Stop. Go.
After thirty minutes of them staring, she stood, tossing the costume to Dana.
Dana held it up to her sister, trying to figure it out. Faye raised her eyebrows. “I think it’s an octopus.” They giggled. Then after a quick glance back to the machine, they burst out laughing.
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