Spilt Milk: A Collection of Stories Page 3

  Today’s session floating on her back. Nailed it. She’d expected more; Wade didn’t want to tire her out. Time to go home.

  I’m 28 not 82! How can I tell him the water’s my habitat? My lover.

  Naiad floated, lost in the warm embrace of each atom of water. Millions holding her mangled body enfolded in their balminess, allowing her to remember euphoria. Her true self left behind in the pool, hoisted to the patient ‘dis’.

  Three days before she could feel joy once again.

  Her chariot waits to ferry Naiad home. The ancient driver acknowledges his charge, offering assistance into the empty van.

  “Where to little minnow?” he burbles as if he’d never asked before.

  “To my seaside castle, kind sir,” the customary reply in this game. Niceties over, brave face planted.

  Naiad never noticed the walkers before, now she grew obsessed with the different varieties of gait, speed, whatever variances the entitled used. Her eyes fixated on the dull ones. They all took for granted the magic of legs. Does she envy them their supple limbs? Of course.

  No roommate, no paid helper, just Naiad. Her arms work. She can do for herself and pines for the privacy. This cripple wants to wipe herself in peace. Bed low to the floor, easy to roll over and enter the sanctuary of her dreams. Painless to leave this life behind and find her genuine one. Or no life at all.

  Swimming closer to the island searching for someone. Knowing there’s a man there she needs to see. Approaching the shore Naiad notices a small cottage. Standing in the doorway a child. She waves then runs inside. The surrounding water is turbulent, full of life. Fish? Diving to explore, to feel the liberation of movement. The ecstasy of moving her lower half. Legs melding into a green tail of iridescent scales. Naiad’s tale.

  This time she told Wade she needed to do more in the pool. He adds turning over from a floating position. Before he can end the session, stretching her arms, Naiad begins to swim. She pulls the warm water towards her. Ten stokes and she’s won, turning to see Wade admiring her daring and progress. Muscles on her slack face form an atrophied smile. She’d forgotten that feeling.

  Fresh van driver today. Not so old. Not nearly so chatty. Naiad’s facade drops. His name, George, hand printed in enormous block letters on his nametag. Naiad wonders why he’d want this job. They pull up to the castle; George lets out a grunt, signals their arrival.

  Morbidly obese. Not moving to assist, George looks as if he could use her help. She backs down the ramp and notices a doll on the chariot’s dashboard. Wonder Woman. If only.

  During this morning’s session Naiad begs to swim underwater but Wade thinks she’s not ready. Time to show him how ready she is. Investigating the bottom of the pool, weightless, silence listens to her heart. Naiad’s seaweed hair hovers, framing her pale face.

  Every corner of the pool now part of this woman’s sovereignty. Breaking the surface she realizes water is her element. Princess Naiad bequeaths air, fire, and earth to walkers. She chooses water.

  Agua, eau, mizu,

  wasser, mool, ama.

  Language isn’t a province; it is all her domain.

  Another evening alone by choice. The end of each day finds her exhausted from pretending. Each day, plastering a brave face on the real Naiad takes more effort. Temptation to stop growing stronger, reasons to keep feigning happiness; falling in scales from her.

  Flawless blue water, warmed by sun. Naiad swims up, breaching the surface tension. In the distance the lone man and child stare. They jump into the water and swim towards the princess. The ocean welcoming them, drawing them home. Flipping her tail she dives.

  Decaf or regular? Wait…I think I’m supposed to say regular first. Shit! OK, what did she say about size? Jared Teabottom was the only one not paying attention.

  Writing at the front of the class, Corinne Cockcrow stood at the whiteboard, scribbling out the new baristas script. Her pupils studied the information like scripture. The rules were exact, no room for interpretation. Jared focused solely on coveting Ms. Cockcrow’s ass. At that moment he decided to become her best student.

  Three months earlier Jared was drifting. No ambition. No relationship. No belief. An empty vessel ready for filling. One fateful day he found Celestial Coffee. Walking up to the barista he ordered. It changed the course of his life.

  “Regular or decaf? Small, Medium, Large? For here or to go? Room for cream?” chirped the perky acolyte.

  “Um…just a cup of coffee.”

  “Yes, but we at Celestial Coffee want to make your coffee experience perfect. How about a Grande?” Coffee experience? He wondered how she said that without laughing. Jared felt jolted by the menu’s prices. How about robbery. “You know what? I’ll have the smallest you got. Forgot the ATM.” He nearly genuflected, “Only have two bucks.”

  The barista looking upon him, sympathetic, leaned closer and whispered, “This one’s on me. All you have to do is come back and say hi.”

  It took Jared a week to work up the nerve to visit again. He pushed open the glass and chrome door with purpose. Walked in, then backed out immediately. Why was he here? The coffee they offered wasn’t that good, tasted too burnt. Besides, she didn’t even look legal. What was pulling him? Getting laid wasn’t the issue. He walked down the street, turned. Something drew Jared back. On the door hung a sign, it spoke to him: Hiring, inquire within.

  Corinne Cockcrow had moved on, sermonizing now on the coffee paraphernalia part of Sunday’s class. Arrayed on a large silver tray, atop a table draped in dark heavy cloth, lay the instruments of the barista. They glittered in the fluorescent light, calling to Jared. He handled each piece with reverence, pausing to feel. A litany rose in him, Porta-filter, Group Head, Burr Grinder, Doser—and, and— damn, I’m too dense to remember. Jared turned to see Corinne eyeing him, the lone male sparrow.

  Never good at public speaking, his voice quivered, standing in front of the class. Trying to define the items they’d just been chanting. Sweat in places both embarrassing and surprising. “Group Head—where the employees go the bathroom,” He heard giggling. “Porta-filter—used in the bathroom to separate—” Realized belatedly he’d been speaking aloud.

  Head down he rushed to his seat.

  If Jared couldn’t recite something, he resorted to humor. Time to show Corinne Cockcrow and Celestial Coffee, he was worthy. He could transcend the expectation of his peers, his parents, beyond the class cut-up. Time to change that perception.

  He’d taken two buses from his studio apartment. The interview at a huge warehouse. Jared ran his shaking hands through his curly hair, trying to dry his palms. Facing this corporate headquarters in the industrial section of Seattle.

  The smell of fresh ground beans hit his nose. His salivary glands went wild. In the lobby stood a massive chrome espresso machine. Arrayed around the table lay bags of coffee, left as offerings to the idol. These people were serious about caffeine. Spotlights aimed at the machine blinded him momentarily. Jared felt the need to whisper, to genuflect. Rooted to the floor, he wiped his open mouth of drool.

  Jared planned studying the next section of the employee manual all weekend long, Sunday especially. In the bathroom, he noticed the small print: Only for use by employees of Celestial Coffee. Leaning prayer-fashion to read it, Anyone else found with this manual will be executed. Umm. A bit intense. Was this a typo? Some HR person’s last fuck you. What kind of a group was this? Was this for real?

  He settled in to learn about Cupping.

  A row of white porcelain cups set up by Corinne Cockcrow waited on the table. Each filled. Today the apprentices would be learning to check the taste of coffee. Aroma, Sweetness, Flavor, Acidity, Cleanness, I’ve got this. Body, Balance, Aftertaste. I’m worthy, I’m worthy, I’m gonna nail this.

  After tasting all twelve varieties Jared had still failed to notice the waiting spittoon. He had noted three things: The taste was all-same. His hands kept shaking. His bladder was bursting. No break for 30 minutes. Could he
wait that long?

  Brilliant. Always sitting in the back of the room was going to pay off. An empty coffee sack lay in the wastebasket next to him.

  He coughed while unzipping. Sighed. Shivered. Smiled.

  After four weeks of intensive indoctrination, the apprentices, ready to proselytize about Celestial Coffee, were released to an unsuspecting flock.

  “Regular of decaf? Small, Medium, Large? For here or to go? Room for cream?” chirped a jerky Jared. Adjusting his crisp black barista’s apron with pride, as the wary customer before him stood debating.

  “Um…just a cup of coffee.”

  “Yes, but we at Celestial Coffee want to make your coffee experience perfect. How about a Grande?” Jared parroted without laughing.

  The customer looked at the jam jar on the counter, Tip Karma. Jared waited.

  For eight years Caleb waited for this day. Patience not being one of his strong points; it could be said Caleb lacked any virtues. To make the time pass faster he watched T.V., played video games, and read. Making friends in this crazy place? No interest. Keeping to himself, his usual way, became an easy decision.

  Caleb’s guardian ad litem had convinced him being in a mental hospital would be far easier, and a much better choice, than juvenile detention. After the first few nights of patients screaming Caleb didn’t agree. His plea deal, incarceration, along with years of counseling and medication. Set in stone. Not changeable. He waited petulantly for his release at eighteen.

  The psychiatrist treating Caleb enquired about the first time he’d killed anything. The doctor re-reads his notes, trying to understand what led to the gruesome murder. All these years later, as if the file’s contents would change. Right from the start, Caleb told the man what he wanted to hear while watching the doctor scribble in his notebook. Claiming no memory of harming anyone or anything. But Caleb remembered the truth.

  The third and final stone on the frog. Sitting back, bored. Hop. Hop. Nothing else. A rainy afternoon. Watching the green flatten and ooze into the mud. The smell of the mud reminding him of burnt toast. That slimy thing disappointed him. It didn’t make a noise, not even a croak, so he’d stood up on stout, dimpled legs, and hopped into his house. Bored. Not bothering with a backward glance, giggling about the dead froggy. Entering the dark house. Yelling, “Daddy!” Till he’d found him.

  “Were you playing in the mud? You’re a filthy mess.”

  “I’m hungry, want a samich”

  “I don’t feed pigs!” screamed his father.

  “Hungry, hungry, hungry!!!! Wanna samich!”

  His father slapped him. Told him to wash up. But Caleb just stared, keeping the tears in his brimming eyes from spilling over. Warm urine trickling down his legs.

  “Hate you! Hate you.”

  His father ignored the outburst; he’d turned away pouring himself another cupful.

  His session with the psychiatrist finished, Caleb waited out the last few hours in the common room, writing. He’d begun a journal when he first entered the facility, keeping track of his chaotic thoughts and rants.

  White walls, so damn depressing. I think these damn walls will wear me out. I grew up in a white house, but the walls weren’t white. I’ve always wanted yellow walls. My bedroom was painted blue. Grandmother said they’d clash. Blue walls are depressing too. As if I care about that. I never made my bed; I couldn’t see the sense in it. My bed just got messed up again at night.

  Caleb stared at the common room clock willing the hands to fly. He tapped his fingers to a song only he heard. His left leg in constant motion, a metronome. A tooth-marked ballpoint pen in his mouth.

  What a shitty way to celebrate turning 18th, glaring at white walls. At least I think it’s my birthday. It might be the 28th—isn’t it? My phone says it is, it must be so. Why does everyone else trust machines? I’m suspicious of all machines except for my phone. They don’t seem to like me. Before I got to this damned place, irons burnt my pants, washers ate my socks; machines hate me. Now the candy machines steal my coins. Cheap hospital. Won’t give me candy— have to buy my own. Orderlies and crazies sneak into my room. Steal it! Machines and people stealing from me. His pen flew along the page.

  He jumped off his place on the couch. Checked his phone, his lifeline. Making friends wasn’t a skill in his family. His grandmother only wanted to spend time with Caleb, her son, and the 4 cats patrolling the house. There used to be 5 cats. Caleb took an interest in the calico, one dark afternoon.

  Used to be, I couldn’t wait for my birthday. He wrote, once he could settle again, No one came but grandmother, my father, and my latest ‘mom’. I didn’t care; all I wanted were the presents. Grandmother gave me a party every year until that year. Then the parties stopped; nothing to look forward to. Why am I still here? I’m dying to see something other than these damn walls.

  He remembered his grandmother speaking to the cats more than anyone else. No hugs, just hits. No conversation, just nods. Or grunts. Something changed. Caleb’s her last living relative.

  He killed his father 8 years ago. But he didn’t write that down.

  This would be the best birthday ever because he planned everything himself. Caleb knew what he wanted. He would make it happen. Another check of his phone before he gets to celebrate his birthday.

  At 4pm, the orderly escorted Caleb to the office. The guardian ad litem sat waiting for Caleb’s discharge papers, no longer his problem, or the state’s. Caleb’s left leg resumed its metronome beat. He signed with his favorite pen then bolted to the exit, leaving his early days in the dust.

  Caleb stepped off the bus. Walked the last few blocks to his childhood home. Now it belonged to him, memories included. He sat in the recliner staring out at the backyard. A jungle of weeds and neglect looked back. Dust coated every surface, laying claim to the abandoned house. Caleb didn’t care, it was all his. Time to start his birthday party.

  His father’s blue Toyota in the driveway of his white house, waiting for his special day to begin. He turned the ignition, surprised to hear it growl, adjusted the rearview mirror, backing out leisurely. His iPod blared one of his favorite tunes as he headed toward the freeway.

  His childhood treasures remained up in his mother’s attic. His current obsession bored him. It had been years since George started a new collection. Time to move on.

  Six months ago George drove a van, picking up disabled passengers. It was nice, he guessed. He didn’t need to talk to anybody. Yet he couldn’t stand the boredom of driving all day. There was one woman who intrigued him, but George was far too shy to engage her in any way. He never talked, why start now? Besides, one day she stopped coming to the pool; he never saw her again. He quit soon after that.

  Surfing the Internet, not sure what he was looking for, he visited various websites to pass the time. George found an article about parenting. He knew he’d never become a dad, not for lack of desire. No woman would let him do that to her. Through the evening he surfed. Nothing pleased. Nothing held him. George had enough of passing the time. No social life, no girlfriend, no way to pass the interminable empty hours in his day. He reached to shut down his PC, when one word jumped from the screen, implanting itself in George’s brain.

  Tooth.

  Nurse Wendy kept a box of 1”X 2” manila envelopes. Storing lost molars, canines, and bicuspids of her students, was her service to parents. The nurse kept asking George about missing envelopes. George wasn’t a suspect; he was a good employee of Midlands Elementary School. Being the custodian just made him the logical person to ask.

  You wouldn’t imagine the things George had turned over to the office since he’d started. Yet, every week at least one teary, gap-smiled child told Nurse Wendy they couldn’t find their treasure.

  Still, he felt nervous about the attention. George needed to find another supply. It became more difficult for him, getting teeth.

  Changing his daily cleaning routine, George started avoiding the nurse’s office. He picked up a School Distri
ct jobs listing, on the way to the bakery.

  He scrolled through ads on Craigslist, noticing an interesting post after a few minutes of browsing. George read it aloud, “No Experience Required. Willing to Work at Night. Must Like Salvaging.”

  That described him. George had a computer programming degree, but didn’t like showing up at an office. Hated sharing his personal space with others. He clicked on the ‘Reply’ icon to inquire about the position’s particulars.

  His email answered in moments. George wondered if the person on the other side stayed camped by his monitor hoping for someone.