Sour Milk

Jean-Marie couldn’t get inside the barn by daylight. It was swarmed with fat black carpenter bees that buzzed in an iridescent cloud, blocking the entrance. Daddy could do it with an old tennis racket in hand, use it to swat them away with dull, clumsy pings. She tried once but the patch over her eye meant her aim wasn’t so good, and she’d only swung too hard and fallen over, getting dead grass in her hair. So, she waited to visit the barn once the sun went down and the bees went to sleep.

It wasn’t a real barn. No animals lived inside, there was no hay in the loft or grain in the silo. It was just for storage, somewhere for Daddy to put the bodies before he buried them. It was a good hiding place, guarded by the carpenter bees. They buzzed so loud no one would suspect there were flies inside, too. Jean-Marie went to visit the Ladies, carefully peeling the tarp away from their pretty faces so that they could talk to her in hushed whispers. Daddy tried to put them in holes before they got stinky, but sometimes he’d wait too long and their faces wouldn’t be so pretty anymore, coated in slime and maggots, or swollen and ruptured in places, the white shine of blood showing through vulture-ripped holes. But Jean-Marie didn’t mind. A rotten stinky Lady was better than no Lady at all, since she didn’t have a mommy, anymore.

Daddy snored in front of the TV, throw-up crusted down his bare, hairy chest. She let herself out of the screen door and hiked the dead-grass hill, ducking into the barn. And there, in the quiet darkness, she crouched in front of the newest Lady, who was in truth, not so new at all. “Hi,” she said, taking a barbie comb out of her pocket and sliding it lovingly  through a small segment of blood-crusted black hair.

“Hello Jean-Marie,” the lady said back in her whispery dead-thing voice. Her eyes were blank and clouded and soon would be eaten away by flies. The eyes always went first, the tastiest part of a Lady. There was still a kindness to the jellied bulge, though, like she didn’t blame Jean-Marie for what happened. Jean-Marie remembered thinking back to the moment she first saw her, pumping gas at the station in maternity leggings and a tee shirt. You like that one? Daddy had asked from behind the wheel of the truck. Yeah, Jean Marie said, because she had to choose someone, fast, or Daddy would choose for her.

He let her out then, and she wandered over to the Lady, crying. It was never very hard to cry. Jean-Marie felt like the tears were always welled up in her throat, ready to overflow. The Lady crouched down so she was on her level, smiled at her so sweetly, promising they’d find her Daddy. And they had.

Now she sat up, tarp around sharp, maggoty shoulders like a Queen’s cloak. “Did you have a good day at school?” she asked, black tongue moving in the pit of her mouth. She was a little lopsided now, half of her face slack and melted and bearing creases from the tarp, lips withered and pulled back over her teeth so it looked like she was smiling.

“I don’t go to school,” Jean-Marie explained, uncapping her glittery vanilla lip gloss and dabbing it on what was left of the lady’s lips. Her eyelids made papery moth sounds as they opened and closed, and something deep inside her squelched, sputtered gaseously.

“How do I look?” The lady asked, twisting her head to the side, tendons creaking, ropes of sinew in her neck showing through shreds of buggy skin.

Jean-Marie assessed, then peeled her eye patch off to get a better look. “Ok,” she said.

“Can you see through that eye?” the lady asked, pointing with her stiff, blackened finger.

“It’s actually better than the other one,” Jean-Marie admitted shyly. “They cover up the strong eye so the weak eye gets better.”

The Lady took the lip gloss from her, cupped Jean-Marie’s face in a beef-jerky palm as she applied it. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the Lady said, a few flies buzzing out of her mouth. “You’re a very pretty little girl.” 

Jean-Marie blushed. No one ever thought she was pretty. Daddy called her plain, compared to her Mommy, who had been a beauty. Jean-Marie  didn’t remember what she looked like- there were pictures but they were all a cigar box under her Daddy’s bed, and he never let her look at him. The one time she snuck a glimpse after he’d passed out, she found they were stuck together with something like glue. The picture on top looked just like a Lady—dark hair, light eyes, big smile.

“Jean-Marie,” the Lady said after a moment. “Can I ask you for something special and secret?” 

She nodded, eyes wide as the Lady lifted her shirt and laboriously unhooked her nursing bra. The deflated balloons inside spilled out like two slabs of meat, bruised and cottage-cheesy, nipples pointing in different directions. “I had a little girl, before. Younger than you. I’m sure she misses me, but not as much as I miss her. And I just hope that one last time, I can feel—“

Jean Marie nodded solemnly, and did not need to be told twice. She was a girl without a mother, an empty hungry mouth. She dropped the lip gloss and the Barbie comb, crawled over on skinned knees to the Lady’s outstretched arms. Then she let herself be pulled to the slat, sunken frame. Nosed through the rot to the puckered bag, fixed her lips over dead flesh, and sucked until bits of skin rolled off on her tongue. She could almost taste the ghost of milk gone sour, and imagine the gush of it over her tongue. The Lady held her, and hummed like a buzzing bee.

* * *

Ⓒ Phoenix Mendoza