Bad Milk

Bad Milk

In the kitchen, Mom twists the cap off a fresh jug of milk. She fills a glass and after taking a sip, she screws her face up and says, “Milk’s gone sour.”

Dad rattles his newspaper, turns the page without answering.

“You need to bring it back to the grocery store and get a refund,” Mom says. When Dad flips the newspaper to the next page, Mom adds, “You hear me? You even listening?”

Finally, Dad lays the paper down on the table and says, “If you think it’s sour, you take it back.”

Holding the milk jug in one hand and the filled glass in the other, Mom stomps across the kitchen and holds the glass in the air in front of Dad’s face. “Drink it and tell me it isn’t sour.”

They stare at each other. Dad’s bottom lip twitches.

“I never said it wasn’t sour,” Dad says.

Mom stays stern. “Drink it!”

He takes the glass from her hand and brings it to his nose, sniffs it. Then, keeping his face stone expressionless, Dad empties the glass in three gulps. Mom sets the jug on the table. “If you can stomach bad milk,” she says, “then you can finish it.” She whirls and heads back to the stove, where she slides a pan over the burner and turns the knob.

While the bacon sizzles, Mom keeps rambling. She scolds Dad about the rusted Rambler sitting in the driveway. “Keeps breaking down,” Mom says, “and he still refuses to get rid of it.” Mom brings up Dad’s wardrobe. “I can’t believe he wears those frayed and faded clothes in public.” Mom even mentions the dog. “Humane thing would be to have the old fleabag put down,” she says. “But that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Pretending things you keep around are still of use.”

For a few minutes Dad stares down at his hands on the table. They’re trembling. He raises his head and gazes a long time at Mom’s back while she’s bent over the stove. Then Dad picks the jug of milk up. He refills the glass and empties it. He does this again and again, pours and sips, pours and sips, until finally, the jug is empty.