Chris Phillips

Muddy Milk

Chapter 1

Albin

-1-

Albin Dunaway squeezed a winch handle made mostly of splinters so it wouldn’t spin loose, wiping the sweat from his brow against his sopping shirtsleeve. The creaking rig his great-uncle had built sat above the old well next to the dirt driveway far from the road. But even the chilly air that breathed below ground got swallowed up by the July heat before it could escape. The stench didn’t though. It reached out from that old Kentucky darkness like a long burp from his ancestors, musty and sour.

The reek of snakes.

"Would you hurry it up?" Harrie Dunaway said as she tied her dirty blond hair up in a tight ponytail. His sister was thin as a sliver of rawhide stretched over a skeleton, but she held up the open end of a faded red sleeping bag, soggy and slick, and waited with steady hands.

"I’m a hurrying," Albin said as he switched hands and wiped more of the stinging sweat from his eyes. Harrie, who was fifteen—two years younger than Albin— could get mad at a pot of water if it didn’t boil fast enough. "This one’s heavy."

She glanced nervously around, making sure nobody was close enough to overhear. "You’d better hurry if you want to eat before we get posted."

"Posted… again?" Albin shook his head. "Not today." They had already sold a double batch of muddy milk, two full Mason jars, to some deadbeats who drove up from East Croxton. The only reason the whole operation worked was that everyone kept a low profile. "We had that big sale not two days ago." Besides, he had big plans. Granny Vertie said she would sign the consent papers for him to join Uncle Sam after he snuck her to the nursing home on Fryville Avenue. That fact alone amazed him. She hardly left the house, and the fact that she was willing to let him head off into the unknown either meant she was getting soft in her old age or going senile. He guessed the latter.

"Now we got another sale," Harrie said, frowning. "At least that’s what Tall Johnny said. Told me the Derby Boys got wind we was the ones dealing from the Somersets. Now the Derbys want their doses direct from us."

Tall Johnny Harris was their cousin. He was five years older with half their brains.

"The Derby boys?" Albin’s voice broke on the words. They made prison look appealing because at least there’d be a wall and barbed wire to keep them away. "How the hell did they find out?"

"Beats me," Harrie said, "but we better milk this bunch before they get here. It’s the Fourth tomorrow, remember? We can use our share and have some fun at the fireworks! Just like the old days." A wide grin stretched across her dirty face which was streaked with lines of sweat.

Albin had forgotten about the fireworks since he planned to be on a bus to Lexington by then. He thought about the papers folded nice and neat in the duffle hidden under his bed and had an irrational impulse to run upstairs and make sure they were still there. But the thought fizzled away as he met Harrie’s eyes. He didn’t want to leave his sister. He had written her a note explaining things, which he’d hidden in her room, stuffed between the mattress and box spring. She’d still have Aunt Opal after he left. They’d all call him a no-good traitor, he couldn’t help that, but he would run away and make something of himself. Something more than a drug slinger.

Still, his eyes shifted away from hers. He put both hands on the winch and cranked faster. The entire set up creaked and moaned in the quiet summer air, threatening to blow over if he sneezed hard enough.

In the distance, Highway 78 stretched long and silent, a concrete river that wouldn’t take a ship anywhere. Nobody except for locals bothered with the road since the state opened up the bypass a few years ago. But once in a while, somebody would realize they were lost and turn around in the driveway. More than once, he wanted to hop in their cars and hitchhike his way to freedom. The Navy was a better choice, though. At least there he’d have a roof and guaranteed food. And he’d get to see the world just like the recruiter said.

Albin leaned over the side of the well with one shaky hand on the crank. The round shape of the net caught the light, a glistening reflector made by scales and water. "Get ready!"

Harrie moved forward with the nylon sleeping bag open and ready. The net was full of white cottonmouths, a weird snake nobody in the county had seen before, eyeless just like the fish out of Mammoth Cave. The snakes hated sunlight. Too much would kill them, but a good sunbeam would stun them for a few seconds. Albin would dump the coiling mess into the bag, and Harrie would snatch up any he missed.

Albin paused as the net crested the lip of the well. The mound of serpents usually twisted and hissed with open, puffy mouths ready to bite down on any threat. But this time, none of them moved. He leaned in to take a closer look.

They were all dead. A chill that defied the heat spread across his body.

"What’d you do?" Harrie threw down the sleeping bag and plucked one loose that had flopped halfway out of the net. It jiggled like a swollen spaghetti noodle left too long in the pot.

"You saw what I did. Same as always. Maybe there’s some residue on the net?"

"Don’t know." She took a determined breath and tossed the dead snake back into the well. "Wait here."

Harrie ran off, her black-bottomed feet slapped the earth as she disappeared around the corner, toward the front porch.

Their house, Granny Vertie’s house actually, was built just after the Civil War. It was a sturdy old farmhouse that stood two stories tall with an attic and a little walkway between two dormers that stood on the roof like a pair of prison turrets. Granny used to keep potted plants up there. Nothing fancy. Butterfly weeds, tiny, orange flowers mixed with an occasional black-eyed Susan along the stretch to give the place a livelier feel. The bumblebees loved it, but if the insects had their way the entire house would be a big heap of soil and greens. The crispy and brown stalks were still in their clay pots, dead from dehydration because Granny couldn’t do the climb anymore. Flecks of paint hung from the house, either blown away by high winds or just too much time without a good touch up. That’s what the whole place needed, a little attention, but attention meant work and Tall Johnny and Fatty, their uncle, didn’t go in for that sort of thing.

Albin would see them drunk on Miller High Life and shake his head. They set the bar low, but their laziness made him determined to find another place to call home. He’d work his way to a better life just as soon as his plan found its feet.

Harrie returned with two more minnow dip nets, nylon netting attached to an iron ring about the size of a hubcap. Dip scoop done. The nets were wet which meant she’d washed them off. Smart thinking in case something poisoned the dead batch. At least she wasn’t lazy.

Despite the precautions, they hauled up two more loads of dead snakes before Harrie left and brought Tall Johnny over to the well. He was Fatty’s son from another marriage and stood nearly a head taller than Albin. Tall Johnny grew a wispy beard and always wore his favorite Hawaiian shirt, a tropical smear of faded baby blue background with a pattern of whales and palm trees sewn into the fabric. Sunny Jesus on vacation.

Tall Johnny squatted down beside them and whispered, "Lord have mercy."

"You got anything useful to add?" Harrie planted her fists on her hips and stuck out her chin.

"This is the Lord’s work, why shouldn’t we bring him in on this?"

"You say everything’s the Lord’s work," Harrie said. Lately, the two of them had been getting into theological debates that consisted of half-truths and lots of yelling. "Next thing you’ll tell us you don’t believe in dinosaurs."

"Course I believe in dinosaurs," Tall Johnny said. "God knew we’d need gasoline someday." He snatched up a snake and held it behind the head like it might resurrect and bite him regardless. About a month ago, he had found religion. Or it found him. Albin wasn’t sure how that worked. It was around the time Tall Johnny almost died from an albino snake bite. He was the one who figured out the formula of venom to water. His cousin still hadn’t gone to church, though. Church would take work so he filled in the gaps himself with words that would make Preacher Thomas wince and burn Tall Johnny at the stake... if that sort of thing were still allowed.

Tall Johnny fooled around with the snake’s jaw and worked it open and closed as he held it behind the neck. Then he hit the right spot, and venom shot out from the glands in a little stream. "At least we got something to work with."

"We?" Harrie blinked in disbelief.

"Work with what?" Albin said, trying to head off an argument.

"Milk and dump," Tall Johnny said, tossing the dead snake onto the pile. "Without the milk, we don’t have any for the Derby deal today. I’ll tell Fatty what’s what."

"Dump them where?" Harrie peaked over the side of the well.

"Not there. Might be a one or two that’s still alive," Tall Johnny said. "Just throw them in the trash. Get to work. And like the good Lord said, I’ll be back... to check up on things."

He turned to leave, but Albin said, "I can’t be here... for the sale I mean." He tried thinking fast, but all he came up with was, "I’ve I got plans."

Tall Johnny paused. "What’d you say?"

"Me and Lula Thomas are working on a project for Bible school," Albin lied. Lula Thomas was the preacher’s daughter. A girl who could hang the moon if she got the notion. Ever since he grew old enough to notice the difference between boys and girls, Albin was smitten. "Told her I’d stop by for supper and to—"

Tall Johnny’s long arm whipped out like a switch and caught Albin on the ear with the flat on his hand. Albin’s ear popped as he staggered back. The pain shot through his neck.

"Leave that little slut alone!" Tall Johnny said. "This sale ain’t something you’ll miss... got it?" He raised the back of his hand again, but Albin nodded until Tall Johnny lowered it.

"Amen to that," Tall Johnny said.

When he was gone, Harrie said in a small voice, "Could’ve told you not to do that. What’s the point?"

"The point is... I’m just trying to do something with my life. Something besides milking snakes all day." He wanted to tell her the truth about his plans, let her in on his secret, but if he let the critters out of the bag there was no telling where they’d end up. She had always been the one he had gone to with his secrets, and now keeping his plans hidden from her felt like he was betraying himself somehow. They were a team. He was letting her down, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to get out before he snapped.

"You’re sweet on Lula ain’t you?"

"No," Albin said a bit too fast. "I just... I don’t want to be here forever dealing drugs."

"Why not?" Harrie said, amazement dripping from her voice. "Thought we was family?"

"We are family, but... but I need more. I want a college degree, I want a house, I want... out." He shrugged, not trusting himself to say more.

"And how can you afford them things?"

"I could join up, serve my time like Uncle Horace."

"Get killed like Horace."

"At least I’d be trying," Albin said. His clenched his jaw and turned away before he said anything stupid. Harrie was smart, and one too many words would paint her a map of his plan.

The silence built up between them like bricks on a wall that got taller with every breath. Before it got to high, Harrie laughed and said, "Stop kidding yourself."

"I’m ain’t kidding!" Albin made a fist and wanted to pry his way through the bricks to wipe the smirk off Harrie’s face. "I’m serious as the rapture."

"Now you sound like Tall Johnny." She laughed. "But I’ve seen you shoot..." She lowered her voice. "We all have. You couldn’t hit a barn door if you threw a gun at it. You know they’ll make you shoot, right? Shoot people."

"Not in the Navy," Albin said. Images of bone and blood sloshed through this mind on waves of crimson that seeped to the surface anytime he thought about violence. A bloody handprint on the white car door, a blurry memory, or a dream. Albin would wipe the image away forever if he could. He put a hand on the edge of the well to steady himself and swallowed back the tangy bile until the feeling disappeared.

"You see," Harrie said. Then she added in a softer voice. "You can’t even think about hurting people. I just don’t want to see you disappointed."

"Mind your own butt-crack," Albin said and regretted it. Harrie only shook her head and pulled up grass with her toes like she did when he upset her. She stared at him a long moment, not saying anything, then hurried to the house. He didn’t follow. Instead, he dumped the dead snakes on the ground. Three mounds of slimy decayed noodles each about two feet long and reeking of algae and dead fish.

Harrie returned with another Mason jar, and they got to work. After an hour, two jars sat half full of muddy milk. The pile of snakes drained. Their mouths gaped, so they all seemed to be laughing at him as their stringy bodies decayed. There had to be a few drips left in each one, but the sun was hot, and Albin’s hands stung from all the work. It was quitting time. Harrie didn’t argue.  

"I’ll get trash bags," she said.

"No," Albin said, "I’ll get a shovel." It seemed like such a small thing, a grave for dead snakes, but when he thought about them dumped in with the High Life and Diet Coke cans he felt slimy in a way that had nothing to do with reptiles. Even snakes deserved better than trash bags left in the heat to fester with an awful stench.

It took thirty minutes to build them a little burial mound close to the well. Albin dug it deep so no dogs or fox would stop by and help themselves to a feast. Harrie watched, telling him how to do it right. When he packed it smooth, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his dirty shirt. It left a rusted smear across the fabric. His vision spun from the heat, and he tried reassuring himself that he had done at least one good deed before he ditched out. He let out a long breath that didn’t do anything for his mood. Good deed or not, he was about to leave his family baking in the July sun without him.

Albin shook off the guilt, deciding he needed an icy shower before he headed to Fryville with Granny.

Harrie dusted her hands off and marked her dark jeans with twin handprints of grime. "Should we say something? A blessing?" She wore a half-cocked smile as she reverently held up a jar like it was an urn filled with the ashes of someone dead and gone.

"Don’t be stupid," Albin said. He hefted the shovel and held his Mason jar in his other hand.

They came in through the kitchen door at the other side of the house, plopped the jars on the table, and washed the dirt off his hands.

"Took you long enough," Tall Johnny said. He tossed an empty High Life into the trash and cracked open a fresh can. His smile dropped when he saw the jars. "Where’s the rest?"

"All we could get." Harrie dried her hands off on an oven mitt.

"No," Tall Johnny said, "not that. The color seems... off? The Derby Boys want their drugs white, don’t matter what kind unless it’s crank or grass. Maybe we could bleach it?" He held it up to the light and sure enough, the usual, cloudy mixture, which resembled a cup of sugar stirred into a pitcher, now showed a yellow tint... soured muddy milk? "Were they all this color?"

"They were all dead," Albin said, trying not to sound like a smartass.

Tall Johnny spat at him then called out, "Fatty! Get in here!" He leaned against the counter and scratched at his beard like a stray dog on the hunt for fleas. "We got a big problem," he added under his breath.