The Milk Wagon Read online

  Trey Kratz pulled up in the Whale, an antique, beat-up baby blue Mercedes with a rusted-out hole in the back seat so big you could drop a tennis ball through it. Chad Harkins followed in the Firechicken, Travis Wilson in the Dustbuster, and Ben Sands, Antonio Adkins, Rush Atherton, and Sammy Mallette arrived in Ben’s mom’s Cadillac – affectionately named Freddy after the notorious pimp who ran the whores up in North Gulfport. Ben was embarrassed to be driving such a behemoth, but Sammy thought it was funny and was laughing about it when they got out of the car. Sammy laughed at everything. Rush was the redheaded kid of the class. He always wore a crew cut and dreamed about being a Navy SEAL. He was laid back, easy to talk to, and had a good-looking older sister with fantastic cans.

  We eventually decided we had hung out in the parking lot long enough, and it was time to comb the halls to see what piqued our interest. I was hoping one particular white BMW would roll in, but seeing none, there was no need for me to stay outside any longer. I borrowed a pen from Hop, who grabbed his notebook and a sack lunch. Mark didn’t bring anything. No paper, no books, nothing. He figured the first day was a pass. Actually, he considered the first week a pass.

  As we started to make our way to the side door near our lockers, a shiny, red four-wheel-drive F150 pickup crunched through the oyster shells and pulled in next to where Mark had parked.

  “Who is that?” I asked. Neither Mark nor Hop answered, and judging by the looks on the faces of the rest of the gang, no one had a clue. The door opened and out stepped a cat who looked like a cross between pre-Army Elvis and post-Outsiders Tom Cruise.

  He was crisp, polished, and clean – much like his truck. His hair was Lego perfect, and when he closed the door and started walking towards the school, it was like a slow-motion scene from a movie, with the Kenwoods from Andy Tanner’s Camaro over in the senior lot pumping out the soundtrack. He looked toward us and scanned the crowd, then nodded, glanced at me for a second, and headed for the door.

  “Must be a new kid,” Mark said.

  “You think?” Sammy chimed in from behind us, still laughing. I put the pen in my mouth and checked out the truck again while everyone headed towards the door. It looked like it had just rolled off the lot.

  New kid indeed.

  Chapter 2

  St. John Interparochial High School opened in Gulfport, Mississippi in 1956 as a place where Catholics, pseudo-Catholics, and the occasional Protestant could go for an education purportedly built on truth, honor, and the antiquated tenets of the Roman Catholic Church. Back in the day, hardline nuns patrolled the classrooms with the precision of drill sergeants, swapping out boots and fatigues for orthopedic shoes and habits. Banging erasers after class and writing lines were relatively light sentences; a hand smacking, a cheek pinch, or an ear grab were more the norm. Years and years of pent-up sexual frustration coupled with bunking in bleak, yellowed rooms with groups of other similarly situated women took its toll. Somewhere along the line, much like husbands and wives who have been married for a long time, the nuns started to look alike. Other than variations in weight, nearly every nun over the age of sixty favored the other. Dirty glasses, questionable teeth, and bad haircuts flourished. It was as if Velma from Scooby-Doo had several ripened aunts who suddenly retired and moved in together.

  The St. John student body drew from three feeder sources – St. James Elementary and St. Alphonsus Elementary made up the majority of the Catholic contingent, while the remaining kids came from a scattering of public schools up and down the Coast. I was a bit of a hybrid. I attended St. James for first and second grade, but in third grade, my parents moved us out of Gulfport proper and relocated the family further north, deep in the county. Said they were tired of living in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, wanted more land, and something else about taxes and my dad’s job. I found out later our move was tied more to our being strapped from my old man’s binges at the greyhound track in Mobile than any desire to experience country living at its finest.

  To say I wasn’t happy with the transfer would have been an understatement. One year, I was surrounded by friends in a school I loved, and the next I found myself square in the middle of Lyman Elementary, a public school way out in the sticks where the dirtline mustaches and permed-in-the-back mullets were sported without a hint of shame. I made an observation early on about one particularly egregious haircut and almost got my size eight tail kicked by another third grader who looked like he drove himself to class. Over time, of course, things got better, and by the time I left three years later, we found common ground that led to some pretty tight alliances. What I didn’t know then was those bonds formed on the red dirt of that worn-out kickball field would end up saving my ass – not once, but twice.

  When I returned to St. John in 1981 after my involuntary secondment, I happily fell back into the fold within my first week as a seventh grader. There were still some nuns, but the majority of the classes were now led by teachers who had come over after a career in the public schools, checking out of the zoo as soon as they put in enough years to qualify for state retirement. The ratio continued to lean more towards the secular with every season after that, and as I began my junior year, there were no more than a handful of sisters left. The principal, on the other hand, had been a staple at St. John’s for at least ten years, and he made it clear he intended to stay. Petty Officer Johnny “The Chief” Beattie was a fireplug of an Italian man with a short fuse and a Navy pension who transitioned from a 25-year career in the military into “hiya” education. The Chief’s stubby arms made him genetically predisposed to swing a paddle, and the first time he lit me up when I was a freshman, it hurt so bad it made me cough. He had a history of trying to set the disciplinary tone the first day of school, and it was often not pretty for whoever ended up on the receiving end.

  I saw him as soon as I stepped into the building and did my best to keep from crossing his path. I was able to avoid him by cutting through a classroom, and I eventually made it to my locker unscathed. Per tradition, I taped my tattered picture of the Blues Brothers on the inside door, then pulled out my Spanish book, Hop’s semi-chewed pen, and the sixty-page Mead spiral notebook with the orange cover. I had been there less than an hour, and the metal coils were already bent and misshapen to the point of being nonfunctional. I started to make my way down to the cafeteria to see if the rumor about an improved lunch menu had any merit.

  I barely made it three steps before a voice stopped me in my tracks.

  Suddenly the dissonance of five hundred day-one conversations, the scraping of desks across freshly waxed linoleum, and the slamming of cold steel locker doors fell away like someone pressed a selective mute button silencing all sounds but one. The question hit me like a sucker punch.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I should have had more situational awareness. I should have picked up the scent of Lauren perfume, which even now slingshots keen memories to the forefront of my brain as sudden and as vivid as the Christmas I got a full Hot Wheels track, complete with garage and working elevator. My periphery should have noticed the parting of the crowds, the sudden change in pitch of some of the voices closer by. My radar should have been moving in overtime, because, at least for this year, the main reason I was looking so forward to the first day of school, was for this very moment.

  I turned, and there, in front of me – crossed arms cradling books across her chest – stood Emily Miller.

  Chapter 3

  Emily and I had been classmates, kind of, since first grade at St. James. I would have been on track to go the entire distance with her, but my temporary relocation screwed that up. It didn’t really matter, though, because I barely even noticed Emily back then – nor were her antennae pointed my way, but in eighth grade, after several months of pre-pubescent posturing, we became friends. During the next two years, we became close, and somewhere toward the end of our sophomore year, a spark lit. The glances across the h
all became more frequent. The conversations got a little deeper, the physical space between us drew closer, and the end-of-class locker visits were becoming a daily event. She was all I thought about. Then summer happened.

  Her parents had money. Real money, although you would never know it by the way she carried herself; in fact, she downplayed it as often as possible, even if the BMW was hard to ignore. It was the kind of money that allowed them to spend most of their summer traveling in Europe and taking three-day theatre weekend trips to New York City. My family, on the other hand, was not exactly knocking it out, which meant I spent the summer between my sophomore and junior year busting my ass at Murphy Electric as the default attic rat and the go-to mole cricket. Pulling wire under crawl spaces and digging ditches in the South Mississippi summer sun was not glamorous, but it kept me busy, and the forty-hour-plus weeks put a respectable amount of change in my teenage pocket. We promised to keep in touch, but neither of us did, and as soon as I laid eyes on her, I instantly regretted not writing.

  She was wearing faded Guess jeans, a pullover Esprit shirt, and earrings that dangled and swung when she moved her head. She was a bit of a close-talker, and her sudden proximity caught me off guard, turning my mouth to cotton. If someone had to be a close-talker, however, I’d much rather it be Emily than any of my cretin friends.

  “What?” I swallowed quickly and tried to recover while doing my best, quite poorly I might add, to avert my eyes. I didn’t want to stare, but I hadn’t seen her since we got out of school and I could not comprehend how it was possible for her to become exponentially better looking here, the first day back.

  “Were you heading somewhere?” Underneath her perfume, I could smell vanilla and Faberge Organics shampoo, and when she spoke, I picked up a hint of Big Red.

  “Yeah, I was just, you know, going down to the cafeteria.”

  “The cafeteria?” She looked over my shoulder and nodded in the direction behind me. “Really? You sure you’re not following your boy Hop down there to check out the new junior high prospects?”

  To her point, the only legitimate date Hop went out on during our sophomore year was at homecoming, and he weirded everyone out by taking an eighth grader. Some eighth graders looked like their mom still tied their shoes. I followed Emily’s gaze. Sure enough, Hop was halfway down the hall and moving with a purpose.

  “You know, maybe I should go rescue him. Or maybe not. His efforts last year did yield results. Granted, she had to be back by nine-thirty, but technically, it was a date.”

  “Y’all are sick.”

  “What other options did he have? After all, he could never get anyone from our class to go out with him.” I grinned. “I couldn’t either.”

  “From what I hear, you didn’t have any problems over the summer.”

  “What?”

  “I heard Hop had some killer parties while I was away.” She looped her index finger in between the first and second buttons of my shirt and bunched the fabric from the placket into a fist, pulling me closer. Then she stood on her tiptoes and put her lips to my ear. “And I heard you were quite friendly with some of his guests,” she whispered, teasing out the words. Then she smiled without showing her teeth, slapped her palm on my chest and pushed me away.

  While Hop’s back to school soiree indeed proved to be fertile ground for snagging, I hadn’t expected reports of my dalliances to reach Emily’s ears. At least not yet. Not that it would have mattered much to her anyway. Or would it have?

  I wanted to say something snappy in reply, but after she lobbed that grenade, she moved on, oblivious to the cut eyes from the girls and turnaround checks by the dudes. I couldn’t blame them, and as I moved down the hall in the other direction, I found myself wanting to restart the conversation. I wondered what she was thinking at that very moment. I doubted she was dissecting the dialogue like I was, and the unpleasant revelation occurred to me I might not be in her thoughts at all. But I could have been, right? She searched me out, not the other way around, right? In fact, I was pretty sure I saw the same flash of happy-to-see-you-recognition in her eyes that I had. Didn’t I?

  I felt another tap on my shoulder. My instincts had been on point all along. I knew she’d come back, and I spun around, ready to re-engage. But the person standing in front of me was most certainly not Emily Miller.

  It was the new kid. And he looked as if he might throw up.

  “Uh, excuse me, I, uh, hate to bother you, but I saw you this morning in the parking lot and I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

  “Yeah?” I held my tongue.

  “I - I can’t figure out where to go.”

  Even though this dude was probably six-foot-two, he looked smaller up close, standing there hunched over, schedule in hand. I really didn’t want to be rude, but I also really wanted to catch back up with Emily. I glanced down past the lockers, but by this point she was long gone, and probably already in class. I narrowed my eyes and looked back at him. I remembered what it felt like starting up at a new school where everyone’s a stranger, so I couldn’t leave him hanging. I had been there not too long ago myself, and it could be tough no matter your age.

  “I saw you as well,” I said, “Matt Frazier. Nice to meet you –?”

  “Nate.”

  “Nate?” I shook his hand and it felt like a chicken breast two hours into a thaw.

  “Nate Mayes.”

  I nodded my head. “Where you from, Nate?”

  “Sacred Heart. Hattiesburg.”

  “Oh yeah?” Hattiesburg was about an hour north of Gulfport.

  “Yep.”

  “What brings you to Gulfport – and what landed you here in this fine institution?”

  “Ah, my, uh, my old man got an opportunity to open up shop down here.” To look so good, the kid could barely talk.

  “Well, lucky you.” We had a lot of military kids move in and out due to our proximity to the Seabee base. At first I thought he could be one of those, but changed my mind once I gave him a look over. Diction issues notwithstanding, the boy looked put together. He had all new clothes, and they were expensive. Girbauds, Polo shirt, and leather Stan Smiths. Maybe trying a bit too hard, like someone dressed him or something. I hoped he wasn’t going to be one of those asshole preppies. We had enough of them already.

  “Let me see what you got.” I took a look, and the brain trust in the office had him doubled-booked. “Here’s the problem. Looks like they got you in Spanish and chemistry first period. That’s crazy.”

  “Yeah,” he said, oblivious to my comments. Actually, I don’t think he was even listening. “Should I go back up, up front to the, uh, desk, and check –”

  “Look, I’m heading to Spanish right now. Why don’t you just follow me? Arguably, you’ll be half right. Plus, our chemistry teacher, Sister Joanne, can be incredibly shrill. You do not want her first period.”

  “Thanks.” He shifted his weight, threw his book bag over his shoulder and looked at me for direction. I jerked my head back toward the senior end.

  “This way. Room seven. Can’t miss it. Miss Mander may look like a linebacker, but she’s a real softie once you get to know her.” I took a few steps and then turned back. “How’d you end up way down here, anyway?”

  “Weird,” he said, looking relaxed for the first time. “Some old dude just a few lockers back was yelling and screaming at everyone and got me all – got me turned around.”

  So Nate met the Chief. “Greasy, short bastard?”

  Nate laughed. “Yeah, looked like he combed his hair with a pork chop. Had a perpetual grimace on his face like he just crapped his pants.”

  No stuttering there. I smiled and gave him a second look. We continued to class, and the more we talked, the more I got the feeling Nate wouldn’t be an outsider for long.

  Who knows? We might even be friends one day.

  C
hapter 4

  Kathryn Cooper’s father, a career Air Force Colonel, had a way with words and neither enlisted nor officer could escape his aphorisms. They became so prevalent during his command days at Keesler that they regularly appeared on the announcement board near the front gate. Be careful what you wish for was one of his favorites, and he often paired it with the other principles he swore by: always tell the truth and be accountable for your actions. He once told Kathryn during her feisty teenage days that the former was not nearly as important as the latter, but it was still a good piece of advice to heed, especially when your head – your head, Katy Bug, he pointed out – stayed perpetually turned toward the horizon looking for greener pastures.

  She sure wished she could have his counsel now. It had been five years to the day since he dropped dead of a heart attack in the commissary parking lot, holding a brown paper sack containing a gallon of milk and a box of Ginger Snaps he had picked up for her mom. His passing absolutely devastated Kathryn and she wore her grief like a veil: she could still see out, but it clouded her view of everything.

  Her year in the ditch ate away at nearly every meaningful aspect of her life. She walked away from her friends, isolated her work colleagues, and to her surprise, even found herself blaming her mother. Sex became nothing more than a distant memory, and romance was altogether off the table. It took her hitting rock bottom one Saturday morning – hunched over, cross-legged, tears dripping on the ceramic tiles in her crappy apartment kitchen before she realized there were two paths ahead. One led to an early grave; the other, she wasn’t quite sure, but it was somewhere else, and at that moment it was enough. The epiphany may have been unpleasant, but it was necessary, and over the next four years, she scratched, clawed and climbed her way back to those verdant fields where everything was right again. Except it wasn’t. Not yet, at least.