Warm Milk

Middle of the night, September 3rd

Mom and Dad are arguing and have been for the last half hour or so. I was sound asleep when the yelling started, but I know I won’t be able to get any more sleep tonight. I hope I can keep my eyes open in school tomorrow. I haven’t seen anyone doze off during class, but in my old school dozing off was a sure way to get sent to the nurse’s office and shot up with something.

Anyway, they are arguing about Mr. Tucker. The gist of the argument is that Mom thinks he’s a terrorist because he’s always lived outside the safety net. She accused Dad of endangering the life of her, me, and especially Providence. Dad said he’s not endangering any of our lives and that Mr. Tucker is just a nice old guy who happens to have a lot of experiences we can all learn from. Mom’s response was that she had no need to learn to make bombs or fire a gun, or any of the other things he might know because she, for one, has no intention of becoming a terrorist. Dad said that’s not the kind of stuff he meant. Mr. Tucker knows things about growing your own food and living off the land. Mom said she finds the food at the grocery store suitable for all her needs, so why would she want to grovel in the dirt to grow it? And now Mom’s threatening to report Dad to the police for associating with a terrorist. She says she’ll take me and go back to the safety net.

I won’t go with her, though. I like it here. I didn’t think I would at first, but I do. And I agree with Dad. Mr. Tucker just seems like a nice old guy.

Their screaming stopped and now Mom’s sobbing. When Dad reminded Mom that only one child was allowed to a couple in the safety net, she let out a scream like I’ve never heard before, not even in the movies. And then she started crying. I can hear Dad now, talking to her softly, asking her if she wants him to make her some warm milk.

“Why would I want warm milk?” she’s asking.

I hear Dad whispering, “It’s just something my mother would make us to calm us down when we had a nightmare.”

“Old wives tale,” she mutters. “I want my pills.”

“I threw them away,” Dad says softly. “For Providence.”

And now Mom is shrieking again. I hear Dad step out into the hallway. He closes their bedroom door behind him. Mom’s shrieks have dissolved again to sobs and I hear the clanking of pots and pans in the kitchen. I wonder if warm milk really works. I’m going to put on my robe and go out to the kitchen to see if Dad might be making enough for two.