Mother's Milk

The hot pan spat and crackled with such violence that Jim could hear it from his bedroom as he sat, perched at the edge of the single bed, lacing his well-creased leather boots. He paused, breathing in the thick scent of bacon. Mya was up early. Jim passed through the cramped living room to the kitchen where his daughter cooked breakfast, her fingers wound around the handle of the spatula, wearing a unicorn print nightgown.  The nightgown was tight through the shoulders and her lean, knobby legs sprouted out from beneath the frilled hemline.

“I could’ve made you breakfast,” he said, placing a fresh filter in the coffee machine.

“Dad, you don’t have to do everything for me.”

The coffee grounds poured onto the filter, piled gently like dirt on a fresh grave. Jim clicked the canister in place and poured water into the void before starting the machine. Mya was plating the bacon with a side of eggs. He reached over and brushed the chocolate brown hair out of her eyes, the strands catching in her eyelashes as his hand caressed her forehead. He had watched her mother do this often, but that was before and his touch was not the same. He saw his own calloused hand and withdrew it, reaching to the pitcher of milk instead and pouring her a large glassful.

After breakfast, the screen door of the house trailer squealed as Jim swung it open, releasing his collie, Maggie. She checked to see that he was following as she ran in wide loops across the parched grass leading to the dairy sheds. He followed her deeper into the acrid air, putting on his dusty baseball cap as he strode downwind from the residences. The clouds overhead streaked the sky like windswept ash.

Most of the farmhands were gathered in a circle.

“You better believe I wore a fucking rubber. I gave that slut one beer-goggled look and she was on my-,” Luke stopped short, catching Jim’s approach from the corner of his eye. The two men watched each other for a moment.

“Word came down from the boss last night,” Jim called out. “All of Shed B is being loaded up this morning and we’re bringing in the yearlings from the stockyard.”

The older farmhands exchanged looks, but it was Brucie who finally spoke up. “Jimmy, I don’t mean to question you, but these heifers, why, they’re a full year younger than the last lot. Seems a little soon to be trucking ‘em off.”

“I’m just handing down orders. They don’t tell me and I don’t ask.”

Luke snickered. “You heard the man. Let’s get these old milk machines outta here. I’m sick of looking at their saggy tits.”

The transport trucks would not arrive until later that morning. Jim moved silage with the backhoe, dumping it on the concrete alleys in the three other sheds. The cows slipped their heads through the metal bars, eagerly stretching their necks to reach the food. He watched them from the cab. He knew why the cattle were being retired early. Management had been complaining for months that milk production was down.  It was either early slaughter or more hormones in their feed.

By the time the trucks arrived, Jim was waiting with the rest of the farmhands. The driver thrust in and out of the loading pen, motor snarling, trying to angle the trailer parallel to the bars. The herd sensed the commotion and began to shift in their narrow stalls, their hides butting against the bars. He and a few of the others unhooked the chains and Maggie barked at the cows in turn, sending them crowding into the lane toward the outside gates. The first truck was soon loaded and they started on the next.

It was early afternoon and the last dozen or so ambled towards the exit, their hoofs clicking against the cement floor of the shed, while Jim and the others followed behind. The trailer was nearly stocked full of bodies. Luke was in the loading pen and Jim watched him pursuing the animals that dodged the ramp with the kiss of the electric cattle prod. They sprung away from the shock. As one dashed ahead, she pushed into another cow who swung her backside into Luke, sending him crashing backwards into the gate. He was small now, crumpled like a thrown-off party dress against the metal post, and his face was twisting under the shadow of his baseball cap. He reached for the lost handle of the prod and gripped it, leaning on his other hand as he lunged toward the cow walking away.

The end of the prod slipped between the folds of her buttocks. He held it there, leaning into the prod until she stumbled forward in heap of black and white mass. Her limbs twisted out under her, hoofs scraped wildly in the bits of hay and dung, and her mouth wrenched against the dirt. Luke backed away, but his dark eyes held fast on her convulsing muscles and her splayed teats as they leaked into the dirt.

Jim weaved his way through the crowd to kneel before the downed animal.  Head bent, he placed his hands against the flat of her forehead and let his fingers caress down to the sides of her jaw. He uttered gentle hushes. She lifted her face from the ground, panting fast, heavy breaths into his lap, and looked to him from under her dusty eyelashes. Moving to the side of her neck, he reached back to put his hand over her ribs and began gently patting her until she rose. Jim was taken by the softness of her neck as he tried to keep her balanced. The tremor from her shaking legs made her vibrate against his chest, reminding him of Mya learning to walk.

“Jimmy, you gonna load that cunt or you gonna marry her?” Luke sneered. “Jesus, we have to get the rest of the cattle in the truck.”

Jim drew back; keeping his hands on her chest for support. The cow steadied herself a moment later and moved forward wearily. Luke smacked her from behind. It sent her trotting up the loading ramp.

“What’s that business with the prod? You’ve no reason to zap her like that.”

“Relax, buddy, everybody does shit like that.”

The rest of the farmhands closed in and the remainder of the livestock staggered into the truck. The men lifted the ramp and pulled down the sliding door over top, bolting the barrier into place. Jim watched the animals through the slats in the side of the trailer, their flesh pressed against the wall.

The driver pulled the truck into gear and ascended up the long driveway leading back onto the main road. Next to the driveway, hundreds of young cows meandered around the stockyard. They would begin insemination later that day.

“Maybe you should bring Mya down here after school,” Luke said, looking off at the stockyard as he adjusted his belt. “Show her how babies are made.”

But the older man ignored him, staring at the small, wet patches of milk soaking into the ground.

Jamie Lively is taking a Minor in Creative Writing at Western University.