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One fine Friday morning, a cold breeze made its way inside Mrs.
Patterson bedroom. It caressed her uncovered body, and slowly
started to head north, until it reached her face. Once the bitter air
spread and dispersed through her forehead, it came back
together and made its way down to her meaty lips, like a snake
slithering towards its prey.
The, she woke. Now, fully lucid, she felt the coldness leave her
lips and reach down towards her navel. This made her body rattle
a bit. She gasped. Mrs. Patterson winced.
She made nothing of it, until she heard the same set of noises
again.
She resolved to ignore the racket and enjoy her God-given right
to stay in bed. She fought like hell to defend that right. She
twisted and turned in place, hoping that her futile jerking and
pulling would make all the unpleasantness go away.
Then she heard a shrill scream. Mrs. Patterson lost her breath.
She exhaled once she heard a child’s giggle. This combination of
sounds confused her.
She leapt from her pillow-ridden king size bed and rushed to her
window. She squinted her eyes and moved them from side-to-
side, trying to find the source of those god-awful noises. She
visually probed her neighbor’s house from window to window. She
started with the small one by the front door, until she got to the
one on the far right side of the red brick house, on the second
floor.
Shortly after catching up to the small girl, the mother bound both
of them with her large, strong hands. She began to signal her two
daughters to hold still, while she emptied buckets of pure white
milk on their heads. After five minutes of this, she hoisted up the
two girls, one by one, out of what seemed like a large claw foot
tub.
Then she dried them. Mrs. Patterson was in awe of her neighbor’s
strange activity. As she watched, she felt like a peeping tom of
sorts.
Mrs. Patterson grimaced and left the window. She stood in her
room in silence. She was trying to decide what to do with her
newly acquired information.
She told them to get ready for an early brunch. The plan was laid
out: they’d meet in three hours, at Mildred Quilty’s house, the
biggest and grandest place there was for gossiping.
Her two best friends, Mrs. Primrose and Mrs. Quilty, shifted their
large behinds back and forth in their lawn chairs as they listened
to their confidant. They took their hot cups of primrose herbal tea
with both hands, and leaned their elbows in towards their
stomachs. This position indicated to Mrs. Patterson that her
curious friends were ready to hear more, more and more of the
wonders she had to tell.
Far away from these three women, was Mrs. Pritchett, shifting
flour with soda and salt, getting ready to bake her signature
chocolate cake. She stopped to think of her daughters, and
smiled. They’d be home in a few hours, and she’d be there to
receive them with open arms.
And then Mrs. Pritchett went to get the eggs. She cracked one
open, and thought of Mrs. Patterson’s round head. Then she
cracked another egg, and she thought of her neighbor’s little
round body. She smiled to herself as beat the eggs and formed a
yellowish pulp.
This was now a reality. Both women would meet soon, and the
milk bath would be discussed. But there was more to the milk
bath than the bath itself.
There was the preparation for it, for starters. Mrs. Pritchett would
wake up so early to prepare that strange bath that even her pet
rooster would hiss at her when she’d pass him by and wake him
with her heavy, grunting steps. He’d strut around the roost, and
raise his feathers in a flurry, to show how irked it was that her
master had woken first. She would pass the proud animal and
arrive to the backdoor barn and grab the bucket hanging from a
hook. Then she’d touch the barn’s red wood for luck.
There was also the milking uniform. This was made up of two
things: a tough leather apron and some black rubber boots. With
these things on, she’d hike up the grassy knoll that rear-ended
her home, to head to work. Her large shadow would blanket over
her pretty cottage, and Mrs. Pritchett liked this. It made her
realize that everything somehow always looked quite right from
up there. There, at the top off the grassy knoll, she’d spot a
quaint three-legged stool that’d been in her family for years, and
with this, she’d support her callous behind to comfortably milk
the grazing cows.
She would come back with a full a full two gallons of milk, a
bucket in one hand, and one in the other. Soon, these would be
emptied into the family tub.
The children awake, the milk in its place, and their grand mother
ready to bathe.
That was every Friday morning. Right now it was Friday evening,
and Mrs. Pritchett was now standing in front of her neighbor’s
front door, holding a cake with both hands.
Mrs. Patterson opened the door with a smile. This soon faded.
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Patterson. She gripped a washing cloth she
had in right hand.
“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Patterson, as she wiped a small
tear from her eye.