Mazie Baby (10 page)

Fuck, yeah.

~~~~~~~~

Mazie leaned against the jamb of
her daughter’s bedroom door, stared at her sleeping form and listened to her
deep inhales and tiny whimpers with each exhale. She glanced at Ariel’s bedside
clock. Time to get on with it. She sidled up to the bed and placed a gentle
kiss on the back of Ariel’s head. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

Ariel rolled on her side and opened
one eye. “What time is it?”

“Eight-fifteen.”

Ariel pulled the pillow over her
head and moaned. “Gawd, Mom. It’s summer vacation. Let me sleep.”

“You’re going to spend the day with
Rachel and Polly. Have a sleepover tonight, too.”

Ariel tossed the pillow aside, sat up
and rubbed her eyes. “Why?”

“I have some errands to do, and
packing for our trip. You’d be bored. We’ll leave early tomorrow morning. Just you
and me, kid.”

“Like Thelma and Louise?”

Mazie raised her eyebrows. “Where’d
you hear about that?”

“Mrs. Simpson was watching it once.
They drive off a cliff.”

“Yeah. We’re not going to do that.”

Ariel giggled.

“Go brush your teeth. I’ll pack you
an overnight bag. Grandma is going to be surprised how tall you’ve grown.”

Ariel yawned and padded to the
bathroom.

Mazie tossed a shirt, jeans, and
fresh underwear into a small tote bag, and placed Darryl, Ariel’s favourite
floppy-eared rabbit with the purple corduroy overalls, on top. Since the first
time she’d seen him that Easter morning ten years ago, she’d never slept
without him.

The toilet flushed and Ariel exited
the bathroom, peered into the tote. “Mom, it’s all messy. You didn’t fold them
right.”

Mazie hesitated at the scorn in her
daughter’s voice. “I’m sorry.”

Ariel froze and stared at her
mother, her eyes glistened with pending tears. “It doesn’t matter. Things can
be sloppy once in a while.” She swallowed. “Right?”

Mazie nodded. “Right.”

Ariel stuffed her toothbrush into
the side pocket of the bag, made her bed and ran her hands over the bedspread
to flatten out the wrinkles.

Mazie turned away, pinched her arm
to fend off tears. When had Ariel picked up that need to be sure everything was
perfect? That was Mazie’s job. Make it just so. Keep the peace. Protect her
daughter.

She’d failed at that too.

~~~~~~~~

At the drugstore, Mazie ran one
finger along a row of sleeping aids. She picked one up and read the package,
then another. They were virtually identical except for the logo on the box. And
the price. She chose the cheapest and headed to the checkout.

The cashier ran the box over the
barcode reader. “Seven ninety-five. How are you paying?”

Mazie dug the billfold, sticky with
duct tape residue, from her purse and pulled out one of the gift cards from her
tampon returns.

When the transaction was complete,
the woman handed Mazie the bag, a receipt, and the gift card. “Three fifty-five
still left on the card.”

At the bank, she stood in the long
line, arms crossed, toes of one foot tap-tap-tapping against the tile floor.

Twelve-nineteen, the clock behind
the teller said. Damn these normal people, all crammed in on their stupid lunch
hour. Her days didn’t have the same markers as the working world. She just ran
her errands when she was told.

When a teller became free, Mazie slipped
up to the counter. “I need to make a withdrawal.”

“Swipe your card and enter your PIN
please.”

“I don’t have a card.”

The teller stared at her. “All
right. What’s your account number?”

Mazie reeled off the numbers and
waited while the teller’s fingers flew across the keyboard.

“Okay, Mrs. Reynolds. How much
would you like to withdraw?”

“What’s my balance?”

The teller clicked her mouse and
typed a few keystrokes. “Checking account has just over fourteen hundred.”
Click, click. “Savings has fifty-three ninety-two and change.” The woman looked
up at Mazie with an expectant look.

More than five grand in savings?
And he couldn’t spare enough for a tutor for Ariel? Well, screw him. “Give me the
balance in the savings, and six hundred from checking.” She kept her voice low,
glanced at the customers on either side of her.

The teller typed and clicked the
mouse. “Do you care what denominations? We can do hundreds and fifties for most
of it.”

Mazie nodded. “Fine. Whatever.”

The woman slid papers and rubber
stamps into a drawer and stepped to a machine along the back wall, swiped a
card through a reader and typed on the keypad. Bills flew out of the machine,
like a master card sharp shuffling a deck of playing cards. The woman returned
to her station and placed the first bill on the high counter in front of Mazie.
“One hundred, two —”

Mazie put her hand over the woman’s
and leaned in. “Do you think you could count that down there in front of you,
and quieter? I’d rather the whole place not know how much cash I’m carrying
around.”

The woman’s cheeks pinked. “Sorry,
ma’am. Of course.” She counted out the cash and slid the bills into an
envelope, then handed it to Mazie. “Sign here, please.”

Mazie tucked the envelope into her
purse and signed the receipt. She tapped the counter twice with an open palm
and smiled at the teller. “Thanks.”

At home, Mazie prepared a roast for
the oven, loaded Cullen’s dirty work clothes into the washer along with his
favourite flannel fishing shirt that had gathered dust over the winter. She folded
clean towels and stocked the linen closet, pulled the luggage from the crawl
space in the basement, and filled the bags with her and Ariel’s clothing and toiletries.
When everything was packed, she hid the luggage in Ariel’s closet, transferred
Cullen’s work clothes to the dryer, and went out to the shed. His fishing gear
was where he’d left it when he came home from his last trip the summer before —
tossed into a corner, the scaling knife sticky with scales and rotten with fish
guts. She lifted the latch on his tackle box. The flies were strewn about,
fishing line tangled and shoved into the bottom. Mazie untangled the line and
wound it onto the reel, separated feathers from hooks and sorted the flies and
lures. She soaked the knife in soapy water, scrubbed it until it gleamed and
set everything on the porch outside the back door.

She put the kettle on, sat at the
kitchen table, and pulled the small drug store bag from her purse. As she
sipped black tea, she read the inner pamphlet, the dosages and warnings.
Avoid
taking with alcohol
. Yeah, right.

Four of the tiny blue oval pills popped
easily from the confines of their foil bubbles and bounced into the mortar. 
The pestle soon crushed them into powder. The grinding of marble against marble
kept time with the ticking of her mother’s old cuckoo clock. The bird had died
a violent death at the hands of her husband two years before. He’d yanked it
out by its neck and crushed its head under the heel of his boot shortly before
slamming her into the wall and breaking two ribs. He hated that clock. And that
was her fault.

She glanced sideways at it. Four
forty-seven. A full hour before he’d storm the house.

About seven ounces remained in the
opened bottle of bourbon. She twisted the cap off, sniffed and recoiled at the
smell of anger and pain. She tipped the bottle to her lips. The amber liquor
hit the back of her mouth and she swallowed hard against her gag reflex. The
booze burned down her throat, a shiver ran through her body and warmth filled
her stomach.

Tonight called for some liquid
courage, even if it meant drinking from the enemy’s flask.

She set a funnel in the bottle’s neck
and poured crushed sleeping pills into the bourbon. She swirled the liquor in
the bottle and watched the alcohol dissolve the powdered pills. A smirk crossed
her lips. She recapped the bottle and placed it on the table next to an empty
tumbler at Cullen’s regular seat. Even if he was in a beer mood, he could never
pass up a finger or three of J.D.

The aroma of perfectly slow-roasted
beef filled the house. Mazie pulled out the pan for one last check, basted the
meat with the drippings and set the roast on the cutting board to rest. She turned
the potatoes, so perfectly brown and crisp on the outside, poked one of the
carrots to check that they were done, their natural sugars caramelizing the
scrubbed skins to perfection. Just the way Cullen liked it. She extracted some
of the drippings and made gravy. When the brown liquid thickened and bubbled,
she eyed the clock. Ten minutes to go.

She puttered about the living room,
tidied the spotless space, dusted the polished furniture. An odd sensation overtook
her. Calm, with a side of anticipation.

The roar of the truck announced his
approach long before he backed into the driveway. At the sight of the bronze
bull’s testicles dangling from the towing hitch ball, she retreated into the
kitchen and pulled the rest of his dinner from the oven.

While she sliced the meat and
scooped potatoes and carrots into serving bowls, the sound of him entering the
house brought a chill to her spine. His boots hit the wall before landing with
a familiar thud on the linoleum. She envisioned him kicking them off, aiming to
mar the drywall and scuff the paint. Purposeful, hateful. He would demand she
clean it up after dinner.

Like any normal day.

His lunch pail clattered against
the counter. The scrape of the chair legs against the floor was her cue. She
turned and placed the food in front of him, a bowl of gravy already at his
elbow, buttered bread stacked on a plate in the middle of the table.

He didn’t look up. Made no attempt
to speak, to make any form of polite contact. He scooped food onto his plate, crushed
potatoes under his fork, buried everything in gravy, and poured half the
remaining bourbon into his glass. He gulped a mouthful of it down, screwed up
his face and sniffed the glass.

Halfway through the meal, he glanced
up at her. “Why’s my fishing gear on the porch?”

“I cleaned it out for you. So you
could go anytime you like.”

He huffed. “In a hurry to be rid of
me? Am I that bad?” He grinned at his plate before shoving a forkful of beef
into his mouth.

She set her jaw and held her
tongue. That had been an easy task for most of these past ten years. Keeping
quiet probably saved her from countless beatings. But it was time she found her
voice.

She pushed food around her plate
with her fork, her appetite non-existent, nerves a-tingle. “It’s not that.” She
sighed. “You wanted some time alone. Needed a break from work. From Ariel.” She
shot her eyes at his face for less than a second before concentrating her gaze
on her plate. “From me.”

He nodded and drank the remaining
bourbon. “I could use a break from everything.” He reached out and patted her
hand. “Thanks.”

For years she’d yearned for any glimpse
of his old self, for one empathetic touch, one loving gesture. Now she fought
not to recoil when his skin touched hers. Fought not to push him away, to run
and scrub his filth from her. That pat on the hand wasn’t appreciation. Wasn’t
love. It was just another lie.

He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Man, I’m beat.” He filled his tumbler with the last of the Jack Daniels and
sipped it before thrusting another forkful of gravy-laden dinner in behind it.
“Where’s Ariel?”

“She’s sleeping over at Polly’s. First
night of summer break and all, I figured why not?”

“You should have asked me. If I do
go in the morning, I won’t see her for days.”

“Sorry, I never thought of that.”

“That’s your problem. You don’t fucking
think.” He gunned most of the remaining bourbon and slammed the glass down on
the table. “I’m staying home tomorrow.” He pointed one finger at her. “Maybe
I’ll go the next day. Maybe I’ll just take Ariel with me.” He ripped a piece of
bread in two and dragged one half across his plate, sopping up gravy. “Just the
two of us. What do you think of that, Mazie Baby?” He filled his disgusting
mouth with gravy-soaked bread and stared her down.

She’d die before she’d let her
daughter spend a week in the woods alone with him. She wanted to scream, claw
his eyes out. Instead she stared at him, her tears in check. “We’re going to
visit mother, remember?” She breathed steadily until she couldn’t bear his
scrutiny any longer. Her gaze hit the untouched food on her plate and she
berated herself for being so damn weak. “Ariel doesn’t like the cabin. Too many
spiders.”

“Little bitch needs to toughen up.”
He shoved his plate away, leaned back in the chair, and pressed the heels of
his hands to his eyes. He sat forward and shook his head.

Mazie glanced up at him without
lifting her head. “Are you all right?”

“Not really.” He rested his head in
his hands. “I’m exhausted. Really dizzy.”

“Maybe you’re coming down with
something.”

“Maybe. I’m going to go lie down
for a bit.” He threw the rest of the bourbon down his throat and made his way
to the stairs. He stumbled on the first step, grabbed the banister.

She watched him. “Do you need my
help?”

He glared at her over his shoulder.
“No, I don’t fucking need your help. I’m not a damn baby.” He grasped the
railing and staggered up the stairs.

His uneven footsteps thumped down
the hall, the slammed bedroom door cracked against the jamb. His ridiculous
oversized belt-buckle hit the floor above her head with a loud thud and the bed
creaked under his weight. Then there was blessed silence.

She put the leftovers in the
refrigerator, cleared the dinner dishes, filled the dishwasher, and wiped down the
countertops until everything gleamed.

She snatched a new bottle of
bourbon from the cupboard, twisted off the top and took a long pull before
heading to the stairs. With each step she mounted, with every inch she drew
closer to their bedroom, the stench of sweat and motor oil that emanated from
his pores married the cloying scent of pine cleaner and the sharpness of
bleach. The whole house stank of a lifetime of her accumulated failures. Failure
to make his dreams come true. Failure to prevent pregnancy. Failure to stand up
to him. Failure to leave. To protect her daughter from his anger and abuse. To
be happy. To be normal.