Authors: Julie Frayn
Mazie Baby
Mazie Baby
by Julie Frayn
Copyright 2014 Julie Frayn
All rights reserved
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and events are products of the author’s imagination or have been used strictly
for fictional purposes. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual
events or locales is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior
written consent of the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote
brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.
ISBN 978-0-9918510-4-1
Dedication
This book is for anyone who suffers abuse, be it
physical, verbal, or emotional. Abuse can be in your face and violent — or it
can creep in on tiptoes, subtle and slow. Either way, the tendrils of abuse
infiltrate the victim, not just their bodies, but their psyches, until the
effects take up residence. It is a poisonous and evil tenant that is hard to
evict. I will never understand the perpetrators.
Praise for Julie
Frayn’s Fiction
Cool pavement kissed the soles of Mazie
Reynolds’ bare feet. Beads of shining dew, caught in that nether-moment between
breaking dawn and the sizzle of a spring heat wave, clung to clipped blades of
grass. The world smelled clean and fresh. Smelled of open air and endless
horizons. Smelled of freedom.
The rusty bolt that secured the red
flag to the mailbox whined when she forced it up. She shot a glance over her
shoulder. The house remained still, her morning reprieve uninterrupted. The
eerie quiet lulled her into a sense of normal.
Whatever that was.
She pulled a small stack of mail from
the box, the envelopes like sandpaper against her fingertips. Bill, bill,
flyer, pizza menu. The last bulky and colourful piece announced that Cullen may
have already won two million bucks. She snorted. As if.
She glanced at the van sitting in
the driveway before turning her gaze on the mountains in the distance, all
lilac and orange in the rising sunlight. How easy would it be to just drive
away? Never look back? Do something different. Something new. Something better?
The hair on the nape of her neck
stood on end at the crack of wooden heels on concrete. She tensed her shoulders
and set her jaw. She hadn’t heard the door open. And why was he wearing those
old cowboy boots on a work day?
“Surprise!” Soft, pale, freckled
arms encircled her waist and squeezed.
Mazie laughed. “Well, good morning,
Miss Simpson. You are definitely not who I was expecting.” Mazie reached her
arm around the girl’s shoulder, gave her a small hug, and planted a light kiss
on her frizzy, copper hair. “What are you wearing?”
Polly, the neighbour’s daughter,
stepped back and stomped the sidewalk with wooden clogs painted bright yellow.
“Grandma sent them from Holland. They’re klomps.” She twirled. Her short skirt
flew in the air and flashed a bit of pasty, plump ass cheek and white cotton
underpants. “Can I go show Ariel?”
“She’s still in bed. How about
later?”
“Morning, Mazie. That’s a lovely
scarf.”
Mazie donned a wide smile and
turned slowly. That smug half-grin sat there on her neighbour’s round face, all
prepped for another day of sticking her stupid nose in everyone else’s lives.
“Hello, Rachel.” Mazie touched the thin material around her neck and pulled the
scarf higher before drawing her sweater tighter across her chest.
Rachel jerked her head at her
daughter. “Polly, honey, get back inside and eat your breakfast.”
Polly slipped off the klomps,
picked them up, and skipped across the dewy grass, her wet footprints darkening
the wooden front stoop before disappearing into the house next door.
“She’s growing up so damn fast.”
Rachel plopped her balled-up fists on the sides of her ever-expanding
muffin-top.
“Too fast. Just last year all boys
had cooties.” Mazie sighed. “Now those cootie-carriers are all cute. And Ariel
asked if she could wear makeup.”
Rachel nodded. “Well, today’s
twelve is our generation’s fifteen.”
“I suppose. Kind of scared for my
future grandkids.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Getting
a little warm for scarves and long sleeves. You must be boiling all bundled up
like that.”
Mind your damn business, Rachel.
“I’m fine. I like to be warm.”
“And you’re looking a little thin.
You dieting again?”
Damn this woman and her incessant
need to pry. Always peering over the fence, eyeballing Mazie’s family from her
deck, standing on her tiptoes and craning her stubby neck, listening to
Cullen’s phone conversations. Though, that was his fault. He shouldn’t drink
and take private calls in the backyard. He was so much louder when he drank.
“I’m always dieting.” Mazie slipped
her index finger under the flap of one envelope and tore it open, her focus
anywhere but on Rachel’s questioning gaze.
The paper sliced into her finger.
She winced, squeezed the tip with her thumb and watched a droplet of crimson
ooze from the tiny scratch.
“Any plans for summer vacation this
year?”
Mazie nodded. “Maybe a trip to the
mountains. Or east to visit Mom. Cullen will go fishing, of course.”
“Without you and Ariel? You used to
go all the time.”
“He likes his solitude.” And so did
she.
The screen door squeaked on its
hinges. “Mazie?” The air stilled after Cullen’s voice boomed across the front yard.
“Oh. Hello, Rachel.” He said her name as if it were poison he had to spit from
his mouth before it killed him.
Rachel’s nosy eyebrow shot up. She
crossed her arms. “Cullen.”
“Mazie. Baby, come back in. Your coffee’s
getting cold.” His voice lost its boom, took on an average volume, like what
she imagined a normal husband would sound like.
She looked at her feet. “I’ll be
right there.” She turned and headed toward the house.
“Well, have a nice day,” Rachel
called as Mazie retreated. “Come for coffee sometime.”
Mazie waved over her shoulder,
stepped inside the door, and bolted it against the outside world.
In the kitchen, Cullen leaned against
the counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest, chin down, eyes dark and
brows pinched. “Why do you talk to that stupid bitch?”
Anger spewing from his mouth was nothing
new. But when his voice became a low growl, her skin crawled.
She dropped the envelopes onto the
counter, turned on the tap and squirted dish soap under the stream of hot
water. “I don’t. She talked to me. She always does, you know how nosy she is.” Mazie’s
voice was casual, almost sing-song. But even she could hear the underlying strain,
like a too-taut piano wire about to snap.
The scratch of Cullen’s work boots against
the gleaming floor neared. She tensed, her hands immersed in soapy dishwater.
He rested his chin on her shoulder.
The stench of his cigarette breath soured the air. Her scarf tightened around
her neck.
“Just keep to yourself.” His voice
was gruff in her ear.
She nodded, willed the tears he so
loathed — or feared — not to pool at the corners of her eyes. She held her
breath against the pressure on her throat.
“Daddy?”
He let go of the scarf. Mazie
grasped the sink’s edge and struggled quietly for air.
“Morning, pumpkin. Shouldn’t you be
getting ready for school?”
The familiar shuffling of Ariel’s
slippers on the linoleum neared. “Mom, are you okay?” Her thin arms circled
Mazie’s waist.
“Of course she is.” Cullen put one
hand on Ariel’s shoulder and pulled her away.
Mazie grit her teeth. “I’m fine,
bug. Do as your father says and get ready for school. I’ll make you pancakes.” She
didn’t turn around. Didn’t want Ariel to see that the tears had won again, and were
dripping down her cheeks.
“All right.” The whisper of
slippers against linoleum disappeared at the living room carpet.
In Mazie’s peripheral vision,
Cullen scanned the grocery list on the fridge, ran one permanently grimy finger
down the clean paper. “Are you going today?”
“Yes.”
“You need more woman shit already?
Didn’t you just buy tampons?”
She swallowed. “That was last
month.”
“Fucking stupid bullshit. Maybe we
ought to just get you fixed. Would save me a lot of cash.” He yanked bills from
his wallet, counted out five twenties, and slapped them on the counter. “Where’s
my lunch?” He yanked the fridge door open and leaned into it, shoved the food
around. Glass containers crashed against each other as if they would crack open
and spill their contents onto the shelf and the floor below. It would be his
fault if they did. But she’d get the blame.
She sucked in a deep breath. “It’s
packed in your pail. On the sideboard.” Like every other day.
He nodded, didn’t even look at her.
“I’ll be late tonight. Going for a few beers.” He turned his back and slammed
the door. The aura of sweat and grime that never came out of his plaid work
shirts no matter how many times she laundered them, no matter how much soap and
softener and deodorizer she poured into the machine, fouled the air.
The truck rumbled to life. He
gunned the engine and roared out of the alley.
She exhaled.
How did she get here? A prisoner in
her own home. She should have taken Ariel and run years ago. She dropped her
chin to her chest and wept at the sink.
“No.” She stood straight. “Stop it,
you stupid, weak woman.” She pounded her fists against the counter’s edge,
spraying soapy water onto her clothes. “Damn it.” She snatched a dish towel and
dabbed at her shirt. “Can’t you do anything right?”
~~~~~~~~
Mazie’s footsteps echoed in the near-empty
aisles of the grocery store. A few women roamed the store that afternoon, dumpy
in stained sweat pants or pyjama bottoms. They shuffled around, hair greasy,
feet clad in brightly-coloured rubber clogs or flip-flops.
Cullen would kill her if she left
the house looking like that.
She scanned her list and ticked off
each item as she placed it in the cart. Exactly as noted, not one thing more.
Only tampons remained. She searched the shelves for the most expensive product
in the largest box, tossed it on top of the canned tomatoes, and headed for the
cashier.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Hi, Lucy.” Mazie pulled groceries
and toilet paper from the cart and piled it onto the conveyor.
“You’re in a good mood today.”
“It’s a beautiful day, sun is
shining.” And she got to be out of her cell for a few hours. Shopping days were
the best.
“Well, I’m stuck here until six.”
Lucy dragged each product across the scanner. “Ninety-one seventy-two.”
Mazie counted out the five twenties.
“And your change, eight eighteen.”
Mazie hesitated. “No, that’s not
right.” The pulse of her pounding heart bounced off her ribs.
“Sorry?”
“The change. It should be eight
twenty-eight. Not eighteen.”
Lucy ran her finger down the tape.
“Oh, right.”
Mazie’s fingers trembled. “Every
dime counts, right?” Her eyes darted about the store, landing anywhere but
Lucy’s face.
Lucy opened the cash drawer and
handed her another dime. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”
“Thank you. See you next week.”
Mazie packed the groceries into the
back of the van, fumbled with the door latch, sat in the driver’s seat and
gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The skin of her knuckles was taut
against the bones, her fingernails dug into her palms. She eased her hands from
the wheel, pulled open her purse and counted the change, did the math in her
head. Eight dollars and twenty-eight cents. Exactly. She put her head back and
took three deep breaths, then turned the key until the engine came to life.