by Julie Frayn
Her heart melted at the sight of his red and swollen eyes. She dropped to her knees and slid up to him, placed her hands on either side of his face. “It’s okay. I believe you.” She kissed him and brushed aside an errant strand of hair that had come free from the elastic shackle.
“I’d be lost without you, Mazie.” He wiped snot from his nose with the back of his hand. “If you got another job, that would be okay. Just for a few months. I just know something is going to come along.”
She smiled. “Me too.”
~~~~~~~~
Mazie stuck Ariel’s report card to the fridge with the heart-shaped magnet her daughter had made out of clay four years before. She ran her fingers over the page. Grade seven, and all of Ariel’s marks were excellent, nothing under eighty percent. Except math. Damn math.
She called up the stairs. “Ariel, dinner will be ready as soon as your father comes home.”
No answer.
Mazie leaned against the wall, one hand on the railing, and stared up the stairwell. “Are you doing math homework?”
Footsteps shuffled overhead. “Yes,” came the tentative reply.
Mazie smiled. Like mother, like daughter. Some book had caught Ariel’s imagination and taken over her every waking moment. For Mazie it was Goosebumps. Her mother had hated that she’d loved those books.
The truck engine reverberated against the house and rattled the window of the back door. She never understood why he had to have it so souped up, like a teenage boy. It wasn’t like he needed to compensate for anything. Wasn’t that the saying? Big engine, small penis? Maybe in his case it was big engine, small heart.
“He’s home, Ariel. Come now, please.”
Mazie pulled the macaroni and cheese casserole from the oven and placed it on a trivet in the middle of the table. Ketchup between Cullen and Ariel, hot garlic bread still in the foil, steaming and savoury, to the left of the casserole, and bowls of salad, already dressed, beside each place setting.
He walked in the back door, slid off his shoes and placed them on the mat, the heels lined up against the wall. He took the short steps two at a time, and met her at the fridge door where she’d just pulled out a cold beer. He was smiling. A big, genuine-looking smile, and his eyes glinted with joy.
He kissed her cheek. “Happy Friday, darling.”
She smiled at him. It was hard not to when he looked like the old Cullen. Like the man she fell in love with. “You’re in a good mood.”
He took the beer from her and rummaged through the drawer for the opener. He popped the top and raised the bottle. “Last day of layoffs and I’m still standing.” He grinned and took a long pull on the beer.
“That’s wonderful.”
“Damn straight it is.” He tucked two fingers in his front pocket, pulled out a fifty dollar bill, and held it up in front of her. “Maybe take Ariel to a movie or something.” He looked her up and down. “Or maybe a manicure, just for you.” He took one of her hands and inspected her fingernails. “You’ve got to take better care of yourself. I might start wandering or something.”
She swallowed and glanced at her feet.
He lifted her chin with the fingers holding the cash and winked. “I’m just shittin’ ya. Go on, take it. Do something nice for yourself.”
She reached to pluck the bill from his fingers.
He whipped it away with a flick of his wrist.
She started at the sudden movement.
He laughed. “Jeez Louise, take a chill pill.”
She flinched at the sound of her middle name. Jeez Louise. Mazie Baby. At least he amused himself.
He pulled her toward him and hugged her hips to his, then tucked the bill into her back pocket. He whispered in her ear, “You can make it up to me later.”
Ariel ran down the stairs. She hesitated at the threshold to the kitchen. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, pumpkin.” He held out one arm.
She glanced at Mazie.
“Well, come on. Give your dad a hug.”
She inched toward him and put her arms around his waist, a slight grimace on her face.
He squeezed her to him and smiled. “You hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Well all right then,” he clapped his hands, “let’s eat.”
They sat at the table in their normal seats. But unlike any normal day, the tension in Mazie’s shoulders had infected Ariel. And for once, Cullen was immune.
She sat straight in her chair. Her gaze shifted from her daughter’s uncertain smile, landed imperceptibly on her husband’s genuine grin, it’s presence on his face almost as disturbing as the scowl that normally lived there, then followed a familiar path to her plate, the tabletop, a scan for dirt on the floor, to the napkin in her lap and back to Ariel.
Her daughter’s eyes were electric, her movements animated. She was trying too hard. Or was lulled into believing that the glimpse of his monster personality was just a blip, and she was relieved he’d returned to some sense of normal.
When Ariel told of her day at school, about how the teacher had read her story in front of the whole class as an example of the right way to write a story, Cullen interjected with a few ‘atta girls’ and something about always being better than everyone else.
When Cullen finished eating, Mazie cleared the plates and took a tub of ice cream from the freezer.
“Isn’t it report card day?” Cullen finished off his beer, reached behind, and retrieved another from the fridge.
“It’s on the fridge.” Ariel pointed.
Mazie took a deep breath. Please ignore the math mark. Focus on the rest of it, the higher grades, the teacher’s comments about what a wonderful student Ariel was, the effort she put into trying to get math right.
“Well, go on pumpkin, bring it here. What was our deal?”
“Ten dollars if I got all eighties and better.”
“Right. So how’d you do?”
Ariel glanced at her mother before sliding the paper out from under the magnet. She hesitated and sighed. Her eyes shimmered with the threat of tears.
Mazie placed a bowl of ice cream in front of Cullen, another for Ariel was cool in her hand. She rubbed her daughter’s shoulder. “It’s all right, bug. It’s a great report card.”
Cullen looked up at Mazie, one eyebrow arched.
Ariel handed the paper to her father.
He scanned the page, nodded with his lips pursed and eyebrows raised in appreciation. Then his face shifted and clouded. He didn’t move, but his eyes turned on his daughter. “Sixty-two in math?” He didn’t raise his voice, but there was no atta girl in his tone.
“I tried, Daddy, honest I did. I just don’t get it.”
Mazie tapped the paper with one finger and pointed to the teacher’s comment. “Look, he says she puts in the work, does all the assignments. She tries her best, but she just doesn’t have a math mind.” She mussed her daughter’s hair. “Must have inherited that from me.” She smiled at Ariel.
Her daughter’s face calmed and she smiled back.
“Bullshit.” He threw the report card on the table. “She’s as lazy as you are, that’s what she inherited. She has to try harder.”
Mazie stared at the report card and swallowed. “We could get her a tutor.”
He crossed his arms and stared at her. “A tutor? You think that’s what I do in the bathroom every morning, shit out money?”
“Well, then maybe you could help her. You were good at math.” Mazie placed Ariel’s ice cream on the table.
He backhanded the bowl and sent it flying off the table. It hit the fridge and bounced onto the tile. Ice cream flew everywhere, but the bowl didn’t break. Small mercies.
“She needs to get her sorry ass up to her room and study. And no ice cream.”
Mazie pressed her lips together. Stand your ground and don’t cry. Not this time. She rubbed her hands down the front of her pants in a vain effort to make them stop trembling. “Maybe she’ll be a writer, or a journalist. Not e
veryone can be good at math.” She stuck her chin up and looked into the eye of the storm. “And even if she were, she might not use it later.” She stood straighter. “You never used it, so what does it matter?”
He raised that one eyebrow, the omen brow, the precursor to all things painful. His hands flat on the table, he inched his chair back and stood. He crossed his arms and walked to the sink, stared out the front window, his shoulders near his ears. He was either trying to keep his shit together, or about to fling it at the fan. “Ariel,” he said, his voice low, his back to them. “Go upstairs.”
Ariel slipped her hand into Mazie’s and tucked her body against her mother. “Mom, come with me. Help me with my homework. Please?” She never took her eyes off her father’s back.
“Your mother has to clean up that mess she made. Go, Ariel.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Now.”
Mazie pulled her hand away from Ariel’s grip and kissed the side of her head.
“Go, bug. Do as Daddy says, remember?”
“But, Mom…”
“No buts!” Cullen smacked the edge of the counter with both palms and spun around.
Ariel backed away. “Okay. I’m going.” She glanced at her mother, turned, and took the stairs two at a time.
Mazie stared at the floor, at the ice cream that dotted her jeans, at her big toe that stood in a sticky puddle.
“Tell me again.” His shadow neared her feet. “Tell me how I never use math.”
“I was just pointing out —”
“What? What were you pointing out?” He stood inches from her, but her gaze never left the floor. “That I’m a failure? That rig pigs and garbage men don’t need no stinking math?”
She swallowed. “You haven’t worked the rigs for years.”
“Yeah, that was my point. Fuck.”
“Ariel wants to be a writer. Or a dancer. Does it matter if she gets good grades in math?”
He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “She needs to be more practical. There’s no money in dancing. Unless you want her hanging naked from a pole.”
“So we don’t encourage her to follow her dreams?”
He threw her a withering look. “Dreams die. They suck the life out of you until you’re a fucking zombie. You want that for her?”
She winced.
“If I hadn’t married someone so stupid, maybe I could have lived out my dream, huh? Not be schlepping other people’s trash day in and day out.”
She mustered enough courage to look him in the eye. “You have to stop blaming me for your life.”
His fist swished through the air and connected with her temple. A flash of light illuminated his face before everything went dark.
~~~~~~~~
Mazie sat in the dim bar, her eyes riveted to the stage. She took a long inhale, intoxicated by the haze of cigarette smoke that wafted around her, the pinch of it at the back of her throat, the darkness interrupted by a single white spotlight aimed at the singer.
It was the first time she’d seen him and she was hooked in an instant. He sat on a stool, another stool beside him. A lit cigarette rested in an ashtray, a wisp of smoke curled into the air, past the beam of the spotlight, and disappeared into the blackness of the rafters overhead. He sipped from a tumbler between songs. Not water. No, he wet his lips and tongue and throat, kept those sultry vocal chords supple, with amber liquor. Whiskey perhaps.
That first Friday night she sat in the periphery, just outside the circle of stage light that he shared with a few chosen admirers. She admired from afar. But not too far. Close enough that the whisper of his guitar strap across the shoulder of his black leather jacket caressed her ears, the clink of ice cubes in the tumbler punctuated the din of the bar. His audible inhales of cigarette smoke made her long to light one up. Even though she’d never put one to her lips before.
He strummed the guitar, stared at his hands, watched his own fingers stroke its neck and pluck at each string. His chocolate hair hung in front of his face like a stage curtain about to go up. He built anticipation in her like a skilled lover brings his partner to the edge of orgasm. She held her breath until the climax, until he began to sing.
The first lyrics filled the room and he looked into the faces of those who sat close by. His style was an odd but intriguing mix of soul and blues with a touch of country twang. No covers, all original songs he’d told his anticipating audience.
His voice pierced her heart. She couldn’t take her eyes from his, though his were looking anywhere but at her. Under the cover of the dark room she felt like a stalker, watching his every move, lost in the emerald of his eyes that glowed with golden fire when the spotlight hit him just so. His olive skin was luminescent, sweat beaded on his forehead.
He removed his jacket and laid it on the stage. He lifted the guitar strap back over his shoulder. The muscles in his arm rippled and took her breath from her. When the set was finished, he leaned into the microphone and thanked the audience, reminded them to stick around for the main event, and hoped they enjoyed their night.
He gathered his jacket and stood to his full height. She immersed herself in his black T-shirt, the sleeves bisecting his pronounced biceps, admired the cut of his Levis and the black boots with three-inch heels.
He held his cigarette between his lips, squinted to keep the smoke out of one eye, snatched his drink, and walked off stage, his back to her.
Her heart beat heavy in her chest.
“Mazie?” A hand tapped her thigh.
She shook herself from the trance this man held her in and looked at her date for the evening. Allan. Nice young man. Cute, if not a bit too skinny. Accountant in the making. Terribly polite and chivalrous. Boring as hell.
“He was pretty good, I guess. Can’t wait for the main act, though. They’re really going places.”
When the date ended, Allan took her home. She didn’t invite him in. Turned one cheek to him when he leaned in for a kiss. Said she’d call him. But she never would.
The next night, she returned to the same bar. She sat alone at a table just inside the glow of the stage lights, off to the right, directly in his line of vision. She wore her lowest-cut top, her impressive cleavage impossible to miss. Her short skirt and highest black patent stilettos accentuated her legs. And she wore her hair down for a change, parted in the middle. Her raven locks draped over her shoulders and hung almost to her waist. Only a bit longer than his.
What a striking pair they would make.
A man stepped on stage and took the microphone in hand. “Good evening, folks. Please give it up for our opening act, Mr. Cullen Reynolds.”
Scattered applause popped pitifully around her, but Mazie clapped with enthusiasm. The crowd was thinner, the audience preoccupied with each other, their cell phones, the silent hockey game on televisions that dotted the bar.
Cullen stepped onto the stage, put his drink and cigarette down in their rightful place, and sat on the stool. He reached his guitar strap over his head and adjusted the microphone.
Mazie leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and ran one finger around the rim of her glass. The clatter of dishes and murmur of voices disappeared and the bar went silent in her ears except for the clink of ice cubes in Cullen’s drink.
He strummed his guitar, his hair hanging in his eyes. A replica of the night before. When he lifted his head and sang the first words, his eyes met hers. He hesitated, missed the second line. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. He let out a small laugh and tapped his fingers against the guitar strings to stop the music. “Sorry, folks. Got a bit distracted there.” He said it to the room, but stared at her. He smiled, winked, dropped his head, and started again.
This time he didn’t miss any words — but he watched her like she was the only one in the audience and he was singing just for her. About her. About them.
Near the end of his set, he shot the rest of his drink and repositioned the microphone. “Going to try something different tonight. Something I’ve been toying wi
th. Bear with me, folks.”
He launched into an acoustic, bluesy version of Rush’s In the Mood. Instead of the rocking, up-tempo song she’d grown up with, it was slow, sensual. And aimed directly at her.
When he sang that he wanted to rock and roll her until the night was gone, he flashed his eyebrows up and down at her.
Heat rose in her cheeks and flooded her belly. She crossed her legs and wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip.
At the end of the set, he came straight over and asked if he could join her. They made small talk, learned each other’s names. He was from out west, doing a cross-country tour of small bars and pubs, anywhere that would let him play. North Bay was just one stop on a long list. Toronto and Montreal were next. He had demo CDs in the hopes that agents or music industry professionals would hear him and be interested, but hadn’t had a bite yet.
She got stoned off his cologne, the fire in his eyes, off his dreams and dogged determination. She could barely look away. But she had to pee.
She excused herself, turned back to catch a glimpse of him. He watched her, their eyes met. From across the bar, the arch of his one eyebrow was as obvious as his satisfied smile.
When she came out of the bathroom he was right outside the door. He took her hand and led her to the end of the hall, leaned her against the wall and brushed her hair back from her face, his finger trailing across her neck and shoulder and down her arm.
Her heart nearly jumped from her chest. Heat seared between her legs and sliced through her abdomen. She licked her lips and leaned in. Their kisses were furious and passionate and wet. The taste of his cigarettes and bourbon, yes, bourbon for sure, heightened her arousal. He was a complete departure from her usual, steady, predictable, clean-cut guy. She barely drank and she hated cigarettes. But he pushed every button she had, and a few she didn’t know existed.
He ran his hands behind her and pulled her hips to his, guided her along the wall, through a door, and into a supply closet. In the darkness of that tiny room, the air thick with dust and bleach and spilled beer, he hoisted her skirt, slid off her thong, and fucked her silly. His lips moved from her neck to her cleavage and back to her mouth where he buried her in kisses, his whiskers leaving a scratchy trail of goose bumps in their wake.