by Julie Frayn
Was it true change? Were they going to be all right?
Whoever said bringing a child into a bad marriage would not fix it was wrong. Ariel had been their saving grace.
~~~~~~~~
Mazie blinked against the pain in her head and the blinding light of the hundred-watt bulb above. She lay on the floor gasping for air, her hair and clothes soaked with dishwater. Drops of blood dotted the linoleum where broken glass cut into her skin.
Cullen squatted in front of her and pushed wet hair from in front of her eyes. “Clean this up.”
The stench of whiskey and cigarettes turned her stomach.
He stood, grabbed the bottle of bourbon by its neck, and sat in his chair in the living room.
Her entire body quaked. She gripped a chair and dragged herself to her feet. The blood rushed from her head, her feet numbed and she sat in the chair and put her head between her bloody knees.
She turned to glare at the monster she’d married.
He sat in his recliner, remote in hand, flipping through television channels like nothing had happened.
Nothing.
Ariel’s laughter came through the window. Mazie stood and gripped the counter’s edge. The setting sun caught the steel of the chef’s knife and shined a glint of light in her eyes. She stared at the blade, then gazed out the window at her smiling daughter.
~~~~~~~~
Cullen remained silent the rest of the day. Mazie kept Ariel busy in the kitchen, baked cookies and talked about the trip to visit grandma. Anything to prevent her from being alone with her father.
Cullen went to bed early, his drowsiness fuelled by half a bottle of Jack. He slept soundly, no remorse for his actions to keep him awake, no guilt for the harm he had done, the threats to his child. His snores reverberated in the bedroom.
The street light danced shadows of the thirty-foot poplar across the bedroom walls. Her eyes flitted along with the quaking leaves until the trunk loomed closer and pinned her to the bed. She shook her head and sat up, her throat tight.
The money would have to be enough. The time was now. Before it was too late. Before he ruined Ariel. More than he already had.
Mazie glanced at the clock radio. Two thirty-eight. She slid from beneath the sheets and tiptoed to Ariel’s room and lay on the floor in front of her bed. Mazie closed her eyes, and listened to her daughter breathe.
A thud shook Mazie from a shallow sleep. She sneaked back into her bedroom and glanced at the alarm clock. Five fifty-six. She pulled the drape aside and peered out in time to see the paper boy toss an elastic-bound newspaper at Rachel’s house. Mazie slipped back into bed, turned her back on Cullen, and feigned sleep.
Cullen rose at six sharp to the screech of the alarm, threw the covers off them both and onto the floor, and walked to the bathroom without so much as a glance in her direction.
She cinched the belt of her robe, the long sleeves shielding Ariel from the scabs and bruises of the day before. She retrieved the newspaper from the stoop, brewed coffee and poured his in a to-go cup with cream and three sugars. She packed his lunch pail with leftover dinner, cookies, two water bottles, and a Coke.
He tromped down the stairs, showered and shaven, looking his best for the men he worked with. He took the coffee and newspaper from her, snatched his full lunch pail from the sideboard, and walked out.
Mazie rubbed her hands up and down the sleeves of her robe. His last day of work before his summer break. Before he’d be in the house every day. All day long. Standing over her, pointing out each spot she missed, the right way to scrub his shit stains from the toilet. Eyeing Ariel as if she were a potential conquest, not a child. His child.
She watched the truck peel out of the back alley and race to the corner. He turned right at the stop sign without hitting the brakes. She clicked the back door shut, squeezed her eyelids together, rested her forehead against the cool windowpane, and struggled for steady breath.
When her nerves eased and she was ready to open her eyes to the reality of life, the back yard came into focus, his messy tool shed and oil stains from his precious truck. She wiped her forehead smudge from the glass with the terry-cloth of her robe sleeve.
Rachel’s eyes and forehead appeared over the edge of the fence. When she saw Mazie, she ducked, then reappeared a second later waving her pudgy hand.
Mazie squinted and bolted the door. Of all the potential BFFs out there, why did Ariel have to pick Rachel’s kid?
Like hell would she stay cooped up in this prison just waiting to be wailed on again. Waiting for her daughter to be raped. And all under the ever-watchful eye of the nosy gossip-mongering neighbour. She’d let it go on too long. Should have run the first second he’d hurt Ariel. What kind of mother sits on the sidelines and allows her child to be abused?
Mazie yanked the garnet ring from her finger and flung it into the garbage bin. She yanked a mug from the cupboard and poured a cup of coffee. Steam from the sweet, creamy brew curled into her nostrils and brought her a slice of peace. A moment of clarity. She fished the ring from the garbage, pulled a meat mallet from the drawer under the knife block, and crushed the garnet against the cutting board. Bits of red stone scattered across the counter, like blood spatter after a good beating.
She lifted her head, closed her eyes, and took a long breath.
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.