Mazie Baby (13 page)

She held the knife at her side,
blade pointed toward the floor. Every footstep up the stairs, across the hall and
into the bedroom calmed her. Her mind was lucid. Her intention clear. Her
patience with him spent. She stood beside the bed and stared at him as he
thrashed.

His efforts had opened his wounds.
Fresh blood, bright and scarlet, dripped onto the bed sheet.

His gaze froze on the knife. His eyes
darted from the blade to her eyes and back again. He shook his head. “Don’t do
it.”

“Do what?”

His eyes narrowed and he smirked.
“You can’t do it, can you?”

“Do what?”

“You fucking nut job. You haven’t
got the stones for it.”

She raised the knife.

He pressed his head back into the
pillow, his eyes frozen open, tracking the arc of the blade.

She brought the knife down in one
swift movement. It sliced though his abdomen, as easy as hacking up a summer
watermelon. When the knife came up, a trail of blood flew from the tip, leaving
an arc of red spatter across the bed and his chest. The second time the blade
pierced his flesh, his screams disappeared amid the thrumming of her heartbeat
in her ears. She brought her arm up three times, four, five. She stabbed and
sliced, the room silent despite Cullen’s open, screaming, bourbon-reeking
mouth. There was only her heartbeat, the swish of metal through the air, and
the spray of his blood.

Her arm wearied. She ceased the
onslaught, her arm above her head. Drops of his metallic, stinking blood, like
a rusted scouring pad left under the sink too long, landed softly in her hair
and on her shirt.  She dropped her arm to her side and poked his face with her other
hand. His head lolled to the side, his eyes open, mouth agape. He’d stopped
screaming. Stopped yelling at her. Stopped demeaning her.

He’d just stopped.

The time glowed on the clock-radio.
Five forty-seven. Mazie wandered to the window and brushed the drape aside with
the knife blade. The horizon was awash in red and purple streaks. The air was
still, the cul-de-sac silent.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

~~~~~~~~

Mazie sat in the chair at the foot
of the bed and watched the clock radio mark the passing of each interminable
minute. Leaden arms and legs pinned her to the seat, her mind a blank canvas,
empty of thought and emotion.

A hollow thud shook her from her
daze. She crossed the room and peered out through a crack in the blood-stained
drape.

The paper boy rode his bicycle away
from the house and stopped in front of Rachel’s. He grabbed a newspaper from
the wagon behind his bike, bound it with an elastic band, and tossed it toward the
Simpson’s porch.

Awareness seeped in. Her skin was
sticky and crusty with Cullen’s blood. She held out her hands. In the right was
the knife. Her favourite one, so sharp and perfect for cutting through carrots
and potatoes at a professional pace, for severing sinew from bone when she
butchered a rack of lamb down to chops. In her left was her husband’s flaccid
penis. She recoiled and dropped it on the carpet. She spun around. His body was
still. His angry mouth silent. He was covered in blood, sliced and diced. His
crotch and torso were ground beef.

She looked at his penis on the
floor. So small. So insignificant. A grin crossed her lips and soon she was
laughing hysterically. How had this insignificant thing been the cause of so
much pain and anguish? What power did it hold over him that satisfying it was
more important than keeping his wife, the woman he used to love, safe and free from
harm? She shook her head and stepped over it.

God, she needed a cup of coffee.

The screech of the six o’clock alarm
clock made her jump. She raced to the other side of the bed and slapped the
snooze button, turned and surveyed the room. Her arms and legs went cold, her
mind numb.

Blood trails splattered the walls
and the carpet. The bourbon bottle lay on its side on the dresser, its contents
pooled on the pine. She raised her eyes and followed a roadmap of his death. Red
sprays stained the ceiling and scarlet drops plopped onto the pools of blood on
his body. She tossed the knife and held out her arms. They were soaked with
him. Crimson taunted her from under her nails, from the grooves of her
fingerprints where his blood had ground into her skin. She wiped her palms
against her T-shirt to find it sticky as well, like a murderous tie-dye
experiment gone horribly wrong.

She sank to the floor, and curled
up on the carpet. Her entire body convulsed with shivers and tremors and dry
sobs. What had she done? She’d only intended to hurt him and leave.

The snooze alarm sounded and her
body jerked at the intrusion. Her gaze darted around the room. Six oh-nine.

She had to get ready. She had to
go.

She reached up to the night stand, clicked
the alarm off, stood and rubbed her hands down the front of her pants, her gaze
fixed on the bloody sheets.

Cullen’s cell phone vibrated
against the wood of the night stand. With each shimmying alert, it hopped and
bounced, nearer and nearer to the edge.

Mazie held her breath and cut her
eyes to his face. She expected his arm to reach out and grab the damn thing. He
just lay there, his eyes open and staring straight at her. She exhaled, leaned
one knee on the bed and forced his eyelids closed with two fingers. She walked
around the bed, her gaze never leaving his face, not fully believing that he
was gone. Her nerves were on high alert, ready to cut and run if he sat up and
tried to come after her.

She picked up the phone. A text.
Her heart fluttered. She wasn’t allowed to see his phone, to intrude on his
life. But like hell would she not intrude on his death. She pressed the centre
button and the screen lit up.

Hey man, what time are we
heading to the cabin?

Damn. He’d made actual plans.
Someone expected him. Her breathing came in short bursts and her arms went
cold. Who the hell was J-Dawg? The phone vibrated in her hand and another
message popped up.

Dude. Come on. If we’re going
today I need to get my shit together and call the girls.

Her eyes narrowed. The girls. She
looked at Cullen. Needed some time alone. Away from everything. Right.

She put her thumbs to the keyboard
and took a breath.
Sorry man. Not yet. How about next Friday?

That would give her a week to get
some distance. See her mother before she died. Then find a new life.

The phone buzzed.
Seriously?
We’d only have the weekend then. Man, these chicks are good to go! You’re gonna
spend a week at home with that bitch instead?

Her eyes were slits. He didn’t just
call her a bitch at home. He let his friends do it too. And just how many trips
alone to the cabin involved chicks that were good to go? She glanced at his
flaccid manhood lying on the floor, curled her nose at the smell of excrement
that was seeping from his anus.

Want to spend time with my
little girl. There will always be more chicks.
She
grinned and pressed send.
I’ll let you know.
Send. She turned the phone
off.

“Yup, those chicks would love you
now, you sorry bastard.” She swatted his foot.

Mazie stripped, gathered her soiled
clothes and ran them down to the washer. She righted the brandy bottle and
wiped up the spilled alcohol, but it had already started to take the finish off
the dresser. She scanned the room. There was no way she’d be able to clean it
up. What was the point? She couldn’t move his body anyway. He was too heavy even
when he wasn’t dead weight.

She gathered the pictures, wiped
drops of drying blood from them onto the sheets, and arranged one set of them
on the bed in order of the beatings, from the first black eye to the last. She
opened one copy of the notebook filled with proof — dates and damage done, lies
and guilt. She added a final entry.

I, Mazie Louise Reynolds, have
murdered my bastard husband, Cullen Reginald Reynolds. I didn’t set out to kill
him. I just wanted him to have a taste of his own medicine before I took our
daughter away. To protect her from him, from being physically and sexually
abused by her own father. He’d hit her. And he planned on raping her. I know
because he told me so.

This notebook and the pictures
document the terror he’s inflicted on me for the past four years. It does not
include anything he did in the seven years prior to that. I didn’t think to document
it. I thought he had a good heart. I thought we could make our marriage work. I
thought he loved me.

If I hadn’t killed him, it would
be my body lying here. And Ariel would be irreparably damaged.

I do not regret my actions. But
I do apologize for slicing off his penis. That was overkill.

She signed her name, dated the
entry, and laid the book on his mangled torso.

She ran the shower until it was hot,
climbed into the tub and scrubbed her skin and her hair. After two shampoos it
was still caked with blood. She washed it three more times and left conditioner
in while she took a nail brush to her fingers and feet. When she was finished,
no trace of his blood remained on her body, but her skin was nearly raw. Pink
drops of bloody water dotted the floor and stained the nylon shower curtain.
She dried her hair and doused her skin with the same body lotion she’d used
every day for years. A life lived on autopilot.

She tiptoed around blood, slid on
her slippers to protect her clean feet, retrieved the clothes that waited,
folded and clean and tucked safely in the bottom drawer of her dresser, that
she’d set aside for the trip. The air left her when each piece — white bikini
briefs, camel walking shorts, stretchy black tank, lightweight cornflower
cardigan, and her ivory scarf — came out dotted with red spots.

“No, no, no.” She licked her thumb
and rubbed at one spot. It didn’t budge. She clamped her eyes shut and held her
breath. When she opened them, the spots had disappeared. She flipped the fabric
and inspected every inch, but they were clean and blood-free. She buried her
face in the soft cotton of the cardigan and sniffed the mountain freshness of
fabric softener. Her shoulders shook. She lifted her head from the fabric and
giggled. “Jeez Louise, Mazie Baby, don’t lose your shit now.”

She rushed to get dressed, held an
un-bloodied corner of the bedroom chair for balance while she slipped each
trembling leg into her shorts. “Get yourself together, girl. You can do this.
Just a little change in plans, that’s all.” She glanced at the bed. Brandy and
bourbon rolled up her throat. She fought back and swallowed the urge to vomit. She
nodded. “Just a little change in plans.”

She retrieved the packed luggage
from Ariel’s closet, sidestepped her bloody footprints in the hall and on the
stairs, bounced the luggage down the steps and stood each piece at attention on
the tile floor in the front entry. She ran downstairs, pulled her wet clothes
out of the washer and piled them into the dryer.

Coffee. She needed coffee. She
started a pot and filled a tote bag with water bottles and snacks while it
brewed. She skittered about the house making last-minute preparations. A Thermos
filled with fresh, creamy coffee joined the snacks in the tote bag while she
ticked off necessities of a long trip in her head.

Food for the trip? Check.

Drained the account of cash? Almost.

Shut off the main water? Check

Unplugged the appliances? Check

Clothes, toiletries, lady products,
makeup to cover her bruises and wounds, lots of scarves, all packed? Check.

House spotless?

She glanced around. The main floor
was neat as a pin except for a few bloody toe prints. Almost normal. She looked
at the ceiling above her and closed her eyes. “Good enough.”

That was going to be her new
mantra.

She pulled open the front door. The
newspaper sat where it had landed earlier.

“Damn it.” There was always
something.

She snapped the elastic band off
the rolled paper, found the contact numbers on the second page and made a quick
phone call to put delivery on vacation hold. She smirked. Permanent vacation
hold. She tossed the paper into the recycle bin and hauled the luggage and tote
bags and extra shoes out to the van. After four trips, everything was set. She
stood in the kitchen and took one last look around her home.

No, not home. Home is a safe place.
Somewhere to find peace and comfort, to look forward to coming back to. This was
just a house. A cell. Bricks and mortar and invisible iron bars. She’d never be
coming back.

The clock ticked in the silent
room. It wasn’t even eight. She couldn’t knock on Rachel’s door this early on a
Saturday. She poured the last bit of coffee into a mug, finished off the cream
that remained in the fridge and threw out the container, then sat at her
kitchen table for the last time. She held the mug with both hands and sipped,
the ticking of that damn clock growing louder with each passing minute. She ran
her fingertip around the rim of the mug, tapped one foot against the floor and
let out a sigh. She had to keep busy.