Maddie is a prison by Tatiana Samokhina

1994

Butcher

Standing by the entrance to the butcher’s, Maddie can’t take her eyes off Victor. Her braids tight, her nose – a pointed nettle. On her freckled bronze cheeks, a glowing blush.

I watch the soft corners of her lips stretch, as if pulled, her mouth opening slightly, and from within, a laugh breaks free—an escapee (Maddie is a prison). It’s as plump as a balloon. As thin as silk thread. It inflates and bursts like bubble gum.

Her lips are still apart, and I can see the tip of her pink tongue. Wet, it’s glinting. Her hand slides down Victor’s, her fingers searching for his. They connect, and Maddie starts drawing circles on Victor’s palm. Or, maybe, love hearts, I’m not sure.

My eyes dart to the ground, my fingertips tingle. I want to hide them, as though Maddie can see me tingling, but her attention is on Victor, and of course, she can’t. From the grey, tired soil, my brown shoes peek at me, the snow-white socks taut against my just-about-ready-to-grow tights. I concentrate on them – they are my familiar object. I count to ten (I count turtles, by the way). After the turtles, a deep breath. When my lungs fill, anxiety leaves. The storm has passed. I can lift my gaze.

Their bodies are surrounded by meats. Crimson, scarlet beef. Pork carcasses hanging from small hooks. Fat chunks of lamb, chopped by the stout hands of my father. All of them quiet behind the clear, recently-washed window, white letters “Frederick’s” scattered across the glass. They are horseshoe-shaped, the letters. Now, they look like they’re eavesdropping. And prying, at Maddie and Victor. Trying to get closer to catch secrets.

I envy them, a little – I’m further, I can’t pry as effectively.I wait for dad across the road. It’s a narrow, one-way road, not really a road actually, just a path, but I can’t cross it (Maddie’s still a prison), so I wait patiently beneath an oak tree. It’s cozy here, I like it.

The door opens, and a glossy black shoe emerges from the meat kingdom. Dad always steps out first, then reaches for the light switch. It’s there, in the corner. A subtle click. As the shop falls into darkness, dad follows his shoe (I mean, he walks out) and locks the door.

“Oh, Maddie, Victor,” he says, his voice warm milk. “Been well?”

There’s a blood stain on his cheek. Is it from cows, or pigs, or his?

“Thanks, Mr Herdman. Enjoying the school break!” Victor speaks first. It’s mesmerizing how his face doesn’t move when he speaks—at all. I sometimes wonder if he’s a robot. But robots don’t usually care, and Victor does – at least about Maddie touching him all over. His nose is always lifted. I think he’s proud—or maybe searching for the stars?

“Hope you don’t mind us here,” Maddie giggles. “Waiting for the nightclub to open, just killing time.”

“All good.” Dad says.

“Wanna come with us?” Maddie’s eyebrows rise. “I’ll teach you jive! Must be tiring, spending all day surrounded by dead bodies!”

Maddie breaks her hand free from Victor and glides toward dad. Her breasts sway, right and left, up and down, ripples flowing to her hips. Push-pull, hips-chest. Her breasts stir up and freeze – as she freezes one foot forward between Victor and my dad. Victor’s silent, and dad is sweating. He glints like Maddie’s tongue.

I step out from the shade of the oak tree.

“Dad?” I call.

Maddie whips around. I shiver (I’m not Victor, why is she staring at me?). She pinches me from across the road, leaving tiny red specks all over my pale skin. The imprints of a prison guard.

“Come with us, Herd-” she stalls. She wants to say Herd-tina, but she can’t – dad’s here. “Valentina”. There’s also a Moo-lentina, but it’s not as popular. I can’t figure out why. I think it’s funny.

“Sorry,” I shrug. “I have guinea pigs to attend to.”

Dad’s ears are red. Mine are, probably, purple. He waves to Maddie and Victor – Maddie giggles, Victor still silent – and walks to me.

“Hello, kiddo.”

I take his hand – as warm as his voice, and we starthome together. Somewhere behind us, Maddie kisses Victor (Maddie, always succulent), and his nose rises even higher.

Linoleum

There’s a spiderweb in the corner of the school hallway ceiling. The ceiling is shabby, with paint peeling off. That explains why I often come home with white scraps stuck in my already-hard-to-manage hair. They look like snowflakes, though, so I don’t mind them much (just a thought).

My head tilts to the right as I study the spiderweb; I like its shape—an extended star. A prolonged one, reaching for more. It’s matte and doesn’t glint, even a little, but its faint biscuit colour is soothing, almost like a sedative. I don’t even need to count the turtles. I should have looked at the school ceiling sooner. I wonder why I never did.

I don’t move, but I know Maddie is right behind me. She’s breathing into my neck; her overwhelming perfume (Maddie’s still a prison) mingles with the pinpricks of sweat on my skin.

I know exactly what will happen next; it’s like I can see her through the non-existent peephole at the back of my head. Her soft lips stretch out, shaped like an ‘O.’ It looks like she’s about to kiss me—only instead, she whispers:

“Moo,” and after a giggle, she adds, “Lentina.”

She knows them all, even the rarely used ones. I can picture the tip of her tongue pressing between her teeth and palate on the ‘L’, her lips widening on ‘A’.

I used to get goosebumps racing my spine every time her voice filled my ears and the air around them, but after so many repetitions, the goosebumps grew tired of appearing and didn’t bother anymore.

“Chop-chop,” Maddie adds. “Chop-chop.”

The side of her right palm chops against her left arm (metaphorically, of course). The very tip of her forefinger (I’m not sure which hand) pokes just below my waistline. The touch so fleeting I could have imagined it, but my back straightens, electric waves tempering my muscles, and my breathing quietens. My whole body on high alert, I wait.

Maddie’s crisp voice hangs in the air, so does the ticking of her tongue. It’s as succulent as Maddie herself. Everything about Maddie is succulent; Maddie is just that—succulent. (And a prison).

Then, there’s a sound. A deft squeak, almost like scuffing. A quick scratch, maybe. Another one. And one more. The scrapes suffuse and lock my ears like a bathplug; my eyebrows meet above my nose.

Usually, with Maddie involved, it’s always predictable – she says the same things, touches the same spots, and her breathing always feels the same (a bird feather, only from the freezer). This sound is new.

I’m still watching the spiderweb, it’s still like a sedative, but I’m drawn to the new combination – Maddie and a scuffing sound, piercing and penetrating, and – alright, even if the spiderweb gets cleaned (I doubt it), I still have my turtles, so I hesitate (for the sake of decency) and turn around.

My mouth opens. If Maddie looks at me, she will see the tip of my pink tongue glinting, like I saw hers earlier. But Maddie’s busy. Her Mary-Janes, glossy, with rubber soles, are painting on the school hallway linoleum. It’s white, with tiny little brown specks. Rubber soles always leave succulent marks on the linoleum, driving our teachers mad.

From below, MOO peeks at me – my dear, old friend. And an oval shape with two dots inside and a line underneath. Is it a cow’s muzzle? I’m not sure – it’s not very well done.

When Maddie sets her last dot, she sweeps toward me, and our eyes meet. Who-a! Static buzz. Electrical zaps. Crackling energy.

Wait—turtles. Just count the turtles; it’ll be okay. I want to take a breath – not necessarily a deep one – but I’m shackled.

Maddie stares at me, her cerulean forget-me-not eyes placid, standing out against her boisterous face. How can they remain so calm when Maddie is a prison? I wait for the laugh to break free, to escape, like it always does.

A thin, sharp clicking of high heels.

Maddie looks up. Her finger – bet the same one that poked me earlier – points at me, steady.

“Herdman’s being naughty today, Ms Hargrave.” Maddie singsongs. She doesn’t wait for the headmaster to respond. She skips away, whistling. Ms Hargrave and I watch her disappearing back, quiet and obedient. Now that Maddie’s gone, I smell the rose veil that wraps the headmaster.

“Come with me, Valentina,” Ms Hargrave says.

It’s an order. I have to follow orders, so I trot after her. I’m also a rebel sometimes, so I glance back—only for a second or two—and whisper, “See you soon, spiderweb. After detention.”

Nest

My hands slip between the cattails and reeds, still damp from the morning rain. The sharp leaves shake off the excess water, drops settling on my palms, sliding down my arms, falling to the ground. It smells of wet soil, the earthy tang teasing and beckoning. I feel my lips stretch as I push the reeds further, and right before my eyes, a nest appears.

It’s a bowl, about twelve inches wide, made of grass, leaves and feathers. Pale, like my skin. I squat down. In the middle of the bowl, three eggs: all different colours – creamy milk foam, subtle buff sand and light-green mint leaves. They are beautiful, the eggs. (Hypnotically beautiful.) I hold my breath and watch.

Fallen branches crunch behind, and I turn around.

“Herdtina!”

She’s wearing a red dress, cinched right under her chest. Succulent Maddie, Maddie-the-prison. Barefoot, with damp soil crumpled into balls under her immaculate, smooth toenails.

“What’s this?” She looks at the nest.

“Mallards,” I say. She frowns, and I suppress a chuckle. (Don’t you dare chuckle at Maddie!)”Wild ducks.”

“Ah.”

She stands there, watching us – me and the eggs. Her head rolls – right, left, eggs, me. Like a spinning top.

“Have you lost your shoes?” I ask. I hear the lilt in my voice rise at the end – it makes me sound British.

Maddie’s upper lip juts out slightly. “Huh?” Her voice smoulders in her throat. “Lunchtime. Just delivering the news.”

We’re on a camping trip. Unbelievable – considering that Maddie walks around the woods in a red dress. Which is also unbelievable – considering that Victor didn’t come. Which is even more unbelievable – considering that Maddie is here.

I shrug and look away. (I don’t want to look at Maddie. I want to brush her off. I want to look at the nest.)

The eggs are like three tiny planets, only cuddling. They are as comforting as the turtles. As the biscuit-coloured spiderweb in the corner of the school hallway ceiling (it’s still there). I can’t stop looking. Even when a gelid waterdrop falls right where I parted my hair, and I flinch. I’m not even sure if I’m breathing. I simply look.

“You coming or what?” Maddie snaps from above my head (she’s stillstanding, I’m still crouching).

“Yeah, I’m nearly there,” I mumble.

Suddenly, there’s hissing. I didn’t know Maddie had a kettle on her, let alone a boiling one, but it’s not unbelievable at all, considering—well, you know what. I wonder where she hid it? I turn – ready to ask for a cup of tea (if she has a kettle, she probably has tea too, right?) – but there’s no kettle, of course, there’s none. It’s Maddie who’s hissing. Her freckled face is scarlet (the name would have suited her well), her ears – splayed burdocks, their leaves about to fall off. Her soft lips -a stretched elastic band around her snow-white teeth.Between them, hissing seeps through.I gasp.

“You okay?” I whisper.

No answer. Continuing to hiss – and even wail a little – she pushes me away, my palm – fingers spread – sinks into the mushy dirt, and I fall to one side. Maddie grabs an egg from the nest – the creamy milk foam one – and sprints toward the jetty.It’s close by, peeking through the tall wetland plants.

“Maddie!” I scream. I scramble to my feet and, my hands covered in mush, run after her.

She’s fast, succulent and fast. Her strong legs leave deep footprints in the gurgling soil; mine don’t.I see the hem of her dress stir up as if agitated, then fall down.She darts around the cranberry bush and leaps onto the wooden pier.

She’s nearly by the water; I’m only stepping onto the planks.Her right hand rises. Up above her chestnut braids. And the egg flies – out of her fingers – over the calm, placid water – a little lower – splash – sink – deep – down.

Roaring like never, I speed up. I zoom towards Maddie, my still-dirty hands grabbing her cinched chest. My legs thrust forward and send her – and me – into the water, after the egg. Another splash, this time louder, more succulent.

 My ears fill with the tepid lake; my eyes closed, I see nothing. I feel Maddie kick like a filly, the thin fabric of her dress swelling. I let go of my hands – I spread them wide. Free, she propels upward, and so do I.

Our heads break the surface of the water, spitting and coughing.When my throat settles a little,

“Bitch!” I shout.

I’m not sure if she heard me, or if I even barked the full word out.

With one stroke, Maddie swims to me, and I feel her nettle-nose bury itself into my cheek.

Her soft, cold lips tremble on mine. She spreads my lips with her tongue, like I spread my hands to let her go, and pushes in. Her tongue is as succulent as Maddie herself. Rough, plump and tastes like algae. I let her in, and as she gets deeper, she presses closer, her chest bumping into mine. I feel them – standing out, clearly defined, and my fingers climb up to squeeze. I’m so dizzy I might sink.

There’s tingling inside, down between my legs, and I close them, intertwine them, trapping the sensation. I suspected, but wasn’t certain – until this moment.

I taste her, Maddie, succulent Maddie, Maddie-the-prison, Maddie-my-prison. When, underwater, my hand slides around her waist, and my fingertips crumple her dress, a moment before her faint ‘Finally’ touches my ears, a scream rings out from the pier.

“Fuck lord!”

And a brisk laugh.

We break off.

We climb out onto the shore, dripping like washed rugs, and look at the gathered students, their faces red and pink and purple and beige and smiling and whispering and winking – and the teacher stands there, his arms crossed, and I know what happens next.

Later

“I’m glad we’re moving, kiddo. Are you?”

Dad’s voice is no longer warm milk. It’s still smooth but not as viscous – a thin broth, I’d say. He loads the last box into the van and locks the tailgate. I look at him, silent, and nod (he doesn’t ask for more).

We walk to opposite doors and climb into the car. He starts the engine – it purrs, I look in the window, and he lets me be.

We drive quietly, leaving it—them—all behind. Dad’s butchery flies past, its windows covered in red paint, offensive words crossing out ‘Frederick’s’ and hiding the clean spark. By the steps, a ‘For Lease’ sign, also covered in paint (swear words). Right across from the oak tree, cozy and comforting.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s not your fault,” Dad says. But he doesn’t look out the window, and I know he’s hurting. “People are stupid, kiddo,” he adds. “And Maddie,” he falters. “Maddie is a coward.”

(Thank you, Dad. Thank you!)

The school gates closed, a huge banner spread above: ‘A place where respect and diversity thrive. We’re excited to be part of your journey!’ We drive too fast; I can’t read the banner, but I’ve read it many times before. I know what it says. I want to chuckle or snort or even spit, but everything is paralysed, and I simply watch.

The woods are just around the corner. And the lake too. I remember being in the lake and the lake filling me everywhere like it was yesterday, or even today. But the summer has passed, and if the lake is still there, it’s certainly not filling me anymore.

I roll down the window and let the breeze tousle my hair. No more white scraps on my scalp, no more Herdtina and… no more Maddie.

It feels different now. I don’t even need to call the turtles; haven’t counted them in a while. Feels okay without them. Not amazing, just okay.

I take a deep breath. I let the familiar earthy tang suffuse my lungs and settle there (my winter supply). I know that deep in the bush, behind the tall cattails, a plundered mallard nest sits quietly. Maybe empty, maybe not. And Maddie jumps into the water with wild squeals, her dress rising and falling, Victor – his nose up, as always – waiting by the shore. Succulent Maddie, Maddie-the-prison, Maddie-the-prisoner.

I close my eyes.

Tatiana Samokhina

Image by Petra from Pixabay – a birds nest with three eggs inside.