Prequel to "Lamb to the Slaughter" Mary's Childhood

A short story of Mary Maloney's childhood life and her abusive father.

Mary Lambert had a happy little family in 1948. Mary was only five years young then and her sister only eight. She had bright, beautiful curls that fell upon her back like a curly fry and gorgeous blue eyes that looked as though they were sculpted from sapphire. Mary’s sister was also extremely beautiful with her long, straight brown hair and her dark, almond-like eyes. But Mary’s mother was not so pretty. She was ugly. She did not even look like her daughters. How could such pretty children come from such an unattractive mother? Well, obviously the girls got their looks from their father. He was quite handsome. He had dark curls, was tall and muscular, and stood in a way only musicians and movie-stars stood. He had class. He had control. He also had a drinking problem. Mary’s mother liked to act as though she didn't know, but she did. She knew he had a problem. But, of course, Mary and her sister had no idea what a drinking problem even was. They just thought daddy was thirsty after work. I mean, a long day at the Police Department really drained a guy and of course he’d fancy a drink after work. Mary’s mother was always waiting at the door when he would come home and Mary always knew to be dressed for her father in her cutest dress when he returned. The perfect American family back in the 1940’s. However, this did not last. There were problems with Mary’s family. Alcoholism has a way of ruining a marriage. And Mary’s father was most definitely an alcoholic.

            It was two years later when little Mary returned home after school with her sister. She was seven now and her sister ten. She had seen her parents get in little fights here and there for the past couple years but never noticed anything too alarming. Some yelling, swearing, even the occasional broken lamp or plate. Nothing unusual. But Mary couldn't have possibly thought of what would happen this day. She returned home a little after three. Her mother was doing the usual cleaning, singing cheerfully and prepping for dinner. She always wore that pretty blue dress and blue heels and in the kitchen, the white apron. The kitchen was large, bright and colorful. The pink-white granite counter tops, the white curtains, the yellow-orange paint on the large walls covered with family photos from past years. Mary’s mother may have been ugly, but she sure did have a sense of style. Mary's father had a rough day at work, even though Mary's mother had no idea what he went through. So, when he returned home he was more than upset. He had no intention of conversation when he came home. All he wanted was a drink. But didn't he always? He arrived home a fraction after five thirty. He walked in, took off his hat and coat, and walked right past his wife, ignoring her as she said, "Hello darling." Mary's mother knew something was wrong but she did not acknowledge it. She kept talking though. She kept going on and on about how she had a great day of cleaning and cooking and knitting. If you were in the room, you could almost sense a temperature rise. He was getting angry. Furious. It was not long now until he had snapped. He had gotten up for a refill around six and sat back down placing the glass on the end table. Mary's mother had thought he had been going too fast. I mean, six drinks in less than half an hour? So, she tried to fake and bump into the table, knocking the glass over onto the carpet. "Oh my! How clumsy of me!" She proclaimed. How clumsy she was. A huge mistake. Mary's father was up in a second with his hands around his wife's skinny, frail neck. His eyes were fireballs. Relentless eyes. He had thrown her up against the wall between the kitchen and living room and took one hand off her neck and hit her with enough force to knock out a heavyweight boxer. Her nose gushed blood faster than a volcano eruption. But she did not yell. Did not cry. Did not even acknowledge it. What was she to do? She walked into the bathroom, cleaned herself up, and walked back to the kitchen to finish supper. No words were said to either of the girls, even though they had seen the whole scene unfold right before their very eyes.

            That was ten years before the accident. A shootout on Barton Ave. left Mary's father with a bullet in his chest and in a severe coma. Mary's mother looked as though she was devastated even though she was not. Mary however, was. She was extremely upset and even now, a seventeen year old high school senior, she had no idea what to do. She was about to have the only male figure in her life taken from her when she needed one the most. A few months later there was a funeral. Every police officer in town must've been there to pay their dues to one of their comrades. It was there where Mary met a young striving officer who had the charm of her father with the eyes of a sweetheart. He would never hurt her.
            His name was Patrick Maloney.