Atheists Who Kneel and Pray

by Tarryn Fisher

  “Yes,” I say. I’m not sure how much to tell her.

  “Then I write it for you,” she nods, “this morning.”

  I stare at the cup and try not to cry. Was the universe trying to send me a message? God? I don’t believe in God. David used to tell me that not believing in God was a defense mechanism against human suffering. It’s easier to say nothing exists than to say something exists and He just lets us suffer.

  I wonder if this woman, who is reduced to begging for money with her infant clutched in her arms, believes in God? I don’t know how to ask her, so I stare into her eyes and try to understand. The baby falls off her breast asleep; the smooth skin of its cheek has a line of milk where it ran out of its mouth. I try not to look at her puckered nipple, but it’s right there on display.

  “I have to go,” I say, as if she cares. I turn and walk away.

  “This number,” she calls after me, “be careful of it.” I wonder if her warning would be different had I not given her four of my euros. Would she have told me the number meant nothing? Would she have cursed me with it? Maybe I am already cursed.

  I am already walking away. I lift a hand to indicate I heard her. I would, I would be careful. But that number is like splattering fat. It rises up every now and again to sting me.

  After work I rush home to change my clothes. It wasn’t until I was feeding Henry his lunch that I realized I’d been wearing my uniform when I saw David, a white polo shirt and tan chinos. What had David said once about people who wear polo shirts and chinos? I smile at the memory. He called them spa people.

  “The poor serve the rich in polo shirts and chinos.”

  Henry asks for more fruit, and as I cut into the melon, I laugh at the irony. He’d had a job once, he’d told me, at a country club the summer he turned sixteen, collecting golf balls at the driving range.

  “What do you think they made me wear, Yara?” he’d said.

  I’d laughed when he described how high he wore his pants. How the older ladies, the wives, made comments about his backside. I am doing just what he said, too: serving the upper class, raising their young son while they are off getting rich.

  Henry asks me why I look like I want to cry when I’m leaving.

  “I’ll just miss you so much when I’m gone,” I say. He puts his little sticky hand on top of mine and says, “Je t’adore.”

  I sniffle on the train and all the way home. Child-tending is softer than bartending. For instance, they drink milk to comfort themselves, not liquor. And when they are upset with you, they too yell and call names, but they get over it faster—never holding a grudge longer than it takes for their tears to dry.

  Rifling through my belongings, I find nothing to wear. I hadn’t brought much with me during my last exodus. Just a few pairs of jeans and some summer tops. Celine once told me to help myself to her wardrobe. She’d always wanted a sister, she said. I imagine that’s why she’s yet to evict me from her tiny flat, though I am starting to feel hungry for my own space. She said her flat was haunted and I believe her. Things we’ve thrown away are always showing up again in closets or on dressers.

  “Didn’t you throw this away last night?” she’d asked, holding up a plastic tub of butter. I nodded. She’d found it in her wardrobe among her shoes. “What type of ghost collects tubs of butter?” She’d frowned, stepping on the paddle of the rubbish bin. I didn’t know. I am haunted by the living.

  I step into her room. It’s chilly, the windows open, and her flimsy gauze curtains flapping about. I close them quickly and open her wardrobe, smiling glibly. All monochrome. I’ve never seen her in color. I choose a black shirt and jacket to pair with my black pants, and write her a little note telling her what I’ve taken. I don’t feel myself when I step onto the street. I’ve been living in khaki and white, a single limp braid hanging down my back. Tonight I look stylish and French in my black pants and tailored jacket. My hair hangs in ripples down my back from the braid and I even put on mascara and lipstick. I used to think that loving someone split you in two: the person you were when you were alone, and the person you were as part of a team. I held things back from him thinking he’d not want me as I was, and as a result, I always felt trapped beneath my own skin, never fully able to be myself. I am myself now, and I don’t care who sees that. The walk to the cafe is fifteen minutes. I’m already ten minutes late.

  When I step into the café, I spot him right away. He’s waiting for me at a tiny table, a French saying is painted on the wall over his head: Au fait. It means to be conversant with familiar things. How appropriate, I think as I make my way toward him. When I reach the table, he stands up like a proper gentleman and gives me a tight-lipped smile. He’s all business and I’m all nerves. We both make a point of being covert lookers; under the guise of lowly hung eyelids and quick glances we study one another. His skin is the color of butterscotch. Only the wealthy are tan, I think. The rest of us work too much to lie underneath the sun. We both sink into our seats, relieved that the greeting is over—that’s the hard part, the awkwardness of saying hello.

  “Did you bring them?” I ask.

  My hands are folded on the table to keep from shaking. If you looked closely you would see the tremor.

  “Bring what?”

  “The papers. Aren’t you here to have me sign papers? And how did you find me anyway?”

  “I hired a private detective,” he says. “He’s quite used to finding you at this point.”

  I make a face. “That’s how you knew I’d be at the cafe,” I say, nodding. “Why don’t you just e-mail and ask?”

  “Would you answer?”

  I tap, tap, tap my finger on the tabletop, then abruptly fold them again.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  He lifts his eyebrows in response.

  I am hungry for him to tell me something. Something about his life, or even about Petra. If he imparts even a little detail it will mean he cares, that I am worthy of knowing things. I almost laugh at myself. I gave all of David up. I have no right to ask anything about his life. I am emotionally homeless, pandering for his attention.

  “Why are you here?” he asks.

  He gestures outside and it takes a moment to understand that he means Paris, not this particular restaurant.

  I look around anyway, at the tiny white plates on the tables, and then outside at two women with cigarettes scissored between their fingers. They are gaunt, bare of makeup. In Paris, the women accept their bare faces and like them that way. I’m learning, but I love makeup.

  “Same reason I’m ever anywhere,” I say.

  “Did you have a boyfriend you were going to move in with…Evan…?”

  “Ethan.” I shrug. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself since you seem to know so much about me,” I say.

  I want one of those cigarettes that the gaunt, barefaced girls are holding. David offers me his water like he knows I’m struggling. I take it gratefully and sip.

  “Me?” he says, surprised. “What do you want to know about me?”

  I thrill at the offer even though it isn’t really an offer. There only seems to be one question important enough to ask. One I ask myself almost every day.

  “Are you happy?” I figure his answer will answer all of my other questions.

  “What does it mean to be happy?” he asks.

  A question to answer a question. He’s good at that.

  A server appears with a bottle of Burgundy and two glasses. She’s one of the gaunt girls I saw smoking outside. She isn’t wearing a bra. I check to see if David has noticed, but his eyes are on me. I have a flashback of our last meeting in London and how that had gone south fast.

  “Every time you order a bottle of wine we fight,” I say.

  He gives me an annoyed look as he fills my glass.

  “We fight because we have things to fight about, it has nothing to do with the wine.”

  I shrug like I don’t care, but I do care. I’m superstitious about some thin
gs.

  “Are you going to marry Petra?” It feels like a relief to get the words out, but I also feel exhausted after I say them. He stares at me like my question is absurd.

  “Are you going to answer any of my questions?” I ask, irritated.

  David finishes his glass of wine. He reaches for my untouched glass and pulls it toward him.

  “Where are the papers?” I ask. “This is the third time you’ve found me to deliver divorce papers, and yet somehow you disappear with them every time.” I slam my fist on the table and the glasses wobble. David stares at me, not at all moved by my display, and suddenly I know.

  “Oh my God,” I say. I point a finger at him, just one jab in his direction. “You’re doing this to torture me.”

  I stand up. I feel like such a fool. He’s not looking at me now; he’s staring at my wineglass, which confirms my theory. I act on impulse, lunging toward him, reaching around his left side and patting him down. I search for the papers that I already know are not there. The bastard came empty-handed…again. I’m so caught up in what I’m doing that when I look up I realize he’s inches from my face, just staring at me. His hands are in the air, palms out like he’s offering a surrender. We glare at each other.

  “Full cavity search too?” he asks, glibly.

  He’s not smiling and neither am I. We’re so close that I can smell the wine on his breath, see that his eyes are too bloodshot to indicate that he just started drinking when I arrived. He’s drunk, he’s been drunk. I wonder how often he spends his days like this, or if it’s just me who brings it on. I straighten up, staring right into his miserable eyes, then I turn on my heel and walk out. I hear him call my name but I don’t stop. I walk and walk until I don’t know where I am, and I realize I’m crying, tears dripping down my chin and onto Celine’s silk shirt, mingling with the mascara. I left her jacket at the restaurant, which makes me cry harder. I’m such a failure. I deserve it, whatever torture he sees fit to punish me with, I deserve every second of it.

  He comes to Celine’s flat later that night. I hear the knock but I don’t move. When she opens the door she speaks in French. I hear David reply in English. He asks to speak to Yara. My face is half submerged in bathwater. I blow bubbles out of my nose. Celine knocks on the bathroom door a moment later, her voice unsure.

  “Yara,” she says. “Your David is here.”

  I roll my eyes and hope he heard that. If someone has owned you once, can you ever be free?

  “I’m in the bath,” I tell her.

  “He says he urgently needs to speak with you.” Her voice is rising. She doesn’t like to be in the middle of conflict.

  “All right,” I say, slowly. “He’s welcome to come in here if he wants to speak to me, but I just got in and he’s not ruining my bath like he’s already ruined my day,” I shout this so he can hear.

  A minute later the little brass doorknob turns and David steps in. He keeps his eyes lowered as he closes the door behind him and sits on the lid of the toilet. His view is of the towel rack. On it one white towel hangs perfectly straight, sporting a black monogrammed C. Celine has an addiction to monograming things.

  “The bath is filled with bubbles,” I say. “You can look at me.”

  He swivels and then his eyes narrow.

  I lied.

  I shrug. “What is it that you want?” My words are clipped. I bend a knee, bring it out of the water, and he looks away, back at the towel.

  “I’ve forgotten,” he says. “I came here for something but now I’ve forgotten why.”

  I smile.

  “Divorce,” I say. “You came because you want a divorce.”

  “Do I?”

  I reach for the glass of gin I carried in here with me and take a sip.

  “Yes, so that you can marry that tattooed whore.” I try not to sound bitter when I say it.

  He looks at me again, but this time I’ve turned away. I’m running water between my fingers.

  “Don’t call her that,” he says.

  It’s weak, his defense of the whore. Noted.

  “I’ll call her whatever the fuck I want. She’s the whore my husband’s been sleeping with.” I say it slowly, deliberately. Let the words sink in.

  He laughs and I look over. It’s a nice sound. All these little meetups we’ve been having and he’s never laughed until now. He’s looking at me again.

  “Since when am I your husband?” he says.

  I arch my back so he can see my tits.

  “Since you said ‘for better or for worse.’ This is worse.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right,” I mimic.

  I stand up and reach for the towel that’s sitting on the sink next to him. I let the water run down my body while he tries not to look.

  “We’re married,” I tell him. “You can look.” I’m being cruel, but I don’t care. Cruel and the truth are the same thing.

  He looks over slowly, like there is a tether to the back of his neck and he has to pull against it. His long eyelashes flutter and his lips part. It’s been a few years since he’s seen me without a fabric skin. There are a few changes, not many.

  “And how many men has my wife slept with since she’s been married?”

  This time I laugh. “We’re just two cheaters, aren’t we?”

  I step out of the bath and onto the mat, toweling myself off. David watches me, but there’s not lust on his face. Just sadness.

  I can hear Celine moving around the kitchen. She’s trying to hear what’s going on, worrying that we’ll soil her white towels. I wrap the towel around myself and step around him to open the door, letting the steam run out. He stands up to follow me.

  “Wait here,” I say, and he sits back down.

  My things are still in my suitcase after all this time. I pull it from underneath the sofa and take out underwear and clothes. I get dressed in the living room where Celine gives me a wide-eyed look, like—what the fuck is going on—and then I go get him.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” I tell her. “Have to sort things out with my cheating husband.”

  Her brow creases as she frowns.

  We walk without direction, down this street and that. The buildings loom over us as people move past their windows, feeding their families and winding down for the night. As always, I wish to know what they’re doing, what they’re saying to each other. Is there a right and wrong way to be human? David walks close to me, but we don’t touch. I want him to reach out and grab my hand like he used to. I want that so badly. When a couple of drunk guys amble down the narrow street, he moves between me and them, a human barrier. I get a lump in my throat remembering what it’s like to feel protected. I’ve never felt like I needed protecting, it was just the fact that someone wanted to do it. For a long time there’s just the consistent stride of two people not knowing how to start, then I ask the questions I’ve been waiting to ask.

  “Did you and Petra have something when we were together?”

  “No. Never. She came to a show about a year after you left and we…”

  “Fucked.”

  “Connected,” he corrects me.

  “All right then,” I say, licking my lips. “Tell me about her.”

  He stops abruptly and looks around. A light breeze lifts his hair.

  “I’ll need a drink to do that. Or many.”

  I point to a cafe across the street. “Drink away.”

  He looks at my finger, my arm, my face, then turns his body to study the bar I’m pointing to like he’s in a trance.

  “That place?” he asks.

  I shrug. “It’s as good as any.”

  It’s a lie, of course. Anyone can see that it’s grungy. The windows are filmed over with scum and the crowd standing outside has a drug mafia look to them. He nods like he doesn’t care, and I feel disappointed. I wanted him to be disgusted, maybe refuse to step foot into the place, then he’d give me reason not to like him, a real stuck-up asshole. I follow him across the st
reet and through the door. The people standing outside don’t even look at us. The inside smells of bleach and beer, a day at the pool. I scrunch up my nose as David leads us to a booth. The benches are a deep red leather, split in some places. I slide over the cracks, and to my surprise, David slides in next to me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Shielding you.”

  “From what?” I already know what but I want to hear him say it.

  “Sex slavery, harassment, the mafia…”

  I laugh and he smiles at me, it’s genuine right down to his eyes.

  Our shoulders are touching, so are our thighs. I lean my elbows on the table as the bartender comes to take our drink order. Beer for both of us. We hold the glasses between our palms and stare at the empty seats in front of us.

  “Petra is complicated. She loves me and has given me a lot of room to be myself.”

  “Who is yourself?”

  “I guess I don’t really know anymore. I’m half wrapped up in grief, half wrapped up in music. She mostly gets that.”

  “But she loves you, she stays.” There’s a catch in my voice, but I’m just stating the obvious, the truth.

  “Yeah,” he says. “She knows I’m here, but she didn’t want me to come.”

  I nod. “I wouldn’t have either.” We take a sip of our beer to kill the awkwardness.

  “Why did you come?” I ask.

  “I wanted to look at you.”

  “And so you have. You’ve looked at me in England, and you’ve looked at me in France. Why do you need to look anymore? Give me the goddamn papers and let me sign them!”

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” he said.

  “About what, David? What?”

  He looks startled. I see the bartender peep out from behind a wall and then quickly retreat. I quiet my voice, but it’s still angry.

  “You thought you’d come here and hate me? You thought you’d feel relieved that I walked out and you can pretend it was all for the best? Or did you think you’d take one look and know that you’re no longer in love with me? So tell me, David. Do you feel those things, or is it still me you’ll write songs for?”