Mrs March

by Virginia Feito

  “Aren’t you just so proud, Mrs. March?” said the blonde with yearning, as if she longed to be asked the same question someday.

  “Oh, my wife is quite tired of me, I think,” said George, smiling at Mrs. March. “It’s a lot, putting up with a writer.”

  The pair giggled again, then sighed, as if the giggling had drained them. Meanwhile a small commotion had broken out across the room. Gabriella was in search of her missing cigarette case, aided by willing volunteers—all of them male and on all fours—who were peering under furniture and between cushions. Mrs. March could feel the case pressing against her breast as she made a show of looking for it on the shelves.

  The party didn’t last much longer, as the walls were thin and the neighbors were known to complain. By the time the last of the guests stumbled merrily out the front door, Martha had already left, boxy little purse in hand, as had the caterers—coats buttoned over soiled uniforms—leaving everything as neat as possible.

  In the master bedroom, Mr. and Mrs. March undressed in silence.

  Standing near the bathroom, he sniffed at the air. “Have people been smoking in here?”

  Mrs. March swallowed, then pinched herself. “George,” she said, hoping he’d mistake her unsteady voice for drunkenness, “did you base that woman on me?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Johanna. Did you base her on me?”

  “She’s not based on anyone, she just …” He gestured with his hands, looking for the right word, which turned out to be a disappointing “is.”

  “Why did you laugh, then, when that woman said so?”

  George frowned, peering at her over his glasses. “What woman?”

  “That woman! The woman at the party! She said, she implied, that Johanna was based on me!”

  George seemed to consider this. “Well, it hadn’t even occurred to me. Honestly, I hadn’t thought of it like that when I was writing. I suppose you may have certain things in common—”

  Mrs. March scoffed. “Oh, really, oh like what, George, tell me. Which lovely part of myself do I share with the whore?” Even through her rage, she spoke at a controlled volume, fretful the neighbors might hear.

  George sighed. “Now, I think you’re taking this the wrong way. Johanna isn’t based on any one woman, although I suppose she is a mixture of qualities from many different women that I’ve known over the years. I no doubt could list traits she shares with several women who have influenced me, and yes, you would be among them. That’s what fiction writers do.”

  “Do it, then.”

  “What?”

  “Sit down and make a list. A list of traits.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes!” she said. “I want to know all these women who have inspired you. I want to know where I stand with Johanna.”

  “Where you stand …? She’s a fictional character!”

  “Then why does it feel like she exists and I don’t?”

  This last question, posed at a volume that could only be considered by one of Mrs. March’s measures as yelling, echoed limply in the now-silent room. She didn’t really know where it had come from, wasn’t sure what sentiment she had been trying to convey, but it was solid enough to leave a bitter taste on her tongue once uttered.

  George frowned. “I don’t want to get into this. I think you’re—well. You’re tired, we’re both tired. Let’s try and get some sleep. We can talk about this in the morning.”

  “I won’t sleep now. Not if you’re here,” said Mrs. March, hugging her waist.

  George sighed. “I’ll sleep in the study.” He picked up a wool throw from an armchair in the corner. “Good night,” he said, not even glancing her way as he walked past her and out the door, which he closed behind him.

  When he’d left, Mrs. March stared blankly at the white paneled door. She locked it, then slowly backed away as if bracing for someone to smash it in with an ax. Swaying on her feet, she walked to her side of the bed, the one nearest the window, and sank into the cold linen face-first.

  A pair of raucous pigeons perched on the sill outside Mrs. March’s window. They cooed in crescendo, one especially shrill, sounding increasingly, embarrassingly like a woman on the brink of orgasm, so that Mrs. March was relieved to wake up alone in the bedroom. Light sliced in through the window around the gaps in the curtains, and she shielded her eyes and moaned, rolling to the other side of the mattress to call Martha on the kitchen extension. She asked for breakfast in bed: only a fruit salad and soft-boiled egg, please. And an aspirin.

  Some minutes later the doorknob shook a little and, after a pause, there was a knock on the door. Mrs. March jumped out of bed and turned the lock, and with a sheepish look, welcomed Martha in.

  “We really must air out this room,” said Martha, setting the breakfast tray on the bed. “There’s an unpleasant odor.”

  Mrs. March sniffed at the air, but it was impossible to detect anything but the invigorating scent of coffee Martha left in her wake. “Really?” she asked. “Like what?”

  “Like a room that hasn’t been aired out in a long time.”

  “Well, I’m feeling unwell, so you can open the windows later. The cold air will do me no good now.”

  “Certainly. Is there anything else you need, Mrs. March?” Martha stood staring in the direction of the bathroom, arms hanging at her sides. Mrs. March followed her gaze to the haphazard pillow fortress she had built last night at the foot of the bathroom door.

  “No, nothing for now,” she said, a slight sharpness in her tone. “Thank you, Martha.”

  She locked the door behind the housekeeper. Those little addenda of hers—“nothing for now,” “not really,” “yes, I suppose”—most likely tormented Martha, a woman who regarded indecisiveness as weak and wasteful, the clearest mark of a spoiled upbringing.

  Mrs. March turned her attention to her breakfast, ornately displayed on the rustic flower-patterned china she had bought at a market on the outskirts of Paris. The aspirin rested on its own hand-painted saucer. Martha had also, unasked, fried a few thick strips of oily bacon. Mrs. March surprised herself by tearing into them with her hands, salivating wildly as the grease ran down her wrists.

  She dissolved the aspirin in a glass of water with a spoon. As she drained the glass, she heard a whisper of sorts behind her and turned to see an envelope being slipped under the bedroom door. From George, she supposed. She tiptoed over in case he was still on the other side, and immediately recognized the eggshell stationery, the burgundy initials: G.M. (he didn’t have a middle name). She had helped him pick it out at Dempsey & Carroll thirteen years ago, after his first big book advance. He hadn’t changed the design since.

  The envelope sat there, untouched, on the carpet, for what seemed like forever, until she made up her mind to snatch it up and tear it open. Inside, an invitation: “Truce? Tartt’s at six.” She crumpled it up and threw it into the unlit fireplace.

  THAT MORNING, she kept to her bedroom, reading, clipping her fingernails, and avoiding George. Whenever she entered the bathroom, she slapped on the light in one violent motion, in an attempt to catch the roaches by surprise. She scanned the floor and the space under the sink but saw none.

  By lunch hour, she had given up on hiding. Martha called out, announcing that lunch was served, and Mrs. March heard the door to George’s study—directly across from their bedroom—creak open. She pressed herself against her door and listened to his steps disappear down the hallway. She inspected herself in the bathroom mirror, tucked loose strands of hair behind her still-raw, slightly puckered ear, and made her way to the dining room.

  The hardwood floors had been mopped, and the Christmas tree and sofas pushed back to their original positions. George was already sitting in his usual place at the table and pouring himself a glass of water when she entered through the French doors. She took her chair in silence, looking down at her leather loafers and at the embroidered napkin in her lap to avoid making eye contact with her husband.
She thought she could make out from the periphery of her vision a blurry George, baring his teeth at her oddly. She cleared her throat as she reached for a piece of olive bread from the breadbasket. She had resorted to buying her favorite bread from the same bakery where she had bought the desserts for the party. It was a pocket-sized place below street level, cramped between a laundromat and a cheap nail salon—nothing like Patricia’s homely, tasteful, downright magical patisserie, but it was a small price to pay to never see Patricia again.

  “Gabriella called earlier,” began George, breaking the silence so abruptly that Mrs. March jumped in her seat. “She still hasn’t found her cigarette case.”

  Mrs. March didn’t answer. She had stashed the silver case in one of her underwear drawers, wrapped with care in an organza shawl. How irresponsible of Gabriella to prance about with such an heirloom, taking it to parties and forgetting it on strangers’ tables. Served her right.

  “So …” continued George, likely realizing that this deflection was not getting him anywhere. “Will you accept my dinner invitation?”

  Mrs. March shrugged, buttering a piece of bread. “Don’t feel like you have to take me out—”

  “I feel nothing of the sort. I want to take you out. It would be my absolute pleasure.”

  “Well, it seems to me that you’re taking me out to indulge me, to shut me up, like I’m one of your children.”

  “All right, all right,” said George, showing her his palms in a gesture of surrender. “How about this? We’re going out to dinner to celebrate the incredible party my wife threw me.”

  “So … we’re celebrating a celebration?”

  She had meant to make George feel stupid, but his face lit up at the notion. “Celebration of a celebration!” he said. “I love it. It sounds like us, doesn’t it?” He took her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.

  To Mrs. March it didn’t sound like them in the slightest, although she wasn’t sure what would. Rather than unsettle her, the question quite intrigued her: Who were they? They used to laugh and fight and stay up late talking. She would squeal when he kissed the nape of her neck, and she would click her tongue in mock displeasure when he slapped her rear as they climbed out of the subway. Wouldn’t she? Or were these scenes she’d picked up from movies and books? She looked sideways at George, who was chomping heartily on his sautéed mushrooms. Who was he?

  They took a cab to the restaurant. The place could be reached on foot, but tonight the sidewalks were wet, the air humid and chilly, and Mrs. March was in heels.

  They rode most of the way in silence.

  “The Monkey Bar is getting to be so drab,” said George as the cab trundled along 54th Street.

  “Mmm,” she said.

  The loud cartoon murals of the Monkey Bar had hosted their romantic dinners for years. Over time George started taking his friends and business associates there too. As he did with almost everything, he reveled in it in excess, only to grow bored of the place once the novelty wore off. And so, they exchanged the red leather booths and mirrored columns of the Monkey Bar for the quiet, wallpapered rooms of Tartt’s.

  The cab stopped at the curb with a splash. George paid the driver as a uniformed valet hurried over with an umbrella. They entered the restaurant at precisely six o’clock, where the maître d’, a pasty man with slicked hair and a perky nose, asked them under what name their reservation had been made. Mrs. March scanned the man’s face for a hint of recognition as George stated his full name, but he remained unreadable as he checked them off in his book and escorted them to their table.

  “Why aren’t we in a private room?” she asked, once they were seated and the maître d’ was out of earshot. Their usual table was in a small space separated from the main dining area by thick curtains lined with pom-pom trim. It made her feel royal and safe.

  “Well, I made the reservation this morning,” said George, “and it was a challenge to get a table at all.”

  “But wouldn’t they have given you a better table if you told them who you were?”

  “Come on now, dear, this table is perfect. Plus, I wouldn’t want to look like an asshole.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right,” said Mrs. March, supposing nothing of the sort. She craned her neck to survey the space. It was tasteful, and dimly lit. Quite a few people were seated already as more arrived, all of them impeccably dressed and coiffed. No one seemed to notice them or recognize George, the latter of which would have annoyed Mrs. March in the past, but which today provided her with relief. She lowered her eyes toward her menu. Wood sorrel, Marsala sabayon, kabocha squash … George’s tortoiseshell glasses hung on his chest from a cord, slapping occasionally against his shirt buttons. Mrs. March peered over her menu at him and cleared her throat, but George remained oblivious. When he finally slipped on his glasses to read the wine list, Mrs. March sat back and returned her gaze to the unintelligible entrées. “It all sounds so yummy, dear,” she said, “I just can’t decide. Why don’t you order for me?”

  “I will,” said George, without once looking up, “and I’m also going to order us some lovely wine.”

  The waiter appeared, hunched, hands clasped in front as if he were asking for forgiveness, and with a practiced caution (“Do we know what we want? Any questions?”) took their order. As George rattled off their requests, Mrs. March’s attention wavered and her vision dimmed, the chatter and tinkling of utensils temporarily quieted. From far away, the waiter asked George if they had any desire for baked Alaska, because apparently it took an inordinate amount of time to prepare. As if emerging from water, she surfaced to see George reply in the affirmative. She had not been consulted, but it was for the best, as she always either regretted not ordering dessert or regretted ordering it. Better for George to make the decision for her. Mrs. March had given up on dieting years ago, never able to sustain it. When Martha wasn’t around to keep her in check, she’d invariably give in to the peculiar cravings she’d harbored since she was a little girl (cookies with rice, tomato sauce in yogurt).

  She looked down to see a plate of pearly razorfish, tonight’s special. She hadn’t noticed it being served to her. Had they eaten their appetizers already? She couldn’t recall whether George had ordered any. The razorfish looked cartoonish with its colorful stripes and bright yellow irises. She pushed it around her plate, reluctant to eat it, watching George while he slurped at his. The fish’s eye stared at her, the pupil circled by one colorful ring after another. Suddenly it blinked. Mrs. March thrust her chair back and excused herself to go to the bathroom.

  The ladies’ room at Tartt’s was surprisingly masculine—oak-paneled and dimly lit, smelling of cinnamon and citrus. In a corner stood a wooden bookcase with wire mesh doors, and along the furthest wall there was a very long porcelain sink—with faucets curved like swans’ necks—where a woman stood retouching her makeup in the mirror. Mrs. March attempted a greeting, but the woman didn’t register her presence. Mrs. March rapped politely on the door to the toilet and, hearing no response, pushed it open. The stall she selected was almost fancier than the entire bathroom, with its own sink, golden fixtures, and walls papered in Chinese silk. From a sound system emerged a man’s voice, reading an audiobook in a soothing British accent. She caught snippets as she undressed, hoisting up her tight skirt and rolling down her pantyhose, careful not to rip them.

  The scent of the woman who had used the toilet before her lingered. The smell of her insides, like raw meat. Mrs. March swallowed to suppress a gag and crouched over the toilet, careful to avoid touching the seat with her bare flesh, as her mother had taught her. She hovered, waiting for her bladder to empty as she swayed over the toilet. To maintain her equilibrium she focused on the audiobook narrator’s words.

  “She removed the scrimshawed busk, which was pressed against her bosom, yellowed with sweat between pimpled breasts. The initials ‘B.M.’ were carved into the whalebone. It did not belong to her, for her name was Johanna.”

  Mrs. March gasped, and
the stream of her urine diverted to the floor. It couldn’t be; had the audiobook even been released? She managed a clumsy dab of toilet paper before pulling up her pantyhose, ripping them in the process—“She had stolen it, a pathetic figure in the dark of night, from another prostitute a few years back”—a drop of urine streaked down her leg as she operated the golden faucet—“a sailor had carved it for B.M., expressing a tenderness Johanna had never experienced from anyone, not even one of her tricks”—she splashed her hands clumsily, reaching for a paper towel, the voice erupting from the speakers louder, threatening—“We know you’re in there, Johanna”—she yelped, throwing herself at the door, fumbling with the gilded handle.

  When she burst from the stall, she found the bathroom deserted, one of the taps open. She tossed her crumpled paper towel into the trash and fled the restroom.

  The restaurant seemed to have gone quiet. No sounds of knives and forks on porcelain, of clinking glasses, no buzzing of conversation or rustle of the sommelier’s stiff trousers. Silence. She walked through the dim dining room as diners on either side watched her, their heads turning to follow her, expressions serious and judgmental. Even the waiters were staring, one of them leering at her over the roast beef on the carving trolley. Only one couple in a far corner wasn’t looking at her, but laughing, instead, between themselves. Then the woman turned her head to look at her, a smile still playing on her face, her lips purple from the wine. Mrs. March rushed to her table, where George continued to eat without a care.

  A waiter appeared out of nowhere, brandishing tongs. He thrust the tongs straight at her, locking eyes, and she quailed, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them she saw that he had used the tongs to place a fresh napkin over her lap. Afraid to turn to face the diners again, she looked instead into the reflection on the inside of her silver spoon. The dining room sprawled, upside down and concave, around her own deformed reflection, and she was unable to make out the faces of her jury.