Madame X

by Jasinda Wilder

  "What conclusions did you come to?"

  "That I had to make something of myself. I'd survived when I shouldn't have. I was alive, and I mean I guess it sounds like a cliche, but I felt like I'd been given a second chance. One thing led to another, and I ended up in Chicago, working for a flipper, a guy who buys foreclosed houses, fixes them up, and sells them at a profit. I had money, but I needed to stay busy. Learned enough to do it myself, flipping houses on my own. This was a big thing for a while, back when the real estate market was going gangbusters. I made a mint, and decided to go bigger. Bought a bar that'd gone under, owner ran out of money. Renovated it, hired some folks who knew shit about running a bar, sold it for a big profit. That earned me deeper pockets, let me take bigger risks for bigger rewards. Most of them paid off, some didn't--and every time I got a big payout, I used it to fund the next deal. Learned other skills, learned to recognize when something will pay off and when it's a bust. Got into technology development, bought some other companies . . ."

  "And then you found yourself on the losing end of a bad deal."

  He nodded. "Yeah. But that's a whole different story."

  "And one you don't like to talk about."

  "Right." He eyes me. "Back to you. How'd you end up with Caleb?"

  Everything inside me freezes. I don't know how to answer. I don't know how to talk about Caleb. How to explain it.

  "He was there when I had no one," I end up saying. It's true enough.

  Logan nods, but it's the kind of nod that implies he realizes I'm keeping back more than I'm saying. "How about I offer up some really . . . personal information? So you see I'm for real. I just want to know. I'm not going to judge you or try to . . . I don't know. I just want to know."

  "What kind of personal information?" I can't help asking.

  A pause, as Gino brings yet another dish, something else kind of like lasagna, wide rolls of pasta in sheets, stuffed with ricotta and ground sausage, doused in marinara.

  "Did you see the painting?" Logan asks.

  "Starry Night," I say. "Yes, I saw it. I wondered about that."

  "You know, Van Gogh only ever sold a couple paintings in his lifetime, and that was one of them. But that particular version of Starry Night was actually only one of dozens he did that were similar. He painted them from an asylum in France. What we'd call a psychiatric home now. It was a lunatic asylum for the wealthy. He was chronically depressed, suffered a mental break. Cut his ear off, I guess, or part of it. Admitted himself there, to Saint-Paul de Mausole. He had a whole wing to himself, and he'd sit in this room he'd made into his studio, and he'd paint the view, over and over and over. Different perspectives, trying different techniques. Day, night, close up, far off, everything. There's another one, called Starry Night over the Rhone. Anyway, he'd just paint the view from that room over and over again. But that one, the one we both have copies of, it's something special. He was a deeply troubled man, Van Gogh, and that painting, I guess to me it just . . . echoes things I sympathize with. That deal that went wrong . . . I ended up in prison. I don't want to go into the details, but they'd let us out into the yard during the day, so we could lift weights and all that cliche bullshit. The view from the yard, there was this hill in the distance with some trees on it, and birds would fly in from all directions. I can see it now, the grass heading off into the distance, with yellow dandelions in patches here and there. Then the hill, and the trees. I don't know what kind, oak, maybe? Thick, huge, with these massive spreading branches. And I'd be there in the yard, in the crazy fucking heat, staring at that stand of trees and the shadows they cast, daydreaming of being up there on the hill, in the shade. It was a scene I could paint from memory, even now, if I were able to draw for shit. And Starry Night, it's . . . there's this sense of distance, peace--I don't know, it's hard for me to put it into words. But it just reminds me of how I felt, staring out at that hill every day."

  "For me, it's the view of the city from my window, at my condo. It's hard for me to go outside. You saw that. Walking here, it was the first time I can remember that I didn't feel any panic at all. But looking out, watching the people and the cars, everyone just going about their lives so easily, it just . . . sometimes I'd long for something that simple, that easy. But then--I get outside, and the noise, and the people, and everything is so big, and there's so much of everything . . ." I close my eyes, try to make sense of my own thoughts. "Starry Night, to me, is about how none of that matters. The stars will shine, and they'll light up the world, no matter who you are, or, in my case, who you are not. I mean, I woke up, and I was no one. But the city goes on. That's both comforting and scary, depending on my mood. But the stars will shine, for Van Gogh, and there will be cathedrals and cypress trees, and there will be something out there that's beautiful, no matter what's inside me. I don't know how to make any more sense of it. Like you said, it's hard to put into words."

  "No, I get it." His hand reaches for mine, and there's a moment, then, that passes between us. An understanding. It's nebulous, but real.

  But then time reasserts itself, and I can't fall back into that moment, no matter how much I wish to.

  Something has shifted.

  Being here, with Logan, like this . . . it's too easy. Too simple. Too real. I want to enjoy it, the wine and the food and the impossibly handsome man who seems to want to know me, but I can't. He wants to know about Caleb, and how do I explain that?

  How do I explain that even now, Caleb is a part of me? Even now, to talk about Caleb feels like . . . sacrilege. Like betrayal. Like to put into words the wealth of what has occurred between Caleb and me would be to make less of them, to bare to the light things that should not be revealed. Not secrets, just . . . private things.

  One cannot be more bare, more naked, more vulnerable than to be without identity, to be denuded of all personality, to be utterly without an identity, without a soul.

  To be no one.

  Caleb made me someone. And that someone is all tangled up and woven around the person that is Caleb.

  "X?" Logan's voice. Quiet, but sharp.

  "Yes, sorry." I try to smile at him.

  "I lost you there, didn't I?"

  I can only stare at him, stare into his eyes. "Can we . . . can we go, Logan? This is . . . wonderful. And maybe you can't understand this, but . . . it's too wonderful. Too much."

  He sighs, a sad sound. "Yeah . . . no--I get it. I really do." He stands up, digs into his pocket, and tosses some money on the table.

  Gino is there, dishes in hand. "No, no, you cannot go, not yet. The best is yet to come!"

  Logan claps him on the shoulder. "Sorry, man. My friend isn't feeling good."

  "Ah. Well, if you must go, you must go." He shrugs, as if to say what will be, will be.

  Outside, then, Logan's hand in mine. Evening has fallen. Golden light has faded to dusk, gold melting into shadows. The magic hour has gone, and the spell seems to have snapped. I don't know why or how. But I walk, and feel ill at ease.

  Instead of beauty, now I see the underbelly. The trash on the streets, the smell of Dumpsters, diesel fumes, a man's angry shouts from an open window. A curse. Glass crunching underfoot. Graffiti on the walls, ugliness marring crumbling brick.

  I feel a bit dizzy from the wine, thick-headed. A headache prods at the interior of my skull.

  The walk back feels like it will be endless, and my feet hurt.

  When was it I woke from the bath?

  How long has passed? An eternity, it feels.

  Was that really all just today?

  The length of the day is crashing down on me, the pressure of all I've experienced weighing heavily. Heavy food, heavy wine. Logan's mouth on mine, his body against me, his kiss. Wanting him, yet feeling as if . . . as if I shouldn't have him. As if to be with him would be . . . wrong, somehow. I can't make sense of it. To try is dizzying.

  I want my own bed, my library. I want to read Mansfield Park and sip Earl Grey. I want to watch night fall from my wi
ndow.

  But I can't. I left that behind. I walked away from it.

  Was that a mistake? It felt right at the time. But now? I'm not so sure. Who is Logan? A warrior. A man who has been to prison. A man who has been to war.

  A man who risked much to do what he felt was freeing me.

  But can he understand me, understand my situation?

  "X?" Logan's voice again, concerned. "Are you okay?"

  I try to nod. "It's been a long day. I'm very tired." So much left unsaid.

  "Let's get you home, huh?" His arm around my waist.

  Home? Where is home? What is home?

  "I can't walk anymore, Logan. I just can't."

  I feel him look at me. "Shit. I'm an idiot. I'm sorry. You've been through a lot today, haven't you? What was I thinking?" He lifts a hand, and like magic, a yellow taxi appears and swerves over to us.

  Logan helps me in, slides after me, gives his address. The ride is short.

  He pays the taxi driver. We are stopped, rows of brownstones on either side. Darkness like a blanket, pierced by lamplight. Logan's arm around my waist, helping me walk the few feet from where the taxi let us out to Logan's front door.

  Will I sleep with Logan? In his bed? On a couch? A spare room?

  So much of me wants to go home. This feels like an adventure, like something from a story, and I just want to return to real life. But it's not life, it's not a story, it's not a fairy tale.

  What is it?

  I'm very tired.

  I want to go back to when I was naked in the hallway, Logan's hands on me, back to when things felt simple and possible. In that moment, everything was simple and easy. I just wanted him.

  I still want him.

  I feel safe, his arm around me like this.

  But I don't know what tomorrow will be like. For that matter, I do not know what now will be like. I am lost and confused and homesick. This is the longest I've ever been away from my condo, away from all that is familiar.

  I feel Logan tense, come to an abrupt halt. "Stay here," he whispers to me, and helps me lean against the tree.

  The light shines from below, bright. I blink, and see Logan standing with his hands in fists at his sides. He is taut, coiled.

  I peer into the shadows and see another shape, sitting on the steps to Logan's brownstone. A familiar shape. Familiar broad shoulders, familiar curve of jawline seen in profile, those cheekbones, that forehead, those lips.

  I step forward. "Caleb?"

  "Stay there, X." Logan's voice is hard as iron. "And you stay right where you are, Caleb. Keep away from her."

  "X. Let's go." That voice, deep and dark as a chasm.

  I blink, sway on my feet. Logan, in front of me, acting as a human shield between Caleb and me.

  Caleb, standing now, hands in pockets.

  Two men; one dark, one light.

  I want to run, want to climb into this tree and huddle in the nook of the branches.

  Caleb takes another step closer to me, Logan blocking the way with his body.

  Tension crackles.

  Violence is thick in the air.

  I cannot breathe, panic welling up within me, as familiar as the wrinkles on the palms of my hands.

  I see eyes like midnight shadows, staring at me. Expectant. Knowing.

  Seeing me, seeing me.

  "It's time to go home, X." That voice, implacable, like darkness made flesh, like shadows that curl as sleep stakes its claim, shadows not to fear but rather shadows that lull, shadows that witness dreams and wait through the night until the sunrise.

  "You don't have to go with him, X." Logan.

  "You know where you belong. It's time to go." Caleb.

  Where I belong? Do I know where I belong?

  Caleb strides away. Toward a sleek, low, black car, Len waiting, holding the rear passenger door. Logan swivels to face me. He is not standing in my way, not preventing me. Nor is he touching me.

  Caleb to my left. The condo, what I know. My library. My window.

  Logan in front of me. The brownstone, Cocoa. The fantasy of normalcy.

  "You are Madame X." The voice to my left, confident, calm, strong. "And you belong to me. You belong with me."

  "But you don't have to, X." Logan reaches for me but doesn't touch me. Not quite. Almost, but not quite. "You don't have to. Don't you see that?"

  I feel the pull. An invisible thread, ensnaring my wrist. My ankle. My waist. My throat. It isn't a scent, or a memory, or a touch. It isn't sorcery.

  I lost twenty years of memory. I lost all I was. I lost me.

  But now I have a past. Six years, perhaps only a fraction when compared to the totality of my life, but it is the only history I know. The library. The window. Tea. The way time passes in lulling increments, each moment ordered and known and understood.

  Logan . . . he represents the unknown, a future that could be. A dream. A dog to nuzzle my cheek, to welcome me. Kisses in the madness of wild moments, passion that consumes. Disorder, frenzy of need, time like sand slipping through a clenched fist, so many new things.

  But then there's Caleb . . . my savior, my past, and my present. I've gotten a glimpse, rare and precious, past heaven-high walls and into the inner sanctum of who the man really is.

  Caleb has given me so much . . . a name, an identity, a life.

  He is a mystery, and often inscrutable, but he is all I know.

  I choke on my breath.

  I feel my foot slide backward.

  Logan's eyes distort, and his jaw clenches. He sees the infinitesimal slide of my foot, and he correctly reads the sign for what it is. "Don't, X."

  "I'm sorry, Logan."

  "Don't. You don't know what you're doing." He sounds utterly sure of this.

  "I'm sorry. Thank you, Logan. So much. Thank you."

  Caleb stands waiting, watching, tall and broad and clad impeccably in a tailored suit, navy with narrow pinstripes, white shirt, thin slate-gray tie. Fingers uncurl from a fist, palm lifted, hand extended. "Come now."

  I cannot make myself break my gaze away from Logan's, away from the sadness, the need. He, too, sees me.

  I back away. Back away.

  Logan lifts his chin, jaw hardened, fists at his sides, brow furrowed. Faded jeans, a pale green henley, four buttons at the neck, each one undone, sleeves pushed up around thick, corded forearms. I see his hands--and for a moment, only those hands. They touched me, so gently. I felt a lifetime of touch in what in this moment feel like were stolen moments.

  A moment is a fortieth of an hour.

  How many fortieths of an hour did I steal with Logan?

  They do feel stolen, indeed, but no less precious for that.

  Hands, on my shoulders, pulling me back. Fingers that know me, fingers that have peeled away all my layers, night after night, and have known me in the darkness and known me in the light.

  I still do not turn away, do not look away, even as I retreat into the shadows around the waiting car.

  The interior is cool, and silent.

  Dark.

  Logan stands in a pool of pale light, framed, illuminated. He watches me and does not blink.

  I watch, still, even when Len closes the door, and I must watch through tinted glass.

  A low, powerful growl of the engine, and then Logan is behind me, still watching, growing smaller.

  A long, deep, fraught silence, as the car returns me to the familiar glass-and-steel canyons, echoing with the ceaseless life of night in this city.

  *

  When you speak, your voice strikes chords within me, hammers on the strings of a piano. My entire being hums, and I must turn, must look. Must meet your eyes like darkness of a moonless night.

  "You are Madame X, and you . . . are . . . mine." Your fingers pinch my chin, tilt my head to look at you. "Say it, X."

  The words feel pulled out of me, drawn out, ensnared and tangled up and plucked out of the snarl of conflict within me:

  "I am Madame X, and I am yours."
<
br />   SEVENTEEN

  You do not speak, not until we've returned to the high-rise, to the thirteenth floor.

  "Why did you leave, X?" Your voice is like thunder in the distance.

  "You left first." I stand at my window, dressed still in my plain jeans, my comfortable T-shirt, cotton underwear and sports bra, my ballet flats.

  "So you ran away with another man?" An accusation.

  "Yes." You will not hear any denials from me.

  "After all I've done for you, after all we have shared, you find it so easy to abandon me like so much trash?" You sound almost human, almost hurt.

  "All we have shared?" I put a palm to the cool glass, finding a tiny measure of inner peace at the soothing, familiar view of the cars passing to and fro, the buildings rising black and reflecting shadows and faint light. "What do we share, Caleb? I am nothing but a possession to you. You use me as you see fit, and expect me to stay put and merely wait for you."

  "You act as if I treat you like a slave. Like a mere . . . physical object."

  "You do!" I whirl, and you're there, and my palms strike your chest, hard. "I am an object for your sexual needs, Caleb. Just like Rachel and the others. Make whatever excuses you wish, you cannot fool me any longer, not as you have them. They at least have the promise of finding value to someone else. Sold as so much chattel, perhaps, but at least they have a goal, a future, a promise of something more. I pace these rooms day after day, day after day, and yet I go nowhere. I accomplish nothing. I have no future. I am Madame X, yes. But who is that? Who am I? And to you, Caleb, who am I? What am I? You enjoy fucking me. I understand that much. But that is something you do to me, not with me. And yes, you're very, very good at it. I enjoy it. I admit that, freely. But that is not shared, Caleb. And when it happens, it's just you . . . doing. And then you're done, and you leave. You leave. You leave. You always leave! You're all I fucking have, and you're always leaving me!"

  You are strangely silent. How did I get here, up against you? Hands pinned between our bodies, palms to your chest. Leaning against you, as if I cannot stand without you.

  I am not entirely sure that isn't the truth.

  You are absolutely still, your chest barely even moving with breath. Your eyes are on me, and they are blazing with heat, crackling with darkfire, as if behind those shadows within you there is an inferno, a sun, an ever-roiling supernova, but it can only be seen or felt when you deign to allow the veil guarding the world from your inner self to be swept away.