Bad Marie

by Marcy Dermansky

  Benoît stared at Marie. He looked down at the hand that had touched him. He put down his cigarette to brush the hair from his eyes. “Where is he now?”

  Marie looked away. She could not look at Benoît Doniel and answer this question. Marie wanted to tell Benoît everything, but she couldn’t trust herself to say the answer out loud. She was, she supposed, an accumulation of the events of her life. She had no reason to lie, not to this particular man. It was real, what was happening between them in the kitchen, the bright afternoon sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window. Marie would tell Benoît the truth, give him a piece of her sorrow. She would offer her story as if it were a gift.

  “He hanged himself,” she said. “In prison.”

  “Merde,” Benoît said.

  Sitting on the chair, Marie brought her knees up to her chest. She kissed her knee.

  “I understand,” he said. “About that kind of loss.”

  Marie allowed herself to look, again, at Benoît.

  “My sister,” Benoît said.

  He lit a fresh cigarette. Marie waited. Caitlin stuck out her tongue.

  “My little sister. My petite sœur. Nathalie. She killed herself.”

  They were no longer grinning, Marie and Benoît. The sky, as if in tacit cooperation with the change in mood, had turned gray. Marie had never found out what had driven Juan José to kill himself. She suspected that his actions had forever damaged her. Marie had promised to wait for him. She had been explicitly clear.

  “She was a poet,” Benoît said. “So sensitive.”

  “Me,” Caitlin said. “Talk to me me me.”

  “You,” Benoît said.

  “Me,” Caitlin said.

  “You,” Marie said.

  Caitlin threw her empty bowl of macaroni on the floor. It bounced, but did not break.

  “Now look, ma petite,” Benoît said. “I can have lunch with you and I can also talk to Marie. We are having an interesting conversation. You smoke your carrot, drink your apple juice, and listen quietly. Like a good girl.”

  Benoît put Caitlin’s red sippy cup into her hand.

  “Me!”

  Caitlin threw the red sippy cup on the floor.

  “Me!”

  Her small face turned red.

  Marie was impressed with Caitlin’s tantrum. There was no reason for her to behave. Benoît was invading her territory. Maybe Caitlin couldn’t understand Marie’s conversation with Benoît, but she was smart enough to be jealous.

  Benoît Doniel was actively appraising Marie, registering the new information about her past, while taking in the present-day Marie, in her short red cotton skirt and equally revealing tank top, her abundant cleavage. Their attraction, clearly, was about more than shared grief.

  “Me!” Caitlin screamed. “Me! Me!”

  “Enough,” Benoît Doniel said to his small daughter. “Enough of this me business.” He shook his head. “You are hurting my ears. You are becoming irritating.”

  Caitlin wouldn’t have it. It was her lunch, the lunch she had every day alone with Marie. Her Marie. Marie understood Caitlin’s frustration. She was not surprised when Caitlin started to cry, though she also had never seen her behave like that before.

  Benoît sighed. He got up from the table and picked her up, but Caitlin only began to wail louder, her arms and legs flailing. “No, no, no. Down. Caitlin down.”

  “Hey, hey,” Benoît said. “What is this? No tantrums.”

  He looked at Marie, confused. “Does she need a nap? Do you think?”

  Marie shook her head.

  “No,” Caitlin said. “No. No. No nap.”

  “What is it, Kit Kat?” Marie asked. “What do you need right now?”

  “A bath,” Caitlin said. “I want to take bath.”

  “You do?” Marie said. “A bath? Really?”

  Caitlin had stopped struggling in Benoît’s grasp. Marie held Benoît’s gaze. His eyes were sparkling. Marie remembered the dream she’d had the day before. It had taken place in the bathtub. Marie was pleased by how easy they were all making it for her: Caitlin, Ellen, Benoît.

  Marie slid her finger under the strap of her white tank top, pulled it down past her shoulder, holding Benoît’s gaze.

  “I want to take a bath!” Caitlin yelled.

  “You know,” Benoît said. “I am not against the idea. A bath might be rather pleasant.”

  “Bath,” Caitlin said. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

  “Caitlin and I like to take baths together,” Marie said.

  “This I know,” Benoît said. “I have a beautiful picture.” He touched his forehead. “Inside my head.”

  “And that is why you are here now?” Marie said.

  Marie was sure, but she wanted to be absolutely sure. Before she went into the bathroom and took off the little bit of clothing she was wearing. Three weeks of virtue. Over. It was an enormous relief. “Because of this beautiful picture in your head?”

  “Isn’t that ridiculously obvious?” Benoît said.

  Marie reached out her hand, and Benoît pulled her from her chair.

  “Stop talking,” Caitlin said.

  Marie leaned over, scooped Caitlin from Benoît and took her into her arms. A week from now, this smart, funny, obnoxious, beautiful, wonderful little girl would be leading a life separate from Marie. Caitlin had not been informed of her mother’s imperial decree. She had no idea what was happening to her; she had no say about her own fate.

  Marie didn’t want to think about leaving Caitlin.

  She wanted Benoît.

  She wanted him naked and soapy, tangled and wet in her arms. She wanted him to read to her. To read Virginie at Sea.

  “A bath,” Marie said.

  Marie carried Caitlin to the bathroom as if nothing unusual was happening. Benoît followed directly behind, his hands gently cupping Marie’s waist.

  The bathtub was large and deep, but it seemed smaller with Benoît Doniel in it. The water came from a spout in the wall in the center of the tub. Marie and Benoît were both able to lie back on opposite ends, Marie’s longer legs bent and then extended over Benoît’s. They pushed Caitlin back and forth between them like a rubber ball.

  Caitlin was delighted. She laughed and she laughed. When Marie had Caitlin on her side of the tub, she caressed Benoît Doniel’s penis gently with her foot. Benoît rubbed the inside of Marie’s thigh with his big toe.

  “Again!” Caitlin screamed. “Again! Again!”

  After the bath, Marie brought Caitlin into her room, and put her down for a nap.

  “I am very, very tired,” Caitlin said, her voice serious.

  “You go to sleep,” Marie said. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  Marie kissed Caitlin on top of her damp head. This could be her last moment with Caitlin. She had to keep that in mind. If Ellen had a brain in her head, she would not last a full day at her office. But Ellen would no sooner leave work early than she would have cut class. Marie felt the temptation to find her clothes, lace her sneakers, and leave, leave now, with the author of Virginie at Sea waiting for her in the bedroom, wanting her.

  To get out before it started.

  This was not the equivalent of a trip to Mexico.

  It wasn’t.

  “Sleep,” Marie repeated, and she was amazed, because that was what Caitlin did.

  Caitlin never fell asleep this easily. Marie watched her tiny chest rise and fall, amazed not only by the way Caitlin was cooperating, but how the child had practically orchestrated the afternoon to suit Marie’s purposes. Marie opened the sash of Ellen’s robe, a gorgeous red silk kimono she had been eyeing for several weeks. This was a fine time for it. She looked down at Caitlin, for another second longer, wondering why she was waiting, when she knew exactly what she wanted.

  Marie walked purposefully to the master bedroom. Benoît Doniel lay naked on the bed. His bed. Ellen’s bed. He saw Marie and smiled. In that brief moment, while Benoît waited for Marie to lie down next to him,
Marie thought of many different things she could say. Her mind raced. In the end, she didn’t say a thing.

  It was unfortunate that Benoît Doniel was married to Ellen. Marie was certain that this was not the cause of her attraction. This was not high school; he was no Harry Alford. Benoît Doniel had written Marie’s favorite book in the entire world, the book that had seen her through six years in jail, had become a secret source of solace. Of pleasure. He was a rock star. Her soul mate.

  “The babysitter,” Benoît said.

  “The husband.”

  They understood each other, the situation. Marie let Ellen’s kimono drop to the floor.

  The next afternoon, it happened again.

  And the day after that.

  And the day after that.

  And the day after that.

  Benoît Doniel left the apartment in the morning, same as always, but returned not long after Ellen went to work. He joined Marie and Caitlin on their morning walks. They came back, lounged on the living-room floor, watched Sesame Street, played with Caitlin’s toys. Benoît even helped Marie with her work, making them lunch. He made ham and egg sandwiches on baguettes. Because he was French. The sandwiches pleased Marie enormously; they were so good that Marie found herself wanting Benoît even more.

  After lunch, the three of them went to the neighborhood playground together. Benoît spoke French to the nannies from Haiti. He pushed Caitlin on the swings. “This is a nice life,” he said. “I wonder why I’m not her nanny.”

  “Aren’t you writing a book?” Marie said. “How is that going?”

  Benoît did not answer this. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders. Marie understood how he might be having a hard time; how could he hope to write something as good as Virginie at Sea ever again? Why should he be required to? Why was success required of a person? And once you were successful, life required you to do it again and again.

  I love your book, Marie thought, but did not say.

  Benoît was having an affair. Marie was not sure what she was having.

  After the playground, they went back to the brownstone and took their baths. Caitlin was a clean and happy child.

  On their fifth day, Marie surprised herself by crying when they made love. Every moment, in bed, at the park, in the bathtub, was tinged with nostalgia. Benoît did not ask Marie for an explanation; she opened her eyes as Benoît Doniel licked her tears away to see that Benoît was also crying.

  “This is happening to you, too, isn’t it?” Marie said.

  Marie had not told Benoît about Virginie at Sea. Therefore, he had had no idea what he meant to her. But maybe, already, it was about more than sex. Maybe he might love Marie, too. That was what she wanted. Benoît went back down beneath the covers. He started at Marie’s calves, kissing and gently biting, and then worked his way up. She felt herself falling hopelessly in love.

  Again.

  “Je t’aime,” Benoît said.

  Marie was certain that was what she heard, though the words were muffled. Je t’aime. He couldn’t have said that. She would leave, and his life would not be what it was before. He would continue to sleep with Ellen in this bed, but he would remember what it was like with Marie. Marie had exposed a gaping hole in his life. He would miss her.

  Benoît bit into her thigh. Hard. Marie slapped the back of his head.

  “Asshole,” she said.

  Ellen pulled the plug two days early.

  She approached Marie in the kitchen. Marie was giving Caitlin her breakfast, organic Cheerios and apple juice. She hadn’t yet seen Benoît Doniel, but had heard his footsteps in the hall. Marie knew that he was in the shower. She always knew where he was.

  Ellen placed five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills onto the kitchen table.

  “The service found another sitter to start on Monday,” Ellen said.

  “Oh,” Marie said, focusing her gaze on the money. “Do you need me this weekend?”

  “We can take it from here. Thanks for giving me this time. But I’d like for you to leave this weekend. I’m sorry that it had to end this way,” Ellen said. Her voice was not sorry at all.

  Caitlin swallowed a spoonful of cereal. She smiled at Marie.

  “Hi Marie,” Caitlin said.

  “Hi Caty Bean,” Marie said.

  It often unnerved Marie how happy Caitlin appeared to be. She was too young to know about imminent doom.

  “Hi Marie,” Caitlin said, waving her spoon.

  “Hi Caty Bean,” Marie said.

  Ellen had her hands on her hips.

  “Anyway, like I said, the new nanny starts next week. I hope you’ve made other arrangements. You could go home. To your mother.”

  Marie said nothing. She could not go home. To her mother. Her mother, who had expected Marie to pay rent to sleep in her own bedroom when she returned after graduating from college. Who had refused to pay for a real lawyer after she was arrested. Who had failed to pick her up at the prison gates on the day of her release. It had stunned Marie, her mother’s lack of compassion. Marie looked at Caitlin, eating her Cheerios with her fingers. She wondered what she would not forgive this little girl.

  “I have to get to work,” Ellen said. “Benoît promised to come home early, so you can start packing.”

  “Hi Marie,” Caitlin said.

  Marie smiled at Caitlin. She smoothed the money in the palm of her hand. Crisp new bills. Marie folded the money, put it in the back pocket of her jeans. It was an insult, to think that going back home to her mother was Marie’s only option. She was much more capable than that. Ellen always underestimated Marie.

  “Hi Caitlin,” she said, this time an afterthought.

  “Hi.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know how you operate,” Ellen said.

  “You do? Know how I operate? Do you?”

  Marie had begun to doubt Ellen’s intelligence. Ellen was smart in specific, measurable, obvious ways; she had gotten good grades at well-established institutions of learning, she was able to get a so-called good job and to keep this job, to earn enormous sums of money. Maybe these were admirable qualities. But Ellen had no insight into people. She had had the amazing fortune of marrying Benoît Doniel, the world’s most attractive, underappreciated living French author. But was she grateful? Was she appreciative? Did she try each and every day to deserve him? No. Ellen was standing there, in her own light-filled, beautiful kitchen, giving money to the woman who was fucking her husband. She had no idea. She never did.

  It almost made Marie feel sorry for her.

  “Don’t think about stealing my clothes,” Ellen said. “And don’t take any of my jewelry. Not even a book. I’m serious. I want to find every object in place after you’re gone. I know where every single thing is.”

  Marie grinned.

  “I hate that,” Ellen said. “You’re mocking me with that smile.”

  But Marie couldn’t stop. The grin was involuntary. It turned into a nervous laugh, loud, almost hysterical. Nothing was funny. Caitlin started laughing, too.

  Ellen bit her lip.

  “I want to slap you,” she said.

  “So slap me,” Marie said, covering her mouth. She had gotten the hiccups. She hiccupped.

  “I want to,” Ellen said.

  “Then slap me. You have plenty of reasons.”

  Ellen looked confused.

  Marie hiccupped again.

  “I almost drowned your child, right? I slept with Harry Alford. There’s always that. It was more than ten years ago and he got me drunk. But still. You should probably hit me for that. Oh, what else? I wear your kimono. The red silk one.”

  Marie stopped there. She did not want to go too far.

  Ellen started to shake. Her entire body was shaking.

  “You’re right. We haven’t been friends for a long time,” Marie said. “You never liked me. I was your mother’s charity case. She always compared us and you came out ahead. I never had a chance. You could be grateful for that alone. Anyway, you better hit me
. This is your big chance. Tomorrow, I’ll be gone.”

  Ellen slapped Marie. Hard. Marie felt a slow burn spread across her face. She had no idea what would happen next, but she felt exultant. Ellen really thought she had it all: happiness, a family, security. She thought she was entitled. Marie put her hand to her burning cheek, and she watched, silent, as Ellen picked up her purse, reached for her keys, and headed for the door. The idiot did not even give Caitlin a thoughtless peck on the head; she didn’t even pause at the door to look back, say good-bye.

  Marie watched Ellen go, impatient.

  Only then could she figure out what was hers to take.

  “I love my wife,” Benoît Doniel told her.

  “Sure you do,” Marie said. “It’s obvious.”

  She tucked a lock of Caitlin’s wispy white-blond hair behind her ear. They had taken Caitlin to the Central Park Zoo. Benoît had made his trademark French baguette sandwiches and wrapped them in tin foil. They had bars of milk chocolate. Miniature bottles of Orangina. It was their last day. Their first and last real outing. Benoît had proposed something special to see her off.

  Marie was furious. She would not be sent off. Not by him, too. There they were, standing in front of the sea lion tank, watching the sea lions go round and round. The day itself was grim, a steady drizzle coming from the sky, dark clouds overhead.

  “I did not marry her for the money, if that’s what you think,” Benoît said.

  “I didn’t say a thing.”

  “Actually, I might have. A little bit. I saw her in Paris for the first time, drinking a Diet Coke and looking out onto the Seine, and I thought, this woman, she can save me. She was staying at an expensive hotel. In St. Michel.”

  “But you love her,” Marie said. “That’s what you feel the need to tell me. Right now. That you love your wife.”