Bad Marie (2 page)

Marie watched Ellen bite into her shrimp roll, angry that Ellen had gotten to taste the food first. “Understood. No drinking. No bathing. No looking at your spouse.”

Marie was perfectly at ease lying to Ellen’s face. Of course, she would continue to drink in Ellen’s apartment. She would continue to take baths with Caitlin, and she would also look at Benoît Doniel and talk to Benoît Doniel as much as she possibly could. She would do more, much more than talk. Marie could feel her confidence returning.

“Marie, you probably won’t believe me,” Ellen said. “But I still care about you. In our twisted way, I think we are friends. Maybe we can learn from this experience. I don’t think it was ever comfortable for either of us, this situation, your living in my home. My giving you orders. You are not good at following orders.”

Marie saluted.

Ellen ignored her.

“I want you to know that you can still see Caitlin. If you decide to stay in New York. If you can afford to stay. If you get another job in the city. I guess it might be difficult with your police record.”

“With my police record,” Marie said, grinning.

Ellen, of course, couldn’t help herself; she had to bring up Marie’s police record. It was her last and best weapon. It trumped all other episodes from Marie’s past. Ellen didn’t understand Marie in the slightest. She assumed that they viewed life the same way because they came from the same town and had gone to a Bruce Springsteen concert together when they were thirteen. She didn’t understand that taunting Marie about prison was useless, because Marie was not embarrassed. Or ashamed. Marie had never felt any regret.

She had been in love. Wildly, madly, thoughtlessly, heedlessly in love. When Juan José had shown up at her door, desperate, covered in blood, when he had told her that he had made it out of the bank, but his partner hadn’t been so lucky, that the police were searching for him, she’d run off without a moment’s hesitation and she had never looked back.

Later, once they were on the road, Marie had learned that Juan José’s partner had killed one of the security guards. But still, Marie hadn’t allowed herself any doubts. Juan José had not killed anyone and Marie wanted to be wherever Juan José was. In his bed. In his house, with his mother and sisters and squawking chickens underfoot. Juan José used to recite poetry to Marie in Spanish. He had taken her dancing. They would have sex before they went dancing. They had had sex after they went dancing. Marie had felt alive in a way she had never felt before.

That had been worth going to jail for.

Marie helped herself to the crispy squid. To jasmine rice and the sautéed greens. A delicious shrimp roll. She started to eat. The squid was still hot. She had a week. An entire week.

“I can front you five hundred dollars,” Ellen said. “Consider it severance pay.”

“That would be great,” Marie said.

Marie would take the money. She would take a whole lot more than that.

Marie had spent only six of her thirty years in prison,
but often she found herself overwhelmed by her newly regained freedom. Marie had not yet gotten used to the swing of life. She hadn’t, in fact, minded jail nearly as much as she’d thought she would.

Her days in prison were ridiculously clear. She ate three meals a day, always at the same appointed time, in the same airless cafeteria, seated in the same place at the end of a long table. She had a job in the prison laundry. The work was surprisingly difficult, more physically challenging than anything she had ever done before. Marie learned how to operate industrial machinery that sent enormous quantities of prison sheets and blankets and towels and uniforms through a long, dangerously hot iron.

Marie had even made friends with another woman who worked in the laundry. Ruby Hart was in for twenty-two years; she had killed her husband, hitting him strategically in the head with a hot iron. She did not regret killing Hector. “Otherwise,” she had said, matter-of-factly, “I would be dead.” And she added, “It felt good. Hitting it to that motherfucker where it hurt.”

Ruby Hart appreciated the irony of her work assignment. She had not meant to kill him.

All of the killers Marie met in prison had killed for a good reason. Marie, of course, had not killed anyone, but the other prisoners had not held this against Marie. It was nothing like jail on television.

Ruby taught Marie how to fold T-shirts with a technique she had once learned working at the Gap, the job she had had before she had been incarcerated for murder. They worked well together, loading and unloading innumerable washers and dryers, running hot irons. Ruby seemed to believe in life after prison. She studied law while Marie reread
Virginie at Sea
.

“Prepare for your future,” Ruby used to tell her.

The truth was, nothing bad ever happened to Marie in prison. She had never been attacked. She had never felt herself to be in any physical danger. She felt competent and strong. She gained muscle from working in the laundry; she also lost the weight she’d put on in college. Even with the hours she put in at the laundry, Marie still had time on weekends to walk the prison grounds, to read in her cell. For the first time in her life, free from the need to make any sort of decision, Marie felt herself relax.

Jail had been a better, more instructive time in her life than both college and high school. Sometimes, staring into Ellen’s refrigerator, the drawers and closets full of clothes, jewelry, confronted with so many choices, Marie missed it.

Even though he did not have a job, Benoît Doniel left every
morning for work. He had an office, a small cubicle, somewhere downtown in some communal writers’ space. He was hard at work on his second novel. Marie knew these things. She had heard him talk to Ellen about good writing days, bad ones. He would get angry when Ellen pressured him with questions about his work.

For as long as she had been Caitlin’s nanny, he was gone six hours a day, every day, but Marie wasn’t surprised when he came home early the day after Marie had been fired, back in time for Caitlin’s lunch.

Benoît drank the coffee Marie offered him out of a blue bowl. He happily accepted a second blue bowl full of macaroni and cheese. He ate with delight, spooning in extra butter. He was ridiculously French. The extra butter, the coffee in a bowl, his accent. To further prove his Frenchness, Benoît smoked while he ate. Caitlin imitated her father, taking drags from a baby carrot. Marie leaned back in her chair, watching them both.

Lunch. A threesome. A family. Benoît smoked. He sipped his coffee. He knew how to linger over a meal. At one point, he leaned over across the table to touch Caitlin’s cheek. This pleased Marie.

Nothing had happened, but it would. Soon. Marie knew this. She was provocatively dressed: a short red cotton skirt, a white tank top with lace at the top, cleavage exposed. Because she had known he would come. She had expected him and she wanted her flesh in abundant display. The macaroni and cheese was warm and creamy in her mouth. She looked at Benoît and made no effort to mask her desire. All that time, three long weeks, Marie had been careful not to attract Benoît’s attention. Her behavior had bordered on rude. She had made a heroic effort.

“Look at how comfortable we are,” Marie said.

She waved her arms, embracing the room—the sunlight streaming in through the window, Caitlin with her baby carrots.

“The three of us.”

“We’ve never talked before,” Benoît said. “Not all this time, when you live in my home, take care of my daughter. I see you talking with Caitlin constantly, nonstop talk, jabber jabber jabber, but never with me. We don’t talk. I look at you and you look away. I wonder, why? Why don’t you talk to me?”

Marie put both hands around her mug of coffee.

“I wonder.”

It dawned on her that Benoît had been avoiding her for the very same reason she had avoided him. She had not been invisible. They had
known
not to talk each other. They were good people who both suffered from lapses in acceptable behavior.

“I cannot remember,” Benoît said. “Why did you not come to our wedding? You’re Ellen’s oldest friend. Why didn’t I meet you until now?”

Marie shook her head. “She didn’t tell you?” Marie was not surprised. Of course Ellen would not want to talk about her. “I was in jail when you got married.”

Benoît put out his cigarette and immediately lit another. Caitlin pounded her fist against her high table.

“Me,” Caitlin cried. “Feed me.”

“Yes, of course.” Benoît absently stuck a spoon of macaroni and cheese into Caitlin’s chin.

“No,” she said. “My mouth. My mouth. Silly Daddy.”

Caitlin, of course, knew how to feed herself. She opened her mouth wide and Benoît tried again.

“You were in jail.” Benoît took a puff of his cigarette, a sip of his coffee, another bite of macaroni and cheese. “You went to jail? For robbing a bank? Ellen mentioned this, just last night. But I have trouble believing this story. It seems, I don’t know, out of character?”

“Ellen never told you what happened to me?”

“Ellen said very little about you. Just one day, she fires Bertha, who she was perhaps a little unhappy with, and she gives you her job. But now, as I understand, you no longer work here, live here. The rules, I think, they change.” Benoît shrugged. “I like my life. Here. This city. This room. My American wife. This little girl.” He waved, just like Marie, to embrace the room, his daughter Caitlin, the blue bowl of coffee in front of him. “I really don’t care to fight. Ellen, you know, is quick to fight. So I did not ask questions. But now, now I am curious. About you. Marie. I love that name. Marie.”

“What do you want to know?” Marie asked him. She decided, then and there, she would tell Benoît everything. “I will tell you everything,” she told him.

Marie sat on her hands, resisting the overwhelming urge to touch him. Not yet. Soon. But not yet.

And then, she touched him anyway. Stroked the top of the palm of his hand. Benoît shivered. Caitlin was smoking her carrot stick.

“Did you rob a bank?”

Marie shook her head. “My boyfriend robbed a bank. A small one. In the suburbs. Juan José. He was only twenty-two years old. He was this perfect boy. Like a painting. I wasn’t much older, twenty-four. I didn’t know he was going to rob a bank. I knew almost nothing about him, really. I had met him in a bar, the week before. He showed up in the middle of the night at my door. Scared. Bleeding. I didn’t even think about it. He needed me. We went to Mexico. Later, after the police found us, I went to jail. I didn’t regret it. I don’t.”

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.