Bad Marie (3 page)

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.”

“I do.”

Marie did not believe him. But even knowing that it was a lie, she would have preferred that Benoît had not divulged this bit of information. Ellen was going to win again; she always won, even though Marie wasn’t in competition.

Marie always lost. Ellen went to graduate school. Marie went to a medium-security correctional center. Benoît Doniel, however, hadn’t been a contest. Marie did not want Benoît because he belonged to Ellen. She wanted him because of the baguette sandwiches. She wanted him because of the sex in the afternoon. She wanted him because of
Virginie at Sea
. Because of
Virginie at Sea
, the book that had soothed her soul through six years of prison. It had been her favorite thing in the entire world. He had written that. Marie was awestruck with the idea that an actual person could do that. This was not about revenge. Marie needed Benoît Doniel. She loved him.

And he needed her. He loved her.

That’s what Marie decided.

Someone had to make the decisions. In Marie’s last relationship, Juan José had taken the initiative, robbing the bank, asking her to run away with him. Benoît seemed to require help.

“It’s funny,” Benoît said, staring straight ahead, breaking the long silence. “That you chose to come here today.”

“Why?” Marie said, though she knew exactly what was funny. “Funny how?”

Two sea lions shot up from the water. Caitlin clapped her hands.

“Look, Marie, look!”

“Sea lions,” Marie said.

Marie pressed her hands against the tank and Caitlin did the same thing.

“Sea lions,” Caitlin said.

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Yes,” Caitlin said, and then she started to scream. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

It was the one thing that Caitlin would do that Marie did not like. Scream. Marie shook her head.

“Quiet, Caty Bean.”

The sea lions disappeared back underwater. Seconds later, they sprang up again. One sea lion landed on the large rock formation in the center of the pool. The sea lion arched its back, and then seemed to change its mind, slipping back into the water.

“Why is it funny?” Marie asked Benoît again, forcing him to talk to her. They had had only that one actual conversation, really, in the kitchen, when he told her about his dead sister. “Tell me. Why?”

Benoît Doniel pushed his swoopy hair out of his eyes.

Marie ran her fingertips over her earrings. They were small good hoops, Ellen’s earrings. She had been robbing Ellen all along, every day, from the cheese and the whiskey to the kimono and the earrings. She had slipped more than one twenty-dollar bill from Ellen’s wallet.

Still, Benoît did not answer the question.

Caitlin began to run around the circumference of the tank, chasing down the swimming sea lions.

“Maybe,” Marie said, finally, speaking for him, because she couldn’t wait anymore. Because they were running out of time. Today would be the day Ellen came home from work early. At some point it would actually dawn on her that Marie really was not to be trusted. Ellen had been right about that.

“Maybe,” Marie said again, looking at Caitlin, who had stopped running and was pressing her hands against the glass tank. “Maybe you think it’s funny we are here because you wrote a book called
Virginie at Sea
. A beautiful book about an angry girl in love with a sick sea lion. She visits the sea lion whenever anything goes wrong in her life. She visits the sea lion when anything good happens in her life. She loves the sea lion more than anyone or anything. And now, here we are, in the midst of a major crisis in your life, looking at sea lions.”

Understanding began to dawn on Benoît’s face. Marie had always liked this face, even before they had met, from the photo on the back cover of his book. The swoopy hair in the eyes. The mischievous expression. Marie opened her backpack and pulled out her weathered copy of
Virginie at Sea
, never returned to the prison library, the paperback cover laminated, the spine tagged with a yellow call number.

“Maybe you should sign this,” she said. “Before I go.”

Benoît took the book from Marie’s hand.

“Look at this,” he said. “
Mon Dieu.
You have this. I had no idea. You read this? You did? Thank you. I don’t believe this. You always surprise me, Marie. Oh my God. Marie.”

Marie loved the sound of Benoît Doniel saying her name. He had turned it into something special. Her name became something French.

“I love this book,” Marie said. “This is my favorite book of all books.
Virginie at Sea
.”

“It is?” Benoît said. “You love it?
Vraiment?
You do?”

“I do.”

“I didn’t know. I had no idea.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“This is crazy,” Benoît said. “I love my wife.”

“That’s what you said.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.” Marie reached for Benoît’s hands. “You are scared. You feel guilty. You feel affection for Ellen. Gratitude. I understand. You might have loved her, a long time ago. Not anymore. You love me.”

“This is covered in plastic,” Benoît said, removing his hands from Marie’s, putting the book against Marie’s cheek. “The book. Why?”

“I got it from the library. When I was in prison. They laminated the books to protect them.”

“They have copies of
Virginie at Sea
in American jails?”

Marie had thought it was a miracle, too. To have found a book that made her so happy, night after night, in her prison cell. She could not explain, either, how life had led her straight to him, Benoît Doniel, the writer, the actual person, and also to Caitlin, wondrous Caitlin, who had resumed chasing the sea lions.

Marie took Benoît’s hands again. This time he let her.

“I don’t love my wife?” he said.

Benoît was waiting for Marie to answer. Instead, she kissed him. Hands in his hair, body pressed against him. In the zoo, in front of the sea lions. And Benoît Doniel, who might or might not love his wife, returned this kiss with equal force.

“Look!” Caitlin screamed.

They pulled away from each other. Benoît blinked. There was a sea lion in front of them, on top of the rock, arching its head up to the sun, which was coming out from behind the clouds.

“You remind me of my sister,” Benoît said.

“Nathalie?”

“Yes.”

“Nathalie, who killed herself. I remind you of her?”

“Yes.
Oui
. You do. I wrote the book for her.”

Marie liked that very much.

“Your sister,” she said, intrigued by the incestuous undertones of this statement. He had lost his sister, but in her stead, he had found Marie. Eventually, Benoît would come to understand that their lives were inextricably bound. Ellen might have been good for him at one point in his life, what he had needed, just as Marie had once needed jail, the freedom to rest and to heal. He might even miss her, but his wife was not what Benoît needed.

Marie kissed him again, this time gentle and slow.

She could hear Caitlin running past.

“I am a sea lion,” Caitlin said, pushing the air down with her arms as she ran. She had grown used to Benoît and Marie kissing.

His sister. Marie reminded Benoît Doniel of his long lost sister. Marie was Virginie. She was the love of his life.

Benoît packed Caitlin’s things. Her favorite toys. Her favorite clothes, her favorite books, her DVDs. Caitlin had many favorite things. Benoît also had his books. His CDs. His clothes. He packed four matching suitcases and Caitlin’s stroller. Marie put together a carry-on bag with things they would need on the plane.

“Nice luggage,” Marie noted, nodding at the four full suitcases.

“A wedding gift,” Benoît said.

Marie’s belongings still fit in the backpack she had arrived with, even with Ellen’s red kimono and various other small objects: earrings, silver bangles, lavender bubble bath.

What they were doing was not illegal. Caitlin was Benoît’s child. They all had passports. Marie was not sure if it had been her idea, running away, or Benoît’s, or if it was her idea that she had implanted into his head.

“Paris,” Benoît said.

His eyes lit up with a crazy, manic, frantic glee. “There is no city like it. No other place compares. Nathalie used to tell me I could not survive anywhere else. We are going to Paris.”

Benoît checked his wallet.

“I don’t have the tickets,” he said. “The plane tickets. I don’t have them.”

He had ordered them on the phone.

“E-tickets,” Marie said. “They’ll be at the counter.”

Marie was stunned by the déjà vu. The leaving fast, the ridiculous thrill of leaving everything behind. This time it was slightly more complicated. Marie was traveling with juice cups and diapers, organic string cheese. A child. A stroller. This must be a sign that Marie was growing up.

“We are going to Paris!” she said, picking Caitlin up and spinning her around, faster and faster, until she fell down on top of the bed, taking Caitlin with her.

“This will all end badly,” Benoît said, closing the last suitcase, but he was grinning. Caitlin’s silky-smooth hair was in Marie’s mouth. Her nose was running. Marie wiped it with the bottom of her T-shirt. They would still watch TV together, and they would take baths and go for walks in the afternoon. But in Paris. There were beautiful gardens in Paris, walks along the Seine. There was delicious food to be eaten.

“It will, you know?” Benoît said.

“No,” Marie said. “I don’t know that.”

Juan José had ended up dead, hanging from a bedsheet. She had last seen him at the courthouse; they had both been wearing prison uniforms. She was sent in one direction, he in the other, and that was the last time she had ever seen him: handcuffed, looking down at the ground.

She twirled a strand of Caitlin’s hair in her finger. She touched the tip of Benoît’s beaky nose. It was a nose that belonged in Paris.

“Maybe,” she said. “It won’t.”

They took a taxi to the airport.

They had dinner at the McDonald’s by the gate. Already, Ellen’s rules had become irrelevant. Caitlin ate her first cheeseburger and was overjoyed.

“I like it!” she said, licking her lips. “I like it. I like it!”

Caitlin was equally pleased with her french fries.

She also liked the plastic action figure that came in the box, a figure from a new movie neither Marie nor Benoît recognized.

Benoît’s cell phone first started to ring in the McDonald’s.

“It’s Ellen,” Benoît said.

Marie nodded.

Benoît did not answer.

The phone rang again in the magazine shop, and then it rang again in the boarding area, while Marie read to Caitlin, pretending not to feel anxious about Benoît, who was nervously pacing. He had lit a cigarette and been asked by a police officer to put it out.

“I’ll talk to Mommy?” Caitlin asked, reaching for the cell phone.

“No,” Marie said, “Mommy is still at work,” and she kept on reading. “Look, Caitlin. The teddy bear is still missing. You turn the page for me, okay?” and Caitlin turned the page.

Benoît didn’t answer the cell phone, but he checked the caller ID each time it rang, a fresh wave of distress clouding his features. Marie did not ask who was calling because she did not need to. The plane could not board fast enough. Why was he so surprised? What did he think would happen? That Ellen would come home from work and not notice that they were gone? That she would do nothing?
Oops, no family.
Of course she would be unhappy. Of course she would call. They had decided to leave, to go to France. That was the choice they had made together, in front of the sea lions. Benoît only had to turn off his cell phone, but he could not seem to do it.

It was not until they boarded, after the airline attendants asked that they fasten their seat belts and turn off their electronic devices, not until the plane began taxiing down the runway, that he listened to his messages.

Marie held Caitlin’s hand as the plane took off.

“Loud,” Caitlin said.

Marie agreed.

Outside the window was the Atlantic Ocean. Marie stared down at the massive body of water beneath them. Ellen’s phone calls had not stopped the plane. They were in flight, on their way to Europe. Marie had never thought she would make it there. Everything that Marie could possibly want was hers. Messages on a cell phone could not touch her. Benoît put the phone away. He rearranged the airline blanket over Caitlin, who had fallen asleep, her blond hair matted down on her tiny, perfect face, a smear of ketchup on her cheek.

“She says she’ll have you arrested for kidnapping. She says that this time you’ll never get out of prison. She’ll make sure you rot in jail for the rest of your life. She says she has called the police. There is a warrant for your arrest. She says that this is the biggest mistake that I have ever made and that I will regret it, but not to worry. She says she’ll forgive me.”