Bad Marie (8 page)

“Ludivine, of course. My grandmother’s cat. I had forgotten all about her.”

“Is that a girl’s name?”

“Yes, of course.”

“She’s starving.”

“It looks like it.”

Benoît put the goldfish on top of a table and bent down to pet the miserable cat. It continued to meow, opening its mouth wide. Ludivine was missing her front teeth. If she didn’t shut up, she would wake Caitlin. Caitlin needed to sleep. Marie had been grateful when she had conked out on the bus.

“This is where we are going to stay?”

They stood in the hallway, unwilling to go farther, the cat screeching. Marie had been looking forward to laying Caitlin down, but she changed her mind, afraid that the cat might try to eat the girl.

Already, Marie missed the French actress’s apartment. It was clean and light and had sleek, modern furniture. A clean bathtub. A balcony in the room where she had had sex with Benoît. The room where Benoît had proceeded to have sex with the French actress.

“Are you sure she is in a home?”

Marie almost expected to find an old woman, eyes chewed out, body decomposing. She reluctantly followed Benoît down the hall. They passed through a living room, which was dark, the blinds drawn, and stepped into the kitchen. The bad smell grew fouler with every step. There were rotten onions on the floor of the kitchen, cardboard boxes and newspapers and bags ripped to shreds. Jars of spices, boxes of pasta, all of them on the floor. Chewed upon cans of cat food. Marie could see the bite marks on the metal.

This, of course, was also Paris.

Ludivine had followed them into the kitchen, rubbing against their legs, plaintively meowing. Marie stepped on her tail and nearly dropped Caitlin.

The cat started to chew on one of the closed cans. She obviously had no faith in Benoît Doniel, either. In the midst of the mess, Marie saw the long, sharp teeth on the floor, the two front teeth missing from Ludivine’s mouth. There was also an empty water bowl.

Marie gently lay Caitlin down on top of a wooden kitchen table, hoping not to wake her up. Caitlin opened her eyes. “Hi Marie,” she said.

“Stay there,” Marie said.

“The cat is meowing, Marie,” Caitlin said.

“I know it is. I’m going to feed the cat and maybe it will be quiet.”

“It’s hungry? That cat?” Caitlin sat up. She rubbed her eyes.

Marie nodded.

“Do you know where a can opener is?” she asked Benoît.

Benoît only shrugged. He pulled a chair from the table and sat down, lit another cigarette, filling the already airless, bad-smelling room with smoke.

“Mon Dieu,
” he said. He was less than useless.

“Will you help me look for it?” Marie heard how she sounded. The nagging tone of an aggrieved wife.

“Help me,” she repeated. It was not a question.

Benoît got up. He began to open drawers, rifling through random objects. “I don’t see it,” he said. “There is none.”

Marie was silent. He had brought them here, to this place. He had said the words “grandmother’s apartment” and Marie had pictured crocheted rugs, a freshly baked quiche lorraine, bowls of hot chocolate.

Benoît kept looking, eventually finding the can opener in a crowded drawer. He handed it to Marie.

“I need a plate,” she said, and Benoît found that, too. Marie opened the cat food, pushing Ludivine away with one hand, afraid that the cat would bite her, which, of course, the cat couldn’t do because she had no teeth. But Marie didn’t want to touch or be touched by that miserable creature. She practically threw the plate on the floor and watched, dispassionately, as Ludivine pounced.

“The cat is eating!” Caitlin thought this was exciting.

“She was hungry,” Marie said.

Marie was also hungry.

Benoît stared at Ludivine as she ate the food. In seconds, it was gone. Marie opened another can. She knelt down and pushed Ludivine away with her elbow. She put more food on the plate.

“Here, cat,” she said.

Ludivine did not seem like a good name for a cat.

The cat stepped away from the fresh plate of food and proceeded to vomit.

“Marie, Marie!”

“What is it, Caty Bean?”

“Is the cat sick?”

“She is,” Marie said. “Maybe she ate too fast. I don’t know. She’s not healthy, that’s for sure.” Marie looked at Benoît. He didn’t move. He smoked his cigarette, like the ridiculous French person that he was. He wasn’t going to clean up the vomit. But it wasn’t Marie’s cat. She wasn’t going to do it. Marie looked out of the kitchen, down the hallway: an apartment full of potential horrors.

“What else are we going to find here?” Marie asked.

A dead body behind one of the closed doors still seemed entirely possible. There was a knock at the front door.

“Aha,” Marie said.

Benoît looked at Marie. The knocking continued.

“Benoît,” a female voice called out. “
C’est toi?
Benoît?”

The knocking continued.

Marie wasn’t going to let this woman in. Not another woman from Benoît’s past. Instead, she opened the refrigerator. Earlier that morning, before leaving the French actress’s apartment, she had opened her refrigerator. She’d found two eggs, three bottles of chilled champagne, Dijon mustard, and a box of raspberries. Vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Marie also had a mental image of Ellen’s stainless-steel refrigerator, always crammed full of good food.

The grandmother’s refrigerator was empty. Clean. Cleaned out. A box of baking soda and nothing else. Marie breathed in the chemical smell of cleanser and started to cough. She slammed the refrigerator door shut. There was no air in the room, only Benoît Doniel’s rancid cigarette smoke. The kitchen windows were closed. Marie tried to open a window, but it was locked. The locks in France were different.

“I want off,” Caitlin said.

She stood up on the table.

Marie went to Caitlin and scooped her off the table; Caitlin locked her legs around Marie’s waist. She was getting heavier. Soon, she would need dinner. She would need a bath. Marie would need dinner. Marie would need a bath. The cat, done vomiting, returned to the plate of food as if she had never gotten sick. The knocking continued.

“Are you going to open the door?” Marie asked Benoît.

“I don’t know. Should I?”

“Benoît?” the woman called.

Another goddamned Frenchwoman. If Marie met another one like the French actress, she would start to miss Ellen.

“You better open it,” Marie said. “She knows we are in here.”

This one had dark curly hair. She was older and wore a shapeless green cardigan and a black shapeless skirt, a beaded necklace. She was overweight, had a mole on her cheek, a sharp black hair growing from its center.

Marie watched the inevitable cheek kissing, and then a long, sad hug. She did not know how long Benoît Doniel had been away or why he had left. He had left his country behind. He must have meant it, to leave everyone and everything behind: the old grandmother, the demented French actress, the memory of his dead sister, the book he had stolen.

The hug with this frumpy, distressed Frenchwoman finally ended and then she began to speak to Benoît. In urgent French, of course. Everyone was always speaking French. Marie found it maddening. She could read nothing in Benoît’s face, whose blank expression did not change though the woman grew more and more passionate. Big news, obviously, was being shared.

“Who is that?” Caitlin said. Marie shook her head, but Caitlin seemed to lose interest in the question the moment she asked it. “My shirt is dirty.”

Caitlin held out her arm. There was something red on the sleeve of her shirt. Marie recognized the breakfast jam.

“That’s okay,” Marie said. “We’ll clean it.”

Marie hoped that the woman would leave soon, or at least offer them something to eat. Marie noticed a break in the conversation. Benoît was sweating through his untucked shirt.

“Come,” he said to Marie. “This is Sophie. Marie.”

The woman appeared embarrassed; she had not noticed Marie or Caitlin. And because she was French, she went straight for Marie’s cheeks. They were both kissed. There was nothing Marie could do. The woman then tousled Caitlin’s hair.

“No,” Caitlin said.

“Parlez-vous Français?
” she asked Marie.

Marie shook her head.

“Domage
.”

“Sophie lives next door,” Benoît said. “The nursing home had her telephone number. My grandmother died two days ago.”

“Fuck,” Marie said.

“Fuck,” Caitlin said.

“She died?” Marie said.

“She died,” Benoît said.

“But not here?”

Marie did not want Caitlin to see a dead body.

“At the nursing home. They need me to tell them what to do with the body. They have been waiting.”

Sophie in the cardigan sweater started talking in French again, waving her arms, growing louder and louder, before enfolding Benoît in her arms, because he suddenly began to weep.

“Daddy is crying?” Caitlin said.

“He’s a writer,” Marie answered. “He’s very sensitive. It’s okay, Kit Kat. It’s okay.”

Ludivine had come back to where they all stood and started to meow. This roused Benoît. He knelt down and began to pet the wretched cat.

“Pauvre chat,
” he said, shaking his head.

Benoît Doniel would not know what to do. Marie understood this. He would need a woman to tell him what came next. But Marie did not feel that this was her job. He had taken her to Paris; it was his town. He was supposed to be responsible for their well-being, Marie and Caitlin. The Frenchwoman continued to talk at Benoît, unaware that he was beyond helpless; she thrust at him various pieces of paper.

“I am going to have to pay for the cremation,” Benoît told Marie, still petting the cat. “And take care of this apartment. I have to pay her bills and get rid of her things. I am the only one left. Another body, Marie, I am supposed to take care of. I am not strong enough for this.”

The telephone in the grandmother’s apartment started to ring. It rang and it rang.

“I am the only one left,” Benoît repeated.

Marie felt no sympathy. Who was she? And Caitlin? He wasn’t alone. Unless he knew how much she could not bear to look at him, her fury so enormous. Marie hoped that would change. It was Sophie who put her hand on Benoît’s arm. She said something of consolation to him, in French, of course. Which was fine with Marie. She had not signed up for this. She had not signed up for being lied to, cheated on, and certainly not this, an all-out emotional collapse.

The telephone continued to ring.

“Réponds au téléphone?
” the frumpy Frenchwoman said. Marie could hear the anxiety in her voice. The ringing phone made Marie want to jump out of her skin. She could hear the desperation on the other end, the insistence of the ringing.

“Don’t answer it,” Marie said, surprised by her instinct, still, to protect him. Protect herself.

Benoît went down the hall of the apartment, disappearing into another room.

“Oui?
” Marie heard Benoît say.

And then silence. A long, heavy silence, broken only by Ludivine’s plaintive meows, until Marie heard Benoît Doniel put the phone back onto the receiver. He returned, slowly, dejected, down the hall.

“Ellen,” he said to Marie. “That was Ellen.”

Sophie responded again in rapid French.

Benoît put his hand up, as if to push her away.

Marie felt her heart start to race. She stepped away from the front door, almost expecting Ellen to come bursting through. What did she say, Ellen? Where was she? Paris? New York? What did she say? What did she plan to do?

“What did she say?” Marie asked.

She wanted to smack Benoît Doniel, for making her ask. She would have smacked him, but felt hesitant in front of the Frenchwoman, a witness to their disintegration.

“What did she say?”

Benoît’s face had turned a shade of ashy green. His swoopy hair was stuck to his forehead, which was covered with a slick sheen of nervous sweat. He did not answer Marie. He picked up Caitlin and started heading toward the door.

“Down,” Caitlin said.

Benoît did not put her down.

“Get the cat,” he told Marie.

“No,” Marie said.

Benoît picked up the cat.

“I want my goldfish,” Caitlin said. “I want Paris.”

“The fucking goldfish,” Benoît said. “Fine.”

He rushed past Marie and the Frenchwoman, still holding Caitlin and the cat. He managed to also grab the goldfish bowl from the kitchen, and then he made for the door. “Come,” he said to Marie.

“What did she say?” Marie demanded.

Benoît Doniel was already taking the steps, two at a time.

“We have to go,” Marie explained to the dumpy Frenchwoman whose mouth was wide open, who had finally stopped talking. At least, she could still say “we.”

Marie stepped out of the dead grandmother’s apartment. She watched Benoît make his escape. Halfway down the first flight of steps, Benoît dropped the cat, but he kept his grip on Caitlin and the goldfish. Ludivine ran ahead and then waited. Marie followed, slowly, hands empty, down the six flights of stairs, one step at a time.

Ludivine ran rapid circles around the back of the taxi,
meowing loudly. The cabdriver cursed at Benoît and Benoît cursed back. The exchange was in French, again, so Marie could tune them out, and Caitlin could not mimic back the words. Not yet. Benoît could not catch the demented cat. He grabbed hold of her at one point, and Ludivine dragged a claw across his cheek, leaving behind a long thin line of blood.

“Fuck,” Benoît said, reverting to English.

“Daddy cursed,” Caitlin said.

“Why did you bring her?” Marie said. “We can’t even take care of ourselves.”

It was like all of that luggage that had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean. Benoît had no idea what should be left behind; he didn’t know how to start a new life. He’d already gone back to a past mistake, the French actress, Lili Gaudet. Ludivine was an ugly, scary cat.

Luckily, Caitlin seemed to think that it was all a game, all of it. She still expected her mother to tuck her in at the end of a long day at the office. She had not properly grasped how her life had changed. She sat in Marie’s lap. No car seat, which remained in the brownstone in New York. The taxi didn’t even have seat belts, but this time, Caitlin didn’t ask.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” she said, laughing. “The kitty is running.”

Marie looked at Benoît Doniel, furious. Not about the French actress or the novel that he had stolen from his dead sister, but their current predicament. That very moment in time. Marie was furious about the dead grandmother, furious that he’d dragged them on public transportation to that horrid apartment, for not providing them dinner the moment Marie realized she was hungry. For the fact that they had already been discovered. Ellen had already tracked him to his grandmother’s apartment in Paris. There was no telling what else she might know.

Ellen seemed to know things about her husband that Marie did not. There was a time when Marie and Ellen used to share important information, when they used to study for tests and bake chocolate chip cookies together.

“I can take care of us,” Benoît said, but he was breathing fast, too fast, like he might have a heart attack. His eyes were panicked, darting around the taxi, following Ludivine’s mad dash. He put a hand to his cheek and he wiped off the blood. Marie reached for his hand and held it tight.

“Merci,
” he said.

Marie did not let go.

The trip back into the city was much quicker than the ride out. The cat was finally calming down, pacing back and forth by the back window. Marie almost recognized the streets they passed through. When the taxi stopped, they were back at Lili Gaudet’s apartment.

“No,” Marie said.

“We go to a hotel,” Benoît said, “and Ellen calls the credit card people, and she finds us.
Voilà. Fini
. All over. Our
grande
love affair.
Un désastre
.
Merde, merde, merde. C’est tout.
”

Even Benoît Doniel was speaking French now. For no reason. He was talking to her, Marie.

“She found you at your grandmother’s house,” Marie pointed out. “Why not at Lili’s?”

“She does not know about Lili.”

That was something. But not enough. Benoît, he was not smart enough to outmaneuver his wife. Plus, he had no money of his own.

“What is
merde
?” Caitlin asked.

Marie smiled. The kid was picking up French curses already. She was a smart one. A wonder. “I’ve got money. Cash, dollars,” Marie said to Benoît. “I’ll pay for the hotel. I’ll pay. We can go to a hotel. We can take a bath.”

Benoît looked at Marie, at last, with genuine interest.

“Maybe,” he said. “
Peut-être
. A hotel. You have money? How much do you have?” He didn’t wait for Marie’s answer, putting his hands into his pocket, coming back out with a wad of crumpled euros. “First, I must have a drink.”

He paid for the taxi, and they stepped outside onto the cobblestone street, Benoît holding the ridiculous, awful, exhausted cat, Marie taking Caitlin’s hand. They had returned, at least, to the real Paris; they’d made it out of that awful netherworld. The cab sped from the curb, so fast Marie was startled. She had Caitlin, they were still holding hands, tight. She still had her backpack. Marie was not sure when they had lost Caitlin’s travel bag. At the café. On the boat. The subway.

“Paris!” Caitlin cried. Neither Benoît or Marie understood. “Paris.” Tears welled in her eyes. It was a miracle, Marie thought, that she hadn’t started crying before this.

“What is it?” Maris said. “What is it, Caty Bean? We are in Paris. Are you hungry? You are tired?”

“My fish. Paris.”

They had lost the goldfish, too. Benoît had carried it down the six flights of steps, but he must have left it on the curb, getting them into the taxi.

“That goldfish,” Benoît said to Marie, as Caitlin began to cry in earnest, “was my worst idea yet.”

“I can think of worse ones,” Marie said.

“Don’t be cruel.”

“No,” Marie said, her voice sarcastic, noticing for the first time the long bloody scratch on her arm, also courtesy of Ludivine. “I would never be mean. Not to you.”

Benoît bent down on his knees, looking Caitlin in the eyes. “It’s okay,
ma petite
. Now we have a cat. This is even better. You can pet Ludivine. Okay? You want to have a cat of your own?”

He held out Ludivine for Caitlin to see. The cat was also missing clumps of hair. One eye had crusted shut. Marie didn’t want Caitlin to touch it. She shook her head at Caitlin and Caitlin didn’t.

“You don’t like the cat?” Benoît said.

Caitlin shook her head.

“Okay,” Benoît said. “Don’t touch her. Let’s get drinks. Drinks. Do you want milk?” he asked Caitlin.

“Yes.”

Caitlin always wanted milk.

“We’ll get you some macaroni and cheese,” Marie said, aware that this was a promise she might not be able to keep. They headed into the restaurant, the same from the night before. Benoît ordered a beer before sitting down, taking the menus from the waiter’s hand. He did not ask what Marie wanted.

“For me, too,” Marie said. “Beer. And milk.” She pointed to Caitlin. “Please.”

The waiter gave Marie a nasty look. In a crisis, was Marie supposed to suddenly pretend to know the language? Throw in a
merci
? She would not. He could understand her perfectly well. He said something to Benoît about
le chat
and a heated conversation ensued, the waiter pointing at the door. His voice was raised. Marie could see what looked like a manager heading toward them.

“I need your bag,” Benoît said to Marie.

“Why?”

Marie’s backpack was stuffed full with her worldly belongings. She owned nothing but for the contents of that bag. But Benoît grabbed it, unzipped the main compartment, and began emptying it, piling all of Marie’s private, personal things onto their table. The restaurant was simple but elegant, a gleaming bar, mirrors, wood tables, a plate-glass window that looked onto the street.

“Don’t,” Marie said.

She watched as the pile continued to grow. Her favorite pair of jeans, her plain white cotton underwear, balls of matched striped socks, Ellen’s crumpled silk kimono, her copy of
Virginie at Sea
. Marie’s beloved little book from prison, it was still a real thing, a physical object, despite the disturbing truth Marie had recently learned. Marie watched the novel disappear into the pile, beneath a red dress, a couple of T-shirts, a stack of letters held together with a rubber band. The letters were from Juan José, the ones she had received in prison, only three, everything that he had ever written to Marie before his suicide, none of them ever hinting that he might take his own life.

More underwear emerged from the bag, a bottle of coconut shampoo. Her toothbrush and toothpaste in a plastic Ziploc bag. Three silver bangles. Marie’s entire existence was spread out on the table at the French restaurant for the world to see, a small, sad accumulation of objects that represented her life.

Marie was ashamed, embarrassed to see her life spread out for view like pieces of sordid junk. Thirty years.

Benoît Doniel grabbed Ludivine by the neck and stuffed her inside the empty backpack. Marie had not forgotten the image of the cat vomiting up a fresh can of cat food, mucus dripping from her eyes. Benoît zipped the bag shut. The cat meowed mournfully, but she didn’t struggle. Maybe she would go ahead and die. Maybe all the struggle was gone from her after the taxi ride. Beautiful French people in the restaurant were looking at them, the din of conversation had died out, but the waiter, at least, accepted Benoît’s solution, cat in the bag. He left their table and when he returned, he was bearing beer. And milk for Caitlin.

Benoît ordered another beer as the waiter set the fresh drinks on the table, carefully placing them on the edge, away from Marie’s unfortunate pile.

“Merci beaucoup,
” Benoît said.

Marie had loved to listen to Juan José in Mexico, speaking Spanish. She had marveled at another side of the man she did not yet know. But every new revelation about Benoît Doniel was more unwelcome than the last.

The three of them sat quietly drinking. There really was nothing to say. The beer was cold, good, better than any other beer she had ever drunk before. Even in Mexico. Maybe it was the glass, which looked like something Marie would expect to drink champagne from. The beer was so good Marie regretted the wine she drank the night before. Caitlin was also happy with her milk, which supposedly was also better. Europe was supposedly a superior continent in so many ways; it was unfortunate that Marie’s current situation felt so hopeless.

Marie’s belongings were still on the table. The beer had not changed that. She wanted to put them away, but did not see how that was possible. She’d have to get rid of the cat. She wanted to get rid of the cat.

“Who are you?” Benoît said.

Marie had forgotten, in a way, that Benoît Doniel was still there. That they were talking to each other. She had begun to think about Mexico, how simple it was there. No money had been required to live in that small oceanside village, though Juan José had had a suitcase full of just that.

Marie looked at him, irritated.

“What did you say?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have no idea who you are. Half of the things you own, you have stolen from my wife. You have my daughter on your lap. She seems to like you. And my life is ruined. And I am not sure how this happened. Because you fell in love with my sister’s book.”

Marie nodded.

His
life was ruined.

He did not know who
she
was.

Marie’s beer was empty so she reached for his. Marie didn’t know how to fight back. She had never fought with Juan José. She had fought with Ellen, as a child, but these were brief, violent spats. Pushing and shoving, and one time, which Marie was never allowed to forget, biting. She had drawn blood from Ellen’s skinny arm, she could not remember why. Marie had won the fight, but it hadn’t felt like a victory. Ellen had run all the way home and Marie had been forced by her mother to apologize. Later, Ellen’s mother had given Marie a lecture about anger management. No one, for a second, thought that Marie might have had a reason to bite her friend.

Marie could not fight Benoît Doniel in this lovely restaurant. She could bite his arm, she could draw blood, as if she were still nine years old, but she could not win. She had already lost. Marie didn’t love Benoît anymore, at least not the way she had only the day before. Not the way she had loved the idea of him, when he was only a black-and-white photo on a book jacket.

He did not understand how sad this made her, the change between them.

Benoît reached for the silver bangles on the table; he slid them over his own wrist. “These bracelets,” he said. “They were Nathalie’s. Did you know?” Marie shook her head. She had not known. She wanted Nathalie’s bracelets. She wanted them back. “I gave them to my wife. My wife.”

Marie drank more of Benoît’s beer.

“We’ll need another,” she said. “You’ll need to order another one for me, too.”

Marie looked at the bracelets on Benoît’s wrist with longing, knowing that she would never get them back. They had been Nathalie’s. He should never have given them to Ellen; they were meant to be Marie’s.

Ludivine meowed, sorrowfully, from the floor, from inside Marie’s knapsack, and Marie felt the bile rise in the back of her throat. She was able somehow to force the rising vomit to go back down. The taste in her mouth was putrid. She drank more of Benoît’s beer. She drank and drank until the tall glass was empty.

“We need something to eat,” she whispered. “And water.”

In her other life, Juan José had brought Marie home to meet his mother. A chicken had been killed on her behalf and turned into a marvelous stew. The family had taken Marie to their church. They had accepted her as one of their own, a beloved child. They expected nothing from her, except to be pretty, to make Juan José happy. Marie closed her eyes. What would Ruby Hart do? If they were in the laundry, folding and washing and talking, what would she say about this short, skinny Frenchman, blaming her for all of his problems? Ruby would tell Marie how it was.
You and this man
, she’d say,
you are done, you are so done, girl
.

She’d also tell Marie to give up the little girl. Give up Caitlin and the dream of a happy life, stolen from another woman.
Make your own life.
That is what she would say. By the time Ruby was released from prison, she would have her law degree. Marie looked at Caitlin, drinking her milk. She did not want to give her up. Ruby Hart had killed her husband. He had probably deserved it, but she was in no position to give advice.

Marie saw the waiter approaching the table. She put her hand on Benoît’s arm. “Can you order something for us, please?”