Bad Marie

  Bad Marie

  A Novel

  Marcy Dermansky

  For Jürgen

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Marcy Dermansky

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Sometimes, Marie got a little drunk at work.

  She took care of Caitlin, the precocious two-and-a-half-year-old daughter of her friend Ellen Kendall. It was a full-time job. Marie got paid in cash and was given a room in the basement.

  She never drank in the daytime. Only at night. Marie didn’t see the harm: a little whiskey, a little chocolate. Marie liked to watch bad movies on TV while Caitlin slept. She liked wandering over to the fully stocked refrigerator and helping herself to whatever she wanted to eat. Marie constantly marveled over the food: French cheeses, leftover steak, fresh-squeezed orange juice, raspberries imported from Portugal. It had only been three weeks since Marie’s thirtieth birthday, the day that she had gotten out of jail.

  The situation would have been humiliating had Marie any ambition in life. Fortunately, Marie was not in any way ambitious. Changing diapers and making lunch, taking Caitlin out for walks to the neighborhood park—these were things that Marie could do. Marie liked living in Manhattan. She liked listening to the lilted banter of the other nannies from the neighborhood, mainly black women from the West Indies. Marie even liked the educational TV she watched with Caitlin. Sesame Street was just Marie’s speed. She often napped during Caitlin’s afternoon naptimes.

  Marie, who hadn’t felt much of any emotion since her boyfriend had killed himself in prison nearly six years ago, found herself crazy in love with a two-and-a-half-year-old girl. It unnerved Marie, how strongly she felt. Smitten. They both loved chocolate pudding and macaroni and cheese from the box above all other foods. They could not take enough baths. Caitlin was bossy, but that suited Marie fine. Marie often felt herself in need of a leader.

  Marie was pleasantly drunk the night Ellen and her French husband came home from the theater and found Marie passed out in the bathtub. She had put Caitlin to sleep and was watching bad television, a movie about a sexy teenaged babysitter. First the babysitter drugged the mother, then she seduced the father, and at the moment when Caitlin started to scream, she was chasing the daughter through the house, wielding a kitchen knife.

  “Marie. Marie, Marie, Marie!”

  Marie ran as fast as she could to Caitlin’s room, crashing into an end table on the way, breaking a ceramic vase, afraid of everything: an intruder with a gun, a poisonous spider beneath the sheets, a monster in the closet. A raging fever. Knife-wielding babysitters.

  But nothing was wrong.

  Caitlin wanted to take a bath.

  “You aren’t sick?” Marie said, out of breath, trembling.

  “You forgot my bath.” Caitlin was standing up in her crib, holding on to the bars as if she were ready to revolt. “I feel sticky. I want my bath.”

  Caitlin was red from screaming. Marie was shaking with anger. Relief. She lifted Caitlin from the crib and discovered that the little girl was, in fact, sticky. Not only sticky, but visibly dirty. Her face was smeared with chocolate ice cream; they had eaten soft serve earlier that day. Marie put her finger on Caitlin’s round, hot cheek.

  “We forgot your bath?”

  Though Marie was paid to take care of Caitlin, she often felt that Caitlin was looking after her. Marie always felt guilty for the things she did wrong. Every day there was some small new mistake to make, but so far, there had been no consequences. Marie smiled, feeling Caitlin’s sturdy legs lock around her.

  “I’m sorry, Caty Cat. You need a bath.”

  “I want a bath,” Caitlin said.

  “Good,” Marie said. “So do I.”

  Marie carried Caitlin to the bathroom, passing through the living room to reclaim her drink, momentarily glancing at the TV set. The teenage babysitter, still wielding her knife, promised not to kill the girl if she came out of the closet. Marie continued walking; it was bath time, better than TV. Caitlin made happy gurgling sounds, pounding Marie’s back like it was a drum.

  Marie ran the water, Caitlin at her side, watching the water fill the tub.

  “Bubbles,” Caitlin said.

  “Yes. Bubbles.”

  Marie generously poured Ellen’s French lavender bubble bath beneath the running faucet. This was a secret between Marie and Caitlin; Ellen thought bubbles were bad for Caitlin’s skin. When the tub was almost full, she took off Caitlin’s damp white nightgown. Marie took a sip of what still remained of her drink, raised naked Caitlin high into the air from her armpits, and then dipped the bottom of Caitlin’s feet into the water.

  “Too hot,” Caitlin said.

  Marie nodded. This was part of their routine. Marie turned off the hot faucet, ran in only cold water, and then she lowered Caitlin back down.

  “Better?” Marie said.

  “Yes.”

  Caitlin grinned. Caitlin was happy when she got her way. She seemed to get her way most of the time. She would probably grow up into a disaster of a person: confident, arrogant, entitled—just like Ellen. Maybe, Marie thought, that was not entirely a bad thing.

  “Let’s try again, Kit Kat.”

  Marie lowered Caitlin back down into the tub. This time all the way in. Soon she would run more hot water. Marie was able to trick Caitlin this way every time. Caitlin reached for a yellow rubber duck and promptly smashed it over the head of another rubber duck. The tub was filled with bath toys.

  “So violent,” Marie observed.

  Marie took off her clothes and got in, lying back against the opposite end. She reached for her drink. She took a deep sip of whiskey. She closed her eyes.

  “Quack,” she heard Caitlin say. “Quack quack quack.”

  It occurred to Marie that she was, at that particular moment in time, happy. Happy. There weren’t many times when Marie could remember feeling this way. Swimming in the ocean during those short, wonderful months in Mexico with Juan José. Making love. Taking walks under the stars. Planning their future, together. The babies they wanted to have. Marie had felt her life was exactly what it was supposed to be.

  Marie was happy. It wasn’t complicated. All it took was a bath. Caty Bean.

  She opened her eyes, looked at naked Caitlin.

  “Hi Caitlin,” she said.

  “This duck is so bad, Marie,” Caitlin said.

  “Get the duck,” Marie said. She felt the lids of her eyes slide back shut.

  “Bad duck,” Caitlin said.

  “Bad,” Marie said. “Very bad.”

  Marie must have fallen asleep in the bath. She had not heard them come in, Ellen and her French husband, but somehow they were standing in the bathroom, fully dressed, staring. Ellen’s mouth was open wide. She had those perfect teeth, the result of years of expensive orthodontics.

  They were a stylish couple. Benoît Doniel was wearing a dark striped suit. His blue tie matched the color of Ellen’s shimmery dress. Benoît Doniel was looking at Marie, looking at her naked. Benoît Doniel. Marie loved to say his name in her head. Benoît Doniel. Benoît Doniel. Benoît Doniel. It tasted good in her mouth, like chocolate. Like chocolate dipped in whiskey.

  Since she had begun babysitting, Marie had managed to avoid contact with her employer’s husband. Three weeks and not a single straight-on gaze. Benoît Doniel was not strikingly attractive. But he was sweet and sexy in a funny, self-deprecating kind of way. He wasn’t tall; quite possibly he was short. Marie seemed to tower above him. His sandy brown hair fell into his eyes. He had also written Marie’s absolute favor
ite novel in the world, Virginie at Sea, about a suicidal teenage girl who falls in love with a sick sea lion at the zoo.

  Marie had kept her ardent love of Benoît’s out-of-print book a secret. She had discovered a translated edition of the novel in the prison library. She’d read it again and again. Sometimes she would force herself to wait a day, sometimes two, and then Marie would start all over.

  This was the real reason she was there. Why she had come to New York, arrived on Ellen’s doorstep, asking for a job, though she had no idea at the time who Ellen had married. It was why she was naked in the bathtub, her body on display for Benoît Doniel’s gaze. Marie’s happiness wasn’t about Caitlin, but the close proximity to Benoît Doniel, French novelist.

  Now, at last, craning her neck out of the water, Marie allowed herself to look at him. Really look. She looked and looked. Benoît Doniel had a small mole on his cheek. His bottom teeth were crooked. His eyes were brown. She couldn’t have known this, not from the black-and-white author photo. He was also grinning, grinning at Marie, unmistakably amused with the situation. He could not take his eyes off her. Marie held his gaze. Somehow, Ellen had married this amazing man, and now he was staring at Marie. Life had finally presented her with a gift.

  “Hello there, Marie,” Benoît Doniel said.

  “Benoît.” Marie rubbed her eyes. It was the first time she had spoken his name out loud. “Hello.”

  “Mommy and Daddy are home,” Caitlin cried.

  Caitlin kicked her legs, splashing water out of the tub. Ellen still had not spoken, but Caitlin’s flailing seemed to stun her back into motion. She scooped her naked daughter from the tub and hugged her to her chest, soaking her blue dress.

  “Jesus Christ, Marie,” she said. “I pay you to babysit, not to take baths with my daughter, and certainly not to fall asleep in the tub. My God. I can’t believe this.”

  Only then did Ellen notice the glass of whiskey balanced on the soap dish. The situation, at least, was interesting. Marie had no idea what Ellen would do. Ellen believed herself to be in control of her life.

  Marie spread her legs open, not a lot, just enough.

  “You’re drinking? You’re drunk? You were asleep in the fucking bathtub. You could have drowned my daughter. Did you lose all of your brain cells when you were in jail?”

  “Down,” Caitlin said. “Put me down.”

  Marie had locked eyes with Benoît Doniel.

  There was no doubt at this point that he was staring at her. He pushed the hair out of his eyes to get a better look. Marie couldn’t fathom how he had ended up with Ellen Kendall. She couldn’t believe he was the same man who had written Virginie at Sea. He could have been writing about her, Marie, at sixteen. He had stolen her innermost thoughts, transcribed them word for word onto the page.

  “Get out of the bathtub, Marie.”

  Marie was surprised to realize that Ellen was still in the bathroom. Marie couldn’t be certain, but it seemed as if Ellen was screaming. It seemed as if her voice was much louder than it needed to be.

  “Get out of the fucking bathtub. Get out. Get out.”

  “Mommy said ‘fuck,’” Caitlin said.

  Marie knew that she should get out of the tub. She understood that Ellen was at the point of explosion. But Marie was too invested in imagining the picture she made at that very moment. As if through Benoît Doniel’s eyes. As if it were a scene in a movie. Marie was tall. She was thin. She had long, dark hair and surprisingly large breasts, which had always seemed out of proportion to the rest of her thin frame. Marie decided she would not move, not just yet. She would extend the moment as far as she could take it.

  The next night, when she came home from the office, Ellen took Marie out to dinner.

  Marie felt almost giddy with relief.

  If Ellen was prepared to talk, if she was prepared to eat a meal with her, drink a drink, they could fix the situation. Pretend to forget what had happened the night before. Because when she thought about it, Marie knew she wasn’t ready. She did not want to be in charge of her own life. She could wait for Benoît Doniel. She had seen how he looked at her. He would wait. He would flirt. They could take their time. Ellen had the capacity, not to forgive, but to forget.

  When Marie had shown up at her doorstep three weeks ago, Ellen had greeted Marie as if nothing had happened. As if Marie hadn’t spent the last six years in a medium-security prison for being an accessory to murder and bank robbery, six years in which Ellen had not once visited or written a letter. As if they hadn’t had a colossal fight years before that, back in high school, after Marie had made the mistake of having sex with Ellen’s boyfriend at the time, Harry Alford.

  Marie loved Vietnamese food. She held open the door to the restaurant, pretending that there was nothing strange about the two of them, friends—old friends—going out for a meal. They had grown up next door to each other; Marie’s mother had been the Kendalls’ part-time housekeeper.

  “I love this place,” Marie said to Ellen.

  Ellen grimaced.

  Marie recognized this grimace, and suddenly she understood. The friendly invitation was a trap. A lie.

  Ellen waited until after they ordered. Until after the waiter had brought their drinks, placed the delicious shrimp and vermicelli rolls in front of Marie. There had never been anything so good to eat in prison. On Chinese food night, they were served soggy egg rolls still dripping in oil.

  “How was your day?” Elbows on the table, Ellen rested her chin on her folded hands. “Did you and Caitlin go to the park?”

  Marie shook her head. “You know we went to the park. Just say it. Say whatever it is you are going to say to me.”

  “Okay.” Ellen took a deep breath. “I made a mistake. You haven’t changed. If anything, you’ve gotten worse. I don’t know what I was thinking. To bring you into my home. To consider trusting you again. To entrust you with my child. I don’t blame you, Marie. It’s my fault. I blame myself. That I let this happen. Even when we were small, I knew something was wrong. I tried to convince myself that we were having fun, playing, but you were always waiting for snack time. You’d eat everything and ask for more.”

  “Your mother served good snacks,” Marie said.

  “Exactly,” Ellen said. “You came for the snacks. My mother told me to be generous. She said your father was dead, that your mother cleaned houses, that you had it hard.”

  Marie cupped her hand around her beer. Marie had had no idea. “She told you that?”

  Marie had mistaken all the attention for kindness. They had pitied her. She used to sleep over on weekends, and Ellen’s mother would tuck Marie in, kiss her on her forehead, pull the covers up to her chin.

  “My house was nicer. You learned how to swim in our swimming pool. My mother would buy you books for Christmas. We fed you your first artichoke.”

  “And Brie,” Marie said. “Don’t forget. And lobster.”

  Marie had always wanted to be a Kendall, but when it came down to it, they had never wanted her. Not really. It had been a sadistic form of teasing, to let her into their home, to act as if she were part of the family, when she always received inferior birthday presents and was left behind when Ellen went away to summer camp.

  Marie’s mother had a PhD in Italian Renaissance Literature, but no practical job experience. Marie’s father had died in a sailing accident when she was still a baby. What kind of piece of shit would do that, would get himself killed? That’s what Marie’s mother would say. Marie’s mother rarely had anything nice to say.

  Marie picked up a shrimp roll and put it back down.

  “You never liked me,” Ellen said. “You liked my house.”

  Marie hated being confronted with her childhood. This was the most direct Ellen had ever been with her and Marie did not like it. It was one thing for Marie to recognize her own disdain for Ellen; it was another thing to hear that it had always been mutual. Marie rolled her chopsticks back and forth between her hands, as if she could generate heat
with the friction. She wanted Ellen to be afraid—to consider the possibility that Marie could stick one of these splintered wooden chopsticks right up into the meat of Ellen’s eyeball.

  “We were friends,” Marie said.

  Now, on the verge of being fired, Marie wanted to believe this. There was no reason that Ellen should have mistrusted Marie when they were little. Marie had been a perfectly unthreatening child. Ridiculously eager to please. She had also stolen Ellen’s clothes, the occasional stuffed animal. Maybe Ellen had always known that. She had never let on.

  “Come on, Marie. It was always obvious we were forced together. I know this sounds awful, but I’m not saying anything you don’t already know. I’ve always had more advantages. And I was happy to share with you. I was. But you always had to take advantage of me. And then in high school, you slept with Harry. My boyfriend. There wasn’t anything meaner you could have possibly done to me.”

  “He slept with me, too,” Marie said.

  The distinction seemed important. Harry Alford had taken Marie’s hand, led her upstairs, and fucked Marie on the floor of a walk-in closet of the master bedroom at their high school graduation party. He didn’t love her, of course. He loved Ellen. It was a little like Ellen’s mother, all over again. Marie had large breasts, even then.

  “I don’t even know what I am doing sitting in a restaurant with you,” Ellen said. “Let alone inviting you into my home. I must have been out of my mind.”

  “He was a creep, you know that,” Marie said, surprised that she was defending herself. She never had before. It had always been understood, before, that Marie had done a bad thing. Because she was Marie. Jealous and needy. The girl next door. Because she could not help herself. “I was drunk. He didn’t talk to me the next day. He acted as if nothing had ever happened. Do you know how that made me feel?”

  “I can’t believe that I forgave you,” Ellen said.

  “You never forgave me,” Marie said.