Bad Marie Read online

  “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 h
er 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?”

  Marie didn’t want to ask Benoît for anything, ever again, but also she couldn’t imagine talking to that dreadful man, the waiter. He had all the power in the world: to bring her food or deny it.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Benoît said.

  But Benoît hailed the waiter. He ordered two more beers and, not even looking at the menu, ordered food for all of them. Marie smiled at him, grateful, and almost immediately wished that she hadn’t. Benoît reached for the kimono on the table, pressing the silk fabric to his cheek.

  “You really are a thief,” he said.

  It had made sense for Marie to take the kimono. Of all the belongings that had come out of her backpack, this had been Marie’s favorite. She thought of it as her own. She had worn it after their baths, before she and Benoît made love. Benoît would pull on the sash, open the flaps of silk, and watch, almost reverent, as it fell to the floor.

  “My grandmother needs to be cremated,” Benoît said. “Her apartment needs to be cleaned. Her bill at the nursing home needs to be settled. My wife knows that I am here. That I ran off with the babysitter. She is coming to France. She is coming. I walked out on Lili. Again. After making love to her. For the second time in my life, I have walked out on her. I don’t know if she will forgive me this time.”

  Marie looked at Benoît Doniel, plagiarist, blankly.

  He was worried about Ellen, his wife.

  He was worried about Lili. He was worried about Lili, his former lover. His present lover, too. He had just admitted to that.

  Marie did not exist.

  You and me, he had said on the boat.

  Ludivine meowed again from inside Marie’s backpack. They could be arrested for animal abuse. The meows had become weaker, less frequent. The cat very well might die in this Paris restaurant. Marie would have to carry this dead cat with her for the rest of her life.

  Marie drank more beer.

  It was something to do.

  The beer was already starting to get warm. She needed to drink more quickly.

  “What did Ellen say?” Marie said. “In New York? What did she say about me?”

  “Who are you?” Benoît looked at Marie as if he might spit in her face. “A criminal. You just got out of prison. What was I thinking?” He shook his head with disgust. “You are very pretty, you know. You have big tits.”

  Marie felt tears spring to her eyes, as if she had been hit. She turned away from Benoît and smiled at Caitlin, who never liked to see anyone cry.

  “Hey there Kit Kat.”

  The nickname seemed wrong with Ludivine suffocating beneath the table.

  “Are you crying?” Caitlin asked.

 
; Marie shook her head.

  “Me?” she said. “No way. Not me. I don’t cry. Never ever. I am a tough, hardened criminal.”

  Caitlin stood up on her chair. She leaned over and wiped a tear from Marie’s face.

  “Your food is coming,” Marie told Caitlin. “Something good to eat. Something French and delicious. What did you order for her?” she asked Benoît. “Something she’ll like?”

  Benoît Doniel shrugged.

  “Something delicious,” Marie said to Caitlin. “You’ll see. Better than macaroni and cheese.”

  Caitlin wiped another tear from Marie’s face.

  “Where is Mommy?”

  Marie wiped an imaginary tear off of Caitlin’s cheek.

  “She’s on her way now,” Marie said. “What did you think? She just left the office. She’s on her way. She works too hard, your mother.”

  The waiter arrived with the food.

  He looked at the table, covered with Marie’s things. Marie looked at Benoît. “You figure it out,” she said. “You have already humiliated me.”

  Benoît pushed her things onto the extra chair at the table, much of the haphazard pile falling to the floor. The displeased waiter continued to look displeased, but he served them their food. Benoît had ordered some kind of pasta, small shells covered in a cream sauce. It was a French macaroni and cheese: mild, smooth, easy to slide down. The waiter had brought the same dish for Caitlin, only in a smaller bowl.

  Marie and Benoît and Caitlin, they ate in silence. Marie was grateful for the food, grateful that she did not need to decide what to eat, that Benoît did know, without having to ask, what she would like. They had sat like this in Ellen’s kitchen, eating companionably; there had been no animosity, only an unhurried calm, pleasure. As Benoît began to eat his pasta, she could feel a change in him, the hatred easing from his body.

  He had never spoken that way before, about her tits.

  “Forgive me,” he said. He actually ruffled Marie’s hair. “Please. I brought you here, didn’t I? Forgive me. I don’t know who I am anymore. Do you know?”

  Marie didn’t.

  Benoît looked at the bangles on his wrist, touched them with affection. “Ellen never wore these, did she?”