Marianne

by Elizabeth Hammer

  “I’m studying to be a cosmetologist. You know, like a hairdresser.”

  “Really?” said Patrick. “That’s perfect for you.”

  Marianne cringed inside a little. She wasn’t ashamed at all, but she was always afraid people would misunderstand and think she was vain—was that vain, too? Whatever. “Why is that perfect for me?”

  “You like to help people.” He smiled at her and she felt better. “Do you like it so far?”

  “Sure,” she said, smiling a little.

  Patrick waited a moment, then looked at her. “Sure? That’s all I get?”

  “Work is work,” said Marianne with a significant look.

  Patrick laughed and turned right, off the main street and into a shopping center. “Are you hungry? I’m going to get Monkey a milkshake to make it up to him.”

  Marianne turned and grinned at the baby. “You want ice cream, baby? Ice cream?”

  Monkey Baby smiled big and pointed out the window. Patrick pulled up to the speaker of the fast food place and ordered a small chocolate shake. “Marianne?”

  “Nothing for me,” she said quickly. “I don’t have my purse or anything.”

  Patrick stared at her.

  “No, thanks. I’m good.” She couldn’t stand it if he bought her anything. Besides, she didn’t like eating in front of people she didn’t know. It made her feel greedy or something.

  Patrick handed the milkshake to Marianne when he got it. “He’ll probably chuck it if I give it to him.”

  Monkey said, “Num!” when Marianne handed it to him. She balled up the straw wrapper and looked around for somewhere to put it.

  Patrick looked at Marianne meaningfully and flung the receipt he was holding over her legs and into the mess of tools. Marianne laughed, but all the same, she put the wrapper in her pocket instead.

  Danielle came out to meet them when they got home a few minutes later. Marianne got the baby out while Patrick asked how the puke was treating her.

  “It’s everywhere,” said Danielle. “And Michael’s a little stuffed up, so he’s lying on the couch while I do everything.”

  “Hey, I’ve got one for that,” said Patrick, handing Marianne her soda. “Dan, what do you tell a woman with two black eyes?”

  Danielle smiled at Marianne. “I love these.”

  “Nothin’” yelled Patrick. “You done told her twice.”

  Marianne snorted. That was the worst. She hoisted the baby higher on her hip. “You want me to keep Monkey for a while?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll need the port-a-crib.”

  Patrick shut the truck door. “I’ll get it.”

  Marianne unlocked her front door with the hidden key, went inside, and set Monkey down at the kitchen table to finish his milkshake. Her parents weren’t home yet. They must have felt bad for lying to Patrick and gone out to lunch after all. Thorough of them.

  Patrick knocked on the side of the open front door. “Where do you want it?”

  “Can you sit here with him while I put it up in my room?”

  “Sure.” He set the folded up playpen in the hallway and came into the kitchen. He stayed by the kitchen door, though, probably thinking the baby would freak out if he got too close.

  Marianne squeezed by him and hefted the playpen toward the bedroom, trying to think of a way to get him to stay after this. How self-destructive was that? Just that fact that he existed seemed to hurt her feelings, but she still wanted to be around him. She’d have to analyze that part of herself the next time she was sitting on the shower floor, weeping from the pain of self-loathing.

  All the doors off the back hallway were shut, and it was very dim because her eyes hadn’t adjusted yet. She accidentally banged the playpen into the side of the linen closet.

  Marianne opened the door to her bedroom and backed in with the crib. Her room was even darker than the hall. Weird. She never closed the blackout curtains.

  And her CD player was on.

  It wasn’t the disc she’d left inside it, either. It was creepy, mournful organ music. What the? Marianne dropped the crib in the doorway and felt for the light switch. A hand covered hers and someone spoke out from the darkness. “My love...”

  Marianne screamed and stumbled over the playpen into the hallway. She backed herself up against the linen closet, ready to scream again.

  “It’s just me...”

  Her visitor stepped into the doorway of her bedroom. The light was faint, but she could make him out. Marianne turned around, put her hands on the cabinets, and purposely banged her forehead against them. “What the hell are you doing here, Alvin?”

  7

  Decease and Desist

  “I needed to see you, Marianne,” said Dark Lord Alvin.

  She closed her eyes and banged her head on the cabinets again. “How did you get in here?”

  “I snuck in,” he said. Just like a cockroach.

  “Marianne?” called Patrick. She looked up and saw Patrick rounding the corner. He stopped dead at the edge of the hall when he saw Alvin. Patrick stared at him in shock and then looked back at her. “Are you okay, Marianne?”

  “No,” she moaned. Patrick and the walking corpse in the same house at once. With a funeral dirge playing, too.

  “She’s fine. I just startled her.” Alvin sounded annoyed at the disruption of his little reunion. “Just give me a minute to talk to you, Raven.” Alvin came up behind her and put his hands on her waist.

  She spun around, but he didn’t release her. Alvin’s eyes were mostly covered by his too-long black hair, but Marianne glared at him the best she could. Then she looked pointedly down at his hands. “No, thank you.”

  Dark Lord Alvin’s voice was whiny and caressing. “Please, Raven.”

  Patrick spoke quietly from his place just outside the hall. “I think she said no thank you.”

  “This is none of your business,” said Alvin, but he let her go and stepped back, anyway.

  Patrick didn’t say anything. He just watched Marianne’s face carefully. She couldn’t ever remember feeling so uncomfortable. Having both of them there and staring at her was too much. “It’s okay, Patrick, I’ll talk to him. Can you just watch the baby for me?”

  Patrick looked a little surprised. “Do you want us to go home?”

  “No!” Marianne cleared her throat to get her volume under control. “This will only take a second. You can stay.”

  Patrick nodded and almost smiled. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Alvin started in on her before Patrick was even out of sight. “Who is that? Your boyfriend?”

  “No. And neither are you.”

  Alvin glared at her and kicked his boot against the wall behind him. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re seeing someone else.”

  “I’m not seeing someone else.”

  He sighed dramatically. “Then you’ll give me another chance?”

  “No.”

  Alvin stared at her like she was speaking Romanian.

  “No,” she repeated.

  “What?” Alvin’s volume shot up four levels. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “I shouldn’t even have to say that.” His hostility was really pissing her off. “How did you get in here?”

  “Listen!”

  “Sure,” said Marianne. “Right after you tell me exactly how you got into my house.”

  Dark Lord Alvin stepped forward, right in her face. “Why are you being so selfish,” he hissed. “Just listen to what I came here to say. I mean, I did all this for you!”

  Marianne didn’t budge. How dare this dude cheat, bust into her house, and then call her selfish? “Breaking and entering is romantic, now, is it?” she said. “You need to back up. And then you need to get out. You can’t do this kind of crap, man. Come on!”

  “I’m just trying to make things up to you.” He thumped his fists against his bony chest. “I put my soul into this.”

  “You put your soul into s
neaking in through my window? Is that how you did it?” Marianne pointed past him, back into her room. “What if my parents had come back home with me? You gotta start thinking before you do these things.”

  “I’m a spontaneous person—I follow my passions, no matter the consequences,” he said extra passionately. “I can’t change who I am to be with you!”

  What? It was like they were living in different dimensions. “I don’t want you to change who you are to be with me, bro. I don’t want you here at all.”

  Alvin roared like a fricking lion.

  Oh, shoot. Marianne backed up the few inches that she could. His face was livid.

  “What is wrong with you?” He punched the closet door a foot away from her head. “You are such a tease.”

  Marianne looked straight into his face and whispered, “Get the hell out. Now.”

  “Oh, so now you’re throwing me out?” He turned suddenly, kicked the playpen out of the way, and disappeared into her room.

  “I never asked you in!” she shouted into the blackness.

  He was banging around in there, zipping something up. The music stopped playing abruptly. “This was supposed to be special,” he growled.

  “Well, it’s not, Alvin. It’s creepy.” How dare he blame this on her?

  “DON’T CALL ME CREEPY!”

  Marianne’s beauty school doll head came hurdling out of her room and smashed into the wall right by her shoulder. She froze in place, not knowing if she should run, or duck, or...

  Patrick walked into the hallway before she could move. “Excuse me.” He slipped by her, flicked on the light to her bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  Marianne just stood there in the darkness. Breathe, Marianne. Remember to breathe.

  She stayed leaned back against the far wall, staring at the line of light coming from under her door. But there was no sound. No voices. No shouts. No nothing.

  She stepped forward, pushed the playpen farther out of the way, and placed her ear against the door. She thought she could hear someone walking around. Maybe someone speaking softly? What the heck was going on in there, and where the hell was a juice glass when you needed one? The baby started wailing from the kitchen.

  She deliberated for a moment, then ran to the kitchen to get him. When she picked up the baby, he laid his head down on her shoulder immediately. She paced the room with him a few times. Totally. Dying. Inside. What was going on in there? How was she going to explain the Dark Lord to Patrick? She heard the click of her bedroom door opening.

  A second later, she saw Alvin, all limbs intact, slouch right out the open front door carrying a heavy-looking duffel bag. He didn’t even look her way. Dazed, she walked to the window and watched him cross the street to his black Vespa. Alvin secured the bag to the back, got on, and whizzed away. Easy as that.

  Her mouth hanging open, she turned from the window to stare at Patrick—she knew that he would magically be there in the doorway, and he was. Patrick’s huge frame filled the casing. His hands were in his pockets and his face was totally blank. They just stared at each other for a minute, Marianne swaying slightly for the sake of the baby. Then Patrick raised his eyebrows as if to ask how she was.

  He was a glorious angel of light. “You are a glorious angel of light,” she whispered.

  Patrick just kept looking at her. “Monkey Baby is asleep.”

  Marianne shifted him in her arms and stroked his cheek.

  Patrick spoke softly, “Lay him down in your parent’s room, instead.”

  Marianne frowned. That was kind of an odd order.

  Patrick shook his head. “You don’t want to go into your room just yet.”

  Marianne gave him her Spock eyebrow but obeyed. She brushed his chest accidentally as she passed him—it was the fourth time they had touched; she was keeping count. Patrick followed her silently through the halls. The door to her bedroom was slightly ajar, and she could tell by the lighting that someone had opened the curtains. She passed by it, though, right to her parent’s room. Marianne lay down on the bed with the baby and eased him out of her arms. She gently rolled off the bed, trying not to shake it, and covered him with the quilt.

  Patrick closed the door silently after they had walked out. “Are you okay?”

  They were close together in the narrow hallway, not touching, but almost. The crisp smell of Patrick’s soap or hair product or something seemed to fill up the entire space. “Yeah, I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.” Her voice wasn’t nearly as strong as she would have liked. “Besides, I could have taken him.”

  Patrick laughed quietly, just staring down at her. “Sure you could’ve.”

  Marianne stepped back a few inches. “Thank you,” she said.

  Patrick shrugged and pointed to the doll head that had lolled over into the corner. “Couldn’t ignore that. I’m glad you don’t mind.”

  Marianne stared at the bleached-out, bodiless head and asked slowly, “What did you do to him in there?”

  “I asked him very politely to get the eff out.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t just say eff.”

  Marianne smiled.

  “Are you ready to see your bedroom? I hope you don’t mind, but I just have to witness your reaction.”

  “Reaction to what? I thought you didn’t knock any teeth out?”

  “You’ll see.”

  What on earth? “Do you wanna get your camera or anything?” she asked sarcastically. “Do we need to document all this great drama that’s about to happen?”

  “Great idea, actually,” he said. “You’re going to want to show this to your grandkids.”

  “Okay,” said Marianne, giddy for some reason. “Danielle’s camera takes video.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. “No peeking.”

  Patrick started to walk away, but Marianne stopped him by grabbing his arm. “No, I’d better go get it,” she said. “I don’t have that much self-control.”

  “Yes, you do.” Patrick flashed his gorgeous grin. “Be right back.”

  Marianne bit her lip as she watched him stride away. She went to the kitchen, got a glass of ice water, and planted herself at the table. Patrick had said last night that they were friends, but he stood a little close for a friend, held her eyes just a little too long. Marianne wished that she could get out a pen and paper and work out her feelings like a math problem. She went ahead and did it in her head. Two columns; score one for each bullet point listed.

  Column one, Why You Should Be In Love with Patrick: He’s good. He’s helpful. He’s honest. He’s empathetic. He’s willing to scare away monsters when needed. He laughs at your jokes. He’s obnoxiously perfect all around.

  Score: seven.

  Column two, Why You Should Not Be In Love with Patrick: Because he’ll eventually discover what an Epic Calamity you are, leave you, and break your heart, fool. Today or a week from now, he will break your heart.

  Score: Darn it.

  That was the death strike, right there. No amount of addition could get her out of that one. Too bad she hadn’t paid more attention in trig, because that stuff was like alchemy… Whoops. Marianne had drawn P D into the condensation on her cup. She wiped it off quickly. It really was kind of amazing how much he filled her thoughts right then. She couldn’t care less about what was in her room. About how Alvin had gotten around the first rule of vampires and come inside without an invitation. About whether her parents would come home soon. About her big, fat thighs. About what she looked like right now. Wait. What did she look like right now?

  She ran to the bathroom by the den and checked herself in the mirror. No makeup smudges, every hair still in place. Wow. She’d weathered that one great. Yup, she was fit for video.

  “And here’s Marianne, making sure she’s photo-ready.”

  “Gah!” Marianne bent over in shock, grabbing the edge of the sink.

  Patrick was standing in the doorway pointing the little digital camera in
her face, watching the screen. “Happy to see me?”

  “Um...” Come on, brain. What’s the appropriate response? He was filming her, after all. “Yeah.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Stop zooming on my face.” Marianne backed up and flapped her arms at him. “So, do you use your feet or do you just float around silently so you can scare me? You make no noise when you walk.”

  “It’s called being graceful. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

  Marianne gave him a dirty look and slammed her wrists together at him. “Is that something you can understand?”

  Patrick cleared his throat. “Mmm, yes. I have watched Friends.” He pretended to hit a few random buttons on the top of the camera. “We’ll just edit that one out, shall we?”

  “We’d better.” Marianne shook her hair out and smiled at him. “What took you so long, anyway?”

  “I was supposed to meet some people this afternoon,” said Patrick. “I called to cancel. This is going to be way better.” He patted the camera fondly.

  Marianne couldn’t decide if she should be pleased that he’d chosen her over his plans, or terrified about whatever was lurking in her bedroom. “Are we gonna do this thing, or what?”

  “Lead on.”

  Patrick followed Marianne to her bedroom with a giant grin on his face, but he blocked her way before she could go in. “Hold on one second. It has to be perfect.” He darted inside, closing the door behind him. “I like the Muppet wallpaper, by the way,” he shouted.

  “Har, har,” she shouted back.

  A second later, the eerie music started playing again. “Okay,” he called. “Now you may enter.”

  Marianne stepped forward slowly and pushed the door open.

  8

  Poetry is Averse to Me

  Every surface of her room was covered in fake black rose petals. The dresser, the bed, the floor. The organ music seemed to ring off the walls. There were a dozen black tea light candles sitting unlit on her dresser and a gaudy silver necklace dangling from her ceiling fan. Welcome to the crypt.