Inside Madeleine

by Paula Bomer

  “So, how’s it going, Dylan? How’s the band?”

  “It’s going well, really well,” he said. He was quiet with me. He wasn’t quiet with everyone, this I knew. I felt a supreme lack of interest in me coming from him, and it was visceral, like he was a gay man who found women physically vile. Unfortunately, at that stage in my life, it made me pursue people all the harder. Like me! Like me! Find me interesting!

  “Are you touring this fall?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, we got a van all lined up. It’s gonna be tough. But it’ll be awesome, too.”

  “Yo, Lise, check it out,” he said. “I forgot to show you what I picked up when I was out earlier.” He got up and walked out of the room.

  Lise was lounging on her butterfly chair, her hair a brilliant white that elegantly framed her round head, her dress draping over her curves perfectly. She had one leg up on the side of the chair, which she kicked back and forth lazily. She gave me a look of excited anticipation and I returned it. Dylan was back in an instant, holding toilet paper.

  “Look man, I lifted two rolls from the Kiev,” he said. The Kiev was a diner around the corner.

  “You are awesome, dude!”

  This was one of my lost moments. Stealing toilet paper from a diner run by working class Polish immigrants? Then I smelled something funny.

  “Do you guys smell that?”

  “No. What do you smell?” said Lise.

  “I think I smell smoke.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Dylan.

  We all listened to a song. He sounded angry and the music was very fast and you couldn’t hear the words at all. But it had real emotion. Mostly the emotion of anger, or that’s the impression it made on me, but it felt real, not forced or fake. When the song was done, I stood up. I was nervous.

  “I smell smoke.” I walked to the door, and sure enough, right when I opened it, a fire alarm in the building sounded. The hall was smokey. We were on the twenty-first floor. I shut the door immediately.

  “Oh, God, oh God,” said Lise.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. There was hysteria in my voice. Her apartment really smelled now. I could see smoke curling under the door. I walked nervously toward Lise and Dylan, who were standing silently. “Let’s go. Now.”

  “The cats!” Lise said and went into the kitchen.

  “Fuck the cats!” I screamed. And in that instant, I was full of regret.

  Lise had grabbed two cat carriers from on top of the fridge. Tears moistened her round, round face. She stood there, shocked, confused. I grabbed one of the carriers from her and looked wildly about for a cat. I saw the big one, Dave, and grabbed him by the back of his neck and shoved him into the carrier with a forcefulness I didn’t know I had.

  “Stop! You’re hurting him!” Lise wailed.

  “Dude,” Dylan said. “Not so rough.”

  “Fuck you, you fucking eunuch!” I screamed at Dylan. “You’re just standing there, waiting for the staff to do everything!”

  I dropped the carrier and looked about. Lise was holding Susie with the carrier in front of her and she was trying, and failing, to get the protesting cat in it.

  “Come on, Susie, sweetie, that’s a good kitty,” she cooed.

  I grabbed the cat like it was a sack of garbage and slammed it into the carrier, locking it.

  “Let’s GO!” I screamed.

  Dylan was holding Dave, and Lise held Susie. We opened the door and there was smoke everywhere. Collectively, we didn’t try the elevator. There were two sets of stairs and we went to the nearest one and opened the door. The smoke was white and thick and curled and moved. We ran down a flight, blinking, choking. Then we ran down another flight but the smoke was thicker and hurt our eyes, our lungs.

  “Let’s try the other stairwell,” Dylan screamed over the fire alarm.

  We exited on the nineteenth floor. The floor wasn’t as bad as the stairwell and the relief of it almost calmed us for one sweet moment. We ran to the other stairwell. This one was smokey, but not nearly as bad, not nearly. And so down we went, all the way to the ground floor and out and down the street, two blocks, until we were sitting on a bench in a tiny New York City Park, dusk just falling around us.

  Silence. Relief. And for me? Shame, shame, shame. The fresh, pointed stab of living in the moment that shame can bring. Everything else fades away, no more boredom, no more doubt, no more worrying about the future, the past, and Ron, just a drenching in self pity and the now. In that moment, everything was about me and my wrongness. It’s a sort of baptism, when the floodgates of regret let loose.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. It was the right thing to say. For the first time, I noticed streaks of blood on my forearms; swollen and burning: cat scratches. The pain was a tonic for all my shame.

  Lise sniffled and hugged her cat carrier. Dylan stared off into space. The stench of cat urine was comforting and mortal.

  “I was scared,” I said. And it was then that I realized she had finally seen me, me, me, her doormat friend. Her tacky friend. The one who walked too close to her, who didn’t know what Crossroads or Sonic Youth was. I had finally made an impression on her. An ugly one, but an impression, nonetheless.

  This was before I knew that we all live on this planet, driving in the cars of our own little minds, our own self-contained worlds. Yes, this was before I knew that, when I thought I mattered, when I thought that people saw me, deep into me, saw all my love and excitement at being alive, saw the very glistening, running-overness of my aliveness. But we only matter when we do something awful. Then, someone sees us and only then.

  “Wow,” said Dylan. “That was intense.”

  We were safe. Suddenly the sky darkened, like it does sometimes, and dusk was over. The lights in the tall buildings everywhere were pinpricks, little holes in the world, the holes of a safety net all around us. A time in my life was over and it had ended pretty badly. And yet, what a beautiful thing, to be young, to not yet even have discovered my own body (which hours under a bathtub spout eventually changed), to be at the mercy of others, to have so much ahead of myself, and to so easily disappoint another person.

  • two years •

  HE WAS THE ONE TO GIVE HER HEAD WHEN SHE WAS ON THE RAG. He liked it, the saltiness, the nastiness of it. He grabbed her legs so hard it left bruises, because she claimed she didn’t want him to go down on her when she was bleeding. Yeah, right. Her pussy was so clean anyway, even when she bled. The shock of it. He tongued her asshole, too. Fresh as a daisy, this girl. Broad daylight, on the lumpy futon on the floor of his room in an apartment in Allston, Mass. Totally naked, their skin pale and visibly human—veins, pimples—lit by the sun streaming in, the bright, midday sunlight. Some torn sheets hanging in the windows, not providing much protection from the fierce light. As they move, dust rises in the streams of light, surrounding their glowing bodies. It was noon, maybe 2 P.M. They’d been having sex all morning. Hungover sex, “hangover helper,” he called it. She propped her head up on a pillow so she could watch his face in her cunt, the top of his forehead, his receding hairline, the dark, almost black strands of hair, his long, long hair, falling past his shoulders. Rock drummer hair. He’d look up at her. Pull his mouth away from her and she could see it, his mouth, dark where her blood streaked him. “I fucking love your pussy,” he says quietly, a finger inside of her.

  They didn’t have much in common—he didn’t read and she wasn’t from the Boston area—but he changed her life the day he ate her out for an hour straight, moving the vibrator around inside of her, outside of her, and finally sticking a finger up her ass until she came. For the first time. A huge, huge blood curdling, screaming, flying across the room orgasm, that ended with her smacking her head against the wall. Did he levitate her? How’d she get so far off the ground, so high in the air? After that, he owned her. Not that he necessarily wanted to, but he did, and so that was that. And then she was terminally in his bedroom, naked, begging for it. Please, Curt, please.
Don’t leave me. Don’t don’t. Taking her clothes off, wanting him so badly, falling to her knees. Her hands gently petting his head, God Curt, oh, oh, moving his head ever so slightly, as he eats her out for the ten millionth time.

  Actually, it wasn’t always that way. At first he had to coax her. Come on, let me kiss you down there. She was barely nineteen and she’d blush. Oh don’t do that. That’s gross. Oh no it’s not. And she’d let him do it and she’d get so excited and yell stop, stop and pull him up and into her. Which was fine. He’d fuck her and he liked doing that. She was ten years younger than him and skinny and—ten years younger than him. Pale nipples on her pointy little tits and a long perfect stomach with the tiniest little bulge resting in her narrow hips. Her pink, little girl cunt, with youth fluffing it up and dripping out of it. You’re made for sex. You’re built for this. Your pussy should be in magazines. He’d roll onto his back and sit her on top of him and lean her back, with her knees stretched as far apart as they could go, and instinctively (or maybe someone had told her, but he doubted it, because every other guy she’d fucked before him was some young, dumb college jock who’d fuck her doggy style with the lights off), gently, saying, yeah, yeah, with her left forefinger and middle finger, she’d pull herself wide open for him. Wide open in the middle of the day. He liked it. Liked seeing all that.

  Later, they’d go shoot pool down the street. Or he’d be playing and the bass player would pick them up and drive them to the club. She’d watch him play drums. Standing directly in front of the stage with her friend Katie. The two in nearly matching Betsey Johnson skintight minidresses. Her mouth slightly open, shiny pale lip gloss, moving awkwardly to the music. She was a horrible dancer. And afterwards, she would come right up to him. Stand next to him, step on his foot. “Sorry,” she says sheepishly, her brow anxiously furrowed. He just wanted to talk to his friends. And sometimes he had schmoozing to do—label people, a guitar player who may want to use him. His mother might be there. No matter, there’d Sonia be, right next to him. Her breath stinking of beer and cigarettes. She’d drink four beers during his set and smoke half a pack. Her arms folded nervously over her tiny chest. Her hair limp against her moonish face. Her mascara smeared. Okay, okay sometimes he’d be talking to a cute girl. No matter, Sonia wouldn’t freak out. Her face stuck in this weird nervous position. He noticed then her double chin, from the way she held her head smooshed back into her neck. She wasn’t fat, she was skinny, but she’d tense up and her chin would fold into itself. It was ugly. Her insecurity made her ugly. He hated her then.

  But he’d drink four beers, and eventually Katie would drag Sonia away somehow, so Katie could talk to some guy, and he’d have fun talking to his friends. Smoke some weed. And then the bar would be closing—this was Boston, the bars closed at 2 A.M.—and he actually would want to bring her to Nat’s house, some of the times. Sometimes, he didn’t want to bring her. Sometimes, he just didn’t want to deal with her, her being nervous and jealous. Other times, he wanted her warm body around, her cute, young, young body, her skinny legs sticking out of her tight minidress, wanted all that nervousness even, that he would pound out of her later. Pound pound pound her late at night, early in the morning, in the dark of his room, on the futon, sometimes as the sun came up. She was loud when he did it. And so it would start all over again. And as the sun trickled through the sheets in the windows, he could see her. Another day wasted in the lemon freshness of her youthful pussy, another day of playing with her young body and she bent over and under him with such desperation and abandon. Later, at four or so in the afternoon, he’d get her to buy him breakfast at the diner down the street. Then she’d go home to shower and change into another one of her slutty outfits—he didn’t let her keep clothes at his house anymore. That he put an end to. He’d be listening to Neil Pert drum solos, playing air drums, and he’d hear the answering machine pick up, “Curt, Curt, are you there …?”

  Sonia, Sonia, go away! Why was it so hard to make her leave him? He treated her like shit—well, except for the fucking. He fucked her right. He couldn’t help himself. A woman’s body in his face and he had to do his job. It was enough for her, or so she claimed, but she was miserable. She’d given up all her self-respect, and for what? For his face between her legs. She was crazy. Sometimes, he blamed it all on her ass, but you can’t base a relationship on an ass. Her flat, white, smooth-as-silk ass. Skin like a baby’s. It killed him. A shapeless ass, small as a boy’s. He loved her ass and loved opening her legs up underneath her ass. He didn’t love her anymore—maybe he never did—but when she showed up at three in the morning, letting herself in with the keys he needed to take away from her, not turning on the lights, saying, I need you, I need you, slithering in bed with him, crying, breathing unevenly, uninvited, what could he do? Her mouth on his cock and he’d be hard in seconds and then it was too late. He had to get those keys from her. And tell her it was over.

  He asked for the keys outside of the diner on Harvard Avenue one warm Spring afternoon. She’d just bought him French toast with bacon, orange juice, and a cup of coffee. He asked her for the keys, saying, this is not working, I need my space right now, it’s not you it’s me, like that, on the street, so that she couldn’t start taking her clothes off. Or throw too much of a hysterical fit, although she wasn’t much into self-control. During that last breakfast in the diner, she’d been weepy and whiny, we only see each other twice a week, I mean, I guess it’s okay, but why don’t you want to see me more? What’s wrong with me? What don’t you like about me, sniffle, sniffle? I can change, I can, I really can.

  No you can’t. No one can. I can’t either. He tries to tell her that THAT is what he doesn’t like about her, the what don’t you like about me, I can change. The sheer lack of pride. He can barely look at her when she starts in with that pathetic shit. How could he have let it go on for two years? Two years …

  So what happens next? He already started fucking that girl in Portland, the one with the nice Volvo. She stunk of money. And she lived far away. Although he could see a future with her, her money, her scowl, her no-bullshit attitude. The opposite of Sonia’s wimpiness. He needs a hard-headed woman, just like Cat Stevens says. Meanwhile, lots of hang-ups on the machine. Then a message from her. I need to talk to you. He doesn’t call back. More hang-ups. Then a week later, another message. And then, a week after that, he picks up for some reason and it’s her. Just let me see you one more time. I need to talk to you. Okay, he says, I’ll drive over in the cab, I’m driving tonight.

  He drives over. It’s dark, around 9 P.M. He honks. He’s not parking. He’s not going in there. The cab idles in front of the yellow house where she lives. He sees her come out the door and he steps out of his cab, leans against it. It makes him feel secure. She’s lost weight, she’s even skinnier than before. Her hair seems longer, stringier. She’s wearing a tight miniskirt, like always. Those skinny legs look like he could break them with two fingers. She walks down the steps and onto the sidewalk. He folds his arms. He’s not gonna let her make him feel guilty. He doesn’t owe her anything, except 700 bucks. He doesn’t owe her himself though, he doesn’t owe her. He’s afraid she’s gonna fall down, she seems so weak, so pale, so helpless. Did he do this? It’s her life, it’s not his responsibility. Give me one more chance, she whispers, and he can barely hear her, the motor of the cab hums loudly. Did he read her lips? Please, give me one more chance, I can change, she croaks. One more, one more. But his arms remain folded, and he shakes his head, no. He gets in the cab and he sees out of the corner of his eye that she’s walking back to the yellow house, and he’s so relieved, he was afraid that she’d do something crazy, jump on the cab, throw herself at him, and he drives away, slowly at first, then faster, wishing he could go all the way to Portland tonight.

  Ah, Sarah in Portland. Lies there like a board, but her pussy’s as slick as a seal. When she comes, she makes the tiniest of noises, moves her hips one centimeter. Blip. And it’s over. It’s as if all that
money keeps her mind off of her body. It’s a relief. It’s … low pressure. It feels like fucking a wife should. Sarah will be his wife, of this he feels sure. No more screaming and thrashing about. No more hysteria. No more Sonia! No more! Will he miss her? It seems impossible.

  Curt pulls over to the cab stand on Harvard Avenue. A gaggle of BU girls walk down the street, swinging their glistening hair around in the clear New England night. They get in the cab in front of him and he pulls up to take its place. The night is young. Curt feels young. He turns on the radio and a Rush song is playing and he thinks, this is good, this is a good sign, and he takes his hands off the wheel, and with the utmost precision, air drums all of the fills.

  • inside madeleine •

  1

  HER NAME WAS MADELEINE. She ate French toast for breakfast. Or waffles or pancakes. Her mother’s back to her, broad and strong, mixing the dough and frying the eggy bread until it was hot and golden brown. She stacked up a pile of five or six pieces and greased them slick with butter, careful to put butter on each piece, lifting the hot bread with her fingers, steam burning up from the stack. She poured on huge dollops of syrup, preferably a colorful blueberry or strawberry syrup, occasionally using brown maple syrup. If, for some strange reason, her mom didn’t cook, then she ate three bowls of Captain Crunch or Boo Berrry or Count Chocula, letting the milk turn thick with the sugar and starch, drinking the milk down when there were no bites left. She spread raspberry jam on slices of toast already dripping with butter. Large chunks of jam, the seeds of the berries sticking between her teeth. She ate in a breathless stupor, staring at the cereal box or syrup bottle, reading the ingredients over and over to herself, her back hunched over the food protectively. Breakfast was her favorite. She often had trouble sleeping at night because hot, buttery pancakes raced through her head and the excitement she felt at the prospect of eating kept her up late into the night.