Bad Marie

by Marcy Dermansky

  Opening her eyes, Marie expected the cement wall of her cell, not the floral wallpaper of the Parisian hotel room. Marie spread her arm onto the other side of the bed. Still empty. Marie looked at the clock. Benoît Doniel had been gone for six hours and thirty-two minutes. The number jumped on the display as she did the math, making it thirty-three minutes.

  Caitlin continued to poke Marie. Her hair was dirty, matted against her head.

  “Hey you,” Marie said.

  “Hi Marie.”

  The door to the balcony was still open.

  “I think we’re up in time for the sunrise,” Marie said. “Should we look? Let’s go see.”

  Marie rubbed her eyes. She put her legs on the floor, she stood on these legs, she was out of bed. She did not want to get out of bed, but she did, because Caitlin was already awake. Benoît had not come back. She picked up Caitlin, taking her to the balcony.

  “Look at that,” Marie said, boosting Caitlin in her arms. The sun was a great big orange ball, rising above the red rooftops, disappearing between clouds and then reemerging. The washed-out sky was gray, but slowly turning blue. The Eiffel Tower filled the same place in the sky as the night before. Marie held her hand over her eyes to block the sun.

  Caitlin imitated her. Marie smiled, pleased by Caitlin’s undeniable cuteness. She felt a swelling of love and that caused something to shift, break in her chest, relax. This was the situation, like Juan José showing up at her door, bleeding. What mattered was what you did next.

  “Hi Marie,” Caitlin said.

  “Hi Caitlin.”

  “Hi Marie.”

  “Hello Caitlin. Good morning to you. Top of the day. Hello hello. Buenas días. Bonjour.”

  Benoît really and truly had not come back. He would come back, of course, he would have to, he would return for his daughter, wouldn’t he? Maybe he wouldn’t. He had spent the night with the French actress. Lili Gaudet. It was such a ridiculous name. She had such stupid hair. Why didn’t she get it cut?

  It didn’t matter.

  Unlike Virginie, unlike Nathalie, Marie was not all alone in the world. She did not need Benoît Doniel. She did not want him. Marie was with her favorite person in the world. Her better half. Marie touched the top of Caitlin’s head. Caitlin’s hair was greasy, but there was no time to wash it. The sun was rising. They needed to move, fast, in case Benoît Doniel was coming for them. It was an odd déjà vu. She had left him only the day before.

  “Let’s get dressed,” Marie said. “Let’s get breakfast. What do you want for breakfast? Do you want more strawberry jam? Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want strawberry jam and croissants?”

  Caitlin nodded her head, smiling.

  “Yes. Sants. I want one.”

  “Do you want to get a little clean first?”

  Marie felt competent. She knew how to take care of Caitlin. She did not need Ellen telling her how. Caitlin lifted her arms while Marie took off her tank top. Nor did she struggle when Marie carried her to the bathroom, undressed her and started the shower.

  “Let’s take a shower. We’ve never taken a shower together,” Marie said, surprised by the false cheer in her voice. “Keep your eyes closed, okay?”

  There really was no time for this shower, if Benoît was going to come for them, but Caitlin would get cranky if she was dirty. Once they left the hotel, they might not have another chance for a while. Marie did not know where they were going. So Marie washed herself and she washed Caitlin; she even washed Caitlin’s hair, because it was clear Benoît Doniel was not on his way. It was ridiculously early in the morning and he was with his French actress, lying entwined on those perfect flowered sheets. He was a fool. He was an idiot. He was in the wrong place. He had left his daughter alone with a convicted felon.

  Marie even washed her own hair.

  Marie dressed Caitlin in the clothes from the day before, and Caitlin did not complain. Everything was different, far from their routine, but Caitlin still seemed fine. Or she knew, somehow, not to complain. Marie was grateful. Caitlin drank the warm milk Marie poured into the plastic hotel cup while Marie gathered their things, glad she had taken the time to repack her knapsack the night before.

  “Jam and croissants,” Marie said, taking Caitlin’s hand, opening the door.

  Benoît Doniel wasn’t there, on the other side, racing to catch them. Ludivine was gone. Marie had forgotten about the cat until she saw the empty ashtray. She did not remind Caitlin. They took the stairs instead of the elevator, in case Benoît was on his way up. It was only two flights. Caitlin held on to the banister and took the stairs one at a time; she was getting better and better at stairs. Marie checked out with a different clerk at the front desk, and in exchange for the room key, she received her passport.

  She grasped her hand around the thin blue book. Pressed it against her chest. She had gotten it back.

  They were free.

  Still free.

  Marie remembered walking out of the prison, that thick sense of dread. Her mother had promised to pick her up, but in the end, she had not come. Her lover wasn’t getting out, ever, because he was dead. Freedom had seemed a cruel punishment of its own.

  Not now.

  Look at where she was.

  Paris, France.

  People dreamed of going to Paris. The air felt good. There were chocolate croissants to eat. Baguettes to carry under your arm. Bowls of coffee to drink. A tower to conquer. A life to begin.

  “We’re free,” Marie said to Caitlin, squeezing her hand. She began to skip, urging Caitlin along the sidewalk.

  They had already stepped past the body when Marie saw Ludivine, on the curb, lying flat. The day before, the cat had been sick and needy, a genuine horror, but now she was dead. Marie quickened their pace, relieved that Caitlin had not seen the dead animal, already allowing herself permission to erase the image from her own memory. Marie was in no way responsible for the cat’s death. Ludivine had had her shot at Paris and she could not cut it. If this had been Mexico, and if Ludivine had been a chicken, Juan José’s family would have cooked her for dinner.

  Marie was surprised by how difficult it was to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower. The line was long and Caitlin was cranky. Benoît was supposed to have come back with a nightgown and her stroller. Everything would be better for Marie if she had that stroller. Caitlin would have hummed to herself while waiting in that crazy long line, happy in her stroller, blocked from the sun by the clever stroller overhang. Instead, forced to stand, Caitlin required constant entertainment.

  “That is the thing, Caty Bean,” Marie told Caitlin, “about dreams.”

  Caitlin looked at Marie.

  “You think you want to do something,” Marie said. “Like go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. You think that if you ever go to Paris, that is one thing that you have to do, and then when you get there, boom, you don’t want to. The appeal is all gone. You’re left with your own taste of bitter disappointment.”

  Marie had been so sure of Benoît Doniel, and her illusions of love had dispelled so quickly. It would have been better if she had never met him. Even the name she once loved to repeat like music in her head—Benoît Doniel—was ruined. Marie appreciated the fact that she could say anything to Caitlin, and to some extent, the girl would never understand. Bitter disappointment. She was speaking about Caitlin’s father, but maybe she also did mean the Eiffel Tower. There it stood, towering above them, so close, but still far. Impossible. They would never last, Caitlin and Marie, they would never even make it to the ticket counter.

  Caitlin had started to punch Marie in her legs, something she had never done before.

  Marie stared up at the massive structure. It was less impressive when you were standing at its edge; it was almost ugly, just large strips of metal. No bright lights illuminating the sky. Just a tall metal structure, without magic.

  “Paris,” Marie said, scooping Caitlin up off the ground so she could no longer hit her, and
turning around. “Paris sucks.”

  The only logical thing to do next would be to find something wonderful to eat. A reward. Marie didn’t know how to entertain Caitlin in this new and uncertain environment. Marie wished that Caitlin would tell her where to go, what to do. In New York, the little girl had favorite places. In Paris, they were both off balance, confused.

  “My fish was named Paris.”

  Marie nodded. She did not want to talk about the goldfish. Caitlin didn’t need to remember the ways in which she had been failed. Instead, Marie bought Caitlin an Eiffel Tower snow globe at a gift stand. She shook it and they watched the artificial snowflakes fall.

  “Give me,” Caitlin said.

  Ellen would have demanded a please. Marie handed it over. Caitlin turned the snow globe over, watching the snowflakes fall on the Eiffel Tower, over and over again.

  A well spent three and a half euros.

  Marie didn’t need to panic about money. She had two and a half thousand euros. She could find a cheaper hotel in a cheaper neighborhood. Marie was thirty years old. Maybe it was time for her to stand on her own. While most people her age had been finding themselves, getting jobs, losing jobs, going to graduate school, getting married, getting divorced, having children, Marie had been to prison.

  “Paris Paris Paris,” Marie said to Caitlin.

  She would have liked the city much more if everybody spoke English. Marie took Caitlin’s hand and they began their walk away from the Eiffel Tower. She would not look back. At the first food stand they passed, she bought a ham and egg baguette sandwich.

  They sat on a bench in front of a bed of flowers. The city was impressively landscaped, if nothing else. Marie was stunned by the shock of nostalgia, biting into the crunchy bread: the taste of the ham, the thick slice of hardboiled egg, the tomato and mayonnaise. It made her remember a more innocent time, in Ellen’s kitchen, when Benoît Doniel had made her this very sandwich. It tasted better in Paris, but something was missing. The delight. The wonder. The pleasure of sitting at the table, watching Benoît slice the bread, wash tomatoes in the sink. The sandwich had cost Marie nine euros. Ellen would come home and sit at the round wooden table in her lovely kitchen, and she would be all alone.

  Marie took another bite. It was simple and delicious. Marie did not believe in regret. It could take Benoît Doniel half an hour to make Marie one of these. He had been slow and distracted in the kitchen. Once she got started, Marie could create a never-ending list of faults.

  “I don’t believe in regret,” she told Caitlin.

  Their conversations had become one-sided.

  It was time to move. Make some progress. But Caitlin was a slow, indifferent walker, easily distracted. Marie recognized the hired help, the black women pushing white babies in expensive strollers, the same phenomenon in Paris as in New York, and Marie followed them. The nannies led her to a children’s playground, almost an amusement park really, though no entry fee was required. The place was mobbed with children.

  “Horses,” Caitlin said.

  There were horses. The nannies had led Marie to a carousel, a beautiful old-fashioned carousel, playing music, filled with French children riding all sorts of painted horses. As the carousel went around, these children stood up on their horses, reaching for brass rings that hung from above.

  “Do you want to ride it?” Marie asked.

  Marie wanted to ride the carousel. She didn’t ever remember riding one. Ever. How was that possible? One more thing her mother had denied her. Marie picked up Caitlin once again and walked to what was obviously a ticket counter.

  The teenage girl with the purple hair and nose ring looked at her, and Marie realized she did not know how to buy carousel tickets. She was in France. Where they spoke French. “I’d like two tickets,” she said.

  The girl said something. In French.

  “Two tickets.”

  Marie pointed at herself and Caitlin. She put a five-euro bill on the counter. She faced off with the girl, who took the bill, twirled it in her finger, nodded, and gave Marie two tickets and several smaller coins in return.

  “Gracias,” Marie said.

  She remembered the right word a beat too late. Merci. French in France. Spanish in Mexico.

  There was another line to ride the carousel. Marie juggled Caitlin in her arms.

  “I’ve got to put you down,” she said.

  “Up,” Caitlin said.

  She was tired, reverting to one-word sentences. They had not been out for that long, had not even lasted an hour waiting for the Eiffel Tower, but Caitlin had stopped trying. It was all on Marie. Every single thing. It wasn’t fair. She put Caitlin down. Her arms were tired. Caitlin was not a baby.

  “Up.”

  Caitlin started to cry, her face turning red, her wail progressively louder. The black women who led Marie to the park turned to look at her, their faces knowing. Their children were not having tantrums. Caitlin had only had one other significant tantrum of record: when Marie and Benoît first began their flirtation.

  Marie picked Caitlin back up.

  “Let’s just watch for a while,” Marie said. “Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay. We can ride it later. That will be all right. Come, come. Shh. Please. Please be quiet.”

  Marie got out of the line, looking for a place to sit down, but all the benches close to the carousel were full.

  “Damn,” Marie said.

  “Damn,” Caitlin repeated.

  It was idiotic to be mad at a tired two-and-a-half-year-old girl. Marie would not be angry. She wondered if they could sit on the grass, find a good spot where Caitlin could calm down, maybe take a nap. But there were so many people. Marie could not risk Caitlin being trampled. She would have trouble explaining that to Ellen. Marie watched as an old woman stopped not far from them and lifted a little boy from a stroller. Marie eyed the stroller with longing.

  “You are so heavy,” Marie said to Caitlin. “Caty Cat. I am going to put you down and we’ll walk a little. Just a little.”

  “No.”

  “No,” Marie repeated.

  Caitlin pulled on a strand of Marie’s hair.

  “Stop that,” Marie said.

  Caitlin let go of Marie’s hair. Instead, she started to twist the strap of Marie’s tank top around her finger. Marie’s favorite person in the entire world was getting on her nerves. She put Caitlin down again, and Caitlin started to scream. Marie thought of Ludivine, and then she remembered that Ludivine was dead, and Marie picked Caitlin back up.

  “You are tired, aren’t you?”

  “I want home,” Caitlin said.

  Marie returned her gaze to the now empty stroller. The old woman was probably the boy’s grandmother, not a nanny. She pushed the stroller beneath a tree directly next to where Caitlin and Marie stood, and then went to the end of the long carousel line. Marie watched as the carousel stopped, and a stream of children got off. The conductor helped the old woman with the steps. Marie watched as the little French boy picked out a horse.

  “There we go,” Marie said. “A stroller, Caitlin. Just for us. Do you want me to push you for a while? That would be better, wouldn’t it?”

  Caitlin nodded. She accepted this offer as if she were doing a favor for Marie; for the first time, she reminded Marie of Ellen.

  The music on the carousel started. The grandmother sat on the horse, holding the little boy in her lap. Marie and Caitlin examined the stroller.

  “This looks nice,” Marie said. “Like yours.”

  “It’s red,” Caitlin said.

  “Your stroller is red, too,” Marie said. “Why don’t you get in?”

  Marie lowered Caitlin and fastened the straps, snapping the buckles, which were not much different from an American stroller. Marie found a baby bag beneath the seat, packed with a clean diaper, a package of butter cookies, a plastic bag filled with miniature French cheeses wrapped in tin foil, and a sippy cup. There was also a blue-and-white-striped sweater that Caitlin would need soon, when it
got dark.

  “Here,” Marie said, and brought the sippy cup around front. Caitlin took it and started to drink.

  “Is that good?” Marie asked.

  Caitlin didn’t answer. She drank whatever was inside. The carousel began turning. The grandmother and child were out of sight, on the other side. Marie started to walk, not too fast, she hoped, but not exactly slowly, either.

  It was official. Marie was an indisputable criminal: She’d graduated from the world of petty theft, risen beyond the rank of accessory. Marie imagined the old woman’s shock, coming off the ride to discover her stroller gone. It seemed worse, somehow, than taking an actual child. Caitlin and Marie, they belonged together.

  Marie had never seen a Marx Brothers film.

  They went to see Duck Soup in a small movie theater on a side street off the Champs-Élysées, not far from the carousel. The theater was in the basement, dingy, small, empty. Marie drank a beer that she bought inside the theater. The word for beer was almost the same in French. Marie ate the delicious butter cookies she had found in the stroller, and leaned back in her seat, drinking and laughing, while Caitlin napped.

  Marie drank a second beer, and then a third.

  When they wandered out of the movie theater, it was dark. Marie blinked, thoroughly disoriented. She did not recognize the street they were on, or know where to go next. She knew they were in Paris. The subtitles had been in French.

  “I am hungry,” Caitlin said, cranky.

  Marie was also cranky. She was hungry, too. She wanted to return to Ellen’s brownstone, to open the stainless-steel refrigerator and find the perfect thing to eat. On nights when she was this tired, Marie would microwave a bowl of already cooked macaroni and cheese, add extra milk and stir.

  “What do you want?” Marie asked Caitlin. “Tell me.”

  Marie’s expectations were low. Caitlin’s disorientation in Paris was worse than her own. Marie felt a surge of love when Caitlin provided the obvious answer, McDonald’s.