Inside Madeleine (19 page)

The longer she lived with him the less recognizable he became. His face, his body, what would come out of his mouth. What was going on in his head. The expressions on his face. He grew out of focus, strange and foreign.

Their apartment never had been cleaner. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, a mislaid sock anywhere. The fridge smelled like a fresh box of baking soda and the chrome in the bathroom gleamed. She tried every recipe in every cookbook. Sometimes she went through them alphabetically. Pork Chops Almondine, Pork Chops Barbecue, Pork Chops Catherine. The freezer was full of homemade frozen dinners in Tupperware and various other food stuffs wrapped in aluminum foil. She cooked and cooked and cleaned and
cleaned until her fingers were pink and raw from water and soap and rubbing up against things. But she stopped being hungry altogether.

It wasn’t like the time when she first started dieting when she was a kid and was forced to do it. Then it was hard and she missed eating so much. This time, it was just the opposite. Hunger left her first.

She didn’t want to eat and not eating gave her pleasure and made her feel stronger. The less she ate the less she wanted to eat. She felt blessed. She felt special.

Air tasted different and smells became stronger and everything became more textured. Sometimes the smell of a hamburger that she was cooking for Mark was so strong and sweet that she almost cried, so overcome by its power. A fresh washed blanket against her face felt like a cloud from heaven and smelled as sweet as talc. She felt thankful to be alive.

Her legs grew longer, or so it seemed. Her stomach became flat and the lines on her skin, the wrinkles she’d always had from losing weight when she was younger, became stronger and more defined. Dark, jagged lines running across her body, the flesh hanging loosely around them. She traced them over and over again. They comforted her.

For the most part she stopped sleeping more than a few hours a night. She’d lie next to him, like she always had, but now she tried to recognize him, tried to remember who he was to her.

And as she stared at his back in the dark, bent toward her
in their bed, memories did come. But she didn’t trust them. The images were vague and as she tried to bring them into focus in her mind, she would get startled and think—is that his face I’m imagining leaning to kiss me and then she would wonder, but is that his nose? Are those his lips? And indeed they weren’t because she would slip around the bed and stare at his face, breathing deeply and no, his nose was different. His lips, stretched out in sleep, were rubbery and non-distinct. So she had imagined, remembered, the wrong nose and the wrong cheekbones. The face she crouched in front of in their bedroom was longer and thinner, the bones high and narrow. In her mind he had a rounder face, a pink hue, a broadness to his cheeks.

So she would press her face against him and smell him like she had, like she remembered doing and often what came back to her was too strong to bear and she would pull back, her nostrils burning.

Her memories lied to her. She became convinced she had conjured visions for her own needs of comfort. She didn’t know a bone in his body and her own were shifting slowly, steadily.

She stared at the sink and she stared at the dishtowels and she watched the television and occasionally they looked at each other and occasionally there would be a sign of comfort, a signal of recognition and caring, but more often they ignored each other.

And that smell. The staleness. It became so strong she could
barely stay in the house. If she wasn’t busy cooking or cleaning she sat in front of an open window and stuck her face out to breathe the fresh air. She was terrified and the only thing that subdued her fear while she was in that apartment was her ability to not eat.

She began working extra waitressing shifts to get out of the house. She worked brunches and doubles during the week when she could. Adding checks and taking orders and filling ketchups with a newfound organization and efficiency. Her boss loved her. She always filled all the salt and pepper shakers and wiped down all the menus. The other waitresses loved her. They could always count on her to cover a shift, even if they called at the last minute because they were hungover and didn’t want to work. She’d rush off to work, her uniform spotless and ironed. She washed it lovingly in the sink every night, carefully rubbing out stains and hung it on her bedroom door, ready to be pressed and worn first thing in the morning.

She accumulated tons of cash. She wrapped a rubber band around each stack of five hundred dollars and put them in long, white envelopes that she sealed and hid in her underwear drawer—which she then locked. She saved thousands of dollars in a matter of months.

Her plans for the money changed. She thought of moving to California or New York. She thought of buying a gun or a car or a house. She knew whatever she spent it on, it would just be on her, not Mark. And she wasn’t saving for a baby. Sometimes he’d ask, what are you doing working all the time? He’d ask,
what are you doing with all that money? Once he even said sweetly, let’s go on a vacation, on our honeymoon baby, we both have the money to do it. She ignored him.

And then the fights began.

Mark came home from work and put his bag down and kicked off his shoes. He walked into the living room and Maddy was sitting on the couch with her arms folded over her chest. He knew she was angry. She almost always was.

I’m not doing those dishes, she said.

Fine, I’ll do them, he said, his voice remaining calm, despite the anxiety mounting in his head.

She stood up and said, why didn’t you do them a week ago? Why’d you have to let them sit there for a week and stink up our kitchen and let the food get hard on them so that now when you do do them the shit will be impossible to get off? Huh? You were waiting for me to do them, right?

You are on the rag, he said and walked into the bedroom and threw himself down on the bed. He couldn’t take it. Her constant bitching. Maddy followed him and stood at the end of the bed, looking down at him.

Fuck you. You’re an unappreciative pig and I’m sick of wiping up after you. Grow the fuck up.

Get out of my face.

You should apologize to me and ask me how you can help me. You should ask me what you can do around here.

You’re being a bitch, Maddy, do you know that?

I’m pissed.

Calm down.

You fucking calm down. You don’t do shit in this house. I do everything.

He said, I’ve asked you before what can I do around here and you always say, oh nothing sweetie. And now for whatever reason you want to yell at me. So fucking yell at me.

He got up and tried to walk out of the room but she stood in the doorway, blocking him. The skin on her face drooped strangely. He said, I’m going out until you calm down.

She said, you’re not leaving here until you do those goddamn dishes.

Get out of my way, he said and pushed her out of the way. She followed him into the kitchen and watched him put his shoes back on. Fuck you and your dishes, he said.

You’re not going anywhere, Mark, she seethed, standing in front of the door.

Get out of my way, Maddy, I’m serious.

What are you going to do, hit me?

Is that what you want? That’s probably what you want, you sick bitch. I’ll do it, Maddy. I’m not scared of you.

You touch me and I’ll beat the living shit out of you.

Mark grabbed her arms, saying, you’re not that tough
anymore, Maddy. Look at you. You’ve lost so much weight you can’t even lift a bag of groceries.

She shook free of him. It’s not that I can’t lift a bag of groceries, Mark, it’s that I won’t lift a bag of groceries. I’m sick of doing everything here.

Get out of my way, I’m leaving, he said and pushed her out of his way again. She stumbled and caught herself on the kitchen counter.

Where are you going?

None of your fucking business, he said as he walked out the door and down the stairs.

Mark, damn you. Mark, wait, come back. I’m sorry. Come back. I’m
sorry
, Mark. I’ll cook dinner.

If she didn’t yell at him about the dishes then she yelled at him about the floors. If she didn’t yell at him about that, she yelled at him for not paying attention to her, for never buying her flowers or chocolates or taking her out to dinner. He’d say, Maddy, you’d throw the chocolates out, you’d sniff them for a day and then throw them out. It’s the thought that counts, she’d say. If I took you out to dinner you’d order a salad and then not eat it. You’d move it around on your plate. Then take me out and let’s get drunk, she’d say. He’d say, you’d get drunk after two beers because you’re so goddamn skinny and then you’d start
yelling and crying at me. She’d say, what’s your excuse for not buying me flowers? He’d say, last time I bought you flowers, you threw them at me. I can’t remember why. But you were angry at me. Fuck you, Mark, she’d cry. You just don’t love me anymore. That’s not true, Maddy, he’d say. I love you like crazy, you’re being impossible.

Or if he tried cleaning—and their place was too clean, she was always cleaning—but if he tried to help out then she’d be behind him in a second, grabbing the sponge from his hand, saying, you’re not doing it right, you stupid fuck. So he’d try and do things when she was at work, which wasn’t difficult because she was always at work. It didn’t mattter. When she came home she’d clean the entire apartment, banging everything around, swearing under her breath and Mark would just leave the apartment. What was he supposed to do? He’d buy her a pair of lacy panties. And she’d thank him. But that was it. Nothing else. No wild fucking. No panting and grabbing. Not even a kiss. Thanks, Mark, and a brief, forced smile. Did she wear them ever? He would never find out. She changed in the bathroom or in the dark and walked around with a thick terrycloth robe pulled defensively over her body. I’m so tired from work, she’d say and pull the blankets over her. It felt useless, every effort made. Is this because of the abortion, he’d ask, again. No, Mark, things were weird before that. Don’t you think so? And he’d have to agree. She was right. But what should we do, how do we get over this, how do we get back to being crazy about each other? I don’t know, she’d mumble, annoyed. Just
don’t worry about it so much. Things will get better. Maybe it’s the stress of moving in together, she’d offer. We’ve been living together for almost a year, he’d say. Oh, Mark, drop it, I’m tired.

She pushed him away and then screamed at him for not being close. And then he just had to get away. So he went over to Nathan’s house more and more. Sometimes he’d go there straight after work.

Nathan lived in a seedy neighborhood a few blocks from downtown. His apartment was on the ground floor, and there were big windows facing the street so Mark could drive by and see if the lights were on, see if Nathan was home. Which he almost always was. He sold pot out of his apartment and he did this mostly at night. He was in his thirties, had long, stringy hair and a goatee and there was something very greasy about him. He didn’t wash often. He had no girlfriend or wife. He constantly made fun of Mark for being married. Nathan frequented whores and watched pornography nonstop. He had a library of movies and stacks and stacks of magazines. Stoned, drinking cheap beer out of a can, they’d sit around with some of his other friends and watch pornos. He had gang bangs. He had girls getting fucking by Great Danes. He had it all. All the new glossy ones and all the twisted underground and amateur ones.

Mark drove over and saw Nathan’s lights on. He saw Larry’s car parked out front. He went in, carrying a six pack, and sat down with the two of them. They passed around a bong. Mark bought a bag of weed from him. They smoked some more.

Your little woman drive you out of the house again? Nathan asked.

It’s like she’s on the rag all month long.

I’m telling you, you should get the fuck out of there. Fuck living with women. Just have them over to suck your dick once in a while, he said, coughing out a big bong hit. He said, whores are where it’s at. There’s a reason why it’s the oldest profession.

I married a whore. I don’t have to pay for one. But she’s changed. She’s not as fun as she used to be.

Larry said, that’s cause once you marry her, she can’t be your whore anymore. Now she’s your wife. That shit’s different.

Mark said, she’s still a whore. She’ll always be one. That’s why I love her.

Larry said, man, I can’t understand how you can call your wife a whore. That’s fucked up. No wonder you have problems.

You guys don’t get it, Mark said. They all looked quietly at the TV. A woman was getting fucked by three guys. One in her mouth, one in her ass, and one in her pussy.

Your wife do that shit? Nathan laughed, pointing to the TV.

My wife does anything.

Larry said, see you can’t talk about your wife that way. He shook his head.

What rule book is that from? Mark asked sarcastically.

No really, it’s common knowledge, Larry said. You can’t think of your wife that way. You got to have respect.

We’re special, Mark said, cracking open another beer, settling in for a long evening at Nathan’s. We’re not a boring,
old fart couple. Ours is special. We’re just having some problems.

But he went over to Nathan’s more and more. Sometimes Nathan would have a whore or two there. And he’d always ask Mark if he wanted to. Big women, little women. Hispanic, white, black. No, thanks, Mark would say. Even though he wasn’t getting any at home. But he just wanted Maddy, or so he thought. He was heartbroken.

He came in and saw his wife standing at the sink in the kitchen, her back toward him. And as if seeing her for the first time in weeks, he noticed that her shoulder blades protruded almost grotesquely. Of course, he just saw her this morning and the morning before and the morning before and on and on and he wondered why he did not notice her shoulders until this moment.

The door closed behind him and she did not turn around to say hello. He remembered a time when she would run from whatever it was that she was doing and kiss him wetly. Squeal for joy. Say, I missed you, Mark, and bury her face in his neck. Stick her hand down his pants and get on her knees. Of course, those emotions never last. But aren’t they supposed to be taken over by a deeper, more mature kind of love? Where was that?