Paula Bomer - Inside Madeleine

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.

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.