Birds in a Cage, page 9
No Maman. Again. Marcy felt a pang of resentment she hated herself for. What, you expect her to sob by the bedside of her sluggish, middle-aged daughter every night?
As she sat on the couch and huddled her robe close, she shuddered so much the cushion shook beneath her. Yet, she didn’t cry; five years ago, Papa’s death shocked more parts of her than one. She didn’t cry, nor did she menstruate, and she wondered what part of her would shut down next. Her lungs, her heart?
A rumbling came from outside, and she flashed back to when she was thirteen. It was the night before she broke down and told Maman she needed to be with Jehanne because she couldn’t handle the tension at home. She’d had her cheek on the door, knees trembling, arms locked in terror at the unnatural sounds outside. The most striking image then had been Maman in her robe with a shotgun ready to fire.
Now, twisting swiftly and considering whether to go up to Maman’s chest and retrieve the shotgun (God, I can’t shoot anyone I can’t), her heart quickened.
Her blood only slowed, and the bile sank, when she saw André emerge alone from the auto. The calm didn’t last because, though André was by no means a stranger or a Nazi, she flitted back to their last encounter. Worse, she had no time to look a little less like an unbarred disaster.
When she swung the door open for him before his knuckles could reach the wood, he, in his crisp shirt and trousers, looked at her with momentary confusion, and she asked, “What do you want?”
His brow rose. “Salut, cousin, missed you too.”
“Mmn.”
He shuffled and leaned more into his cane. “May I come in?”
“I suppose, don’t expect any hot tea.” Marcy stepped away to allow him in.
“How are you faring?”
Marcy sighed and rubbed her nose. “How do I look?”
She wasn’t prepared for the soft darkening below his eyes. “How have you been sleeping?” They sat on the couch, knees touching. Marcy spread her legs and leaned forward, so her arms dangled without support. The golden sunlight fed the pain in her head.
“I sleep quite a lot.”
“Does it take a great deal out of you?”
“Yes.” How odd to think sleeping made her more exhausted, as if eating would make her hungrier. “I’ve been having these strange dreams where a woman comes to me while I’m in bed. A beautiful demon.” She almost decided to hold back the last part, but if anyone would know what she meant, it was her cousin. If nothing else, this would lessen the strain against her ribs, the nightmare settling there.
André inhaled sharply through his nose. “Does anything happen when she’s in bed with you?”
“‘Happen’?” Marcy examined the peeling wallpaper. It was, indeed, peeling. “She fondles me and takes me to her breast.” This was far from the ideal morning talk, but she couldn’t keep this to herself, as humiliating as it was. He was the only person who would listen and empathize.
“Is it . . .”
Marcy blushed. “It’s terrible. I want to run, but I can’t move.”
“Please know you never have to answer this. You can pretend I never said anything.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Were you ever raped?”
A long silence settled between them. After what they endured together, after what André suffered before she found him, she should’ve seen it coming; and her dreams—they were uncomfortable and violating, but could she really claim trauma if they were only in her head? What happened to André had been real and hurt him.
“No. Why?” She scrunched her face, a hot, splintered kernel of dread needling behind her eyes. “Do you have dreams like mine? About . . . the pit?”
“Every once in awhile. Sometimes they’re violent. Other times, they’re almost . . . gentle, quiet. I can never decide which ones are worse.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” She wished she could help.
“Does the woman say anything?”
“She talks about love.” Marcy asked, “Does . . . he? In your dreams?”
“He tells me he’s just playing.” He scoffed, boring magma into the vanilla rug beneath them.
“God.” It occurred to her the night visitor could be Rais again, playing a trick. Yet, Marcy already knew his true nature, so why hide it in other illusions and shadows?
“Those aren’t the only dreams I have though,” André said. “Do you have any dreams about Oncle?”
She swallowed thickly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He released a long sigh. “You’re just like Tante, but then again, so am I. What a sad lot we are.”
“What do you mean?”
“We avoid. We leave, like I did, like Tante has.”
“She’ll come back; she’s just visiting Henri and Marguerite. They lost a great deal too.”
“And how much do you want to bet they never discuss it, don’t even mention anyone by name? We never learn. We don’t confess what should be talked about the most, what hurts most when it’s kept inside.” That was insightful, especially coming from André.
“It’s my right not to speak about whatever I wish.”
He clasped her shoulder, and when she flinched, he let go. “It’s not your fault, you know, the dreams.”
“I know, but it’s nothing compared to yours.” She felt guilty to have provoked his own remembrances with something so rooted in fantasy. Silly, in fact; at heart, she was still an imaginative girl.
He scowled. “Don’t say that.”
Her jaw tensed. “There are worse things happening now.”
“Doesn’t mean your problems don’t matter. You’ve heard of the murders, haven’t you? Maybe that’s why you’re dreaming such things.” He didn’t sound convinced.
He thinks I’m lying.
Marcy refused to meet his eyes. “A snippet or two on the radio, yes, but are they really murders? Couldn’t they just be suicides?” She feigned ignorance, hoping André would reveal something she didn’t know, especially concerning the carved symbol.
“The women had images carved into their palms after their deaths.”
“How do you know that? What were the images? How do you know those were posthumous? Did you see the bodies? Have you been talking to the police?”
“Did you think Oncle was a bad man?”
She blinked. “That didn’t answer any of those questions.”
“I was just thinking of the murders, the true evil, and then about what you said about him.”
“That’s what we argued about before he died, yes, but I really don’t want—”
“To talk about it?”
Marcy huffed. “Whatever I thought means nothing now.”
The look he gave her, along with the tilt of his head, reminded her of Maman, a comparison she knew neither her mother nor her cousin would appreciate. “It means everything.”
“Why? Because you want to be him?”
“He was never given a chance to succeed at anything else.”
“And you were, weren’t you? You could’ve worked with machines and never hurt anyone.”
His hand flexed on the top of his cane. “The bourreaux save lives.”
“By killing? Does one put out a fire by fanning it?”
“No, but you can end whatever keeps fueling it.”
“Like what, a forest? Would you remove a forest to stop some creeping fire?” Marcy turned a little and rubbed her burning face. They were really snuffing out this metaphor. “I don’t want to talk about this. It’s my right. Let it go. Must every conversation come to this? Can’t we live in the same space without a heated conversation?”
“But—”
At that moment, Georgina walked out of Marcy’s room with the puppy under her arm. Her hair was mussed, the dress she wore yesterday rumpled, and her face presented a practiced glower. She hurried away, her bare feet hurriedly slapping the kitchen floor, the back door slamming shortly after her departure.
“She—that’s your . . .” André fumbled for words and stood. He paced, his cane tapping the floor like a furious metronome. “You two share a bed.”
“Only last ni—”
“Dear God.” He fully faced her. “You love my wife!” Marcy couldn’t tell if he was appalled, but he might as well have been.
“What?” She stood, hands clammy and useless by her sides. “Don’t be childish.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Is it any matter of yours?” Even if I do, she still loves you, you halfwit.
“You’re in love with my wife.”
“She’s not your wife anymore.” He had slept with another woman while he had lived with Georgina for over a decade, and he had the gall to confront her? Marcy wished she could be in disbelief, but this was André.
“I remember how you kissed that girl during the fire.”
Marcy snapped, “Thank you for kindly reminding me. What would I do without you?” She exhaled, burying her nails into her palms. “And her name was Jehanne!”
“How long has this been happening?”
“It hasn’t happened, and if it did, again, it’d be our business, not yours. We’re good friends.”
His eyes became slits. “Are you quite sure about that?”
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but yes, quite sure. If you care so deeply, God, do you know what you did to her? Have you ever thought about how you hurt her?”
Voice thick with remorse, he said, “Many times.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have let her find you with Berthe. Maybe you shouldn’t have even considered being with another woman.”
“I was drunk.”
She stepped forward. “That’s it?” Marcy’s nails bit into her palm. “And then Berthe fell on your lap and your petite bitte miraculously slipped in? I know how it goes. Is drunkenness your excuse?”
For a moment, André’s eyes were wild, and Marcy stepped back. He huffed and narrowed his eyes, but they carried the same intensity. “You, of all people, resorting to that. All you women drive me crazy, but you, you. You saw me chained there, covered in piss and dirt.”
“Why do you always resort to mentioning that when we disagree with you? Can’t you see we try to be sympathetic?”
He said caustically, “Thank you, cousin. We’re both useful at helping each other.”
Even when she threw her hands up, Marcy’s fury cooled to remorse, which turned the knobs of her wrists to marble, made her slump from the weight. “God, I—I don’t want to argue anymore.” She shouldn’t have insulted André like that, no matter what a prat he was being.
André muttered, eyes on the stucco above, “I can see why Oncle’s heart gave out.”
Marcy’s breath stilled. “What did you say?”
His eyes widened. “I didn’t mean . . .”
Nothing in her voice, Marcy shoved past him and said, “I hate you, and I do mean that.”
As she stormed away, he followed her, making the dramatic exit less effective. “Mar—”
She slammed the bedroom door in his face, hoping the thud she heard was the wood colliding with his nose and, remembering her own acerbic words, loathing herself. She squeezed her fists till her palms threatened to bleed. Oscar and Charlotte tilted their heads quizzically.
Papa died because of me. She cupped her face in her hands. André’s right. I killed his heart. He gave his heart to me, and I ended it. Her breaths grew loud, ragged. She needed to focus; she couldn’t save anyone like this.
God, she could barely face those she loved without hurting them.
She seized, legs giving out from under her and splaying like broken gargoyle wings on the floor. Unable to control the roiling energy inside, she hit her head on the floor once. Then, dissatisfied, she did it again. Her sobs were dry, and her vision faded.
But not long enough, A knock on her door. Gentle but insistent, at first.
When Marcy lifted her aching head and sat, the world dying away into a whirling gray, the goat-woman was there. Her hand skirted up Marcy’s crossed leg and traced circles into her thigh. The other hand offered a nail file.
“Take it.”
They were already tangled as one, and Marcy’s mouth shamefully watered at the thought of being closer, of entwining their lives like they dovetailed their limbs. A hot, acrid wetness surged up Marcy’s throat and out her mouth. No, she needed to keep quiet so she didn’t bother anyone, didn’t cause alarm.
A shout, a harsh thud as if someone was trying to break the door down.
After vomiting what little food she ate last night, she fell over, and she was back to pacing outside of Calla’s white hedonist palace. Same hair, same dress, same indecision. Arms crossed, she huffed between the violets and muttered possible ways to initiate a conversation without making herself vulnerable. She’d survived worse. What was a woman or two compared to death itself?
Marcy couldn’t believe she let Liz embrace her when last she came here. Somehow, that was more intimate, more discomforting than being above her when she was half-undressed.
Evening out her breathing and straightening her dress, Marcy squared her shoulders and strode inside. She could do this. This would be fine.
“Are you Marcy?” Marcy jumped and found herself stared down by a woman in a long slip. The woman’s hair was undone and an ashen blonde, her eyes a watery gray. The vanilla fabric of her slip had a purple wine stain on the low collar.
“Yes, I think so? How do you—?”
“Red hair, antiquated dress.”
“Pardon—”
“I’ll tell Calla you’re here.”
“Great,” Marcy lied, forcing herself to keep her arms by her sides instead of blanketing them across her. The other woman nodded, disaffected, and walked away, so Marcy could eye her back and—oh, dear. The other side of her long slip, tied at the small of her back, was open in such a way that it acted as a parted curtain; her bum was visible to God and all of Creation. Marcy steeled herself and went to the closest staircase, the ribbed ascent of red.
She went to the door where she last accompanied Liz and Calla, the painting room, and sure enough, it was almost untouched, the marked canvas in its same place—
—and Liz was lounging in the loveseat with her legs crossed. She donned that same scarlet robe, her eyes dark and ghosted over in thought.
Marcy stepped forward and Liz asked, “Do you care to sit?” No greeting, no surprise that Marcy had returned.
Rethinking her steps, Marcy retreated to the doorway and resisted the urge to lean on the frame. “I’ll stand, thanks.”
Liz sighed, but said nothing, looking woefully Byronic. All she needed was a glass of absinthe to complete the tormented look.
Marcy wouldn’t be moved to pity, not yet. “How did you say you learned about the manor, again?”
Liz didn’t speak at first, didn’t even really seem to see Marcy, only rubbed her knuckles along her jaw. Marcy’s temple grew clammy, but before she could add anything, Liz said in the thickening quiet, “I read about it in a newspaper.”
A corner of Marcy’s mouth rose. She was starting to understand Maman’s contempt for reporters. “Ah, delightful. Truly delightful. Did you and Calla scout me out?”
“It’s a happy coincidence.”
Marcy didn’t care if “happy” was ironic. She said, hand on the frame, “What happened wasn’t happy.”
Liz rolled her shoulders and clasped her hands between her knees. “I apologize.”
Marcy couldn’t help but lean back. “For which thing, what you just said, or not telling me you already knew who I was?”
Liz looked lost. “Whatever thing I should be sorry for.” Marcy considered that Liz, once a cold, domineering presence, was as clueless about emotions as she was. “Your friend, the one you loved and lost in the fire . . .”
Attempting to deflect, Marcy said, “No need to clarify. I’ve only ever had one friend.”
“Does her name cause you pain?” Liz spoke as if reading a set of instructions in a language she couldn’t speak. “Because the topic, understandably, is unkind.”
Marcy sighed and lowered her arm. “No, I’m not in pain. She’s always with me.”
“Aren’t they always? The more you love, the more you mourn.” Apparently realizing herself, Liz cleared her throat and asked, “Jeanine was her name? Or was it—”
“Jehanne, and I don’t know if it’s so much as her name that bothers me.” Marcy frowned, stepping forward. “I said I wasn’t in pain, but—it’s that I didn’t save her, but I could’ve.” Her heart pattered against her ribs.
Liz’s gaze softened. “You were only a child. There’s no shame in that.”
Marcy took another step toward the couch. “I could’ve reached for her, pulled her against me instead of acting like a scared, lovesick fool.”
“You were stuck in . . . that place. Surely, that’s an excuse, and did you really know what she planned to do?”
“I should’ve.”
The shadows under Liz’s brows grew. “That’s what we always say, isn’t it? We should’ve known, so we could’ve prevented tragedy.” Shaking her head, she cleared her throat. “Like I said before, I never intended to make you feel—”
“Uncomfortable?” Marcy’s brow furrowed. “When we met, you circled me like a lion. How do you think that made me feel? What were your ‘intentions’ then?”
“Originally, I only wanted to sleep with you.” At least she was honest. “But I—what would you like me to say to make you feel better? Would you like me to say something about myself to make everything more equal between us?”
“You don’t need to say anything just because you think it’ll make me stay.”
“I don’t intend this sentimentally. You mentioned not going out, and I understand. I rarely went out as a child because of my epilepsy. But it wasn’t called that. It’s the disease with a thousand names, but so few remedies. It was a touch from Christ or the Devil. I was asked if I ever had any prophetic visions, and I was given valerian in my tea to cope, but it did nothing. To compensate for my powerlessness, I was a rather haughty child.”
Marcy, knowing she’d regret it, crossed the distance and sat by Liz, who was preoccupied with staring at her palm lines. “No, not you.” The air between them, for what it was, didn’t sting quite so much, and any tightness in Marcy’s belly didn’t come from distrust.
