Is this the same kid who just now was laughing at herself in the mirror? Pauvre gamine. Tough; sassy; vulnerable; scared. “I thought the tub might be overflowing. That’s why I jumped up. I’m drawing a bath for you.”
“I don’t want any goddamned bath!”
“It will warm you up.”
“I’m not even sure I want to stay here.”
“Then finish your coffee and go.”
“I don’t even want your fucking coffee!” She stares at him, her narrow chin jutting out in defiance. Nobody bosses her around.
He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. “Go on. Take your bath,” he says quietly.
In fact, the thought of a deep hot bath… All right. She would take a bath. To spite him.
Steam billows out when she opens the bathroom door. The water is so hot that she has to get in bit by bit, dipping her butt tentatively before daring to lower herself down. Her arms seem to float in the water above her small breasts. The heat makes her sleepy.
When she comes back into the living room, dressed only in his robe, he is sitting in the armchair, his chin down and his eyes closed. Heat from the gas burner has built up in the room, and she feels heavy and very drowsy. Might as well get it over with and get some sleep.
“Are you ready?” she asks. “If you’re not, I can help you.” She lets the front of the robe hang open. That ought to get him started.
He blinks away the deep daydream about his daughters and the Laval house, and turns his head to look at her. She’s so thin that there are hollows in her pelvis. The black tangle of hair at the écu has a wiry look. One knee is slightly bent to keep the weight on both feet. The breasts are so small that there is a flat of chestbone between them.
“Cover yourself up,” he says. “You’ll catch cold.”
“Now just a minute,” she says warily. “I told you in the park that I don’t do anything special—”
“I know!”
She takes his anger as proof that he had hoped for some kind of old man’s perversion.
He stands up. “Look, I’m tired. I’m going to bed. You sleep here.” While she was in the bath, he had made up the sofa, taking one of the pillows from his bed and pulling down two Hudson Bay blankets from the shelf in the closet. They smelled a little of dust, but there is nothing as warm as a Hudson Bay. There is no sheet. He owns only four, and he hasn’t picked up his laundry yet this week. He thought of giving her his, but they are not clean. Nothing in the apartment is prepared for visitors. Since Lucille’s death, there have never been any.
She slowly closes the robe. So he really hadn’t meant for them to sleep together at all. Maybe it’s the leg. Maybe he doesn’t like the thought of screwing a cripple. She’s met others like that. Well, to hell with him. She doesn’t care.
While he is rinsing out the cup and emptying the coffee-maker in the kitchen, she makes herself comfortable on the sofa and pulls the heavy blankets over her. Only when the delicious weight is pressing on her does she realize how tired she is. It almost hurts her bones to relax.
On his way to the bedroom, he turns off the gas. “You don’t need it while you’re sleeping. It’s bad for the lungs.”
Who the hell does he think he is? Her father?
When he turns off the overhead light, the windows that seemed black become gray with the first damp light of dawn. He pauses at the bedroom door. “What’s your name, by the way?”
Sleepiness already rising in the dry wick of her fatigue, she mutters, “Marie-Louise.”
“Well… good night then, Marie-Louise.”
She hums, half annoyed by the fact that he keeps talking. It doesn’t occur to her to ask his name.
4
Even before he opens his eyes, he knows it is late. Something in the quality of the sounds out in the street is wrong for getting-up time. He sits on the edge of his bed and groggily reaches for his bathrobe. It is not there. Only then does he remember the girl sleeping in his robe out in the living room.
He tiptoes through on his way to the kitchen, fully dressed, although he usually takes his coffee before dressing. He doesn’t want her to see him padding around in his underwear.
She lies on her side, curled up, the blankets so high that only her mop of frizzed hair is visible. From the line of her body beneath the blankets, he can tell that her hands are between her legs, the palms touching the sides of her thighs. He remembers sleeping like that when he was a kid.
His cup is on the drainboard, where it always is, but he has to rummage about in the cupboard to find another. He puts too little water in the kettle, underestimating the amount needed for two cups, but he decides not to boil more because the coffee already made will get cold. Pouring from one cup to another to make equal shares doesn’t work out well, and he loses about a quarter of a cup. He grumbles “Merde” with each accident or miscalculation. It’s really a nuisance having someone living with you. Staying with you, that is.
Because the cups are only half full, he has no difficulty balancing them as he carries them into the living room.
She is still asleep as he places the cups carefully on the table by the window. The worn springs of his chair clack; he grimaces and settles down more slowly. Maybe he shouldn’t wake her; she is sleeping so peacefully. But what’s the point of making coffee for two if you don’t give it to her? But, no. It’s best to let the poor kid sleep.
“Coffee?” he asks, his voice husky.
She doesn’t move.
All right. Let her sleep, then.
“Coffee?” he asks louder.
She half hums, half groans, and her head turns under the blankets.
Poor kid’s worn out. Let her sleep.
“Marie-Louise?”
A hand slips out and tugs the blanket from her cheek. Her eyelids flutter, then open. She blinks twice and frowns as she tries to remember the room. How did she get here?
“Your coffee will get cold,” he explains.
She looks at him Wearily, not recognizing him at first. “What?” she asks, her voice squeaky. “Oh… you.” She presses her eyes shut before opening them again. The puffiness of her black eye has gone down, and the purplish stain has faded toward green.
“Your coffee’s ready. But if you’d rather sleep, go ahead.”
“What?”
“I said… you can go back to sleep, if you want.”
She frowns dazedly. She can’t believe he woke her up to tell her that. She puts her hand over her eyes to shade them from the cold light as she recollects, then turns and looks at him, wondering what he is up to. He didn’t want it last night, so he’s probably after a little now.
But he’s just sitting there, sipping his coffee.
When she sits up, she notices that her robe is open to the nipples; she tugs it back around her. She accepts the cup he hands her and looks into it bleakly. “Do you have any milk?”
“No. Sorry.”
She sips the thick dark brew. “How about sugar?”
“No. I don’t keep sugar in the house. I don’t use it, and it attracts ants.”
She shrugs and drinks it anyway. At least it’s hot.
They don’t talk, and instead of looking at one another, they both look out the window at the park across the street. A woman is pushing a pram along the path while a spoiled child dangles from her free hand, twisting and whining. She gives it a good shake and a splat on the bottom that seems to improve its humor.
Marie-Louise can see the bench where he found her. It’s going to be cold and damp again today, and she won’t be able to make a score until dark, if then. Maybe he would let her stay. No, probably not. He’d be afraid she might steal something. Still, it’s worth a try.
“You feel better this morning?” she asks.
“Better?”
“If you don’t have to rush off, we could…” Palm up, her hand saws the air between them horizontally in an eloquent Joual gesture.