Maggie

Words by Katie Lynn Johnston

Art by Sandra Eckert

And in the museum Marguerite beheld, she thought, the most beautiful thing to have ever been created in the expanse of mankind’s existence on earth: heaven sent from a down-pouring of sublimity, gifted to us wrapped in gold and divinity in all her beautiful entirety from the gods—each and every one—with the tears and the sweat and the blood still dripping from their calloused hands. She was true artistry, the cusp of utter majesty, the definition of whole beauty embodied, sculpted, drawn, standing there across the room—and, frozen far away from her, Marguerite thought, never had a body felt so remarkably ordinary in such an arresting way as then; never had she seen someone so breathtaking, never had she felt, standing there, so stuck (utterly), so frozen (completely) with her feet melted upon the tiles, holding little Wilho’s little hand as that woman went floating by, spinning through sculptures and marble with feet that tiptoed quiet in big black boots. Never had a body ever seen, Marguerite thought, such a beautiful thing and felt such terror in one’s heart, such a seizure in one’s lungs, as though all air had suddenly gone.

She thought her vocabulary unapt to describe her: her midnight hair, her honey skin, the way her blue silk seemed to orbit around her center as though she were a falling star. But this was something her brother, Wilho, could not see. He tugged on her arm and grumbled something about his being bored, his being tired of paintings, of sculptures, of art—he would have spat the word. But, to Marguerite, he might as well have been reciting poetry as she simply nodded along, oblivious, transfixed. He stared up at her with disappointment quivering at his lip.

“Maggie,” he said quietly. “Maggie.” But she did not look down. He pulled on her arm again, creasing her red-satin sleeve. “Magg-ee-ee,” he whined, “Magg-ee-ee-ee!” But still, she seemed to tune him out, staring off toward the woman among the sculptures, that work of art there, hidden in those gray statues as thick as a forest before her. Marguerite felt as though she should run to her, sketch her—capture her beauty in some immortal form before it was faded, before she was gone. Her toes itched to move, but Wilho let out a sharp cry and tore her from her dream. She looked down at little Wilho a little sharply as if to tell him off, to tell him to keep quiet for a moment longer—just a moment more. She looked at him and away, but when she glanced back up in panic, realizing her fault with a sinking in her chest, the woman was gone.

Again, Wilho screamed.

Heat flared into Marguerite’s face. She glanced around at the other people in the exhibit—who, she felt, were staring back—and stooped down toward Wilho, gripping his hand tightly in hers. “Hush, you, hush,” she snapped coolly. “Stop that.” He quieted. “Come along now, and be quiet.” And she pulled him on toward the entrance of the museum, her maroon skirt rustling about her feet.

“Maggie. . .”

“Hush, Wilho, please.”

And, triumphantly, he clamped his mouth shut.

* * *

“Please, mama, let me go out ... just for a little while.”

Marguerite’s mother drank her coffee with her pinky lifted, white and light, and curled her lip as she brought the cup back to its saucer.

“Frenchmen—” she said, “They have no idea what they’re doing when it comes to coffee.”

“Mama, are you even listening to me?”

“Hmm? Oh, dear, of course, I’m listening to you!”

But Marguerite knew she had no intention of having a conversation unless it was about coffee. Her mother was no world-renowned connoisseur of fine, hot beverages, to be sure. She had never really enjoyed coffees or teas, truthfully. With a glass of wine was how she most enjoyed to spend her time, reading in the garden those frivolous magazines with pretty colors and girls, until her husband came home so her world could resume its rotation around him. But in Paris, once one had traveled there as many times as she, it became commonplace to disdain of those things which one does not know properly, and Marguerite’s mother felt then that it was an appropriate time to complain. She led a rather fine life, for all her lamenting—Marguerite, too. It was a lavish existence for both of them, really—every whim, every little thing at the tips of their fingers, at the edges of their vision, every dream a reality soon to pass. But unlike her mother, Marguerite felt unsatisfied and did not know the origin nor the cure. Her father wanted her to get an education, to become a teacher, a nurse, whatever occupation was allowed to her, and that was fine—that, she felt, was luck she hardly deserved—and, truly, besides such incidents as the one at the museum, little Wilho was a little wonder in Maggie’s dull little world. She hardly felt ungrateful, she’d hate to think of herself so because, after all, she had nothing to bemoan of, nothing to want for, no complaints against the coffee or the tea, for she drank neither. But, still, wanting seemed to be her wont. And, if Marguerite’s excitement could not be found upon the shelves of books in her father’s study, she felt she could not find it anywhere. She couldn’t find it ever. She had friends and, oh, her friends were kind—and, yes, she’d been courted, gone out with a few approved gentlemen, too busy with school and degrees for any real adventure—but home was so empty. And the walls seemed to be dwindling, to be hardening, to hold her stiff and unloving as though she did not belong there at all. She had become more and more woeful every year that passed—worried that one day she would want only to waste her time on a glass of wine while she revolved around someone she did not truly care for.

“Does that mean it’s alright if I go out?” she asked carefully as her mother surveyed, with her bright blue eyes, the sweets and tarts on the coffee table tea-tray.

“Who, dear?” Her mother plopped a miniature macaron on her pink tongue and sat back in her chair, looking up at her daughter with a bout of mild confusion.

“Me, mama, me. Since you and papa aren’t doing anything special tonight, can I—”

“Oh, certainly, dear.” She munched on her cookie and reached for a French fashion magazine on the couch cushion beside her, waving her hand dismissively. “Of course, you can. Now, run along. Please. And wear something warm, it may rain.”

* * *

Someone in the hotel lounge had said Montmartre, thick and clunky on an American tongue, “Montmartre, my love! Night clubs, Moulin Rouge—!” he begged on his lady’s ruffled arm.

She only stared at him, with hearts in her eyes. And when she opened her mouth every word seemed to come pouring from her chest. “Wherever you wish to go, my darling, we will go,” she said. And Marguerite, who had at first taken notice of the two because of the woman’s chocolate-colored dress, tilted her head and leaned toward them to hear more of where they were off to. She had felt, for a while, scurrying down from her family’s apartment, like she’d won something, managing so easily to escape another night with her brother. But she found herself in the lounge, surrounded by bodies, and knew not what to do. Where could she go? She asked herself wildly. What could she see? Her mind still wandered with longing to the woman in the museum. If only she could replace that image, get her out of her head. She would certainly not ever see her again. What could she do? She’d come to Paris so many times now with her family, felt she quite knew France like the back of her bony hand—but what, what in the world could one do alone? What could one do when she has seen all there is to see? She hadn’t considered that when she’d asked her mother’s permission. She’d thought, in all truth, that her mom would tell her no. “No, darling, no, too young yet for such a thing—stay, have dinner with us, and tomorrow morning you can go out and be free.” Marguerite could just picture her smiling, the crumbs on her cheeks.

Montmartre, she repeated the word in her mind, wagged her tongue in her mouth as if to say it silently. Montmartre. . . Night clubs. Moulin Rouge. My love. . . . Every word a foreign syllable, a mystery.

The couple to whom she had been so attentively listening stood up suddenly from their little seat and rushed out of the hotel lobby, the woman holding her flat, brown hat to her head. She watched them spill out onto the street through the front window, hand-in-hand, laughing.

“Montmartre, my love. . . .” she repeated quietly.

The couple turned the corner, disappearing from view—and Marguerite looked down at what she was wearing, got up from her chair and marched to the concierge desk as though she were heading out on a great journey. The man behind the counter glanced up to her, his eyes unwavering. “How does one get to Montmartre?” she asked, loftily.

* * *

She changed her clothes. She felt, after seeing the woman in the lobby, that this must be done. She peeled off the maroon satin dress she had worn to the museum and slipped on a lacy, mint-green, slim-fitted gown (one which was more suited for afternoon tea), and left before her mother could say anything. She pinned daisies in her short hair as she descended to the lobby. The ride to Montmartre, the concierge had warned her, could be long. Traffic, he said as though she had ever paid attention to such things, was a beast. But the walk was no task for those accustomed. So, fancying herself one of those men that goes about climbing mountains, she put on her most comfortable shoes and opted to walk.

At first, it was quite fine—the bright lights, the people, the moon so beautiful and so full and so high in the dark sky—she was having a fine time, but she was—let’s say—distracted, enthralled by it all so that whatever blister or dark alley or rotten stench befell her seemed nothing more than a passing feeling. Her parents did not often go out late with her in Paris. And, oh, this was different than typical American nights at home. Everyone seemed to be out and about and happy, so happy, strings of lights hanging between buildings as beautiful and hallowed as Vatican city. Stars twinkled above her, men and women sang down the lanes, joy radiated from every restaurant, every bar, shadows dancing against warm light like a dream. Yes, it was all quite fine—quite so very lovely. But Marguerite began to lose track of time, to forget which street the man had told her to turn on to next, to forget entirely why she had thought leaving the hotel alone was a good idea in the first place. The lights seemed to fade. The joy seemed to vanish. And she realized she was lost with a dull, drained feeling. She asked for directions—twice—but the people did not understand her, and she knew at this point she was wandering aimlessly.

She was ready to turn back, to ask the next person she saw, “Do you know? S‘il vous plait? Hotel X?”—her flowers so wilted, her feet so aching. She wished that her mother had told her to stay home for dinner instead, save tomorrow for adventure. But then, suddenly, she saw the hint of ruffled sleeve—that chocolate dress from earlier in the evening, swaying some way up the street—and hope rose up her chest like a flame.

She scurried after the couple and followed them as they gracefully navigated the twisting cobblestoned streets. She paid close attention to them—the thought of how she might get back to the hotel not even crossing her mind—and noticed, slowly, the atmosphere begin to change; the lights becoming brighter, the noise becoming louder, everything seeming to become so much better.

She gazed around herself at the red and green and yellow club signs, flashing on the stubby buildings. She saw the rouged, happy faces of men and women delighting in nothing. And she thought, This must be it—Montmartre. Everything was aglow, and even the street seemed to glisten as though they were paved with gold—every building whispering a joyful tune. Laughter, singing, streamed from every window, every doorway, every alley.

She lost the couple in the street as she stood there, taking everything in with each breath, every blink. It was only once she felt the first cold raindrop descend upon her arm that she roused herself from her daydreams. It was a drizzle—one drop fell, then two, then three, and suddenly it was pouring. The street began to empty; people scurried to doorways, awnings, alleys, wrapped in each other’s arms, but Marguerite remained frozen. She was drenched to the very bone before she realized she had brought no warm clothes, no umbrella, nothing to protect herself from the cold. Her dress was stuck to her skin, flush tight like a cocoon as she ran to get to the other side of the street, covering with her hands the wilted flowers in her hair. She sped headlong under an awning and stood there, shivering. The windows behind her were glowing warm and lemon, but she wrapped her arms around her body and cursed her silly daydreams. She stared down at her feet, water dripping from her hair. How silly was she? To not have turned back, to have not dressed more appropriately, to think at all that she was capable to wander alone on the street. She wanted suddenly to cry. She could feel the tears welling behind her eyes. And then she noticed two big black boots glistening wet beside her, that same skirt of stark baby blue wetted down around the laces. She felt that same seizure of air, that terror in her heart, hugged herself tighter, and thought never had a body ever been so afraid to look up—to do such an ordinary thing in such an unremarkable way, but glanced up she did. She saw that unruly black hair, that honey skin—oh, all her heavenly divinity entirely.

And then she saw Marguerite there, too, and the rain kept falling.

About the author

Katie Lynn Johnston is a queer creative writing undergraduate at Columbia College Chicago. She has been an editor for the Columbia Poetry Review, Mulberry Literary, and a production editor for Hair Trigger Magazine. Her work has appeared in Hair Trigger, Hoxie Gorge Review, and Lavender Review, among others, and her essay, “The Barriers Faced by Female Writers,” was published on the Fountainhead Press website and won the Excellence Award at the Student Writers’ Showcase in 2019.

About the illustrator

Sandra Eckert is a doodler, a dabbler, and a messy and restless individual. An avid naturopath and off-the-road walker, she finds inspiration in the unscenic vistas and hidden places. While her interests currently lie in the world of art, she has been known to tend goats, whitewater kayak, fish for piranha, and teach teenaged humans. She is fascinated by the lessons of the natural world, both seen and unseen. Sandra holds a BFA with certification, and has continued her education both formally and informally, though she is too distracted to gather up her credits. She lives in Allentown with her husband, Peter, and her dogs, Jack and Tobi. Additional works are available here.