Autopsy of a Boring Wife Page 10

Of course: Friday night, the weekend, friends, good wine, lots of fun, and a little steamy sex after dessert. The bile in my stomach rose all the way to my gums. What people, anyway? His colleagues, our friends, our children? New friends in their early thirties?

  “I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “When will that be?”

  “When I get back.”

  “I’d like to set a date.”

  “Okay. The twenty-third.”

  “The twenty-third?”

  “What’s today’s date?”

  “The third.”

  “Perfect. The twenty-third.”

  “That’s three weeks away! You’ll be gone for three weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere with no reception. Okay, I’ll let you go.”

  And I hung up. I’d already demolished the kitchen buffet my ex-mother-in-law had given us. And if I had a go at the table, I wouldn’t be able to have “people” over for dinner. I reread J.P.’s card to try to pull myself together.

  “You’ve got beautiful eyes, Diane. Beautiful eyes, and nice boots.”

  I went back outside for a breath of air. Mr. Nadaud was using his blower to chase three or four leaves that had the audacity to settle in his yard. There are by-laws for watering the grass; there should be some for leaf-blowing, too. Rakes are always better, anyway, since they let you gather the leaves together and actually pick them up rather than blow them into the street or onto your neighbours’ property. I slipped into my blue boots and went for a walk. Even though I’d been pruning back my surfeit of furniture for months, I continued to suffocate in a house bursting with happy memories that were making me miserable.

  I hadn’t walked around the neighbourhood in a long time. I’d gotten out of the habit after the kids had grown up. We’d taken to driving them around town, Jacques and I, until they learned how to use public transportation. Then they’d bought their own cars — except for Charlotte, who broke out in hives simply at the idea of owning a polluting engine — and everybody had gone off on their own, by which time I’d completely lost touch with my own neighbourhood. And I have a terrible confession to make: I can’t walk for the sake of walking without a stroller or a plan. I’ve lost the ability to “stroll.” Going nowhere is harder than it seems.

  The little shoe repair shop at the corner of Rue des Lilas had shut down. I went over to peek inside: only empty shelves and wood crates resting on a thick layer of dust. A yellowed sign fixed to the door read “We sharpen skates,” like a faithful soldier refusing to surrender despite the general rout. It was where we used to have our shoes resoled or holes added to our belts when contentment thickened our waists. I hardly ever wore a belt anymore — skirts hid my rolls better — and never wear my soles out anymore. My waist will attest to that.

  Three blocks down, I came across the abandoned video store. The shelves were still stacked with old VHS boxes with faded covers. Way in the back, I could see the door to the adult section was wide open. Somehow we’d convinced the kids that going in there would make them blind — until Antoine slipped in one day when we weren’t looking and came out shouting, “I saw a woman with boobs this big and somebody else was putting a penis in her mouth, and . . . !” Alexandre and Charlotte had covered their ears so they wouldn’t go deaf.

  I turned on the heels of my newly soled boots and went home before my walk turned into a despairing stroll down memory lane that would spoil my good mood. There was bound to be a decent movie on Netflix.

  I stopped in front of 5412, now two and a half storeys high. It was 6:42 p.m. and the site was still buzzing with activity. I stood with my hands on my hips, to make it clear that I was hardly ecstatic about the glass cube being erected in front of me. A man in a construction helmet and work boots approached me. Like all men who end up embracing mainstream fashion by claiming to flout it, his beard was too bushy and a few bizarre patterns were tattooed on his arms. Strange, isn’t it, how tattooed men are always hotter than everyone else and wear short sleeves more often. A toothpick bobbed up and down in the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

  “Evening, miss!”

  We were off to a good start: I wasn’t a “little lady” and he was attractive.

  “Hello.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, certainly. You can tell me what it is you’re doing.”

  “Uh . . . we’re building a house.”

  “Oh! I’m glad we sorted that out. Here I was thinking it was an aquarium you were building.”

  “You live in the neighbourhood?”

  “Yes. I’m at 5420, two houses over.”

  “You’re in the old Cape Cod?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Nice neighbourhood.”

  “It is, actually. How long until you’re done here?”

  “If we work evenings, we should finish up in four to six weeks. We’ve got to be out by mid-October at the latest.”

  “What do you mean by ‘evenings’?”

  “By law, we’re allowed to keep working until 7 p.m.”

  “Every day?”

  “No, we stop at 5 on Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Weekends too?”

  “You bet! It’s a big job. I’ve got two full teams going.”

  “How early do you start on weekends?”

  He looked away and cleared his throat.

  “Seven.”

  “SEVEN IN THE MORNING?”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “I don’t care! This is a residential neighbourhood! People live here!”

  “I know, ma’am.”

  “What’s the big rush? What happens if you don’t finish by mid-October?”

  “The client won’t be happy.”

  “The client? And what about us, his neighbours? He’s willing to piss everyone off for weeks just so he can move in on time? Is he sleeping on the streets, your millionaire?”

  “I’m sorry, miss, but that’s what the contract stipulates. We had a few problems, late deliveries, things like that.”

  “Well, of course, it always takes more time than you think!”

  “He’s within his rights. We’re abiding by the law.”

  “His rights, my ass! I’ve had enough of this ‘my rights’ business. Rights come with a little respect!”

  “To be completely honest, I’d be happy to go home and knock back a beer right about now.”

  He took out his toothpick and shrugged his shoulders as if the matter were out of his hands. The fireball and three-headed dragon adorning his arm grew a bit with the effort of the muscle. In about thirty years, the tattoos would droop in a mess of faded ink on wrinkled flesh. The dragon would look like a handful of shrimp.

  “You tell your client the neighbourhood’s had it with all these bullshit renovations. And if he doesn’t show up on my doorstep with an apple pie the day he moves in, he risks me coming by with a sledgehammer! Let him wipe his ass on the damn pie!”

  “Noted, miss.”

  I turned back to the sidewalk and headed toward my beautiful Cape Cod, built when the neighbourhood was still just an open field. Back then, the construction crew could have worked all night and no one would have complained. A few animals, maybe.

  Sprinklers spat bursts of water onto the Nadauds’ verdant lawn. So much water and electricity to keep a small patch of land alive, one that would be struggling soon enough under several feet of snow and ice. To what end? If the myth of Sisyphus had not existed, I’d have invented it just for him.

  Back in the kitchen, I took a crowbar and ripped out the speakers screwed into the wall, then pitched them outside through the open window. I put on a Florence K album and settled back into the papasan chair with a glass of Aligoté to admire the weeds growing unrestricted in my yard. Amid the tall reeds
swaying in the breeze, small wildflowers with tousled heads were defiantly blooming. Had I known my unkempt garden would be so beautiful, I’d have cancelled my landscaper’s contract a long time ago.

  From the roof of number 5412, where three men were unloading shingles and other supplies, the hipster I’d spoken to earlier waved at me. Great. If they were adding a roof deck to my neighbour’s aquarium, I’d be kissing my privacy goodbye.

  Saturday morning

  Went outside with my bowl of café au lait, without the lait — I’d forgotten to pick some up, again. Mr. Nadaud approached me hesitantly, throwing a few glances back at his kitchen curtains swaying like seaweed. It was one of two things: either he wanted to apologize for making so much noise in general, or he was coming to complain about the music I’d played last night until nine. Which was how long it took me to finish the bottle of wine.

  “Hello!”

  “Good morning!”

  “How’s it going, Mrs. Valois?”

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Eh, my knees are starting to give me trouble, but other than that . . . ”

  “You wouldn’t know it, watching you work as you do!”

  “Work keeps a man young.”

  “And how’s your wife doing?”

  “Marvellously, thanks. She says hi.”

  I waved in the general direction of the windows, not sure which offered the best view of us.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Well, it’s . . . uh, I don’t meant to be rude . . . ”

  “Is it about the music yesterday?”

  “No! No, no problem there. We couldn’t hear it inside anyway. And it’s your right.”

  “Well, I’m glad. I thought I’d bothered you.”

  “It’s actually about the lawn.”

  “The lawn? But your lawn is gorgeous! It’s so thick it almost looks fake.”

  “Thanks, that’s nice of you. But I meant yours, actually.”

  “Mine? Hah! You mean my hayfield?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I think it’s pretty. Feels like we’re in the countryside, don’t you think?”

  “Uh . . . I . . . I wanted to offer to mow it for you. I have the equipment.”

  I honestly hadn’t noticed. He had so much gear his car no longer fit inside the garage.

  “Mow it?”

  “Yes, as a favour to a neighbour.”

  “That’s nice of you, thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “But I like it the way it is for the moment.”

  “Oh. Well, uh . . . ”

  “Is it bothering you?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . uh . . . yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the weeds crossing over. The wind’s blowing pollen and seeds into our yard.”

  “But you don’t have a single weed on your lawn!”

  “No, because I work really hard to keep them out. But it’s tough, being next to a wild field. The weeds take root and spread underground . . . ”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s a question of taste. You like grass, I like hay.”

  “I understand that, but your preference affects ours, if you see what I mean.”

  “Sure, maybe, but then again yours affects my quality of life.”

  “Your quality of life?”

  “Yes. All the mowing, the Weed-Eater, the sprinklers, the leaf blower, not to mention the pesticide poisoning . . . ”

  “I don’t have a choice with all that hay!”

  He seemed devastated, as if he’d just learned Trump had been elected president. There’s no way I was going to let him cut my hay. His wife, the shadow behind the curtain, must have seen — what with his defeated expression — that he’d come back empty-handed. I’ll admit, I was being difficult on purpose and could easily have cut him a deal: mow the lawn if it pleases you, but the machines only come out between 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. on weekdays. That would have given him a good fifty-hour window each week to primp his grassy carpet — which the little signs he planted every ten feet declared it was forbidden to walk on.

  Halfway between our two decks, he turned around.

  “Umm . . . excuse me for asking, Mrs. Valois, but do you think you’ll keep the house, or do you plan to sell it?”

  “Delaunais! My name is Diane Delaunais!”

  Saturday afternoon

  Charlotte met me at the park for my third jogging lesson. Her patience, her kindness, never ceased to amaze me. Maybe there’d been a mix-up at the hospital when she was born.

  “Today, we’ll alternate between walking and running, but the breaks won’t be as long.”

  “I’ll follow your lead, sweetheart.”

  We must have seemed a predictable pair: the wealthy older woman and her pretty young trainer. In reality, I was what the trainer would become twenty-five years and thirty-five pounds later. My budding double chin was simply a future projection of her own, still hewn in firm features defying the pull of gravity. In the moment, I found myself as ugly as she was beautiful, which was curiously reassuring.

  I sweated blood and water for twenty minutes before giving up. I couldn’t help it. I don’t like suffering in any form. I never did, and don’t wish it on anyone. Well, almost anyone. (In this chapter of my life, I was like everybody else and believed a certain amount of suffering to be deserved.) We walked back to the house arm in arm, ignoring the sweat or anything else that might have offended strangers.

  Once Charlotte was inside, she was quick to criticize my latest remodelling efforts.

  “Mom!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where did the buffet table go?”

  “The buffet table?”

  “Yes, Grandma’s beautiful maple sideboard?”

  “It was too big. I wanted to declutter.”

  “Oh my God, you’ve got to stop! I would have taken it.”

  “Come on, where would you have put it in that tiny apartment? Your roommates wouldn’t have been happy.”

  “Mom . . . ”

  “I was a little irritated by Grandma’s visit the other day. And this was the result.”

  “You ripped out the speakers!”

  “Because I wanted to listen to some music outside. It’s impossible to relax when your neighbours are hyper-obsessed with cutting their grass.”

  “So you had to rip them out?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed softly, holding back the urge to lecture me.

  “Don’t tell your brothers, okay?”

  “They’ll notice things are missing everywhere. And they’ll see the holes.”

  “Maybe we could have dinner together next Saturday?”

  “Saturday? Sure, that works for me.”

  “We can go apple picking in the afternoon and then bake an apple crisp. And I’ll make a stew.”

  “Vegetarian?”

  “I’ll make two.”

  “Yesss!”

  “We can pretend it’s Thanksgiving.”

  “But the boys won’t come apple picking, you know what they’re like.”

  “That’s fine. The two of us can fill a basket by ourselves, and that’ll be enough.”

  Saturday night

  I made myself an omeletta natural. It’s such a lame meal for a Saturday night that it sounds better if you say it in Spanish. And since I had no idea what wine to pair with plain old eggs, I fell back on a perfectly adequate herbal tea. Then I went through every room in the house, treading as lightly as I could so as not to disturb anything — not even the dust I’d stopped sweeping up. But floorboards of old Cape Cods don’t accommodate the discreet and memories were rising out of the cracks, merciless as blackflies.

  Night-time, Jacques pacing the hallways and whispering nursery rhymes to A
lexandre, who is determined not to sleep. This kid is going to drive us crazy.

  Jacques shaving in the bathroom next to Antoine, who is scraping shaving cream off his cheeks with a plastic spoon as he listens to his father explain that you need facial hair to use a razor.

  Me bringing grilled cheese sandwiches to the boys, busy building a Lego super-structure on the floor of their room with their dad, still in pyjamas. It’s a Saturday, they can have lunch wherever they want.

  Jacques is struggling with an elastic band as he tries to gather Charlotte’s hair in a ponytail. I hide, so I can laugh and not be seen. When she screams, I see that he’s missed a few strands on top.

  The wind roaring as we make love headily, our gasps merging with the wind’s gusts.

  Jacques putting a warm blanket over my shoulders as he kisses me on the forehead. I close my eyes, savouring the touch of his hand as it grazes my arm. We spend long nights watching over the kids as a stomach flu makes the rounds. When it’s our turn, we have nothing left to vomit up.

  Jacques cradling Alex in his arms, eyes closed as if in prayer. We’d feared the worst when he tumbled down the stairs like a rag doll. Alex dreads treadmills to this day.

  Jacques rubbing his ashen temples in front of the bathroom mirror: the bags under his eyes reflect the size of his workload.

  Me crying in Charlotte’s bedroom because it’s time for her to move out, and I’m in her room sobbing. Jacques comes and sits down on the bed next to me, sighing heavily. It’s always been his way of crying. He puts his hand over mine.

  Me washing the kids’ sheets, even when they’re not dirty. I want their beds to smell like vanilla if ever they show up without warning. Jacques says, “Honestly, Diane.”

  Me entering our deserted bedroom. I’ve transferred all my belongings to the chest and closet in the guest room. But I haven’t been careful enough and I find myself staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the other side of the door. I am a woman in tatters, lacerated by departures. As long as Jacques was still around, the seams held. But once he left, I disintegrated into particles of nothing. I loathe myself, body and soul. I’m totally alone. I don’t know how to keep going.