Autopsy of a Boring Wife Read online

  “Oh! No worries, then just put out twice as much in the morning.”

  “Can he go outside?”

  “No, not yet. He doesn’t have all his vaccines.”

  “Just as well. He’d be eaten alive.”

  “No way, he’s super smart.”

  They’d left my kitchen sparkling, as if I were expecting a visit from potential buyers. I’ll admit, the compassion my kids show me has its advantages.

  Steve the Cat followed me upstairs, lay down on the soft carpet of the bathroom while I removed my make-up, then slipped into bed with me and curled up on my pillow, purring. I inspected the fuzzy scar on his missing paw up close as he licked my forehead. The minute he snuggled into my neck, I knew I’d fallen into the trap like a sucker.

  “Do you like the name Steve?”

  “ . . . ”

  “It’s not a good name for a cat.”

  “ . . . ”

  “Let’s find something else.”

  It took me three days to find a name. Three days during which the trap slowly closed on me: I looked forward to coming home to my three-quarters-of-a-cat.

  “Cat-in-the-box. Because you’ve been the most wonderful surprise. What do you think?”

  “ . . . ”

  “Too bad, that’s your name from now on.”

  “ . . . ”

  “A name with prepositional phrase. You’re one lucky guy.”

  And that’s how I started talking to animals.

  • • •

  * * *

  “So?”

  “I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Oh come on! Go get it and open it now.”

  “I can’t. I hid it in the wall.”

  “What do you mean, in the wall?”

  “I folded it up and pushed it through a hole in the living room wall.”

  “Well, pull it out!”

  “I can’t, the hole is about three feet up, and the envelope fell all the way down.”

  “You can’t reach it even if you stick your arm in?”

  “No. I’d have to open the whole wall.”

  “Then open it up. You’ll have to repair that part of it anyway.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the storage cabinet is in front of the hole.”

  “Then move it.”

  “I can’t do it alone. It weighs a ton.”

  “How’d it get there?”

  “Charlotte helped me last night.”

  “Okay. You’re a lost cause.”

  “I’m not ready. I’m not strong enough.”

  “Fine. We’ll put the envelope on hold for now. Did you call Jacques?”

  “No, I said the twenty-third.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Curious about what? The divorce?”

  “Maybe that’s not it.”

  “If he wanted to get back together, I’d know.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  If I’d told her I was still holding onto some silly hope of his return, she would have come over and smashed in the wall with her cast.

  “Whatever he has to say, it’s bound to just piss me off.”

  “You’re right, there’s no rush. See you tomorrow.”

  “You’re coming back to work?”

  “I can just see the files piling up on my desk. I’d rather come back while I can still catch up. Plus they called me in for some big, important meeting.”

  19

  In which I discover that some pits are bottomless

  When Johanne, the secretary of my department, greeted me the following morning, there were deep vertical wrinkles running up the middle of her forehead. The woman’s facial geometry has always impressed me.

  “Someone called a few times for you. It sounded important, but I didn’t want to give out your cell phone number.”

  “Did you get the name?”

  “No. Private caller.”

  “A man or a woman?”

  “A woman.”

  “Hmm. Did you recognize the voice?”

  “No.”

  “Young or old?”

  “Tough to say. Somewhere in between? She said she’d call back.”

  A good handful of women hated me at the moment. I glanced at the beige telephone in my brown, soon-to-be-burgundy office — the goose poop had gotten only a single vote — and, summoning Claudine’s advice, I tried to stay calm by thinking of something positive. I pictured the reconciliation that had taken place with my neighbours over a slice of apple pie; I thought about J.P.’s arms, about the family’s successful stew night, and about my Cat-in-the-box.

  When the telephone rang, I grabbed the receiver with such force that the base went flying across my desk. I had to pitch myself across my files so that the serpentine cord, stretched to its maximum, didn’t unplug itself and cut me off.

  “Diane Delaunais speaking!”

  “Hello.”

  “Hello!”

  “We need to talk.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Can we meet in person?”

  “Uh . . . sure. When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, I’m free.”

  “I’ll wait for you. I’m at my desk.”

  “I’d rather meet someplace else.”

  “Oh? That might be complicated for me.”

  “We can meet later, after work, if that’s better.”

  “No, I’ll figure it out. There’s a little café called Café on René-Lévesque, right by my office.”

  “That works.”

  “I can be there in ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Perfect.”

  And the woman of undetermined age hung up without taking the time to say who she was or how we’d recognize each other. She knew my name — we’d figure out the rest, I imagined.

  “Johanne, I need you to take my messages. I’m stepping out to meet the woman with no name.”

  “The one who called this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “She didn’t tell you her name?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Over to Café. If I’m not back in half an hour, call the police.”

  “Do you think she’s dangerous?”

  “Of course not, I was kidding! It’s 9:15 and we’re meeting in a café full of people.”

  But I started to get a little spooked as I walked over to meet the mysterious woman. I had a horrible premonition that, despite everything I’d done to avoid as much, the envelope was about to open itself.

  Claudine was in a meeting. I sent her a text telling her I was off to see a potential serial killer. That way, there would be at least one other person on the alert should I not make it out of Café alive. I could already see myself in a bathtub, down a kidney.

  Once I arrived, my eyes almost immediately spotted the woman in question; she was sitting up, calm and motionless, hands crossed in front of her. Unlike just about everyone else, she wasn’t tapping nervously on her phone or computer. I suppose I looked like a Diane Delaunais. She gestured toward the empty seat across from her without extending me a hand to shake. Her frosty demeanour was reassuring. She wasn’t looking to butter me up, she hadn’t come to apologize for seducing my husband while I was focused on my quiet, happy little life. In fact, it was quite the opposite: this woman was pissed.

  She let out a big sigh as she sat back down. Her lips hinted at a restrained smile I could only identify by the fine lines appearing at the corners of her eyes. She was a very attractive woman. The Kate Winslet of another generation. Certainly too old for Jacques’s new taste.

  “I’m Marie.”
r />   A beautiful woman with a beautiful name. Some people are just born with it.

  “Diane Delaunais.”

  “I know.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Indirectly, yes.”

  The bomb was about to explode. Something deeply unpleasant bound us together, I could feel it. If she stopped there, my life might not fall apart; if she kept going, she would be able to finish me with a few murderous words.

  “We have the same shoes.”

  She slid her legs out from under the table to show me her pretty blue boots.

  “Oh my God! You’re J.P.’s wife?”

  Her lip began to tremble, her eyes welled up.

  “Yes.”

  As I flashed a full, toothy smile, something told me she was about to fall to pieces.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I got a call.”

  “From who?”

  “Anonymous.”

  “Like right out of a movie.”

  “ . . . ”

  “And?”

  “I got a call from someone who . . . who told me . . . about you and Jean-Paul.”

  “What?”

  I had a brief moment of doubt, a half-second of panic. Things with J.P., if they could even be called that, hadn’t moved beyond the gelatinous tubing sealed in an airtight skull, otherwise known as my brain.

  “What exactly did this person say?”

  “That he gave you the same pair of boots — ”

  “No, no! I bought these online.”

  “ — with wine and a card.”

  Her hands flew up to her mouth, as if she’d burped without meaning to. Suffering was burning her stomach.

  “Okay, Marie, let’s straighten this mess out. You wear an 8.”

  “ . . . ”

  “So do I.”

  “ . . . ”

  “When Jean-Paul asked me where I’d bought my boots, because he liked them, I took mine off, gave them to him, and ran away. It was so dumb . . . I left the office in my socks . . . ”

  I lost it and started laughing like crazy. Kate Winslet stared at me like I was unhinged. All women are crazy, Marie. Every last one of us. We’re all someone’s crazy.

  “Afterwards, he gave them back to me in a big shopping bag with a bottle of wine in each boot, as a thank-you. He’d ordered the same ones for you! It was easy once he had the brand and model number.”

  “I heard you two were meeting up in secret.”

  “Who . . . who told you that, Marie? Can I call you Marie? Was it the same person?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Actually, it’s very important, because the person who told you that is angry with me for one reason or another and is out to make trouble. Some people are like that. It’s sad, but it’s true. I think I know who called you.”

  “Maybe, but . . . ”

  “I’ve never hung out with Jean-Paul outside of the office, not in my whole life. Nothing ever happened between us and nothing ever will, I swear on my children’s lives. I’m not even sure we’ve ever shaken hands. Look at me, Marie. I’m forty-eight — almost forty-nine — and after twenty-five years my marriage just blew up in my face. On a good day, I take a sledgehammer to my house between swigs of white wine. I’m a total mess. Do you honestly think J.P. would fall for a woman like me?”

  “ . . . I don’t know . . . ”

  “Do you honestly think J.P. would want to fuck a woman like me?”

  This time she let go and gave me a good, hard look. Her eyes traced the winding curve of my Roman nose, dove into the deep wrinkles of my cheeks, and slipped down under my doughy chin. I smiled when her gaze returned to my eyes, ringed with purple circles of irreparable fatigue. I hoped she wouldn’t answer.

  “No.”

  “Obviously, pfff . . . ”

  “Pfff . . . pfff . . . ”

  Laughter, that great popper of bubbles, freed us from a conversation far too heavy for a Monday morning. The moment was so tragicomic that I shed a few tears easily confused with what they were not. Her tears were also hiding something; they were a form of deliverance. Now that she was laughing I could see even more clearly how radiant she was.

  “Have you ever doubted him before?”

  “No, never.”

  “Well then, don’t now. A guy who goes out of his way to buy you fancy Italian boots is clearly in love.”

  “Yeah . . . ”

  “Have you ever worked in a big office building full of employees confined to their desks all day long?”

  “No, I teach primary school.”

  “Wow! A heroine, to boot!”

  We said our goodbyes with a sincere handshake. I was in a hurry to get back to the office and set a few things straight.

  “Any messages, Johanne?”

  “So? Who was it?”

  “I can’t really tell you, but I swear it wasn’t anything important. Let’s just say there was a misunderstanding.”

  “Well, good. I was a little worried. No messages, but the phone’s been ringing off the hook. I don’t know what’s going on today.”

  “Listen, I’m going down to see Josée and I’ll be right back up.”

  “Josée who?”

  “Josy.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s her real name. Josée.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s funny, I like Josée better.”

  I took the stairs down to the fourth floor. I had to calm down, get myself under control. In hindsight, I should have gone all the way to the basement and then come back up very, very slowly.

  As was her habit, Josée greeted me with a fake smile before asking, with a friendliness as authentic as her nails, if she could help. She was wearing a magnificent eggshell jacket.

  “Sure, you can help me. Is Jean-Paul around?”

  “No, he’s in a meeting with the execs. It shouldn’t be too much longer. Do you want . . . ?”

  I slammed her desk with the palm of my hand. Everything on it jumped. Her ultra-kitsch porcelain shepherd took a nosedive, pencils spilling from its faux-crystal plastic holder. Her mug had held up, so I put a finger into the coffee to check the temperature — lukewarm, perfect! — grabbed it by the handle, and threw its contents all over her. I took aim at the white jacket. The fabric, faithful collaborator it was, absorbed a lot of the liquid. The rest landed everywhere else in a delicious splash.

  “Oops!”

  “AAAAAH! YOU’RE CRAZY!”

  She began vigorously mopping at the lapels of her jacket, but the tissues disintegrated upon contact with the wet fabric. I went over to her, gritting my teeth and pointing my finger at her powdered nose.

  “The next time you feel like spreading rumours, do a better job of spying!”

  “You can’t get away with this!”

  “Oh no? You want me to tell J.P. you made an anonymous call to his wife to stab him in the back?”

  “You bloody cow!”

  “I hope your CV is up to date, bitch.”

  And with those fine words, I returned to the fifth floor whistling a Joe Dassin tune. “Son petit pain au chocolat, aye, aye, aye!” The day was taking a funny turn. It was not yet break time and I’d been through more emotions than I had in a year. That’s the good thing about being boring: the most insignificant little thing becomes a gripping adventure.

  Claudine had left me three urgent text messages demanding I come see her as quickly as possible. The big meeting had just ended. I practically ran to her office and threw open the door.

  “Hey! So how’s your arm feeling this morning?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Good! Listen to this, you won’t believe it: Josy called J.P.’s wife and told him we we
re having an affair. An affair! I wish! That bloody cow — that’s what she just called me, so I’m allowed — that bloody cow opened the bag with the boots before she brought it to my office, and she thought that J.P. had bought them for me! She was spying on us, that snoop! Every time I went to see him she kept thinking we were arranging little dates, you’d have to be a nutcase to make up stories like that! And you know how I found out? Check this out: J.P.’s wife called me this morning! She wanted to meet, but I didn’t know it was her until I got to Café. I was so worried I’d told Johanne to call the police if I didn’t make it back. It could have been dangerous — I had no idea who I was seeing. Did you get my text?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I thought it would be better if two people knew. Anyway, once I got there, I recognized her easily, because we have the same boots! I realized immediately that she was his wife. The poor woman, if you’d seen her face, she was a wreck, she was completely destroyed, I’m telling you . . . Claudine, are you okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So I cleared things up pretty fast, then I asked her if she really thought her husband would’ve had an affair with me . . . ‘No,’ she said, just like that. It was actually kind of insulting, she was basically calling me an old bag, but whatever. We straightened things out. If only you’d seen her, I swear, she’s the spitting image of Kate Winslet. She has these beautiful bright eyes . . . Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She was pale as a ghost. I’d never seen her like that before.

  “What’s going on?”

  History was repeating itself. It was the second time I’d heard myself nervously ask the same question since 9 o’clock.

  “Claudine?”

  I knew it was serious when she got up and came over to sit beside me on the second grievance chair, the one that was used less often. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. She was about to tell me she had cancer. Or worse.

  “Okay, spit it out. You’re scaring me.”

  “Diane . . . ”

  “SPIT IT OUT!”

  “They’re restructuring.”

  “Who? What? They’re laying you off?”

  “No . . . ”

  “Phew! You scared me.”

  “ . . . ”

  “Who then? Me?”

  She nodded slowly, as if to cushion the blow.