Autopsy of a Boring Wife Page 7

  But there was no chance of this happening; she didn’t have the vocabulary to express complex ideas and there was no way I was about to forgive her. Even if I wasn’t actually interested in revenge, it would feel good to stuff a little of my hate and pain into the back corner of their minds.

  I agreed to meet Charlene only because she’d artfully assured me over the phone that she hadn’t run the idea past Jacques, who wouldn’t have approved. Top secret, she’d purred, and so I’d been offered a chance to cheat on Jacques with his very own mistress — if without (much) physical contact. I hoped to find out things only she could tell me: here was an opportunity to study the cyclone from the inside.

  Charlene’s Secrets

  She showed up wearing neither high heels nor a Bardot-inspired scarf. No, she’d come in loungewear for me to know right off the bat that this was a gesture of friendship and that I could laugh at her a bit if I wanted. It was generous of her, I’ll admit. I’d expected her to waltz in decked out in business attire — an intimidating pantsuit, matching stilettos, tasteful jewellery — but she’d opted for a natural look: grey cotton, run-of-the-mill sandals, and a pallid complexion without a trace of make-up. It’s really tough to go after someone in loungewear, they already seem so down on their luck. Bailiffs and meter maids should seriously consider the look.

  I’d invited her over for drinks in the yard so she’d be able to cry unabashedly (not appropriate in a restaurant) and tell me whatever nonsense she wanted. It had rained overnight, so I’d towelled off two chairs. When she arrived, obviously, I made the mistake of offering her a third chair that was soaked. She wasn’t wearing the beige linen pants I’d hoped for, but it still made a nice dark stain and the fabric stuck to buttocks you could tell — even in loungewear — were very toned. I mumbled an apology and held out the right chair. She played the game and sat down, offering heartfelt compliments.

  “Your house is so beautiful!”

  “Thank you.”

  “I love what you’ve done with the backyard.”

  “Oh, that was all Jacques. He should be able to do something nice with your place.”

  “And the great deck you guys have!”

  “The deck I have.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Mr. Nelligan did it. He’s a friend of Jacques’s.”

  “Oh? I’ll have to remember that.”

  What a bitch. I wanted to empty the contents of the water pitcher over her head then and there. I’d set it on the table as a precaution and purposely forgot the glasses, of course, fully intending to throw it at her. But all my excitement had waned when she showed up looking so unkempt. Suddenly it seemed unreasonable to waste a couple of litres of water when there was no possibility of ruining a hairdo, a leather jacket, or skilfully applied make-up.

  “If you only knew what it took for me to come here today . . . ”

  Cue the tears. She opened her eyes wide, fanning them with her hand as if to dry them. Fascinating. Here was Charlene Dugal sobbing like a cow in my beautifully landscaped backyard, a situation I craved about as much as I did a slice of ham and pineapple. I was careful not to put a friendly hand on her shoulder, I’d have been tempted to strangle her.

  “This was supposed to be a quick chat, Charlene. What did you want to talk about?”

  “Sorry, I’m sorry . . . I . . . I wanted to tell you I understand what you’re going through. I didn’t mean for this to happen. It happened to me once, too . . . ”

  What she had been through didn’t interest me one bit. Let Francis Cabrel write a song about it. I wanted to know where things stood between them, what their plans were. Jacques turned into a limp fish whenever I asked about his plans. He was evasive about everything, keeping everything annoyingly veiled in mystery. I figured it was his way of buying time but also of sparing me. And I had to be honest; beneath the layers of bitterness I’d built up, a measure of hope lay dormant, enough to pull me back from the edge and condemn me to believing that eventually Jacques just might come back. It was obviously a survival mechanism, and I knew it was ridiculous no matter how comforting it felt.

  “I wanted you to know that . . . I . . . sniff . . . sniff, sniff . . . that I didn’t mean for this to happen . . . ” Blah, blah, blah.

  And then, I heard a bit more of their story through a series of tear-soaked sentences chopped into barely intelligible words that nonetheless helped reconstruct the all-too-inevitable facts — a chance meeting . . . a vulnerable moment . . . cocktails . . . the conference . . . hands . . . confusion . . . surprise . . . guilt . . . no, yes, maybe . . . heart . . . marriage . . . love . . . fallacious (or fellatio, I didn’t quite catch that one) . . . respect . . . life . . . love at first sight . . . chemistry (fucking chemistry!) . . . the lot punctuated with “you knows” probably intended to give a touch of humanity to her pathetic account. Obviously, and in summary, she had been Jacques’s mistress for some time before our separation. Just as I suspected, thank you very much.

  She’d not stopped producing a steady stream of mucus that was blocking her nose and constricting her throat as she gasped for air, and since I was making no effort to help, she ended by asking to use the bathroom. Her face covered by one hand, she indicated with the other that I should remain seated, which suited me just fine. She walked into the house and turned left, not hesitating for a moment, as if she lived there. I tried to repel the scenarios running through my head — she’d been in my house before, the tramp! — and focus gleefully on imagining her in my paper-free bathroom. (I had gone into both bathrooms and purposely removed all the toilet paper, tissues, towels, tampons, washcloths, and any other accessory that might help mop up tears, snot, pee — or, even better, poop.) She was not about to wipe her little ass on the glass shower door. Those last few drops of moisture — or whatever else might exit her body — would end up in her underwear.

  As luck would have it, in her distress she’d left her purse on the ground next to her chair. No backup tissues to the rescue.

  She seemed to have pulled herself together by the time she came back. She’d suddenly run out of time and needed to cut short our long-awaited conversation.

  “I think I’d better get going.”

  “Already? We barely had time to chat.”

  “Really, I have to go.”

  Everything about her eagerness to leave annoyed me. Her shifty eyes, her halting tone; the violence with which her hands tried to force an elegant pleat in her clothing. She clearly wasn’t used to such casual clothes. I couldn’t figure out which part of her outfit she’d used to blow her nose; she must have shot her snot into the sink like a lumberjack, then flushed it away with a great rush of water. It was a good thing she wanted to leave; a few minutes more and I’d have been at her throat. I hated her, passionately, not as much for stealing my husband as for this meeting designed to absolve her of the guilt casting a shadow over her new happiness. As if she’d forgotten it was directly related to my unhap­piness. She’d taken everything from me and yet, feigning a few tears and sincerity, she wanted me to grant her inner peace. She could take her sincerity and shove it up her ass.

  “So you’ve been here a few times?”

  “Here? What do you mean, ‘here’?”

  “Here, in my house — what used to be our house.”

  “Of course not! What are you talking about?”

  “You knew where the bathroom was.”

  “It’s not rocket science . . . houses all resemble each other.”

  “No, no, they don’t.”

  “Well, pretty much.”

  “You didn’t hesitate for a second.”

  “I think I’d better leave. I don’t like the way things are going.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  Once I was up, I could feel it was the right moment — the beige leather seats of her Mini Cooper could use a little shower. So, in one de
ft motion, I emptied the pitcher of cold water down her back without even pretending it was an accident. She screamed and ran away. I bet she was worried I had a dozen eggs under the table. I kicked myself for not having thought of it earlier.

  The car sped away, burning rubber and sending dust flying. I shouted something approaching a compliment to officially mark the end of our friendly conversation. “You look great in sweats!”

  Then I closed my eyes and tried to picture her wriggling in discomfort, her clothes soggy with water and pee sticking to the car’s expensive leather interior. I congratulated myself on the extent of the damage I’d managed with, all things considered, so little water.

  I stood there for a moment in front of the house, empty pitcher in hand, and heart racing with adrenaline, ready to explode. Mrs. Nadaud, poorly hidden behind her living room curtain, was enjoying the impromptu show that, while not spectacular, at least offered the magic of live action. She didn’t return the greeting I called out, to avoid giving herself away. So, for her and all my other secret admirers hidden behind a window or door of their tidy little house, I shouted as loudly as I could, “THAT’S CHARLENE, MY HUSBAND’S MISTRESS! SHE’S THE ONE JACQUES LEFT ME FOR! SHE’S GOT ONE HELL OF AN ASS, EH?”

  I waited for a reaction that never came, as expected. It seemed like a good day to try out my overpriced running gear. I had a pair of sneakers and a heart full of rage. The rest would come naturally.

  10

  In which I try to run

  After Charlene left, invigorated by my minor freak-out and kitted out as a professional runner — minus the GPS watch (“Let me think about it,” I’d told Karim) — I headed to the park for my very first run since grade ten. During the week I’d taken care to read up on the basics online. Everything would be fine; I just needed to start out slow, not push the pace, and drink lots of water. I’d get in shape and clear my head.

  After two or three hundred metres, it’s hard to say (I was already regretting not buying the GPS watch), a sharp stitch pierced my left side. Just like every time I’d gone running in high school. (In college, I’d taken meditation classes and fencing.). I kept going, taking deep breaths in and out: I’d read that it would eventually pass. Just before reaching the playground, I felt a second stitch, this one stronger and more painful beneath my right breast. I slowed down but did not stop, holding myself with both hands and massaging the knots as hard as I could to try and break them up. It would pass if I just kept taking deep breaths. It said so online.

  By the time the water fountain came into view, it felt like my ribcage was about to explode and spew guts everywhere. My temples were throbbing unusually fast, I was whistling through my nose, I was sweating out of every orifice, and my hands and feet were swollen — all sure signs of imminent death. When I remembered that I hadn’t updated my will since Jacques left, I stopped short.

  “Shit! No way he’s getting his hands on my money that easily! No way! Bring on the flab and fuck the four hundred bucks of running gear.”

  A group of girls cut across the grass to avoid me. I’d have done the same thing: a madwoman with bloodshot eyes talking to herself is a scary thing. It doesn’t matter when or where.

  I should have been sweating, but mostly I was furious. My body was turning against me when all I wanted was to take care of it, make up for lost time, and give it a chance to be desirable once again. Such ingratitude.

  I flipped the finger at every curtain that swayed as I walked home and set to work as soon as I was through my front door. I moved some furniture — mostly things Jacques had left behind — out of the second-floor window. In pieces. I figured it would help the house breathe a bit. Rooms, like bodies, need oxygen. I was already on a roll, so I called the detective Claudine had recommended.

  A little later, Charlotte arrived in a bit of a panic.

  “Mom? There you are! What the heck are you doing?”

  “Oh, hi! What a nice surprise! I’m just doing a little cleaning.”

  “Mom, you’ve got to stop destroying the house!”

  “I have too much stuff.”

  “We can give the furniture away. Post online and it’ll be gone in a second.”

  “Okay, I’ll stop. I just needed to get the blood flowing.”

  “You went running?”

  “Eh, not really. It didn’t work.”

  “You’ve got to alternate between running and walking when you start.”

  “Ah.”

  “You tried to run, just like that?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Let’s make a date for this week. We’ll go running together.”

  “I think I’m a lost cause, sweetie.”

  “Anyone can run, Mom. I’ll make you a little workout schedule.”

  “So, what, you were in the area?”

  “No, Dad called.”

  “Your father called you?”

  “Charlene came home totally freaking out.”

  “Oh, it was just a little water.”

  “Mom . . . ”

  “I dropped the pitcher.”

  “Everyone’s been trying to reach you.”

  “Why?”

  “We were worried.”

  “Oh, come on . . . ”

  “Even Dad.”

  “Oh really! Him?”

  “He wasn’t too happy when he found out Charlene had gone to see you.”

  “I invited her over, the idiot.”

  “She’s not an idiot, she’s curious. It’s normal.”

  “She came in sweats so I’d feel sorry for her.”

  When Charlotte put her hand on my arm, my eyes filled with tears. They slid down the runway of my cheekbones before taking the plunge. I wasn’t crying, my head was spinning from the strain of everything I could no longer manage.

  “But what about you, how are you doing, sweetheart? We’re always talking about me.”

  “I’m pretty good.”

  “Oh yeah? Is something up?”

  “Dom’s back.”

  “He is? No way! I knew it! I told you, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you were right.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I think I might keep him guessing a little.”

  “Just a little.”

  “Just because.”

  “You still love him. Don’t lose him.”

  “Dad says that getting back with an ex is like putting on dirty socks.”

  I tried not to focus on the fact that I was the dirty sock in this analogy. But still, as a precaution, I put down the sledgehammer I was holding.

  “Tell him dirty socks can be washed.”

  Jacques would never warm up to Dominic, an artist with a bohemian streak and none of the same values. Dominic lived by an upside-down version of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, which was unsettling for an engi­neer like Jacques, who had both feet on the ground. Without a “noble” profession and money of his own, there could be no salvation of Dominic in the eyes of my ex-husband, my pair of dirty socks.

  “Don’t tell your grandmother. She’ll give you a long lecture about the ideal man.”

  “Want to hear something that’ll cheer you up?”

  “Sure.”

  “Grandma hates Charlene.”

  “Well, what do you know, maybe she’s improving with age.”

  11

  In which I try to find the pet store

  “Vulnerable?”

  “Yes, but it’s hard to describe. It’s like I’ve forgotten how things work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel like I’ve gotten worse as a mother.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t feel as grounded or as sure of myself. Like a chair with only three legs.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, just
as they did each time she wanted me to continue.

  “When Charlotte was little, maybe three or four, she used to have terrible anxiety for a kid her age. It started with the pet store. We were driving home one night when suddenly she started crying for no reason. I looked at her through the rear-view mirror, my baby girl in her car seat, her little fists rubbing her eyes. I asked why she was crying, and she told me she didn’t know where the pet store was. ‘But why do you need to know that, sweetie?’ ‘Because I want a cat when I grow up,’ she said. ‘Well, I know where the pet store is, and I’ll tell you.’ Charlotte was crazy about cats — she’d wanted one so badly, poor thing, but Jacques wouldn’t hear of it. He even told her she was allergic so he didn’t have to be the bad guy. She calmed down a bit, I thought we were done with it, but a few minutes later she started to cry again. ‘What’s going on, pumpkin?’ ‘I can’t get to the pet store if I don’t have a car.’ ‘I’ll bring you in mine. We’ll go together, honey. I’ll go with you, don’t worry. I’ll be there, I’ve got a car, I know where the store is, everything’s fine, you don’t have to cry . . . ’ She started sobbing again. ‘But Mom, we only have one car seat and I’m going to have two kids.’ ”

  “Wow!”

  “At the time, it was hard not to laugh — she’d clearly thought her plan through. I told her we’d buy another car seat, that I knew where to get one, and that I had enough money for the cat, the car seat, and anything else we needed, that I knew how to take care of cats, and babies, and lots of other things. I could tell it wasn’t so much what I said, but how I said it that was calming her down. ‘Don’t worry, Charlotte. I’m here, I’ll always be here. And I know everything you need to know.’ ”