Autopsy of a Boring Wife Page 8

  “Hmm.”

  “I didn’t doubt myself for a second. I knew where I was going, why I did the things I did, it was all clear to me. I had a retirement plan and trips in mind, I knew exactly what we’d be eating on any given day, what I’d plant in the garden come summer . . . Now all my plans are in tatters, I can’t think beyond the night ahead, and nothing ever works out. I’ve got to make new plans, but I just can’t, I don’t feel like it. I could go to bed and sleep for ten years.”

  “These things take time, it’s normal.”

  “I wanted to be strong for the kids. I wanted them to come home if they needed advice or comfort, if they needed a break from life’s problems or just some spaghetti sauce.”

  “And they can’t do that anymore?”

  “It’s like the roles are reversed. I’m the one who’s fragile, who’s hurting, the one having a hard time. I’m not certain of anything anymore. It feels like I have to start all over again and I just don’t know where to begin. I don’t even know where the pet store is anymore.”

  12

  In which I witness a scene worthy of The Twilight Zone

  Of my top ten list of least favourite events to attend, baby showers are first, followed by weddings and baptisms (a tie), and funerals.

  Mr. Poulin’s funeral was held just off the highway in an imitation stone castle — a façade of fake stone concealing walls that were really made of wood. In keeping with the building’s artificial nature, the plants lining the lobby were bathed in natural light but just as fake.

  In Room B, which was reserved for the Poulin funeral — “to your right, all the way down, by the bathrooms, ma’am” — family, friends, and strangers formed little circles of discussion on a carpet with spiral motifs in shades of dizzying purple. I tried to maintain my gaze at shoulder-level.

  Most guests were older and wore appropriately funereal attire, save one woman mysteriously outfitted head to toe in an absolutely fascinating sparkly emerald-green ensemble. She even had matching eye shadow. She was laughing and chatting animatedly, waving her arms about while the others clutched their water glasses solemnly. A spot of cheer in a sea of grey. I made some mental notes for my own funeral arrangements: invite people to dress colourfully, and have it be a mini-ceremony in some dimly lit bar with no speeches, and make sure the wine flows freely.

  I made the rounds, going up to all official mourners who were identifiable by their seagull-shaped pins (?). “Hi, I’m Diane. I’m a friend of Claudine’s. I’m sorry for your loss.” I must have said this a good twenty times, adjusting the degree of my earnestness and body language to each mourner’s apparent grief. With André the Hypocrite, I forced a fake smile and was sure to remove “I’m sorry for your loss” from the equation. I saw no reason to make even the slightest apology and, instead, swallowed all the insults I wanted to hurl his way. That was already generous enough.

  I turned to Claudine, her face swollen with sadness, and gathered her up in my arms like a flesh-eating plant. The eternal falling-out to which her father’s death condemned her only added to the bitterness of her cocktail of daily struggles. Laurie thanked me for coming with a firm handshake. She’d grown up fast. Clearly, Adèle had not: she was sitting at a distance, exhausted from standing up for all of thirty minutes. No Royal Canadian Mounted Police for her. Claudine’s mother, at eighty-three, looked a hell of a lot better. Philippe, in his capacity as ex-son-in-law, stood at the very back of the receiving line. I managed to avoid him without making a show of it. I bet he was thanking me on the inside.

  The ceremony, once underway, alternated between songs, family speeches, and words from the officiant, who delivered a hollow sermon around the metaphor of the four seasons. It was all going smoothly up to that point, a total snooze-fest as is the custom. The fun started when Claudine’s sister, ten years her junior, started to speak. She was in the process of listing off all the extraordinary things her dad had taught her (how to skate, use a baseball glove, wash the car, wax the car, etc.) when a raspy voice sounded loudly from the middle of the room.

  “I WOULDN’T THANK HIM TOO MUCH, IF I WERE YOU . . . ”

  Claire paused, then continued. Guests started to murmur into the ears of their neighbours.

  “ . . . every Saturday morning, Dad, you would show me your tools in the garage . . . ”

  “IF IT’D BEEN UP TO HIM, YOU WOULDN’T BE HERE!”

  A minuscule old woman was standing up, pointing a finger toward the ceiling as if she were calling a witness.

  “HE DIDN’T WANT YOU!”

  The people around her tried to calm her down. Another old woman — even tinier, if possible — was pulling on her sleeve to try to make her sit down. A young woman held her firmly by the shoulders.

  “Auntie, stop that, now’s not the time.”

  “IT SURE AS HELL IS! HE’S DEAD!”

  “Exactly. What good can it do?”

  “THE MAN HAD NO HEART! IF WE DON’T SAY SO NOW IT’LL NEVER BE SAID!”

  Several people tried, gently, to usher her to the door, nudging her to take tiny steps in the right direction. But the mini-woman was like a geyser. With twisted, feeble hands, she pushed back at those trying to lead her away. She’d been sitting on her story for forty years and the stopper had finally come loose.

  “HE WANTED AN ABORTION!”

  I grabbed one of the glasses on the table next to me to sniff its contents: water. Every person in the room was thinking, “She must have forgotten to take her meds,” “Maybe it’s a blood clot,” “She’s half senile,” and the like. But it hardly mattered; her cry rang true in a room knit by hypocrisy.

  Claire sought refuge in her husband’s arms. All of a sudden, she was no longer inspired to sing the praises of a dead man who — in a manner no one could have anticipated — had just been raked across the coals. The little scandal flitted across everyone’s lips in a hubbub that started to conflate uncontrollably. The officiant scrambled to the microphone and hushed the crowd with an indifferent, “pay no heed” expression, so that the ceremony could continue. Likely this was not the first such incident she’d witnessed — death is fertile ground for settling scores. Behind her, the scene altogether surreal, Claudine’s mother was laughing — or rather, trying not to laugh. She was managing very badly, her shoulders were shaking and her face, twisted into a wrinkled little raisin, seemed about to burst. Next to her, a gentleman who looked to be around a hundred handed her a handkerchief so she could hide her face. It was confusing; it was easy to believe she was crying but the damage was done. The atmosphere in the room swung between discomfort and nervous laughter. Those who knew the truth stared at the floor, and others who, like me, had heard whisperings of her father’s infidelities — Claudine even had a half-brother somewhere out West — found it amusing that a woman who’d suffered so much could exact her revenge with a few good laughs over her husband’s coffin.

  Claudine’s brother had reserved himself the pleasure of delivering his eulogy at the very end of the ceremony, like a keynote speaker with top billing. He lived up to the image Claudine had painted of him.

  He began his homage by recounting his birth, followed by his first steps, his first time skating, his first time on a bike, his first injuries, etc., effortlessly delivered, like a seasoned politician tasked with putting a crowd to sleep. Some of the uncles laughed, their Adam’s apples bouncing, convinced of their truth despite having no recollection of these episodes. André had been careful to skim off the cream of his life, leaving the chunks of his disgracefully misguided youth in the sieve — a dishonest biographer could not have done better — as he casually intertwined anecdotes of his own life with those of his father’s. “When I looked up at my dad watching me play ball from the stands of Parc Saint-Roch, I knew he was happy.” After twenty minutes of such an inspirational account, the lady in sequins loudly articulated the malaise most of us were feeling.

&nb
sp; “My God, he’s getting one hell of a roast, isn’t he?”

  Guests within a radius several feet around her allowed themselves a good laugh. One of the old uncles took advantage of the fissure that had just opened up. “Ah come on, he’ll be at it for a while yet! It’s his father, for chrissake!” Not about to back down, André was winding up to deliver another platitude when Laurie crept up behind him, grabbed the cord of the microphone, and pulled with all her might. The plug came out of the socket in a flurry of sparks. A cold shower of silence fell over the crowd.

  Claudine’s mother burst out laughing again, this time without restraint. I’d be willing to bet the woman hadn’t been so entertained in ages.

  One of the funeral directors found the perfect words to restore the peace: “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, SANDWICHES ARE BEING SERVED IN THE BACK ROOM.” In an instant the crowd was congregating at the far door, moving together like a school of fish. Speeches, fireworks, and a buffet: the funeral was a success.

  I was making my way over to congratulate Laurie and hug Claudine before leaving when I saw him, J.P., there in the back, hands in his pockets and dangerously handsome. I wished he hadn’t seen me, unprepared for the moment, and gave myself a quick once-over — the corners of my lips, my eyes, under my nose, smoothed the eyebrows — before walking briskly over to him. Endearing wrinkles spread out from the corner of his eyes like fans, and a lone crease appeared on his left cheek. The charcoal-grey suit he was wearing was immaculate. George Clooney couldn’t have held a candle to him.

  “Hi! I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I thought I’d drop by.”

  “The family’s pretty special, isn’t it?”

  “Like Claudine.”

  “True.”

  Claudine is as special as I am boring. Two women on opposite ends of the spectrum, both left by their husbands.

  “Right, I should say hello to her before I leave.”

  “Do you have time for a quick sandwich?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We made our way over to the buffet, likely organized by the Society of Local Farmers. There were the traditional sculpted mountains of coleslaw and potato and macaroni salad; little skewers of marinated onions, olives, and sweet pickles; devilled eggs; crudités and dip (a clever mix of ketchup and mayonnaise); and little triangles of crustless white and brown bread sandwiches. I took whatever was within reach, too busy trying to appear comfortable in my own skin to see where I was putting my hand. Cretons: not a good day. There’s no elegant way to eat pork spread, period. J.P. contented himself with a piece of celery and two or three carrot sticks. Claudine and her daughters came over to join us.

  “If it isn’t the handsome J.P.!”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Claudine.”

  “It’s sweet of you to stop by.”

  He leaned in to kiss her, seizing her arms like you see on the cover of a Harlequin novel. Then he extended a hand toward Laurie, who, smitten, looked up at him with big, beautiful eyes.

  “I’m a colleague of your mother’s,” said J.P. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It was so nice of you to come.”

  He repeated the routine with Adèle, who offered him a limp handshake she did not bother to close. Merely breathing consumed all her energy, could he blame her?

  “Come with us, Diane, we’re going out for sushi.”

  “You’re not staying longer with your family?”

  “I already talked to my mother and sister. And the others . . . Are you eating cretons?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “Throw it away. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t feel like dealing with the microphone business. I told them to take the money out of Dad’s account.”

  “Ladies, I think I’ll head out now, my family’s at home waiting. Courage, Claudine. And you too, girls.”

  I felt a knot in my stomach. No one was waiting for me at home, only a few plants I was cruelly neglecting. I who had once been so busy, who’d been so needed not that long ago, no longer knew what to do with myself. Life’s a bitch. We should be able to recalibrate the hours in order to level the peaks and fill in the ditches.

  “Till the next time, my darling J.P.”

  I wasn’t able to enjoy the goodbye kiss he gave me; I was too focused on holding in my pungent pork breath. Such insignificant details often ruin the best moments in our lives. I’d once seen a bride burst into tears minutes before the official family photograph because she’d broken a nail.

  J.P. turned to walk away. He was so handsome, even from behind. I’ve always had a thing for men’s necks.

  We ate sushi, drank sake, and laughed like crazy. Adèle even lifted her head several times to participate in the conversation. It was the first time Claudine had heard of Laurie having a boyfriend, and she was visibly touched. Death takes the place of shock therapy, sometimes.

  And then Claudine wept. Finally.

  13

  In which I feed my ex-mother-in-law a line

  Blanche wanted to meet up for a “serious discussion, woman to woman.” I’d rather have had a tooth pulled without anaesthetic over putting up with one of her lectures, but I knew I had to deal with the infection before it spread. So, once it stopped raining, I dried off two deck chairs.

  My mother-in-law didn’t show up in loungewear and probably didn’t even know the stuff existed. Instead she insisted we sit inside because what we needed to discuss was too delicate a matter to be in range of my neighbours’ prying ears. In her mind, our tiny, 7,000-square-foot backyard just wasn’t private enough. I hadn’t bothered to remove the toilet paper and tissues from the bathrooms: Blanche doesn’t use the toilet. In fact, it’s always her I think of whenever men claim girls don’t poop.

  “Can I make you some herbal tea? Coffee? Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “A canary would be lovely, darling.”

  Ordinary people would just ask for hot water with lemon.

  She took off her cashmere shawl, examined the chair before sitting down, and then lowered herself with class, knees together, elbows in (obviously), and hands folded on the table. Everything with her was deliberate and, down to the smallest detail, calculated to provide an impression of both ease and humility. But it didn’t work on me. I knew that a regular family of four could feed themselves for several months for the price of her most unassuming pair of earrings. Clearly, she’d decided on a pair of elegant pumps to be sure of seeing eye to eye. She’d always been thrown by my height.

  “How are you doing, my dear?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. And you?”

  “I’m well, thank you. Despite this business of the separation . . . ”

  “Separation?”

  “Yours.”

  “Yes. Sorry about that.”

  “It’ll work out. Take one day at a time.”

  “Charlene is just adorable, you’ll see.”

  “I’m sure she is. And since I’ve already spoken to Jacques several times about your little disagreement, I thought it was time for the two of us to have a little heart to heart.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “Well. I know these things are very delicate, and you’ll forgive me for being too forward, but a divorce would create waves and repercussions that wouldn’t benefit anyone.”

  “We haven’t talked about getting divorced yet.”

  “Exactly. I don’t think your marriage is beyond saving.”

  “Jacques was the one who left. For another woman. It was a unilateral decision.”

  “Well, there you have it. Jacques’s happiness is exactly what I wanted to discuss.”

  “Charlene’s the one to ask about that now.”

  “It’s yours I’m talking about, yours and Jacques’s, your
happiness that has . . . it seems to me, lost a little of the spark over the years. Look, I understand. I’ve been with the same man for fifty years. I know what it’s like. I understand you perfectly.”

  I don’t give a rat’s ass.

  “You can appreciate this isn’t a subject one addresses with one’s son. These things are best kept between women.”

  Jesus, she wants to talk about my sex life . . .

  “I was wondering if you’d tried to shake things up, if you’ve tried therapy, if . . . ”

  “Hang on! Wait a minute! What are we talking about, here?”

  “Jacques’s happiness. And your own, darling, absolutely.”

  I’m not your darling.

  “What do you mean by ‘happiness’?”

  “What with Jacques explaining to me he was no longer happy — which is the reason he left — I wondered if you had stopped . . . how should I put this . . . satisfying your husband?”

  Christ!

  Evidently she believed that I’d driven Jacques out of our conjugal bed because I wasn’t fucking him enough, fucking him badly, or not sufficiently “shaking things up.” And my minx of an ex-mother-in-law believed she had the right to hold me accountable for my sexual services because the honour and fortune of the family empire would suffer from our divorce. The “repercussions” she alluded to were obviously nagging at her. She didn’t give a shit about our happiness, even pronounced the word like others coughed up phlegm.

  I could have thrown my hot water — mug and all — in her face, but she would have sued me for assault and loss of enjoyment of life. I couldn’t lay a hand on her, not even a fingertip, or she’d have found a way to twist my actions into a form of aggression.

  So I went with the sneakiest method, which was also the cruellest. It was so easy, I even felt a little bad after she left. I annihilated her, and she supplied the poison.

  “Look, it’s embarrassing to have to tell you this.”