An Absent Mind(23)

A few days ago, he walked into the kitchen naked and began to masturbate. I told him in a firm voice that his behavior was unacceptable. He called me Gisele and told me he was going to give it to me. Suddenly, he turned me around and raised my dress. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. He ripped my apron and then my dress, and we both tumbled to the floor. Then a few moments later, he pushed himself up on his knees, stood up, and left the room as if nothing had happened.

The next day, he started wandering around the house, calling my name. I told him I was there. He glanced at me with a blank look and asked me if I had seen Monique.

I said, “I am Monique.”

He continued walking through the house, calling for me. I followed him to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. I had already installed special latches on the cabinets, security locks on the windows, and hung chimes on the outside doors so I would know if he left the house, but I was still afraid he would find a way to hurt himself.

When he got to our bedroom, he turned around and slapped me in the face, pushed me to the floor, jumped on top of me, and started punching my stomach. Moments later, as I lay on the carpet covered in my own vomit, he knelt beside me, stroked my hair, and asked me why I was crying.

Dr. Tremblay had told me that Saul might get violent, but I wasn’t expecting this. I know I am supposed to be sympathetic, but that’s getting harder and harder. I am about to go off the deep end.

The next morning, I called Joey and Florence. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them what had happened that night or any other night, nor will I ever. I just said things were getting worse and muttered my way through the conversations without mentioning any of the horrific details. We all agreed it was time. In fact, both children had told me months ago that it was time. So I called Manoir Laurier to find out if they still had rooms available. When I’d visited there two months ago, I’d found it more like a senior citizen’s home than a place where awful people like me abandon their spouses. That made me feel somewhat better.





Joey





Am I Screwed?


Yesterday, I went to my doctor, who told me that there are genes you inherit that can tell if you are predisposed to Alzheimer’s. I’d never heard of that. I asked if there was a test, and he said yes, but they don’t do it in Quebec, because if the results are bad, a person might think of doing something untoward. I assume he meant suicide.

Well, I’m not going to hang around and wait. I’ll go down to the States and get tested if I have to. I can handle whatever the results may be, but I can’t handle the uncertainty of not knowing whether there is a time bomb ticking in my body that is already eating away at my brain.

I watch my old man, a tough prick if there ever was one—cold, indifferent, distant, not much of a father, frankly—turning into a lapdog. You know, they say that what goes around comes around. In his case, he must be paying for how he treated not only me but Mother, as well. She was the quintessential doormat, and now she rules the roost. In a way, I figure she must secretly be enjoying the power she wields. She tells him what do wear, what to eat, when to go to sleep, and he can’t so much as utter a peep about it—and if he does, my guess is that she blows him off and does what she wants anyway. Frankly, given what she’s been through all these years, I’m not sure I blame her. Ah, revenge is sweet!

I’m pissed off that he may have passed on the bad genes to me. I mean, I know that part’s not his fault, but I kind of feel that not only has he not been there for me but that as a last act he may have dealt me the early-death card. And maybe Florence has the bad genes, too, and may pass them on to her boys.





Saul





Custer’s Last Stand


That’s what I’m acting out now, trying to keep up appearances, trying to fool the last Indians sneaking up on me. And it is becoming more than wearisome. In fact, it’s becoming practically impossible.

I’m not sure, but I think I told you about the blackboard, the one where I can see things, but sometimes I can’t say them like they’re written on the board. Well, now it’s even hard for me to read the blackboard, let alone tell you what it says. It’s sort of okay at this moment—a bit jumbled, but I can make out most of it.

Before, I could think rationally for good amounts of time and talk to you like I am now. Those hours of clarity are turning into minutes, and will eventually be seconds, and then just a dark, empty hole. The times of going until sundown in a fairly normal state are all but—I was going to say a fading memory, but then you would think, Well—duh—he’s crazy! But I am not crazy, just one of the millions of unlucky winners of a worldwide lottery that will eventually reduce me to ashes.

I say ashes because that is what I am requesting in the letter I am composing right now. But it is so hard to write anymore. Do you see those crumpled balls of white paper lying on the floor? They’re from my frustration at not being able to join the letters that once were the best letters anyone ever wrote. That’s what Mrs. Trautman told me in the seventh grade. In fact, she said I would probably be a … calligraf … something—damn, I am getting tired of not being able to find the words I want. And the more tired I get, the harder it is. The point I am trying to make is that as I put the words down on paper, they don’t always look like what I meant to write.