Against God (2 page)

two years ago, you close your eyes, the mask on your face sends a continuous
flow of air but you don’t fall asleep, you even start to shake, you get up and
go to the children’s room, you look at the twin beds, especially Alexis’ still
with its safety rails, suddenly you rip them off, smash them against the wall,
bash the toys, the pictures, the beds, everything shatters, splinters, shards
pierce your arms and cheek, then you collapse in tears surrounded by the
devastation you’ve wreaked, finally sleep, dreamless, until late the next
morning, the front doorbell awakens you, you lie there as it rings three, four,
five times, finally silence, you get up, go to the window, a car pulls away,
Alexandre, a friend who lives nearby, you walk through the wreckage to the
bathroom, examine the minuscule cut on your cheek, grab the bottle of
antiseptic, open it, but you stop halfway, but you study the bottle, but you
hesitate, your reflection in the mirror, then you bring the bottle
to your lips, you take a mouthful of antiseptic, hold it there without
swallowing, staring at your reflection, then you spit at the mirror, your
reflection dripping now, as though you were melting, and you sit down on the
toilet bowl, and you defecate, and you stand up, study your excrement, finally
you leave, go down to the kitchen, the sight of the mess and the vomit makes you
wrinkle your nose, you listen to the messages on the answering machine, Judith’s
family one after another, shattered, in shock, especially her mother,
hysterical, and the two messages from reporters wanting an interview and a
message from Jean-Marc who has looked after everything, who wants to explain it
all to you, who expects to hear back from you soon, and you listen carefully to
this last message, then you rewind the tape to listen to it again and again, and
each time your features harden a bit more, especially on hearing certain words,
“details,” “look after,” “signatures,” and finally you slam down the
receiver, your lips clenched so tight they hurt, you collect yourself and call
Jean-Marc, he asks how you are then stops short, awkward, I’m sure he regrets
his stupid question but it’s too late, in fact you ask him if he actually wants
an answer to his “fucking moronic question,” he stammers an apology, you add
that you too are sorry, but your voice is just as cold, then he explains that
there are all kinds of things to be signed, he offers to come to you, but you
would rather meet him at his office, he says he isn’t working today, he’s
incapable of it, as though stating the obvious, almost a reproach, but you
insist, you don’t want to go to his
house, you don’t want him
to come here, so grudgingly he agrees to meet you in his office, you hang up,
time to make breakfast, but the kitchen is a shambles with traces of vomit, dirt
and filth, so you escape to the living room with your plate, eat seated on the
couch, stay put for a good hour, leave the plate and cup on the floor and go
upstairs to your bedroom, a glance through your closet, but you end up wearing
the same clothes as yesterday except for the underwear, main floor, coat, boots,
old worn boots Judith hated to see, always pestering you to choose new ones,
you’ve got a sports store after all, there’s nothing simpler than finding a new
pair, she made fun of you and your boots, you leave the house, recognize the two
reporters kicking their heels on the sidewalk, they race over, like hounds
having caught their quarry’s scent, but before they have time to speak you

- Sonofabitch, I kept calm, told you no, all for what! Be civilized, do the right
thing, none of it matters. Shit! Nothing matters!

explode, bend over, grab a handful of snow, make a sloppy snowball, and you
throw it and you yell, and you throw other snowballs at them, they bolt, back to
their cars, and speed away, and you keep throwing projectiles at the cars by now
out of range, then you stop, a ready-made snowball in your right hand, look
around, see your neighbour Michel there, using his lunch hour to make a snowfort
for his children, his three children playmates of Béatrice’s,
he’s there, outside, his shovel partly buried in the snow, paralyzed,
dismayed, you hold his gaze, as though challenging him, finally he stammers a
few words, he saw
it
in the newspapers, he mumbles words like “dreadful,
” “horrible,” your expression softens, an inaudible “thanks” escapes your dry
lips, you take it all in, the half-built snowfort, Michel’s house, his three
children’s sleds, you slowly pulverize the snowball in your hand, then you walk,
no, you run away to your car, Michel’s voice behind you
“if you need anything
. . .”,
you slam the door on the absurdity of his words, take off,
feeling as though you’re about to vomit all over again, but the feeling passes,
highway, north bridge, the City, downtown, your brother-in-law’s large
architect’s office, you sit facing him, he has bags under his eyes, he’s in a
sorry state, he tells you the viewing at the funeral home is scheduled for
Thursday and the service for Friday morning, many more details about money,
inheritance, technicalities that barely register with you, too busy
contemplating the high-tech design, the modern art on the walls, the window with
its view of the City, and when Jean-Marc holds out several documents for you to
sign, you look up, your eyes uncomprehending, but your voice calm, almost

- But I did the same as you. Not the same job, that’s true: you studied and all
that, me I’ve got no education, but I worked hard, I opened my store, I
succeeded. I did what I had to do, just as much as you . . .

clinical, he gulps, straightens one of the few strands of hair on his balding
pate, blinks in discomfort, and the words he utters in a

- I guess that . . . that’s no guarantee . . .

quavering voice make your eyebrows shoot up, your jaw drop, as though you’re
struck by a revelation, and I think that is when you understood, even though
there’s really nothing to understand, nothing at all, and you don’t move, don’t
speak and Jean-Marc has to hold the documents out again before you react, bend
over, sign them unread, then he gives you the funeral home address, it’s not far
from where you live, finally you leave, you head out, you take off, your cell
phone rings several times but you don’t answer, you’re back at the house by
three, you step out of your car, then notice the red van in front of Michel’s
house, a van that doesn’t belong to your neighbour or to his wife Lucie who
doesn’t work and is a stay-at-home mom, you walk up to your front door, a piece
of paper taped there, a message from a neighbour Rick explaining he dropped by
to see how you were doing, that he’s heard the news, saying you can call him
anytime, you crumple the paper, step inside, sit in the living room, study
what’s left of your breakfast, long minutes pass, movement in the street
glimpsed through the window, you take a closer look, a guy seems to be leaving
Michel’s house, a man in his thirties who walks to the red van, looks around
suspiciously, gets into the van and starts the engine, you turn to look at your
neighbour’s house, a quiet house, a normal house, you walk to the bathroom,
stop, return to the living room and urinate in a corner, you sit back down and
you do nothing, a quivering in your eye, a stirring inside your head, the slow
shifting
of quicksand, then people walk by, children return
home from school, you don’t get up to look out the window, you lie down on the
couch, you curl into a ball, you close your eyes, you hide them with your fists
and you weep, you weep in a silence that buries all living sound, seventy-five
minutes, you get up, put on your coat and boots, make your way to the closest
restaurant, a thirty-minute walk or so, but once there, you don’t dare go
inside, and I think I know why, you used to come here with Judith and the
children, once a fortnight, you keep on going, you stop at the next restaurant,
a chic Italian eatery you’ve only been to once or twice before, you step into an
elegant dining room, more than a dozen customers including a married couple,
vague acquaintances in fact, both wave with a smile, clearly still in the dark,
you stare at them, expressionless, not responding to their greeting, they frown
at your stony silence, mutter to each other then ignore you, you eat exceedingly
slowly, then do nothing, not even once you’ve finished, not even when the bill
is brought to you, total inertia, the waitress returns to ask if you’re all
right, you say yes and don’t move, twenty minutes, vaguely you notice the
curious glances the couple sends your way, the waitress returns, polite, makes
it clear you must go, other customers are waiting, you can plainly see the many
empty tables but you don’t insist, you get up, you pay and you step outside,
it’s dark and cold out, you don’t do up your coat, you take the longest route
home, impossible detours, ninety minutes instead of forty, you’re frozen to the
bone when you finally step inside,
lock the door, roam through
the house, stop to stare at your twenty-six sports DVDs purchased over the past
three years, then you give up on choosing one, just turn on the big 50-inch TV
that you bought yourself two months ago, lie down on the couch and, remote in
hand, you listen to the news, the economic crisis, a look back at Haiti’s
earthquake, the rape and murder of a young woman, the main suspect an escaped
prisoner from Donnacona who’s been on the loose for a number of years, but when
your story comes up, you change the channel, then switch from one channel to the
next, never stopping for more than thirty seconds on any given show, then around
midnight you come across a channel showing nothing, all done, all dark, you drop
the remote, cross your hands between your cheek and the armrest of the couch and
stare at the black screen, you fall into the screen, you close your eyes and
dream of that darkness, that emptiness, and the nothingness turns out to be the
worst possible nightmare, and when you awaken around ten, your face is wet with
tears, you sit up, you’re cold, but you don’t turn up the heat, you light a fire
in the hearth, twigs, newspaper, logs, flames shoot up, but you decide not to
close the fire screen, you back up to the middle of the room, you watch the
flames, then a spark shoots out from the fireplace, lands on the old newspapers
scattered across the floor, the paper starts to smoulder, but you don’t respond,
you don’t intervene, you watch, the small flame simply scorches the paper before
dying out, you sigh then and leave the living room, finally you listen to all
your messages, those at home
and on your cell phone, friends,
store employees, your brother crying asking where you are, whether or not you’ve
told Dad and Mom in Florida, he begs you to call him, they all want you to call,
they all exclaim how horrible it is, they all offer their help, but you make
just one phone call, to your store, you speak to your manager, advise him you
won’t be back for quite a while, he asks for instructions, but you tell him to
do whatever he wants, he says he’d like to have some specifics and even though
you can tell how unnerved he is, you say again that he can do whatever he wants,
that it doesn’t matter at all, not in the least, not at all, and you hang up,
the doorbell rings, you can make out two silhouettes behind the glass, you
panic, hurry down to the basement, the doorbell rings again, you can even hear
the sound of the doorknob being turned several times in vain, finally silence,
you look around you, children’s decorations, shelves full of toys, posters of
cartoon heroes, dolls, trucks and figurines, and in a corner your elliptical
trainer that you’ve not touched in three days, you who normally trains every
morning before work, you get on the elliptical and start to pedal, a firm grip
on the handles propelling your arms back and forth, and you pedal, and you row,
you jack up the resistance as far as it will go, and you pedal, and you row, and
you go as fast as possible, you grimace, you perspire profusely, you clench your
teeth, your limbs begin to tremble from the strain but you don’t slow down, you
keep on pushing and pushing, ten minutes, then fifteen, then twenty, thirty,
forty-five minutes pushing yourself to the limit, without respite,
your body sticky with sweat under your sopping clothes, your face crimson,
your breath wheezing, you slow down against your will, you grunt, you cry out,
you don’t want to stop, but suddenly you flatten your hand over your heart and
groan in pain, you collapse to the floor, on your back, convulsing, gasping for
air, clenching and unclenching your fingers on your burning chest, but the pain
lessens, your heart starts beating normally, the heart attack didn’t want you
after all, your breathing stabilizes and you close your eyes, you lie there,
thirty minutes, silence, silence, you get up, your legs rubbery, take the
stairs, bathroom, a long hot shower, then you throw on the first clothes you
come across, you return to the main floor, two o’clock, you step outside,
without a coat, your slippers on, it’s cold out but the sun is shining, you walk
to the sidewalk and look at the houses on the street, orderly, pretty,
well-kept, peaceful, and the red van is back in front of Michel’s house, you
narrow your eyes, then you return inside, look up a phone number, dial, give
your neighbour’s name to the insurance company receptionist, then Michel
answers, surprised and a bit awkward at your call, so you tell him there’s no
point to it all, but he doesn’t understand, you continue, your voice

- Your house, your kids, your family, your job . . . It’s all for nothing,
Michel.

a monotone, he says again that he doesn’t understand, fumbles as he asks you
what he can do to help, you tell him he’d better come home right away,
immediately, then he’ll understand, you hang up, examine the
mess in the kitchen, go outside, still coatless, walk over to the sidewalk, your
hands in your pockets, and you wait, ten minutes, fifteen, then Michel’s car
drives past, Michel steps out of the vehicle, Michel stares at you in concern
and suspicion, Michel asks what’s going on, and you turn your head toward the
red van, your neighbour sees it now too, a flicker of doubt in his eye, he
quicksteps to the house, ninety seconds, shouts and exclamations burst from
within the pretty bungalow, so you return inside, stop in the living room, look
at the fire in the hearth, several sparks have singed the wooden floor, but
that’s all, you sit down on the couch, see the red van speed past the window,
the phone rings, this time you do answer, it’s your brother Alain, whom you’ve
barely seen since he moved to Drummondville, Alain shouting, chewing you out,
asking you why you didn’t call back, and you simply say you didn’t want to, he
bursts into tears then, he apologizes, he asks if you’ve told Dad and Mom in
Florida, you say no, then he announces he’s coming to stay with you right away,
you say that’s out of the question, you’ll see him at the funeral home tomorrow,
you give him the address and the time, finally he backs down but insists that
tomorrow he’ll stay with you until the service on Friday and even all weekend,
he, Marie-Hélène and the children, they’ll be there for you, they won’t abandon
you, you say fine, provided they all make it there tomorrow, he’s surprised,
says of course they’ll
be there, without fail, but you insist,
without a trace of irony or