could say a word.
Unfortunately, the door of our apartment, my
apartment, doesn't have a peephole. I haven't been able to talk
the owner into letting me install one.
♦ ♦ *
Two months after Jean-Charlés's death, the doorbell
rang. Another policeman, higher.ranked this time.
"Madame LaFrance? Je suis le capitaine Marchand,
police d'Ottawa. Je m'excuse de venir vous troubler."
They'd just found a body, and believed it to be my
husband's.
It couldn’t, I said. Jean-Charles was dead. I'd seen his
body. I'd identified it.
But it seemed that hadn't been Jean-Charles after all.
That body was unrecognizable, wasn't it? Could I come see this
body, to help them clear things up?
The corpse was a few days old when it had been found,
but preserved by the cold weather. It was his face, and on his
left hand I saw his wedding ring.
man?
But then, I asked Captain Marchand, who was that other
He shook his head.
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"Nous continuous notre investigation."
Three days later, Jean-Charles’s body went again
through the crematorium, a new funeral urn replacing the one
the policemen took away.
There were consequences to this second death, of
course. Two weeks after that our insurance agent came to visit.
This new development, he explained, required a revision of the
case, the payment on Jean-Charles's life insurance might have
been premature, given the new infonnation, in particular, it was
no longer quite so clear that the death had been accidental, so...
Perhaps he hoped the poor broken.hearted widow
would hand over the insurance money. I told him that
Jean-Charles was dead, that the case was closed, that they
could contact my lawyer if they disagreed.
Before he fled, he nevertheless suggested that I not
spend that money too quickly.
Acura.
The next day I traded in my old Civic for a brand.new
♦ * ♦
Another ring at the door. One of those salesmen, just
happen to be in the neighbourhood, exceptional offer, clean
your carpets, unbeatable price.
I said we didn't have any carpets in the apartment.
"But," he said, looking at the carpeted floors of the
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hallway and living room, clearly visible from the entrance.
I insisted: "We don't have any carpets."
He didn't protest any further. He mustn't be used to
hearing bigger lies than his own.
* *
Two months after those second funerals, Captain
Marchand came back to my door. I asked him if they'd found
anything new about Jean-Charles's death. He hesitated.
They’d received a call from from the Quebec provincial
police. A skier had killed himself on the slopes at
Mont.Tremblant. He was registered at the hotel as Jean-Charles
LaFrance, and his description matched my husband's. They'd
even
compared
his
fingerprints
with
Jean-Charles's
employment file at the government. It was him, no doubt about
it.
But then, who was that other, those others? It couldn't
be, it simply couldn't be!
I realized I was screaming when my neighbour opened
her door to see what was going on. I tried to calm myself down.
What, I asked again, was going on?
They didn't know, admitted Marchand. "Nous
continuous nos investigations."
This time, they didn't ask me to identify the body, but I
did have to present myself at the police station the next day for
a serious interrogation. They wanted to know everything I
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knew about Jean-Charles. Did he have a twin brother? He was
really an only child? Not adopted? Were we having any marital
problems? Financial problems?
They did show me the possessions of the man who'd
died at Mont.Tremblant. It was Jean-Charles's wallet, all right,
and his wedding ring. The same ring I'd already identified
twice.
This time, there was no question of cremation; they
kept the body.
* * *
Someone's at the door. Who are all those people?
No, I didn't call for a plumber. What address do you
have? No, this is aparment 3F, 3E is across the hall. Yes, I
know, it's not clearly marked.
* ♦ *
It wasn't Captain Marchand who showed up two
months later, but the RCMP. Two officers, policemen to the
core in spite of their civilian clothes. They invited me, with a
thin veneer of politeness, to accompany them to Headquarters.
They'd found a new body, of course, Jean-Charles's
body. This one had died of a heart attack in Vancouver. Papers
identifying him as Jean-Charles LaFrance, unquestionable
identification.
These cops had slightly clearer suspicions.
"Didn't your husband work at the Ministry of Health, in
biological research?"
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"Yes. He was a laboratory technician. He cleaned the
equipment after the experiments were complete."
"What type of research, exactly?"
As if they didn't know that better than I did!
"As far as I can tell, they exposed mice to various
industrial products, to see what kind of cancer they'd die from."
"And you, Mrs. Lafrance, you're a Registered Nurse?"
"Yes, I am."
I've never been able to grow a flower from a seed, so if
they imagine I've been cloning Jean-Charles to obtain a
multiple husband!
They had to let me go, finally. Only to come ring at my
door every time Jean-Charles's body is found.
There must be, somewhere in Ottawa, a morgue filling
up with identical bodies, with bodies constantly disturbed for
new tests, new analyses.
With bodies all wearing that same damned wedding
ring.
It's been two months since anyone came to tell me of
my husband's death.
It shouldn't be long now (85).
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