Duplicity

No one rushes to greet death, Julienne mused as people drifted into the funeral home, sometimes alone, sometimes in twos and threes. Seated across the street, she took a sip of her gin and tonic, tilted her face to the late-spring sun. The smells of steamed milk, espresso, and freshly cut lemons and limes emanated from the century-old wooden bar, drifted enticingly to the terrace. How she loved Montréal. The eclectic mix of people, cafés, the rich architecture, the lyrical backdrop of English and French. She’d been lucky enough to finagle a business trip to the city and to bring her sister along. She turned to her now. “Come on, Soph, it’s just a funeral.” 

    “I hate funerals.” Sophie looked to the sidewalk, her recently dyed black hair incongruous against the sallow white face. “But it looks like that boutique next to the funeral home is having a sale. Let’s go there instead.” She craned her neck to see better.

    “No one likes funerals, Sophie. But it’ll be great material for a story.” Julienne hated crunching numbers all day long, had recently joined a writing group.

    “Yeah? What’s in it for me, exactly?”

    “I told you, an adventure. Something to talk about at parties.”

    “Like I go to a lot of those.” 

    Julienne sighed, used her straw to play with the lime at the bottom of her glass. Her sister was so stubborn. 

    “Listen, just go on your own, if it’s so important to you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea, ” Sophie said.

    “Why not?”

    “It’ll be embarrassing, awkward.” She shrugged. “Plus, we’re in Montréal, where we were born. We should take advantage of it. Do a little shopping.” She eyed the store again.

    Julienne was only five and Sophie two when they’d moved to Toronto from St. Laurent. After the divorce, their mom had wanted a fresh start in her hometown. But Julienne wished they’d stayed. She remembered things in little flashes, like the landlord’s cat, Michou. And a skinny babysitter whose breath smelled of cigarettes who’d sat on the circular iron staircase and painted her toenails purple. She’d called Julienne ma poupette. And their father? Thin, muscular, a mustache, a green convertible Mustang. He’d taken Julienne for little rides down the street. She’d sat on his lap and he’d fed her Tic-Tacs.

    She took another sip of her drink. “You can’t afford to go shopping.”

    “I know that…but I can look at the sale racks. Plus, it’s good therapy, which we could both use.”

    Julienne nodded. Her marriage had recently blown up. Her two daughters weren’t speaking to her (although they gratefully took her money), and one of them had a serious drinking problem. Plus, she hated her job at BDE Financial. As for Sophie, she was forty-two, had never married. She owned a bookstore that she was fighting to keep alive and had a teenaged son who’d just been caught selling pot and was flunking out of school. Drugs and alcohol, in some form or other, had played an increasing role in their lives. And Julienne had been footing the bill for the therapists. “I really don’t see the harm in it,” she insisted. “I’m not going to stay long…come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll go shopping with you after.”

    Sophie took a final swig of her drink, started gathering her things. “I’m out of here.” She looked at Julienne, her lips set in a firm line. “Didn’t you get enough writing material from Mom’s death for fuck’s sake?”

    “Take it easy, Sophie. We didn’t have a service for Mom—”

    “I know. Sorry. But I’m still a little too raw to go to a funeral just now.” She attempted a smile. “Why don’t I meet up with you at the hotel in a couple of hours. Then we’ll do some exploring, have some adventures together. Okay?” She grabbed an elastic from her bulging, worn purse, put it in her mouth, gathered her hair and deftly fashioned a loose bun. She bent over and gave Julienne a peck on the top of her head.

    “Fine…good luck. Remember, don’t take anything from the bar fridge. I don’t want any surprises when we cash out. I can’t expense those,” Julienne said.

    “I know. I know. I learned my lesson the last time.” Sophie laughed as she worked her way through the tables. “À bientôt!”

    Julienne sighed and looked back across the street. What would it be like to crash someone’s funeral? To blend into the background and discover bits and pieces of the dead person’s life? Was she crazy enough to do it on her own? Maybe another gin and tonic would help. She flagged down the waiter.

    “Oui, madame?” His eyes were sapphire blue, his voice satin smooth with a hint of something deeper, more sultry.

    “Un autre, s’il vous plaît,” she said with more longing than she’d intended. 

*****

Julienne smiled at the attendant who held open the door with the practiced look of deference and grief. Once inside, she peered down the hushed, airless hallway at the gold-plated names affixed to the doors. She wondered how many of the dearly departed had had their names gold plated in life. She joined the growing line outside one of the rooms, smiled at the older woman who turned around. 

    “How did you know Eric?” the woman asked, pegging Julienne as an Anglophone, which bugged her. A close talker, she’d had garlic for lunch. Her pink lipstick shone bravely through the dry, withered cracks.

    “Oh, I knew him a long time ago, when I was younger,” Julienne said, hoping this would satisfy her, end the hideous stench.

    “Really?” she said, only half turning. “I worked for him a few years back…a good man. Always there for a hug when you needed it.”

    “Hmm,” Julienne said by way of response. They had reached the room. People milled about, looked at photos, hugged each other, drank wine. Julienne liked the wine part; the Québecois knew how to mourn. Still, her stomach lurched. Maybe this was a bad idea. She should go. But she was now at the front of the receiving line and had locked eyes with the man standing there. 

    “Hi,” he said. A quizzical smile played on his lips. In his late thirties, he was handsome, stunning even. She was taken aback. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met?” he continued. He shook her hand. “I’m Patrick.” He turned to the younger woman next to him. “And this is my sister, Kate.”

    They were both looking at her now, waiting for a response. God, how long had she been staring at them, trancelike?

    “Sorry,” she bumbled. “I’m Julienne. Sorry for your loss.” She turned, eased into the mingling crowd. She could feel the heat of their stares on her back. 

*****

She scooped a half-finished glass of wine off a table, apparently that of a middle-aged woman who was speaking animatedly to an older man. She noted the startled look on the man’s face, smiled at him, and retreated to a corner of the room. Her heart was racing. What was she doing here?

    Deep breaths relaxed her a bit. French and English voices rose and fell in a hushed, harmonious concert. She peered through a crack in the crowd. The receiving line had disbanded. Patrick and Kate were speaking to an older woman, presumably their mother. Poufy dyed blonde hair, heavy makeup, royal blue skirt suit, set of pearls. In marked contrast to her own mother, who’d never worn a spec of makeup—never needed it. Hers had been a sort of bohemian “mix and match” style.

    She missed her mom. It had only been four months since she’d died of a brain aneurism. A life unfulfilled, going from job to job. A sometime law clerk, sometime caterer. Focused and ambitious at times, teary and desperate at others. In her “up” phases, she’d scrounged money together for the odd weekend family adventure (Prince Edward County, Grand Bend, even New York). Had taken them to movies and plays. Had instilled in them a love of Mozart, Alice Munro, The Rolling Stones. In her “down” phases, she’d been, well, down. Couldn’t muster the energy to take her medication, to brush her teeth, to get dressed. Julienne and Sophie had fended for themselves, which meant a lot of Kraft Dinner and grilled cheese. Not to mention the creative excuses they’d expressed over the phone to their mom’s unsympathetic (verging on hostile) bosses. 

    A tall, slender ageless woman approached, vaguely attractive, with thin brown hair, an aquiline nose and full red lips. She positioned herself against the wall next to Julienne, her gaze flitting among the crowd like a bird searching for somewhere to land. She looked at her. “Anglaise?”

    “Oui…mais, je parle un peu de français.” Again, she’d been singled out as an Anglophone. What betrayed her? Her hair? Shoes? Clothes? Her own father was a Francophone, for God’s sake. 

    “That’s okay,” the woman said without a trace of an accent. “Were you a friend of Eric’s?” 

    “No.”

    “A relative then?”

    “No…not really,” she found herself saying, for lack of anything better. 

    “Not really?” the woman looked intrigued, studied her. “You could pass for family. Something around the eyes.” 

    “What about you? How did you know…Eric?” Julienne asked, gulping the remainder of her (stolen) wine. 

    The woman studied her. “I was his fuck buddy,” she said in a tone reserved for something more banal, such as “I hate the colour red.”    

    Julienne nodded, determined not to appear shocked.

    “He also fucked me over pretty good,” the woman added. “Asshole.”

    This made Julienne smile. “Yes, I know the feeling.”

    “Aha… I knew you were a kindred spirit,” the woman said with a laugh. “Eric was a looker, but check out that son of his, what’s his name, Patrick?” She was staring straight ahead. “God, he’s delicious. I’d do him, if he’d have me. Wouldn’t you?” 

    “Yeah, sure, I guess.” She squirmed.

    The woman laughed, gave her a conspiratorial tap on the shoulder. “Chin up,” she said and then left, just as quickly as she had appeared.

*****

Julienne braved the room. She walked to the closed coffin, rested her hand on the smooth, cherry-wood surface. Took in the photos that were plastered everywhere. On Bristol board, on computer screens, in silver frames. With each picture a strange, panicky feeling gained more ground. A handsome, silver-haired man of wealth and importance with a kind smile. A man who’d built a career in finance. Who’d apparently been generous with his time and money, given the sickly stench of bouquets from hospital and arts foundations, schools, and sports clubs. A man who’d been every inch the doting husband and father. Camping, skiing, swimming, soccer (even a coach, for fuck’s sake). High-school graduations, birthday parties. One of those giant inflatable castles in the backyard. And a lovely, New England-style cottage somewhere in the Eastern Townships. Gleeful faces. Joy. Joy. Joy.

    Asshole. Asshole. Asshole. Fathers like this didn’t really exist. It was a farce, a lie. She had to get out of here. As she started to leave, she became caught in a surge of people as they entered an adjoining room. Many dabbed their eyes with tissues. The service was about to start.

*****

The coffin had been moved to the front of the room, laden with towering bouquets of white lilies. A quartet in the front corner played Hayden as the family took their seats. The elegant matriarch followed by the dashing son, the beautiful daughter, and a few grandchildren, one of whom had shocking, bright purple hair that shot up from his head like tall grass. A headset dangled from his crumpled pants. The grandmother sent him a barely concealed look of reproof.  

    An Anglican priest strode to a makeshift podium at the front. It appeared that the star of the event had relinquished his Catholic upbringing, worked his way into the English milieu. Perhaps the starchy woman in royal blue was responsible for that. The priest surveyed the room with a kind smile. “We are here today to remember and celebrate the life of Eric Joseph Duceppe…and when I say ‘celebrate,’ I mean truly celebrate.” He paused, looked at his audience for effect. “Eric had a terrific life,” he said with emphasis. “He was blessed with an amazing family…” he nodded to the front row “…and amazing friends.” He swept the room with his arms. Self-congratulatory smiles all around. “He built a successful career and worked hard, but saved time for the most important thing in his life…” dramatic pause “…his family.”

    Julienne’s throat constricted. Felt as though it were being pressed in a vice.

    “As you’ve seen for yourselves,” he said, pointing to the next room, “the photos are filled with Eric and his family—together at sporting events, on trips, at the lake….” Another look to the crowd. “I had the pleasure of knowing Eric. A true friend and lavish supporter of the parish. He was well versed in the issues of the day and we talked about many things, but you know what? He’d just keep coming back to those kids of his.” He looked at Patrick and Kate and laughed. “He was so proud of you both.” 

    Julienne looked over at Eric’s children. Both had their heads down. Patrick was struggling to keep it together and Kate was openly weeping. They’d obviously loved him. 

    “I’d like to call on Patrick, Eric’s son, to come and say a few words on behalf of the family.”

    Patrick wiped his eyes, strode to the podium. “Thank you, Reverend Doyle, I appreciate your kind thoughts.” The priest nodded with a short, self-deprecating smile and sat down. 

    “Yes, indeed, my dad had a life worth celebrating,” he said, with a hint of a tremor. “But what many of you don’t know is that he didn’t always have it so easy.” He looked down. “He grew up with many hardships. The loss of his little sister to tuberculosis and a father who drank too much, who couldn’t hold down a job, and who…” he looked up “… eventually abandoned him, his mom, and his two brothers. The fact that my dad not only survived this, but became so successful, is testament to his street smarts, strength, and integrity.”

    He’d been abandoned by his own father, Julienne thought. Sad.

*****

Julienne’s attention wavered in and out for the rest of Patrick’s speech, but words like “amazing dad,” “generosity,” and “good man,” held in her consciousness like cement. She glanced at Eric’s mistress, who was half-asleep. 

    “Now, I’d like to invite you to stand up and share some of your own memories of my dad,” Patrick said, his arms beckoning. “Come on, I know you have some.” A few laughs, coughs, whispers. Patrick remained standing.

    A paunchy man with the reddened nose of an alcoholic stood up. An expensive-looking blue and white dress shirt strained at the midriff. “Eric and I are,” he coughed, “were golf buddies. One time, I swear to God, he hit that thing and it soared like a bird,” he scooped the air upward with his hand, “and wouldn’t you know, he got a hole-in-one.” He beamed. “Gave him plenty of bragging rights, but he didn’t use them.” He shook his head. “No way, said it’d been a fluke.” He sat down.

    Julienne closed her eyes, leaned back. From the alcohol-laden depths, an idea struggled to the surface. Would she act on it?

    “When we were kids,” started a handsome man in his late seventies, “we used to run along this old, creaky bridge in St. Laurent and jump on the trains below.” He laughed. “He’d always go first.” He acknowledged the woman beside him, clearly his wife. “What?” he said, feigning indignation. “It was his idea!” Laughter followed.

    A slender woman in her early fifties with dyed blonde hair rose from her seat. “I worked with Eric for many years,” she said softly with a strong French accent. “He helped me a lot. He was…” She paused. “Oh, how do you say it? Hot?” Muffled laughter. She turned to the woman next to her. “Chaud?” The woman whispered something. “Ah, yes, warm.” He was always warm and…obligeant,” she finished hastily, resorting to the French term for “obliging.”

    Julienne looked again to Eric’s mistress, who caught her glance. She smiled as if to say, “I bet!” 

*****

 Julienne waffled. Would she do it? Should she do it? She knew she had the motivation. She also knew she’d had too much to drink. She stood up before she’d even made up her mind. Swayed a little. Everyone looked to her, their eyebrows forming an upside down V. “Hi…I’m Julienne. I just want to say how impressed I am by everything I’ve seen and heard today about your dad,” she said, looking to Patrick, who acknowledged her with a smile and a nod. “I hope you realize how fortunate you are.” Julienne was sweating, knew she was beet red. She’d never been great at public speaking. “All those trips, time together, you know? And, most importantly, all that love—my goodness, there seems to have been no shortage of that,” she said. People were whispering to one another, trying to figure out who the hell she was. 

    “It’s just…my dad, he was the exact opposite of yours,” she continued. “He abandoned my sister and me when we were little kids. Sent the odd cheque, I guess, but that was it.” She glanced around the room. “Broke our hearts. My mom’s, too. You see, my mom was sick, unstable. That’s why he left.” Her lips were trembling, a painful knot had formed in her throat. Goddamn it, she was going to cry. 

    Patrick hesitated, then moved toward her and gave her a hug. “It’ll be okay,” he said, barely above a whisper. He smiled at her uncertainly. 

    “Thanks…um…thanks,” she said, unable to look right at him.

    “No worries.” Patrick headed slowly back to the podium. He exchanged a puzzled glance with his sister.

    The room was silent, save for a couple of uncomfortable coughs. The pity was unbearable. The priest looked expectant, in stark contrast to the dark stare of the matriarch, who seemed angry, fearful, ready to pounce. Julienne hurried on. Too late to turn back now. 

    She faced Patrick and Kate again. “The problem is that my dad and your dad are,” she choked out, “were,” she corrected, “the same person…so go figure.” Her eyes fluttered over her siblings’ faces as they took in the information. Incredulity. Horror. Fear. Then back again.

    For a good three or four seconds there was nothing but silence. Then audible sighs and startled, whispered conversations. She heard the odd person mutter “no!” and “for heaven’s sake,” and “ce n’est pas vrai.” 

    She didn’t dare look at their mother but instead turned her gaze to the side. To Eric Duceppe’s mistress. Gone was the sleepy posture. She was now sitting bolt upright, greedily taking it all in.

    Just then there was a clatter as the older woman burst out of her chair and moved toward Julienne, red faced. “How dare you come in here with these lies?” she asked, stealing an embarrassed look at her guests, who seemed not to know what to do with their faces. Her voice sounded as though she had a cloth stuck in her throat. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your little show, now get out!” With that she grabbed Julienne by the arm, her pink manicured nails biting into Julienne’s skin, and escorted her out of the room. Then, in the barest of whispers, “As you can see, my children had no idea about you or your sister. How could you be so tactless? What is your problem?”

    Julienne was astonished. “So, you knew about me and Sophie?”

    “Of course I knew,” she said without a hint of regret.  “Eric told me everything before we got married. He was very honest, you know.”

    “Oh, sure,” Julienne said. “A man of virtue.”

    “Stop it! You have no idea what kind of a man he was.”

    “I have some idea.” 

    By now they had reached the front door. The attendant pushed it open, visibly perplexed at the heated exchange. Julienne moved outside, started down the stairs.

    “Julienne.” 

    Julienne turned around, surprised at the use of her name. 

    “This was all going to come out in a couple of weeks,” the woman said, standing at the top step. “I was going to tell them, the children, in a couple of days.”  A single fat tear rolled down the woman’s face, which had crumpled. She tried to regain some defiance. “You see, he put you in the will, you and Sophie…God only knows why, but he did.” She half turned. “You’ll be getting a call from our lawyer. The will is being read June—”

    “Mom!” Patrick appeared at the door, followed by his sister. He put his arm around his mother.

    “Why are you still here?” Kate asked. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? Coming here and ruining my dad’s funeral with your crazy lies. Are you into funerals? Huh? Is that it?” Her eyes were angry slits. She turned to Patrick. “Call the police.”

    Patrick shook his head. “Look at her, Kate.”

    “What?”

    “Just look at her. Her mouth. Her eyes.”

    “Enough!” the matriarch’s voice was shaking. She looked at each of her children in turn. “She’s your sister, for Christ’s sake. Okay? She’s telling the truth.” 

    Patrick stared at his mom while Kate slumped down on the step. Her face was ghostly white. Neither of them said a word.

    Patrick broke the silence. “How long have you known?” 

    She fiddled with a button on her jacket. “For years.”

    “What?” he said. “And we’re only finding this out now?”

    “We didn’t think it was something you needed to know,” she said simply.

    Patrick and Kate looked at each other. 

    Julienne was struggling to maintain control. “No. Why would they need to know about us lowly outcasts?” The effects of alcohol were dissipating.

    “Blame your mother,” the matriarch said coldly. “She refused to let him see you. It’s not his fault. He hoped the two of you would try to reach him once you were older…and you didn’t, until now.”

    “Are you serious? I’m sure you helped him with that tidy rationalization. It was up to him to reach out to us. We’re the kids, remember?” Julienne’s head was quivering. “Mom was angry, sure, but she didn’t kidnap us for God’s sake. He had plenty of resources…He could have found us if he’d wanted to. Applied to the courts, whatever. But no, he wanted to start over and forget about us. All that stuff that was said in there? About integrity, compassion, love, generosity? It’s all a crock. God!”  

    Julienne looked at Kate and Patrick. Saw their bewildered, crushed faces. She almost felt sorry for them. But then she turned to their mother. “We’ll see you at the reading of the will. Normally, I’d say he could shove his money. God knows, it won’t make up for all the damage he’s caused us, but it’s something. It’ll help with our therapy bills.” Tears were at the surface, ready to spill. The woman remained expressionless. “Being abandoned isn’t great, you know? Doesn’t do wonders to your confidence, your self-esteem. How do you think it feels? Seeing all that goddamn love and success in there. All those smiley faces. The happy little family…” She looked to the side, wiped her face. 

    The matriarch held on to her cool stare. Gone was the hint of emotion that had betrayed her earlier. Everything about her bearing spoke defiance. “Come, Patrick, take me back inside.”

    Patrick called to Kate, but she didn’t move from the step, her head in her hands. He gave Julienne the briefest of nods, then led his mother away.

*****

Julienne couldn’t remember walking to the Métro. But she must have done, since she now sat on the train headed back to the hotel. She leaned back, lulled by the rhythmic cadence of the car as it swayed along the tracks. She felt as though her energy had drained away, leaving her weightless, ungrounded. Thoughts and images competed for attention. And questions. How would she explain this to Sophie? Should they open themselves to their half-siblings? Could they bear the jealousy? Will their siblings open themselves to them? Why did their dad put them in his will? Guilt? Or was there something else? Perhaps a vestige of the past. A well-worn memory. A little girl on her father’s knee, looking up and smiling, her mouth full of Tic-Tacs.