An Absent Mind by Eric Rill

I don’t think Monique ever had much fun with me when it came to sex. It was always a reward for good behavior. Some reward—a zaftig woman with cellulite and stretch marks lying face up on the bed under the bright light, with her eyes squeezed shut, as if awaiting her executioner—not exactly Linda Lovelace in heat!

Monique

    Humiliation
    S aul is really going downhill. I shiver whenever I think of taking him out in public and tremble when I think of being alone with him.
    Last week, I drove him downtown for lunch. One of my old friends, Danielle Lafontaine, was walking by with her nine-year-old granddaughter. She saw us sitting out on the sidewalk terrace and stopped to say bonjour . We hadn’t talked in a long time, and I wasn’t sure how much she knew about Saul’s condition, but the hesitant smile and quick kiss on his cheek answered the question.
    Saul looked up at her and over at the little girl and started spewing the “F” word. Danielle grabbed her granddaughter’s hand and rushed away.
    That wasn’t the first time he’d sworn like that in public, and Dr. Tremblay told me it probably wouldn’t be the last. But I can’t exactly hang a sign around his neck saying Alzheimer’s patient, so what am I supposed to do?
    If it were just that, I could probably handle it. What really scares me is being alone with him. There are things I haven’t shared with you, the children, or anyone else. They were too humiliating. But I have to tell someone.
    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?
    Y esterday, 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