October 1970 by Louis Hamelin

long.
    â€œThis is the good stuff,” he said.
    â€œHow  . . . how good is it?” asked Coco.
    In the bright morning light that filled the kitchen, Kimball looked at Coco as though he’d never really bothered to look at him until then. He smiled.
    â€œToo good for you,” he said.
    One night after Coco took a swing at Ginette, Lucie brought her into the bathroom while Kimball turned a blind eye, muttering that as a matter of principle he never interfered in Canadian domestic affairs. Lucie pressed a wet facecloth to Ginette’s black eye and promised to help her with the children as soon as the men went out.
    â€œHow old are you?” Ginette asked her.
    â€œI just turned eighteen.”
    â€œI don’t understand what you see in a guy like that.”
    Lucie smiled.
    â€œAnd I don’t understand what you see in a guy like your husband.”
    Ginette felt herself turning bright red.
    â€œWhat does Kimball live on?”
    â€œHe works for a company. That’s all I know, and it’s best if you don’t ask questions.”
    â€œBut seriously, aren’t you afraid of him?”
    She seemed to think about it.
    â€œCome with me,” she said. “I want to show you something.”
    They left the building by a side door that gave onto the alley and took the spiral, wrought-iron staircase down to street level. Kimball’s Z-28 was parked in the gravelled backyard.
    â€œCome take a look,” Lucie said.
    She opened the trunk and pulled back a blanket. Ginette knew nothing about weapons. In the weak light from a neighbouring balcony she saw barrels, gunstocks, triggers, cartridge clips, an entire arsenal jammed into the back of the trunk, against a row of boxes.
    â€œDo you know what’s in those boxes? Look at what’s written on them.”
    DANGER EXPLOSIVES
    Kimball was driving around with cases of dynamite in the back of his Camaro.
    The front doorbell rang. A little girl was crying in one of the bedrooms. Ginette opened the door, still holding the butcher’s knife she’d been thinking of using to slit her wrists. From the door, water could be heard running in the bathtub. She found herself looking at two police officers.
    They told her that the neighbours had called the division because of some noise and asked her if everything was all right. The one who’d spoken kept his eyes on the knife. Ginette assured them as best she could. As they were turning to leave, she felt she had to say something and told them she was going to murder her husband.
    They thought she was joking. They asked her a few questions then advised her to put the knife away.
    That night she slept soundly. The bathtub overflowed.
    The sex was good. Household Finance had them by the short and curlies. Coco would disappear, phone her and tell her to have supper ready, then not show up. One night she saw the Lincoln drive by the building without stopping; she threw her coat over her shoulders and found the car parked in the field at the end of the street with her husband at the wheel and Lucie, looking a bit embarrassed, with her T-shirt rolled up above her breasts. Ginette swore it was the last time. She became depressed. A doctor came and gave her some injections. According to him, all she needed was some peace and quiet.
    Then Coco tried to kill her. In a rage, he started breaking everything in the kitchen, split open bags of flour and flung their contents everywhere. He grabbed his wife by her hair and forced her to the floor. She fought him off until the neighbours broke down the door. Coco chased them off, throwing anything at them that came to hand, including their four-slice toaster.
    When he turned back to her, he was holding the toaster cord in his hands, a strange smile on his lips. He looked at her coldly, still moving toward her.
    â€œAre you afraid of me?”
    She couldn’t speak, her voice had given out. Someone pounded on the door. The