The houses on Somerled Avenue are neatly kept, even despite the declining nature of the neighbourhood. The sidewalks are swept, even if most of the dirt escapes into the crack which line not only the walk, but also the road. The houses all seem to have small gardens, flush with blooming patches of marigolds and snapdragons. It enlivens the atmosphere of the brick and mortar dwellings. Nobody walks the streets, not even the prostitutes. Looking around, I notice there are none. What are odd place, I conclude, realizing that where I live is regarded as the trash heap of the city. And it probably sunk just a little bit lower when my mother moved it.
           But for however pleasant the avenue is, I am distracted by the fact that the neighbourhood doesn't seem to have a soul. Sure, the houses are nice and the cars are new, but there is no old lady sitting on the balcony, no whore prowling for customers. Sure it's nice, but where's the excitement?
           Looking at the house numbers, I realize that 3646 Somerled is only a few houses ahead. As thrilled as I am, I’m also nervous. I may finally find out the identity of my mother's rapist within the next few minutes. My mind races to things I could do when I meet him. The foremost thought? Set up a meeting between him and my mother, hide, and let the festivities unfold. How fun that would be.
           Arriving at 3646, I walk up the green astroturf that lines the walkway and lift myself up the steps. I knock at the door. Instantly, a dog barks, followed by a scream.
           “Maudite chien! Va!”
           Suddenly, a tiny face appears in the door window, followed by the opening. A short bespectacled lady appears with long brown hair. Older, I would say, though probably around the same age as my mother.
            "Allo?" she asks.
            "Hi," I answer. "Does Joseph Laroche still live here?"
            "What do you want?" she becomes defensive.
            "I need to talk to him about this picture," I hold the snap up to the window. "Do you know this man?"
            "How did you get this?” she opens the door with a look of amazement. “Come in, sit down."
            She leads me into the house, past the living room and into the kitchen. She pulls out a chair by the table and directs me to sit down. I do. The feeling of relief rushes though my body. Though I have only been walking for a few minutes, my feet are killing me.
            "So," I pose. "Do you know him?"
            "Do you want un cafe? Water?" she asks, trying to play the hostess.
            "No thanks," I decline.
            She pours herself a glass of water and then takes a seat across from me. She grabs the picture out of my hand and stares with a look of astonishment.
             "Do you know him," I ask, trying to remain patient.
             "Sure," she affirms. "He's my husband."
              Another feeling of relief overcomes me, "Thank god I found you then."
             "How did you get this?" she asks.
             "I found it," I respond. "I was looking for something when I came across it."
             "Wow, I just can't believe it," she takes a sip of water. "He was so young then."
             "Is he here?"
             "He was so, how do you say it.. beau?" she struggles with her english.
             "Handsome?" I offer.
             "Yes, handsome."
             "Is he here?" I once again become impatient.
              She looks me dead in the eyes, "He's dead."
              A wave of shock takes me. I suddenly have "that" sinking feeling, as my stomach seemingly drops to the floor.
              "He's dead," I stumble. "When?"
              "A few months ago," she breathes. "He was killed."
              "How?" I ask.
              "He was walking in Angrignon park when a couple of thugs mistook him for somebody else," a tear drops from her eye. "They beat him then slit his throat."
               As much as I would like to become emotional over that fact that he can no longer help me, I know I must press on.
               "Then maybe you can help me."
               "How can I help you?" she sobs. "I can't even talk right."
               "I just need to know a few things," I seem cold. "Just a few questions."
               She wipes the tears from her cheeks and takes a deep breath. "I guess I can try. What's do you want?
                "When did you two meet?"
                She becomes defensive, "I don't think that's any of your business. You'd better go."
                "Just wait," I urge her. "It's very important, important to me. I'm trying to piece together my life and Joseph could be a piece of the puzzle."
                She sighs, "We knew each other for since, probably, the early 70s. We were only kids. We grew up together in Cote-St-Luc."
                That place instantly hits me. My mother also grew up in Cote-St-Luc. She has this picture of Joseph Laroche. Could this lady know my mother?
                She continues, "We got married in 1981. Next week would have been our 20th anniversary."
                I cut her off, "I'm going to ask you a question. It's very important that you give me an honest answer. Do you know Jeannie Desjardins?"
                Her mouth drops. A stunned look overcomes her face. I think I've struck a cord.
               "Jeannie Desjardins?" she stumbles. "Who the fuck are you?"
               "Did you know her," I plead. "Please, just answer me."
               "Of course I knew her," she yells. "We all knew her. The little whore slept with everything from here to Anjou."
                Well, that describes her to a tee.
               "When's the last time you talked to her?"
               "March, 1983," she answers curtly.
               That date floats in my mind. March would have been about three months after my conception. She must have known that my mother was pregnant.
               "Do you remember if she was pregnant?" I prod further.
               "Of course I remember," she spits. "We gave her the money for the abortion."
               "Huh?"
               "The abortion. Joseph and I just wanted to forget the whole thing. We gave her the money  so that she could get rid of the baby and we could forget that she ever existed."
               "Why?" I wonder into the unknown.
               "Joseph and her were having an affair for months," she looks away. "It was his baby."
               My heart turns cold and hard. I clench my fists and bite my tongue so hard that it bleeds. Every muscle in my body turns to stone.
               "It was his baby?" I stumble through gnashing teeth. "She wasn't raped?"
               "Raped? No," she laughs. "She willingly took everybody to bed."
               I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. I am overcome with a sense of intense anger and spite. Of all the times I've felt angry in my life, none can even compare with this moment. Not when my mother told me of her "rape," not when I nearly beat Gary to death. I am so angry that
it hurts.
                "So just who are you?" she asks.
                “I’m the baby,” I struggle as blood trickles from the corner of my mouth. "I'm their baby."
                "That can't be," she shakes her head. "We made her promise to have an abortion. We gave her the money."
                "How can you be so fucking callus," I scream. "I'm their baby!"
                "I'm sorry," she closes her eyes. "But I don't believe that for a minute."
                "You don't have to believe it to make it true."
                "You come up here, a stranger, and try to turn my life upside down only a few months after my husband died. I don’t believe it and I don’t trust you. Get out!"
                 I stand, "I'll go, but it doesn't change the truth. Joseph Laroche is my father."
                With that, I storm out of the kitchen and leave the house. Standing on the sidewalk, the full brunt of the revelation hits me. My mother lied to me that night. She willing copulated with me father, then lied to me.
                 Jeannie Dejardins is a dead woman.