Geneviève Bergeron. Hélène Colgan. Nathalie Croteau. Barbara Daigneault. Anne-Marie Edward. Maud Haviernick. Maryse Laganière. Maryse Leclair. Anne-Marie Lemay. Sonia Pelletier. Michèle Richard. Annie St-Arneault. Annie Turcotte. Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz.
“Sure. That’s a lot of women. But why didn’t they come forward sooner?” Asks Tim Jones, self-appointed office skeptic at a downtown Toronto financial services firm. “I mean, this is the first I’ve heard of it. Really makes you wonder, what sort of hidden agenda did these women have? Why wasn’t this made public sooner?”
Tim’s colleagues stand in a speechless circle around the spectacle of a person so deep in denial about the state of gender relations, and abuses and atrocities committed within them, that they are actually questioning the veracity of one of the worst massacres in Canadian history.
“They were murdered Tim. What the fuck are you talking about?” John from accounts asks, breaking the seething silence, as the numerous women present stand transfixed by worsening levels of apoplectic rage.
“You know.” Says Tim, to no one who does. “This event supposedly happened in 1989. That was over 25 years ago. Why am I only just hearing about this? It seems suspicious, all these years later, for news of something this serious to only just reach the hallowed halls of my own consciousness. That’s all I’m saying.”
The stunned silence fills the early morning office scene. A coffee machine begins flowing onto its element, its carafe still held empty in the hands of a woman whose eyes are firing sparks. The lights flicker. The air is gone. Tim looks around and wonders what he said.
Debbie, visiting from head office, clears her throat. She raises an arm and points towards the elevators. She speaks, low, gutturally, and from deep down within her.