Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [121]
Billy gives Zenia a dirty look. “At least I don’t just sit around on my butt, like some,” he says angrily. He too speaks only to Charis.
“Be careful,” Charis says. She means about going into the city, but Billy takes it as a reproof.
“Have a real good time with your sick friend,” he says nastily. Zenia smiles to herself, a tiny bitter smile. The door slams behind him, rattling the glass in the windows.
“I think I should leave,” says Zenia, when they are eating some of the applesauce Charis bottled earlier in the fall.
“But where would you live?” says Charis, dismayed.
“Oh, I could find a place,” says Zenia.
“But you don’t have any money!” says Charis.
“I could get a job of some sort,” says Zenia. “I’m good at that. I can always lick ass somewhere, I know how to get jobs.” She coughs, muffling her face in her spindly-fingered hands. “Sorry,” she says. She takes a bird-sip of water.
“Oh, no,” says Charis. “You can’t do that! You’re not well enough yet! You will be soon,” she adds, because she doesn’t want to sound negative. It’s health and not sickness that must be reinforced.
Zenia smiles thinly. “Maybe,” she says. “But Karen, really – don’t worry about me. It’s not your problem.”
“Charis,” says Charis. Zenia has trouble remembering her real name.
And yes, it is her problem, because she has taken it upon herself.
Then Zenia says something worse. “It’s not just that he hates me,” she says. Her tongue comes out, licking the applesauce off the tip of her spoon. “The fact is, he can hardly keep his hands off me.”
“West?” says Charis. A cold finger runs down her back.
Zenia smiles. “No,” she says. “I mean Billy. Surely you’ve noticed it.”
Charis can feel the skin of her entire face sliding down in dismay. She has noticed nothing. But why hasn’t she? It’s obvious to her, now that Zenia’s said it – the energy that leaps out of Billy’s finger-ends and hair whenever Zenia is near. A sexual bristling, like tomcats. “What do you mean?” she says.
“He wants to haul me into bed,” says Zenia. Her voice is lightly regretful. “He wants to jump me.”
“He loves you?” says Charis. Her entire body has gone slack, as if her bones have melted. Dread is what she feels. Billy loves me, she protests silently. “Billy loves me,” she says, in a choked voice. “He says so.” She sounds to herself like a whiny child. And when was the last time he said that?
“Oh, it’s not love,” says Zenia gently. “Not what he feels for me, I mean. It’s hate. Sometimes it’s so hard for men to tell the difference. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” Charis whispers.
Zenia laughs. “Come on, you’re not a baby. He loves your ass. Or some other body part, how would I know? Anyway, for sure it’s not your soul, it’s not you. If you didn’t put out he’d just take anyway. I’ve watched him, he’s a greedy shit, they’re all just rapists at heart. You’re an innocent, Karen. Believe me, there’s only one thing any man ever wants from a woman, and that’s sex. How much you can get them to pay for it is the important thing.”
“Don’t say that,” says Charis. “Don’t say it!” She can feel something breaking in her, collapsing, a huge iridescent balloon ripped and greying like a punctured lung. What’s left, if you take away love? Just brutality. Just shame. Just ferocity. Just pain. What becomes of her gifts then, her garden, her chickens, her eggs? All her acts of careful tending. She’s shaking now, she feels sick to her stomach.
“I’m just a realist, that’s all,” says Zenia. “The one reason he wants to stick his dick into me is that he can’t. Don’t worry, he’ll forget all about it after I’ve left. They have short memories. That’s why I want to go, Karen – it’s for you.” She’s still smiling. She looks