Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [14]
“I’d look like a bellhop,” says Tony. “Anyway, it wouldn’t fit.”
“You ever consider spike heels?” says Roz. “You’d add four inches.”
“Be serious,” says Tony. “I want to be able to walk.”
“You could get a leg implant,” says Roz. “A leg enhancement. Well, why not? They’re doing everything else.”
“I think Tony’s body is appropriate the way it is,” says Charis.
“I’m not talking about her body, I’m talking about her wardrobe,” says Roz.
“As usual,” says Tony. They all laugh, a little boisterously. The wine bottle’s now half empty. Tony’s had only a few squirts of wine, mixed with Evian water. She’s wary of alcohol in any form.
The three of them have lunch once a month. They’ve come to depend on it. They don’t have much in common except the catastrophe that brought them together, if Zenia can be called a catastrophe; but over time they’ve developed a loyalty to one another, an esprit de corps. Tony has come to like these women; she’s come to consider them close friends, or the next thing to it. They have gallantry, they have battle scars, they’ve been through fire; and each of them knows things about the others, by now, that nobody else does.
So they’ve continued to meet regularly, like war widows or aging vets, or the wives of those missing in action. As with such groups, there are more people present around the table than can be accounted for.
They don’t talk about Zenia, though. Not any more, not since they buried her. As Charis says, talking about her might hold her on this earth. As Tony says, she’s bad for the digestion. And as Roz says, why give her the air time?
She’s here at the table all the same, thinks Tony. She’s here, we’re holding her, we’re giving her the air time. We can’t let her go.
The waitress comes for their order. Today she’s a dandelion-haired girl in leopard-pattern tights and calf-high lace-up silver boots. Charis has the Rabbit Delite – for rabbits, not of them – with grated carrots, cottage cheese, and cold lentil salad. Roz has the Thick-cut Gourmet Toasted Cheese Sandwich, on Herb and Caraway Seed Bread, with Polish Pickle; and Tony has the Middle East Special, with felafel and shashlik and couscous and hummus.
“Speaking of the Middle East,” says Roz, “what’s happening there? That thing with Iraq. Your specialty, I guess, Tony.”
The two of them look at Tony. “Actually, it’s not,” says Tony. The whole point about being a historian, she’s tried to tell them, is that you can successfully avoid the present, most of the time. Though of course she’s been following the situation; she’s been following it for years. Some interesting new technology will be tested, that much is certain.
“Don’t be coy,” says Roz.
“You mean, is there going to be a war?” says Tony. “The short answer is yes.”
“That’s terrible,” says Charis, dismayed.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” says Tony. “I’m not doing it, I’m just telling you.”
“But how can you know?” says Roz. “Something could change.”
“It’s not like the stock market,” says Tony. “It’s already been decided. It was decided as soon as Saddam crossed that border. Like the Rubicon.”
“The what?” says Charis.
“Never mind, sweetie, it’s just something historical,” says Roz. “So is this really bad, or what?”
“Not in the short run,” says Tony. “In the long run – well, a lot of empires have folded because they overextended themselves. That could go for either side. But right now the States isn’t thinking about that. They love the idea. They’ll get a chance to try out their new toys, drum up some business. Don’t think of it as a war, think of it as a market expansion.”
Charis forks up the grated carrot; she has a shred of it on her upper lip, an endearing orange whisker. “Well, anyway, it won’t be us doing it,” she says.
“Yes it will,” says Tony. “Our attendance will be required. If you take the king’s shilling, you kiss the king’s ass. We’ll be there, us and our falling-apart, rusty old navy. Now that’s a disgrace.” Tony is in fact indignant about this: if you’re going to make men fight, you ought to give them decent equipment.
“Maybe he’ll back down,