Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [153]
In all this time there is no word from Billy. Charis decides to tell August – when she is big enough – that her father died bravely fighting in the Vietnam War. It’s the sort of thing she got told herself, and possibly just as accurate. She doesn’t have a solemn picture of Billy in a uniform, though, for the simple reason that he didn’t have such a thing. The only picture she has of him is a snapshot, taken by one of his buddies. In it he’s holding a beer and wearing a T-shirt and shorts; it was when he was working on the henhouse. He looks hammered, and the top of his head is cut off. She doesn’t consider it suitable for framing.
The ferry pulls into its dock and the gangway goes down, and Charis walks off, breathing in the clear Island air. Dry grass like reed pipes, loam like a cello. Here she is, back at her house, her fragile but steady house, her flimsy house that is still standing, her house with the lush flowers, her house with the cracked walls, her house with the cool white peaceful bed.
Her house, not theirs; not Billy’s and Zenia’s, even though this is where it all happened. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to stay here. She has exorcised their fragments, she has burned sweetgrass, she has purified all the rooms, and the birth of August was an exorcism in itself. But she could never get rid of Billy, no matter what she tried, because his story was unfinished; and with Billy came Zenia. The two of them were glued together.
She needs to see Zenia because she needs to know the end. She needs to get rid of her, finally. She won’t tell Tony or Roz about this need, because they would discourage her. Tony would say, keep out of the fire zone. Roz would say, why stick your head in a blender?
But Charis has to see Zenia, and very soon she will, now that she knows where Zenia is. She’ll march right into the Arnold Garden Hotel and go up in the elevator and knock on the door. She’s feeling almost strong enough. And August is grown up now. Whatever the truth turns out to be, about Billy, she’s old enough not to be too hurt by it.
So Charis will confront Zenia and this time she won’t be intimidated, she won’t conciliate, she won’t back down; she will stand her ground and fight back. Zenia, chicken murderer, drinker of innocent blood. Zenia, who sold Billy for thirty pieces of silver. Zenia, aphid of the soul.
From her bookshelf she takes down her grandmother’s Bible and sets it on her oak table. She finds a pin, closes her eyes, waits for the pull downwards.
Kings Two, Nine, Thirty-five, she reads. And they went to bury her, but they found no more of her than the skull, and the feet, and the palms of her hands.
It’s Jezebel thrown down from the tower, Jezebel eaten by dogs. Again, thinks Charis. Behind her eyes there is a dark shape falling.
THE ROBBER BRIDE
39
Roz paces her office, to and fro, back and forth, smoking and eating the package of stale cheese straws she stashed in her desk last week and then forgot about, and waiting. Smoking, eating, waiting, the story of her life. Waiting for what? She can’t expect feedback this early. Harriet the Hungarian snoop is good, but surely it will take her days to sniff out Zenia, because Zenia won’t have hidden herself in any obvious place, or so you’d think. Though maybe she’s not hiding. Maybe she’s out in plain sight. There’s Roz, down on all fours looking under the bed, at the fluff balls and the dried-out bug carcasses that always seem to accumulate there despite Roz’s state-of-the-art vacuum cleaner, and all the time Zenia is standing right there in the middle of the room. What you see is what you get, she says to Roz. Only you didn’t see it. She likes to rub things in.
Over by the window Roz comes to a stop. Her office is a corner office, naturally, and on the top floor. Toronto company presidents are entitled to top-floor corner offices, even small-potatoes