Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [157]
“We could change it to The Robber Bride,” says Tony. “Would that be adequate?”
The twins give it some thought, and say it will do. They are fond of bridal costumes, and dress their Barbie dolls up in them; then they hurl the brides over the stair railings or drown them in the bathtub.
“In that case,” says Tony, “who do you want her to murder? Men victims, or women victims? Or maybe an assortment?”
The twins remain true to their principles, they do not flinch. They opt for women, in every single role.
Tony never talked down to the children. She didn’t hug them or pinch their cheeks or tell them they were sweet. She spoke to them as if they were miniature adults. In turn, the twins accepted her as one of themselves. They let her in on things, on their various plots and conspiracies, their bad ideas – stuff they would never have shared with Roz. They used to put Tony’s shoes on and march around the house in them, one shoe for each twin, when they were six or seven. They were entranced by those shoes: grown-up shoes that fit them!
The Robber Bride, thinks Roz. Well, why not? Let the grooms take it in the neck for once. The Robber Bride, lurking in her mansion in the dark forest, preying upon the innocent, enticing youths to their doom in her evil cauldron. Like Zenia.
No. Too melodramatic for Zenia, who was, after all – who is surely nothing more than an up-market slut. The Rubber Broad is more like it – her and those pneumatic tits.
Roz is crying again. What she’s mourning is her own good will. She tried so hard, she tried so hard to be kind and nurturing, to do the best thing. But Tony and the twins were right: no matter what you do, somebody always gets boiled.
40
The story of Roz and Zenia began on a lovely day in May, in 1983, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing and Roz was feeling terrific.
Well, not quite terrific. Baggy, to tell the truth: under the eyes, under the arms. But better than she’d felt when she’d turned forty. Forty had been truly depressing, she had despaired, she’d dyed her hair black, a tragic mistake. But she’d come to terms with herself since then, and her hair was back to auburn.
Also: the story of Roz and Zenia had actually begun some time before, inside Zenia’s head, but Roz had no idea.
Not quite that, either. She had an idea, but it was the wrong idea. It was hardly even an idea, just a white idea balloon with no writing inside it. She had an idea that something was up. She thought she knew what, but she didn’t know who. She told herself she didn’t much care: she was past that. As long as it didn’t disrupt, as long as it didn’t interfere, as long as she could come out of it with not very many ribs broken. Some men needed their little escapades. It kept them toned up. As an addiction it was preferable to alcohol or golf, and Mitch’s things – things, she called them, to distinguish them from people – never lasted long.
It was a lovely May day, though. That much was true.
Roz wakes up at first light. She often does this: wakes up, and sits up stealthily, and watches Mitch when he’s still sleeping. It’s one of the few chances she gets to look at him when he can’t catch her doing it and interpose his opaque blue stare. He doesn’t like being examined: it’s too close to an evaluation, which is too close to a judgment. If there are judgments going around he wants to be making them himself.
He sleeps on his back, legs flung wide, arms spread out as if to possess as much of the space as possible. The Royal Posture, Roz saw it called once, in a magazine. One of those psycho-con articles that claim to tell all on the basis of how you tie your shoelaces. His Roman nose juts up, his slight double chin and the heaviness around his jaw disappear in this position. There are white lines around his eyes, wrinkles where he isn’t tanned; some of the blunt hairs poking through his morning chin are grey.
Distinguished, thinks Roz. Distinguished as heck. Maybe she should’ve married someone ugly. Some ugly toad of a man who’d never be able to believe his good luck, who’d appreciate