Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [238]
She could sneak up behind Zenia, bop her on the head with a lamp or something. Tie her up with pantyhose. Make it look like a sex killing. She’s read enough trashy novels like that, and God knows it would be plausible, it’s just the kind of sordid ending a woman like Zenia deserves. She populates the room with detectives, cigar-smoking detectives dusting the furniture for fingerprints, fingerprints she will have taken care to wipe away.…
“I don’t have my chequebook with me,” she says. “It’ll have to be tomorrow.”
“Make it cash,” says Zenia. “Fifty thousand, and that’s a bargain; if it wasn’t a recession I’d ask double. Small old bills, please; you can send it by courier, before noon. Not here though, I’ll call you in the morning and tell you where. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Roz takes the elevator down. All of a sudden she has a crashing headache, and on top of that she feels ill. It’s the fear and anger, churning around inside her like a salmonella dinner. So, God, is this my fault or what? Is this the double-cross I have to bear? So you gave with one hand and now you’re taking away with the other? Or maybe you think it’s a joke! It occurs to her, not for the first time, that if everything is part of the Divine Plan then God must have one heck of a warped sense of humour.
54
“What’re you going to do?” says Tony.
“Pay up,” says Roz. “What are my options? Anyway, it’s only money.”
“You could talk to Larry,” says Tony. “After all, Zenia lies her head off. She could be making it all up.”
“First I’ll pay,” says Roz. “Then Zenia will take a plane. Then I’ll talk to Larry.” It strikes her that Tony doesn’t always get it, about kids. Even five per cent true would be too much; she can’t take the risk.
“But what are we going to do about her?” says Charis.
“About Zenia?” says Roz. “After tomorrow she’ll be somewhere else. Personally I would like her permanently removed, like a wart. But I don’t see that happening.” She’s lighting another cigarette, from the candle in its red glass holder. Charis gives a timid cough and flaps a hand at the smoke.
“I don’t see,” says Tony slowly, “that there’s anything we can do about her. We can’t make her vanish. Even if she does go, she’ll be back if she wants to come back. She’s a given. She’s just there, like the weather.”
“Maybe we should give thanks,” says Charis. “And ask for help.”
Roz laughs. “Thanks for what? Thank you, God, for creating Zenia? Only next time don’t bother?”
“No,” says Charis. “Because she’s going away, and we’re still all right. Aren’t we? None of us gave in.” She’s not sure exactly how to put it. What she means is, they were tempted, each one of them, but they didn’t succumb. Succumbing would have been killing Zenia, either physically or spiritually. And killing Zenia would have meant turning into Zenia. Another way of succumbing would be believing her, letting her in the door, letting her take them in, letting her tear them apart. They did get torn apart some, but that was because they didn’t do what Zenia wanted. “What I mean is.…”
“I think I know what you mean,” says Tony.
“Right,” says Roz. “So, let’s give thanks. I’m always in favour of that. Who’re we thanking and what do we do?”
“A libation,” says Charis. “We’ve got everything here for it, even the candle.” She lifts her wineglass, in which there’s an inch of white wine left, and pours a thimbleful onto the pink remains of her Assorted Sorbets. Then she bows her head and closes her eyes briefly. “I asked for help,” she says. “For all of us. Now you.” She also asked for forgiveness, for all of them too. She feels this is right, but she can’t say why, so she doesn’t mention it.
“I’m not sure about this,” says Roz. She can see the need for a celebration, touch wood it’s not premature, but she’d like to know which God is being invoked here – or rather which version of God – so she can guard against lightning