The Robber Bride (42 page)

“Is that money?” says Charis.

“Yes,” says Zenia, “but it’s a cross card. There’s something off about the money. Maybe he’ll take up dealing drugs or something.”

“Not Billy,” says Charis. “He’s too smart.” She doesn’t really want to go on with this. “Where did you learn?” she asks.

“My mother was a Roumanian gypsy,” says Zenia carelessly. “She said it ran in the family.”

“It does,” says Charis. This makes sense to her: she knows about gifts like that, there’s her own grandmother. Zenia’s black hair and dark eyes, and also her fatalism – they’d go with being a gypsy.

“She was stoned to death, during the war,” says Zenia.

“That’s terrible!” says Charis. No wonder Zenia has cancer – it’s the past lying inside her, an oppressive heavy-metals past that she’s never cleaned out of herself. “Was it the Germans?” Being stoned to death seems worse to her than being shot. Slower, more bruising, more painful; but not very German. When she thinks of Germans she thinks of scissors, of white enamel tables. When she thinks of stoning, it’s dust and flies and camels and palm trees. As in the Old Testament.

“No, by a bunch of villagers,” says Zenia. “In Roumania. They thought she had the evil eye, they thought she was hexing their cows. They didn’t want to waste their bullets so they used stones. Stones and clubs. Gypsies weren’t the most popular item, there. I guess they still aren’t. But she knew it was going to happen, she was a clairvoyant. She handed me over to a friend she had, in another village, the night before. That’s what saved me.”

“So you must speak some Roumanian,” says Charis. If she’d known all of this, she would have gone about curing Zenia some other way. Not just with yoga and cabbages. She would have tried more visualization, and not just about the cancer: about the Roumanians. Perhaps the keys to Zenia’s illness are hidden in another language.

“I’ve repressed it,” says Zenia. “You would too. I got a look at my mother after they’d finished with her. They left her there, lying in the snow. She was just a big lump of rotting meat.”

Charis flinches. This is a stomach-turning image. It explains why Zenia throws up so much – if that’s what’s inside her head. She needs to get such poisonous images out of her.

“Where was your father?” she says, to steer Zenia away from the dead mother.

“He was a Finn,” says Zenia. “It’s where I get my cheekbones.”

Charis has only a vague notion of where Finland is. It has trees, and people with saunas and skin boots, and reindeer. “Oh,” she says. “Why was he in Roumania?”

“He wasn’t,” says Zenia. “They were both Communists, before the war. They met at a youth congress in Leningrad. He was killed later, in Finland, fighting the Russians, in the Winter War. Ironic, isn’t it? He thought he was on their side, but it was them who killed him.”

“My father was killed in the war, too,” says Charis. She’s glad they have a bond in common.

“I guess a lot of people were,” says Zenia dismissively. “But that’s history.” She has gathered up the cards and is laying out a new batch. “Ah,” she says. “The Queen of Spades.”

“Is that still my cards?” says Charis.

“No,” says Zenia. “These are mine.” She isn’t looking at the cards now, she’s looking at the ceiling, obliquely, out of her half-closed eyes. “The Queen of Spades is bad luck. Some say it’s the death card.” Her long black hair falls like a heavy veil around her head.

“Oh, no,” says Charis, dismayed. “I don’t think we should do this. This is too negative.”

“Okay,” says Zenia, as if she doesn’t care what she does. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

Charis listens to her as she climbs up the stairs, dragging one foot after the other.

T
he winter wore on. It wore them down. Taking a bath was an arctic experience, feeding the chickens was a polar expedition: trudging through the snow, battling the fierce winds that swept in off the lake. The chickens themselves were cosy enough, inside the house that Billy built. The straw and droppings kept them warm, the way they were supposed to.

Charis wished there were a layer of straw under her own house. She tacked some old blankets over the walls, she stuffed some obvious cracks with wadded newspapers. Luckily they had enough wood: Charis had managed to acquire some, cheap, from a person who had given up and gone back to the mainland. It wasn’t split, and Billy split most of it, working outside with the axe, on warmer days: he liked chopping. But the house was still cold, except when Charis built the fire up to danger level. At those times the air inside got muggy and smelled like heated mouse nest. There were real mice living under the floor, driven in by the cold; they came out at night to clean up crumbs and leave their droppings on the table. Zenia brushed the droppings off onto the floor, wrinkling her nose.

Nothing more was being said about her leaving. Every morning she gave Charis a bulletin on her health: better, worse. One day she felt up to a walk, the next day she told Charis that her hair was falling out. She no longer expressed any hope, she no longer seemed to be participating in her own body. She took the things Charis offered her – the carrot juice, the herb teas – passively and without much interest; she was humouring Charis, but she didn’t really think they would do any good. She had periods of depression, when she would lie on the living-room couch, wrapped in a blanket, or slump at the table. “I’m a terrible person,” she would tell Charis, her voice tremulous. “I’m not worth all this trouble.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Charis would say. “We all have those feelings. They’re from the shadow side. Think of the best things about yourself.” Zenia would reward her with a little wavering smile. “What if there isn’t anything?” she would say weakly.

Zenia and Billy kept their distance from each other. Each still complained to Charis; they seemed to enjoy this, chewing each other over. Each liked the querulous taste of the other’s name, the flavour of accusation, the bad taste. Charis would have liked to warn Billy not to be so harsh to Zenia: he could drive her to snitch on him, about the bombing. But Charis couldn’t tell Billy this without admitting that she’d betrayed his confidence, that Zenia knew. Then he would be furious with her.

Charis didn’t want fury. She wanted only happy emotions, because any other emotions would smudge her baby. She tried to spend time only with the things that gave her peace: the whiteness just after it snowed, before the soot of the city had a chance to fall; the gleam of icicles, the week they had the ice storm that took the telephone lines down. She walked around the Island by herself, being careful not to slip on the frozen paths. Her stomach was growing harder and rounder now, her breasts were swelling. She knew that most of her white-light energy was being directed into the baby
now, not into Zenia or even Billy. The baby was responding, she could sense it; inside her it was listening, it was attentive, it was absorbing the light like a flower.

She hoped the other two didn’t feel neglected, but there was nothing much she could do about it. She only had so much energy, and increasingly there was none to spare. She was becoming a more ruthless person, a harder one; she could feel her grandmother’s ferociousness in her hands more strongly now. The baby inside her was Karen again, unborn, and with Charis watching over her she would have a better chance. She would be born to the right mother, this time.

In her head she spent time decorating the small room, the baby’s room. She would paint it white, later, when she had the money, when Zenia was gone. In the summer, when it was hot, Billy could build a sauna in the backyard, beside the henhouse. Then next winter they could sit inside it and get heated through, and go outside and roll around in the snow. That would be a good way of using the snow; better than sitting inside and complaining about it, the way Zenia did. And Billy too.

In April, when the snow had melted and the shoots of Charis’s three daffodil bulbs were poking up through the brown earth, and the chickens were outside again, scratching up the dirt, she told Billy and Zenia about the baby. She had to. Soon it would be obvious; also, soon there would have to be some changes. She wouldn’t be able to carry on with the yoga classes, so the money would have to come from elsewhere. Billy would have to get a job of some sort. He didn’t have the right papers but there were jobs to be had anyway, because some of his draft-dodging friends had them. Billy would have to get off his butt. Charis wouldn’t have thought like this, before the baby, but now she did.

And Zenia would finally have to go. Charis had been a teacher to
her, but if Zenia failed to take advantage of what Charis had given her, that was her own concern.

Enough is enough
, said her grandmother’s voice within her head.
First things first. Blood is thicker than water
.

She tells them one at a time, Zenia first. They’re having dinner – baked beans from a can, frozen peas. Charis has not been so meticulous about organic lately; somehow she lacks the time. Billy’s in the city, again.

“I’m going to have a baby,” Charis blurts out over the canned peaches.

Zenia is not hurt, not the way Charis has feared she would be. Nor does she offer any wistful congratulations or woman-to-woman hugs or pats on the hand. Instead she’s contemptuous. “Well,” she says, “you’ve certainly screwed up!”

“What do you mean?” says Charis.

“What makes you think Billy wants a kid?” says Zenia.

This takes Charis’s breath away. She recognizes that she’s been going on a certain assumption: that everyone else will welcome this baby as much as she does. She also recognizes that she hasn’t been taking Billy into account. She did make one attempt to imagine what it would be like to be a man, to be Billy, having a baby, but she just couldn’t do it. After that she made no effort to divine his reaction.

“Well of course he does,” she says, trying for conviction.

“You haven’t told him yet, have you,” says Zenia. It’s not a question.

“How do you know?” says Charis. How
does
she know? Why are they fighting?

“Wait’ll he finds out,” says Zenia grimly. “This house is going to be one whole hell of a lot smaller with a screaming brat in it. You could’ve waited till I was dead.”

Charis is amazed by her brutality and selfishness; amazed, and angry. But what comes out of her is close to appeasement. “There’s nothing I can do about it now,” she says.

“Sure there is,” says Zenia, patronizingly. “You can get an abortion.”

Charis stands up. “I don’t want one,” she says. She is close to tears, and when she goes upstairs – which she does right away, without for once doing the dishes – she does cry. She cries into their sleeping bag, wounded and confused. Something is going wrong and she isn’t even sure what it is.

When Billy gets home she is still lying on the sleeping bag, with the light out and her clothes still on.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” he says. “What’s happening?” He kisses her face.

Charis heaves herself up, then throws her arms around him. “Haven’t you noticed?” she says tearfully.

“Noticed what?” says Billy.

“I’m pregnant!” says Charis. “We’re going to have a baby!” She’s making it sound like a reproach; this isn’t what she means. She wants him to celebrate with her.

“Oh shit,” says Billy. He goes slack in her arms. “Oh Jesus Christ. When?”

“In August,” says Charis, waiting for him to be glad. But he isn’t glad. Instead he’s treating this like a big catastrophe; like a death, not a birth. “Oh shit,” he says again. “What’re we gonna do?”

In the middle of the night Charis finds herself standing outside, in the garden. She’s been sleepwalking. She’s in her nightgown and her feet are bare; the mud and leaf mould crumble under her toes. She can smell a skunk, a distant one, like those run over on highways; but how could a skunk be here? This is the Island. But maybe they can swim.

Now she is fully awake. In her hand there’s the imprint of another hand: it’s her grandmother, trying to tell her something, trying to get through. A warning.

“What?” she says out loud. “What is it?”

She’s aware that there’s someone else in the garden, a dark shape leaning against the wall by the kitchen window. She sees a small glow. It wasn’t a skunk she smelled, it was smoke.

“Zenia, is that you?” she says.

“I couldn’t sleep,” says Zenia. “So, how’s Big Daddy taking it?”

“Zenia, you shouldn’t be smoking,” says Charis. She’s forgotten she’s angry with her. “It’s so bad for your cells.”

“Fuck my cells,” says Zenia. “They’re fucking me! I might as well enjoy myself while I’ve got the time.” Her voice comes out of the darkness, lazy, sardonic. “And I have to tell you I’m sick to death of your do-gooder act. You’d be one hell of a lot happier if you’d mind your own business.”

“I was trying to help you,” Charis wails.

“Do me a favour,” says Zenia. “Help someone else.”

Charis can’t understand it. Why was she brought out here to listen to this? She turns and goes inside, and gropes her way up the stairs. She doesn’t turn on the light.

The next day Billy takes the early ferry into the city. Charis works feverishly in her garden, digging in the spring compost, trying to blank her mind. Zenia stays in bed.

When Billy comes back after dark, he is drunk. He’s been drunk before but never this much. Charis is in the kitchen, doing the dishes, dishes left over from several days. She feels heavy, she feels clogged; there’s something in her head that won’t come clear. No matter how hard she looks, she can’t see past the surfaces of things. She’s being blocked, shut out; even the garden today wouldn’t let
her in. The earth has lost its shine and is just an expanse of dirt, the chickens are petulant and frowsy, like old feather dusters.

So when Billy comes in, she turns to look at him, but she doesn’t say anything. Then she turns away from him, back to the dishes.

She hears him bump into the table; he knocks over a chair. Then his hands are on her shoulders. He turns her around. She hopes he’s going to kiss her, tell her he’s changed his mind, that everything is wonderful, but instead he begins to shake her. Back, forth, slowly. “You … are … just … so … goddamn … stupid,” he says, in time to the shaking. “You are just so goddamn dumb!” His voice is almost fond.