Margaret Atwood - The Robber Bride

Charis sits down in the armchair. This is not the charged confrontation she’s been imagining. Zenia isn’t trying to evade her; if anything, she seems mildly pleased that Charis is here. Charis reminds herself that what she needs is to find out about Billy, where he is, whether he’s alive or dead. But it’s hard to concentrate on Billy; she can scarcely remember what Billy used to look like, whereas Zenia is sitting right here in the room. It’s so strange to see her in the flesh, at last.

Now she’s smiling wanly. “You were so good to me,” she says. “I’ve always meant to apologize for going away like that, without saying goodbye. It was very thoughtless of me. But I was too dependent on you, I was letting you try to cure me instead of putting the energy into it myself I just needed to get off somewhere, be alone so I could focus. It was—well, I got a sort of message, you know?”

Charis is amazed. Maybe she’s been misjudging Zenia, all these years. Or maybe Zenia has changed. People can change, they can choose, they can transform themselves. It’s a deep belief of hers. She isn’t sure what to think.

“You didn’t really have cancer,” she says finally. She doesn’t intend it as an accusation. Only she needs to be sure.

“No,” says Zenia. “Not ‘exactly. I was sick, though. It was a spiritual illness. And I’m sick now” She pauses, but when Charis doesn’t ask, she says, “That’s why I’m back here—for the health care system. I couldn’t afford treatment anywhere else. They’ve told me I’m dying. They’ve given me six months.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” says Charis. She’s looking at Zenia’s edges, to see what colour her light is, but she’s not getting a reading. “Is it cancer?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” says Zenia

“It’s okay,” says Charis, because what if Zenia is telling the truth, this time? What if she really is dying? She does have a greyish tinge, around the eyes. The least Charis can do is listen:

“Well, actually, I’ve got AIDS,” says Zenia and sighs. “It’s really stupid. I had a bad habit, a few years back. I got it off a dirty needle.”

Charis gasps. This is terrible! What about Larry-then? Win he get AIDS, too? Roz! Roz! Come quickly! But what could Roz do?

“I wouldn’t mind spending a little time, somewhere peaceful,” says Zenia. ‘Just to get my head in order, before, you know. Some place like the Island:’

Charis feels the familiar tug, the old temptation. Maybe there’s no hope for Zenia’s body, but the body isn’t the only factor. She could have Zenia over to stay with her, the way she did before. She could help her to move towards the transition, she could put light around her, they could meditate together ...

“Or maybe I’ll just check myself out,” says Zenia softly. “Pills or something. I’m doomed anyway. I mean, why wait around?” In Charis’s throat the familiar sentiments bubble up. Oh no, you must try, you must try for the positive ... She opens her mouth to issue the invitation, Yes, come, but something stops her. It’s the look Zenia is giving her: an intent look, head on one side. A bird eyeing a worm.

“Why did you pretend to me, about the cancer?” she says. Zenia laughs. She sits up briskly. She must know that she’s lost, she must know that Charis won’t believe her, about having AIDS. “Okay,” she says. “We might as well get this over. Let’s just say I wanted you to let me into your house, and it seemed the quickest way.”

“That was mean,” says Charis. “I believed you! I was very concerned about you! I tried to save you!”

“Yes,” says Zenia cheerfully. “But don’t worry, I suffered too. If I’d had to drink one more glass of that foul cabbage juice it would’ve finished me off. You know what I did when I hit the mainland? First chance I got, I went out and had a big plate of fries and a nice raw juicy steak. I would’ve inhaled it, I was so starved for red meat!”

“But you really were sick, with something,” Charis says hopefully. Auras don’t lie, and Zenia’s was diseased. Also, she doesn’t want to think that every single one of those vegetables went to waste.

“There’s a trick you ought to know about,” says Zenia. “Just cut out all the vitamin C from your diet and you get the early symptoms of scurvy. Nobody’s expecting scurvy, not in the twentieth century, so they don’t spot it:”

“But I fed you lots of vitamin C!” says Charis.

“Try sticking your finger down your throat,” says Zenia. “Works wonders.”

“But why?” says Charis helplessly. ‘Why did you?” She feels so defrauded—defrauded of her own goodness, her own willingness to be of service. Such a fool.

“Because of Billy, naturally,” Zenia says. “Nothing personal, you were merely the means I wanted to get close to him.”

“Because you were in love with him?” says Charis. At least that would be understandable, at least there would be something positive about it, because love is a positive force. She can understand being in love with Billy.

Zenia laughs. “You are such a dipstick romantic,” she says. “By your age you ought to know better. No, I was not in love with Billy, though the sex was fun:”

“Fun?” says Charis. In her experience, sex was never fun. It was either nothing, or it was painful; or it was overwhelming, it put you at risk; which is why she’s avoided it all these years. But not fun.

“Yeah, it may come as a surprise,” says Zenia, “that some people think it’s fun. Not you, I realize that. From what Billy said, you wouldn’t know fun ifyou fell over it. He was so hungry for a little good sex that he jumped me almost as soon as I walked into that pathetic shack of yours. What do you think we were doing when you were over on the mainland teaching that tedious yoga class? Or when you were downstairs cooking our breakfasts, or outside feeding those brain-damaged hens?”

Charis knows she must not cry. Zenia may have been sex, but Charis was love, for Billy. “Billy loved me,” she says uncertainly. Zenia smiles. Her energy level is up now, her body’s humming like a broken toaster. “Billy didn’t love you,” she says. “Wake up! You were a free meal-ticket! He was eating off you even though he had money of his own; he was peddling hash, but I guess that one went right past you. He thought you were a cow, if you must know. He thought you were so stupid you’d give birth to an idiot. He thought you were a stunned cunt, to be exact.”

“Billy would never say a thing like that,” says Charis. She feels as if a net of hot sharp wires is being pulled tight around her, the hairline burns cutting into her skin.

“He thought having sex with you was like porking a turnip,” Zenia goes on relentlessly. “Now listen to me, Charis. This is for your own good. I know you, and I can guess how you’ve been spending your time. Dressing up in hair shirts. Playing hermits. Mooning around after Billy. He’s just an excuse for you; he lets you avoid your life. Give him up. Forget about him.”

“I can’t forget about him,” says Charis in a tiny voice. How can she just sit here and let Zenia tear Billy to shreds? The memory of Billy. If that goes, what does she have left of all that time? Nothing. A void.

“Read my lips, he wasn’t worth it,” says Zenia. She sounds exasperated. “You know what I was really there for? To turn him around. And, believe me, he was easy to turn.”

“Turn?” says Charis. She can hardly concentrate; she feels as if she’s being slapped in the face, on one side of the face and then the other. Turn the other cheek. But how often?

“Turn, as in turncoat,” says Zenia, explaining as if to a child. “Billy turned informer. He went back to the States and ratted on all his incendiary-minded little friends, the ones who were still there:”