Charis wends her way a little closer, leaving a trail of hostile glances and muttered comments on the sidewalk behind her and smiling weakly at those who, with frayed cuffs and hands held out and the swollen, sunken faces of those who eat too much refined sugar, ask her for the price of a meal. Charis doesn't have any small change, having left it as a tip at Kafay Nwar; she doesn't have very much money, period, although more than she thought she'd have after lunch, because it was Roz who figured out the bill and her accounting procedures always end up with Charis paying less, she suspects, than she ought to. Anyway, Charis doesn't believe in giving money to panhandlers, being of the opinion that money, like candy, is bad for people. But she would give them some of her home-grown carrots, if she could.
She makes her way to a good vantage point behind a hot dog vendor stand with a bright yellow umbrella, and lurks there, despite the offensive smell (pigs' innards!) and the sinful cans of pop (chemicals!) lined up beside the mustard and relish (pure salt!). The vendor asks her what she'd like today, but she hardly hears him; she's too engrossed in Zenia. Now the man with Zenia turns and his face is towards Charis, and with a jolt like putting her hand on a hotplate Charis recognizes him: he's Roz's son Larry.
It's always a jump in time for Charis to see Roz's children grown up, although of course they have grown up and she herself has watched them do it. But their aging is hard to believe. It's like the times Augusta is in the next room and Charis walks in, expecting to see her cross-legged on the floor playing house with her Barbie doll - Charis hadn't approved of that thing, but was too weak to forbid it - and instead finds her sitting in a chair in a wide-shouldered suit and sling-back high heels, painting her nails. Oh August! she wants to say. Where did you get those weird dress-up clothes? But those are her real clothes. It is a true head-bender to see your own daughter walking around in clothes that might have belonged to your mother.
There is Larry, then, in jeans and a fawn suede jacket, his taffy-haired head inclined towards Zenia, one of his hands on her arm. Little Larry! Serious little Larry, who would purse his mouth and frown at the very same time his twin sisters were laughing and pinching each other's arms and telling each other they had big snots coming out of their noses. Charis has never been altogether comfortable about Larry, or rather about his rigidity. She's always felt that a good massage therapist could do wonders. But Larry must have loosened up considerably if he's been having lunch at the Toxique.
But what is he doing with Zenia? What is he doing with Zenia right now? He's bending his face down, Zenia's own face is reaching up like a tentacle, they're kissing! Or so it appears.
"Listen lady, you want a hot dog or not?" says the vendor.
"What?" says Charis, startled.
"Crazy broad, shove off," says the vendor. "Get back in the bin. You're bothering the customers."
If Charis were Roz, she'd say, What customers? But if Charis were Roz she'd be in a state of deep shock. Zenia and Larry! But she's twice his age! thinks the vestige of Charis that remains from the time when age, in female-male relationships, was supposed to matter. The present Charis tells herself not to be judgmental. Why shouldn't women do what men have been doing for ages, namely robbing the cradle? Age is not the point. The point is not Zenia's age, but Zenia herself. Larry might as well be drinking liquid drain cleaner.
While Charis is having this uncharitable thought, Zenia steps sideways, off the curb, and disappears into a taxi. Larry gets in after her - so it was not a goodbye kiss - and the taxi is sucked out into the current of traffic. Charis dithers. What should she do now? Her urge is to phone Roz - Roz! Roz! Help! Come quickly! - but that would do no good, because she doesn't know where Zenia and Larry are going; and even if she did, so what? What would Roz do? Burst into their hotel room or whatever, and say Let go of my son? Larry is twenty-two, he is an adult. He can make his own decisions.
Charis sees another taxi and runs out into the street, flailing her arms. The taxi squeals to a stop in front of her and she hurries around, opens the door, and scrambles in. "Thank you," she gasps.
"You lucky you not dead," says the driver, who has an accent Charis can't identify. "So, what can I do for you?"
"Follow that taxi," says Charis.
"What taxi?" says the driver.
So that is that, and worse, Charis feels honour-bound to pay him three dollars, because she did after all get into his cab, but she only has a five-dollar bill and a ten, and he doesn't have change, and she doesn't want to ask the hot dog vendor, considering what he just called her, so it ends with him saying, "Time is money, lady, do me a favour, forget it," and there are bad feelings all round.
Luckily they are digging up Queen Street, yet again, and Zenia's taxi is caught in the jam. After running down the street some more Charis manages to find another empty taxi, only two cars away from Zenia's, and she flings herself into it, and together the two taxis ooze slowly through the downtown core. Zenia and Larry get out at the Arnold Garden Hotel, and so does Charis. She watches the uniformed doorman nod to them, she watches Larry put his hand on Zenia's elbow, she watches them go through the brass-and-glass doors. She herself has never been through those doors. Anything with an awning intimidates her.
As she's trying to decide what to do next, a bicycle courier starts swearing at her for no reason at all. Jesus lady, watch the fuck out! It's an omen: she's done enough for today.
She walks down to the ferry dock, buffeted as if by wind. Being in the city is so abrasive; it's like dust blowing into your face, it's like dancing on sandpaper. Although she's not sure why, she minds being called lady even more than she minds being called crazy broad. Why is this word so offensive to her? (Listen, says Shanita's voice, with amused contempt. If that's all you ever get called!)
She's feeling baffled and inept, and slightly frightened. What is she supposed to do with what she knows? What is she supposed to do next? She listens, but her body tells her nothing, even though it was her body that got her into this, with its mischievous yen for caffeine, its adrenalin rushes, its megalomania. Some days - and this is becoming one of them - having a body is an inconvenience. Although she treats her body with interest and consideration, paying attention to its whims, rubbing lotions and oils into it, feeding it with selected nutrients, it doesn't always repay her. Right now her back - for instance - hurts, and there's a cold dark pool, an ominous pool, a pool of browny-green septic acid, forming somewhere below her navel. The body may be the home of the soul and the pathway of the spirit, but it is also the perversity, the stubborn resistance, the malign contagion of the material world. Having a body, being in the body, is like being roped to a sick cat.
She stands on the ferry, leaning on the railing, facing backwards, watching the wake rise and subside into the notoriously poisonous lake, tracing and obliterating itself in the same gesture. Light glitters on the water, no longer white but yellowing; it's afternoon and there goes the sun, there goes this day, down to where all the other days have gone, each one carrying something away with it. She will never get any of those days back, including the ones she should have had but didn't, days with Billy in them. It was Zenia who made off with those days. She took them away from Charis, who now doesn't even have them to look fondly back on. It's as if Zenia has crept into her house when she wasn't there and torn the photos out of her photo album, the photo album she doesn't possess except inside her head. In one single snatch and grab, Zenia stole both her future and her past. Couldn't she have left it a little longer? Just a month, just a week, just a little more?
In the spiritual world (which she has now entered, because the ferry, with its soporific motor and gentle sway, often has this effect on her), Charis's astral body falls to its knees, raising imploring hands to the astral body of Zenia, which burns red, a red crown of flames like spiky leaves or old-fashioned pen nibs flaring around her head, with emptiness at the centre of each flame. More time, more time, Charis pleads. Give back what you took!
But Zenia turns away.
r />
29
The history of Charis and Zenia began on a Wednesday in the first week of November in the first year of the seventies. Seventy. Charis finds both parts of this number significant, the seven and the zero as well. A zero always means the beginning of something and the end as well, because it is omega: a circular self-contained O, the entrance to a tunnel or the exit from one, an end that is also a beginning, because although that year saw the beginning of the end of Billy, it was also the year her daughter August began to begin. And seven is a prime number, composed of a four and a three - or two threes and a one, which Charis prefers because threes are graceful pyramids as well as Goddess numbers, and fours are merely box-like squares.
She knows it was a Wednesday, because Wednesdays were the days she went into town to earn some money by teaching two yoga classes. She did that on Fridays, too, except that on Fridays she also stayed late to put in her share of volunteer time at the Furrows Food Co-op. She knows it was November, because November is the eleventh month, the month of the dead, and also of regeneration. Sun sign Scorpio, governed by Mars, colour deep red. Sex, death, and war. Synchronicity.
The day begins as mist. Charis sees the mist as she gets out of bed, or rather off the bed, because the bed is a mattress on the floor. She goes to the window to look out. There's a miniature transparent rainbow stuck onto the glass, though Charis did not stick it there: it was left over from the previous tenants, a batch of burned-out hippies who also drew pictures in Magic Marker on the flowered, faded wallpaper - naked people copulating and cats with halos - and played the Doors and Janis Joplin at top volume in the middle of the night, and left mounds of human shit in the backyard. They were finally kicked out by the landlord with the help of the next-door neighbours after a screaming acid party, during which one of them set fire to a black plastic beanbag chair in the living room under the impression that it was a carnivorous puffball. The landlord - an old man who lives at the other end of the street - welcomed Charis and Billy, because there were only two of them and they did not have a big speaker system, and because Charis said she intended to plant a vegetable garden, which indicated some sort of decorous coupledom; and the neighbours were so grateful for the change that they didn't even make a fuss about the chickens, chickens that may or may not be illegal, but this is the Island and strict legality is not the norm here, witness the number of house additions that go up without a permit. Luckily they have a corner lot, so there are neighbours on only one side.
Charis painted over the naked people and cats and dug the human shit into her compost heap, telling herself that it was the right thing to do because the Chinese used it, in China, and everyone knew they were the world's best organic gardeners. Shit to food to shit, it was all part of the cycle.
They moved into this house in late spring, and from the very first Charis knew it was right. She loves the house and, even more, she loves the Island. It's infused with a vibrant, brooding, humid life; it makes her feel that everything - even the water, even the stones - is alive and aware, and her along with it. Some mornings she goes out before daybreak and just walks around, up and down the streets that are not real streets but more like paved bicycle paths, past the dilapidated or spruced-up former cottages with their woodpiles and hammocks and patchy gardens; or else she just lies on the grass, even when damp. Billy likes the Island too, or so he says, but not the same way she does.
The mist is rising from the ground and from the bushes, dripping from the old apple tree at the back of the yard. There are still a few brownish frostbitten apples, hanging from the twisted branches like burnt Christmas decorations. The fallen apples Charis was unable to use for jelly lie rotting and fermented at the base of the tree. Several of the chickens have been pecking at them; Charis can tell by the way those chickens stagger around, so drunk they have difficulty walking up the ramp into their chicken house. Billy thinks those drunken hens are cool.
The wide painted floorboards are cold under her bare feet; she hugs her goose-pimpled arms, shivering a little. She can't see the lake from here: the mist blots it out. She makes an effort to find the mist beautiful - everything made by nature should be beautiful - but succeeds only partly. The mist is beautiful, true, it's like solid light, but it's also ominous: when there's mist you can't see what's coming.
She leaves Billy sleeping on their mattress, under their opened-out sleeping bag, and puts on her embroidered Indian slippers, and pulls one of Billy's sweatshirts over her cotton nightgown. The nightgown is Victorian-style, second-hand; she bought it at a used-clothing place in Kensington Market. It would be cheaper to make such nightgowns, and she's bought a pattern and enough material for two, but there's something wrong with her sewing machine - a treadle model she traded some yoga lessons for - so she hasn't cut either of them out yet. The next thing she intends to trade for is a loom.
She tiptoes from the bedroom and along the narrow hallway, and down the stairs. When she moved in here with Billy, six months ago, there were several layers of worn linoleum covering the floorboards. Charis stripped off the linoleum and pulled out the nails that were holding it in place, and scraped away the black tarry goo that had oozed from it, and painted the hall floor blue. But she ran out of paint halfway down the stairs, and she hasn't got more paint yet, and the bottom stairs still have the outlines of the old linoleum stair treads. She doesn't mind them, the traces; they are like signals made by those who lived here long before. So she's left them alone. It's like leaving a wild patch in the garden. She knows she is sharing the space with other entities, even if they can't be seen or heard, and it's just as well to show them you're friendly. Or respectful. Respectful is what she means, because she does not intend to get too cosy with them. She wants them to respect her, as well.
She goes into the kitchen, which is freezing cold. There's a kind of furnace in the house, beside the water heater, in the dank, dirt-floored lean-to - the root cellar, Charis calls it, and she is indeed keeping some roots in it, some carrots and beets buried in a box of sand, the way her grandmother used to - but the furnace doesn't work very well. Mostly it blows lukewarm air through a series of grids in the floor, and makes dustballs; anyway, it seems like a waste of money and also like cheating to turn on the furnace before it's absolutely necessary. You should make use of what is naturally provided, if possible, so Charis has been scavenging dead wood from under the trees on the Island and using the ends of boards left over from building the henhouse, and breaking the odd dead branch off her apple tree.
She kneels before the cast-iron cookstove - it was one of the things that made her want this house, the wood stove - though it turned other people off, people who wanted electric stoves, so the rent was low. Figuring out how to work it was hard at first; it has its moods, and sometimes makes large clouds of smoke, or goes out completely even though it's packed with wood. You have to cajole it. She scrapes out yesterday's ashes, into a saucepan she keeps handy - she'll sprinkle some into the compost heap later, and sift the rest for a potter she knows, to make into glazes - and stuffs some crumpled newspaper and kindling and two thin logs into the firebox. When the fire has caught she crouches before the open stove door, warming her hands and appreciating the flames. The apple wood burns blue.
After a few minutes she gets up, feeling a stiffness in her knees, and goes over to the counter and plugs in the electric kettle. Although there's no electric stove the house has some basic wiring, a ceiling fixture in every room and a few wall sockets, though you can't plug in the kettle and anything else at the same time without blowing the fuses. She could wait for the iron kettle on the wood stove to boil, but that might take hours, and she needs her morning herbal tea right now. She remembers a time when she used to drink coffee, at university, a long time ago, in one of her other lives, when she lived in McClung Hall. She remembers the fuzzy feeling in her head, and the hankering for more. It was an addiction, she supposes. The body is so easily led astray. At least she never smoked.
Sitting at the ki
tchen table - not the round oak table she would like to have, but an interim table, an artificial table, an immoral table from the fifties, with chrome legs and black curlicues baked into its Formica top - Charis drinks her herbal tea and attempts to focus on the day ahead. The mist makes it more difficult: it's hard for her to tell the time, despite her wristwatch, when she can't see the sun.
The most immediate decision to make is: who will have breakfast first, herself or the chickens? If she does, the chickens will have to wait and then she will feel guilty. If the chickens do, she will be hungry for a while, but she will have her own breakfast to look forward to while she is feeding them. Also the chickens trust her. They are probably wondering where she is, right this minute. They are worrying. They are reproachful. How can she let them down?
Every morning she goes through this minor tug-of-war, in her head. Every morning the chickens win. She finishes her tea and fills a pail at the sink, then goes to the kitchen door where Billy's work overalls are hanging on a wall hook. She pulls them on, stuffing her nightgown down the legs - she could go upstairs and get dressed, but it might wake Billy, who needs his sleep because of the strain he's under - and kicks off her slippers and slides her bare feet into Billy's rubber boots. This is not the most attractive feeling: the rubber is chilly, and damp with old foot sweat. Sometimes there are wool work socks to put inside the boots, but these seem to have wandered off somewhere; and even with the socks these boots would be cold, and way too big for her. She might get some boots of her own, but this would violate the accepted version of reality, which is that Billy feeds the chickens. She picks up the water pail and waddles out into the yard.
The mist is less threatening when you're actually in it. It gives Charis the illusion of being able to walk through a solid barrier. Dripping grasses brush her legs; the air smells of leaf mould and damp wood, and of wet cabbages, from the half-dozen of them still in the garden. It's the autumnal smell of slow combustion. Charis breathes it in, breathing in also the ammonia and hot-feather scent of her chickens. Inside the henhouse they're making the sleepy crooning cooing sounds that show they are at ease, a sort of broody, meditative humming. Now they hear her, and change to excited cackles.