The Robber Bride

  "She walks in beauty, like the blight," says Boyce with sympathy. "Byron."

  "Exactly," says Roz. "She was smart, as well, but if she was a guy you'd have to call her a prick. I mean, there is no female name for it, because bitch doesn't even begin to cover it! She tells some story about being a half-Jewish war orphan rescued from the Nazis, and our heroine, who is all heart, falls for it and gets her a job; and Ms. Dirigible-chest pretends to be our pal's grateful buddy, and gives the husband the cold shoulder, implying by her body language that she finds him less attractive than a lawn dwarf, which turned out to be the ultimate truth, in the end.

  "Meanwhile our two girl chums have a lot of cosy networking lunches together, discussing world affairs and the state of the business. Then the lady starts having it off with Mr. Susceptible, behind Ms. Numskull's back. For Ms. Lollapalooza it's just a thing - worse, a tactic - but for him it's the real item, the grand passion at last. I don't know how she did it, but she did. Considering it was him, and thousands before her had failed, she was nothing short of brilliant."

  "Genius is an infinite capacity for causing pain," says Boyce sombrely.

  "Right," says Roz. "So she cons everyone into putting her in charge of the business in question, which is a medium-hefty enterprise, and before you know it she's moved in with Mr. Sticky Fingers, and they're living together in the Designer Love-nest of the Year, leaving the wee missus to gnaw her stricken little heart out, which she does. But passion wanes, on Vampira's part, not his, when he finds out she's been having nooners with some stud on a motorcycle and fusses up about it. So she forges a few cheques - using his signature, copied no doubt from countless drool-covered mash notes - and disappears with the cash. Does that cool his ardour? Do chickens have tits? He goes raving off after her as if his pants were plugged into the light socket."

  "I know the plot," says Boyce. "Happens in all walks of life."

  "Ms. Lightfingers disappears," says Roz, "but next thing you know, she turns up in a metal soup can. Seems she's met with a nasty accident, and now she's cat food. She gets planted in the cemetery, not that I - not that my friend shed any tears - and Mr. Sorrowful comes creeping back to wee wifey, who stands on her hind legs and refuses to take him in. Well, can you blame her? I mean, enough is enough. So, instead of getting his head shrunk, which was long overdue, or picking up some new little sex gadget, as he has done many times before, what does he do? He's dying of love, not for Mrs. Domestic but for Ms. Fiery Loins. So he goes out on his boat in a hurricane and gets himself drowned. Maybe he even jumped. Who knows?"

  "A waste," says Boyce. "Bodies are so much nicer alive."

  "There's more," says Roz. "It turns out this woman wasn't dead after all. She was just fooling. She turns up again, and this time she gets her hooks into the only son - the one and only well-beloved son - I mean, can you imagine? She must be fifty! She gets her hooks into the son of the woman she ripped off and the man she as good as killed!"

  "This is turgid," Boyce murmurs.

  "Listen, I didn't write the plot," says Roz. "I'm just telling you, and a literary criticism I don't need. What I want to know is - what would you do?"

  "You're asking me?" Boyce says. "What would I do? First, I'd make sure she was really a woman. It could be a man in a dress."

  "Boyce, this is serious," says Roz.

  "I am serious," says Boyce. "But what you really mean is, what should you do. Right?"

  "In a word," says Roz.

  "Obsession is the better part of valour," says Boyce. "Shakespeare."

  "Meaning?"

  "You'll have to go and see her," Boyce sighs. "Have it out. Oh Roz, thou art sick. Have a scene. Shout and yell. Tell her what you think of her. Clear the air; believe me, it's necessary. Otherwise, the invisible worm that flies in the storm will find out thy bed of crimson joy, and its dark secret love will thy life destroy. Blake."

  "I guess so," says Roz. "I just don't trust myself, is all. Boyce, what is a tenterhook?"

  "A wooden frame covered with hooks, on which cloth was stretched for drying," says Boyce.

  "Not a lot of help," says Roz.

  "Though true," says Boyce.

  Roz sets out for the Arnold Garden Hotel. She takes a taxi because she's too keyed up to drive. She doesn't even need to ask at the desk, which is clogged with what look to her like travelling salesmen; she just quick-steps through the deplorable lobby, with its tawdry retro leather sofas and Canadian Woman spray-paint-it-yourself tacky flower arrangement circa 1984, and the view of the tatty little patio and City Hall Modern cement fountain visible through the glass doors, this is to garden as prepackaged microwave meals are to food, and straight into the plastic-leather-padded elevator.

  All the time she's rehearsing: Wasn't one enough? You gonna kill my son, too? Get your claws off my child! She feels like a tigress, defending her young. Or this is what tigresses are rumoured to do. I'll huff and I'll puff, she roars inwardly, and I'll blow your house down!

  Except that Zenia was never much of a one for houses. Only for breaking into them.

  At the back of her mind is another scenario: what happens when Larry finds out what she's done? He is, after all, twenty-two. That's well over the age of consent. If he wants to screw cheerleaders or St. Bernard dogs or aging vamps like Zenia, what business is it, really, of hers? She pictures his glance of patient, exasperated contempt, and flinches.

  Knock, knock, knock, she goes on Zenia's door. Just making a noise recoups her strength. Open up, you pig, you sow, and let me in!

  And clickety-clack, here comes somebody. The door opens a crack. It's on the chain. "Who is it?" says the smoky voice of Zenia.

  "It's me," says Roz. "It's Roz. You might as well let me in, because if you don't I'm just going to stand here and scream."

  Zenia opens the door. She's dressed to go out, in the same low-cut black dress that Roz remembers from the Toxique. Her face is made up, her hair is loose, waving and coiling and uncoiling itself in restless tendrils around her head. There's a suitcase open on the bed.

  "A suitcase?" says Tony. "I didn't see any suitcases."

  "Me neither," says Charis. "Was the room tidy?"

  "Fairly tidy," says Roz. "But this was later in the afternoon. After you were there. Most likely the maid had come."

  "What was in the suitcase?" says Tony. "Was she packing? Maybe she's planning to leave."

  "It was empty," says Roz. "I looked."

  "Roz!" says Zenia. "What a surprise! Come on in - you're looking terrific!"

  Roz knows she is not looking terrific: anyway, looking terrific is what people say about women her age who are not actually dead. Zenia, on the other hand, really is looking terrific. Doesn't she ever age? thinks Roz bitterly. What kind of blood does she drink? Just one wrinkle, just a little one, God; would it be so hard? Tell me again - why do the wicked prosper?

  Roz does not beat about the bush. "What do you think you're up to, having a thing with Larry?" she says. "Don't you have any, any scruples at all?"

  Zenia looks at her. "A thing? What a delicious idea! Did he tell you that?"

  "He's been seen, going into your hotel room. More than once," says Roz.

  Zenia smiles gently. "Seen? Don't tell me you've got that Hungarian following me around again. Roz, why don't you sit down? Have a drink or something. I never had anything against you personally." She herself sits demurely down on the flowered sofa, as if there's nothing at all going on; as if they're two respectable matrons about to have afternoon tea. "Believe me, Roz. My feelings for Larry are only maternal."

  "What do you mean, maternal?" says Roz. She feels stupid standing up, so she sits in the matching chair. Zenia is hunting for her cigarettes. She finds the pack, shakes it: empty. "Have one of mine," says Roz reluctantly.

  "Thanks," says Zenia. "I ran into him by accident, in the Toxique. He remembered me - well, he would, he was - what? fifteen? He wanted to talk to me about his father. So touching! You really haven't been very forthcoming on t
hat subject with him, have you, Roz? A boy needs to know something about his father; something good. Don't you think?"

  "So, what exactly have you been telling him?" says Roz suspiciously.

  "Nothing but the best," says Zenia. She lowers her eyes modestly. "I think it's sometimes in everyone's best interests to bend the truth a little, don't you? It doesn't cost me anything, and poor Larry does seem to want a father he can look up to."

  Roz can hardly believe what she's hearing. In fact she doesn't believe it. There must be more, and there is. "Of course, if this situation goes on much longer it might become more complicated," says Zenia. "I might forget, and tell a little too much of the truth. About what a twisted jerk poor Larry's father really was."

  Roz sees red. She actually sees it, a red haze obscuring her eyes. It's one thing for her to criticize Mitch, but another thing for Zenia! "You used him," she says. "You cleaned him out, you sucked him dry, then you just threw him away! You're responsible for his death, you know. He killed himself because of you. I don't think you're in any position to stand in judgment."

  "You want to know?" says Zenia. "You really want to know? After I told him it wasn't going to work out, because he was just too besotted - shit, I could hardly breathe, he was a control freak, I had no life of my own, he wanted to know what I had for breakfast, he wanted to come into the bathroom with me every time I needed to pee, I mean it! - he practically tried to kill me! I had the marks on my neck for weeks; good thing I wasn't too squeamish to kick him in the nuts, as hard as I could, to make him let go. Then he cried all over me; he wanted the two of us to make some stupid suicide pact, so we could be together in death! Oh, fun! Fuck that, I told him! So don't blame me. I wash my hands."

  Roz can't stand hearing this, she can't stand it! Poor Mitch, reduced to that. An abject groveller. "You could have helped him," she said. "He needed help!" Roz could have helped him too, of course. She would have, if she'd known. Wouldn't she?

  "Don't be a priss," says Zenia. "You should give me a medal for getting him off your back. Mitch was a sick lech. What he wanted out of me was sexual twist - he wanted to be tied up, he wanted me to dress up in leather underwear, and other stuff, stuff he would never ask you to do because he thought you were his angel wife. Men get like that after a certain age, but this was too much. I can't tell you the half of it, it was so ridiculous!"

  "You led him on," says Roz, who wants by this time to run out of the room. It's too humiliating for Mitch. It shrinks him too much. It's too painful.

  "Women like you make me sick," says Zenia angrily. "You've always owned things. But you didn't own him, you know. He wasn't your God-given property! You think you had rights in him? Nobody has any rights except what they can get!"

  Roz takes a deep breath. Lose her temper and she loses the fight. "Maybe," she says. "But that doesn't alter the fact that you ate him for breakfast."

  "The trouble with you, Roz," says Zenia, more gently, "is that you never gave the man any credit. You always saw him as a victim of women, just putty in their hands. You babied him. Did it ever occur to you that Mitch was responsible for his actions? He made his own decisions, and maybe those decisions didn't have much to do with me, or with you either. Mitch did what he wanted to do. He took his chances."

  "You stacked the deck," says Roz.

  "Oh please," says Zenia. "It takes two to tango. But why fight about Mitch? Mitch is dead. Let's get back to the main issue. I have a proposition for you: perhaps, for Larry's sake, I should leave town. Larry wouldn't be the only reason - I'll be frank with you, Roz, I need to leave town anyway. I'm in some danger here, so I'm asking you for old times' sake as well. But I can't afford it right now; I won't hide from you that things are getting very tight. I'd go like a shot if I only had, say, a plane ticket and some pocket money."

  "You're trying to blackmail me," says Roz.

  "Let's not call names," says Zenia. "I'm sure you see the logic."

  Roz hesitates. Should she buy it, should she buy Zenia off? And what if she doesn't? What exactly is the threat? Larry is no longer a child; there's a lot he must have guessed, about Mitch. "I don't think so," she says slowly. "I have a better proposition. How about you leave town anyway? I could still get you for embezzlement, you know. And there is this thing about cheque-forging."

  Zenia frowns. "Money is too important to you, Roz," she says. "What I was really offering you was protection for yourself. Not for Larry. But you aren't worth protecting. Here's the real truth, then. Yes, I'm screwing Larry, but that's just a sideshow. Larry isn't primarily my lover, Larry is primarily my pusher. I'm surprised your inept private dick didn't figure that out, and I'm truly surprised you haven't figured it out yourself. You may not be pretty, but you used to be smart. Your mama's boy has been inflating his flat little ego by doing a brisk trade in coke, the recreational yuppie drug-of-choice. He's dealing, he's retailing to his well-heeled friends. He's been sampling the product pretty heavily too - you'll be lucky if he ends up with a nose. What do you think he does at the Toxique, night after night? The place is notorious! He's not doing it just for the money - he enjoys it! And you know what he enjoys most of all? Sneaking around behind your back! Pulling a fast one on Mom! Like father, like son. That boy has a problem, Roz, and his problem is you!"

  Roz has gone limp. She doesn't want to believe any of this, but parts of it ring true. She remembers the envelope of white powder she found, she remembers Larry's secrecies, the blanks in his life that she can't fill in, and her fear comes flooding back, with a big helping of guilt added in. Has she been overprotective? Is Larry trying to escape from her? Is she a devouring mother? Worse: is Larry a hopeless addict?

  "So I'd think twice, if I were you," says Zenia. "Because if you won't pay for information, there are people who will. I think it would make a nice headline, don't you? Son of Prominent Citizen Jailed in Hotel Drug Bust. Nothing would be easier for me to arrange. Larry trusts me. He thinks I need him. All I have to do is whistle and your sonny-boy comes running with his pockets full. He's really cute, you know. He's got cute buns. He'll be appreciated in the slammer. What do they give them now? Ten years?"

  Roz is stupefied; she can't take it all in. She gets up out of her chair and walks to the window, to the French doors leading onto the balcony. From here she can see a new-moon sliver of the fountain, down below. It hasn't been drained yet; brown dead leaves are floating in it. Most likely the hotel has a staff shortage, because of the Recession. "I need to talk to him," she says.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," says Zenia. "He'll panic, he'll do something rash. He's an amateur, he'll give himself away. And right now he owes his suppliers quite a lot of money. I know who they are and they aren't nice people. They won't like it if he flushes the stuff down the toilet. They won't get paid, and as a rule they react badly to that. They don't like it either if people get caught and then talk about them. They don't fool around. Your boy Larry could get his fingers burned. Actually, he could end up in a ditch somewhere, minus a few parts."

  This can't be happening, thinks Roz. Sweet, serious Larry, in his boy's room with the school trophies and the pictures of boats? Zenia is a liar, she reminds herself. But she can't afford to dismiss her story, because what if - for once - it's true?

  The thought of Larry dead is too much to bear. She would never survive it. This thought is lodged like a splinter of ice in her heart; at the same time she feels as if she's been teleported into some horrible daytime soap, with hidden iniquities and sinister intrigues and bad camera angles.

  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 m
e," 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."