"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 strikes by any of the others. But she pours. So does Tony, smiling a little tensely, her bite-your-tongue smile. If this were three hundred years ago, she thinks, we'd all be burned at the stake. Zenia first, though. Without a doubt, Zenia first.
"That's all?" she says.
"I like to sprinkle a little salt, into the candle flame," says Charis, sprinkling it.
"I just hope nobody's watching," says Roz. "I mean, how long before we are three genuine certified batty old crones?" She's feeling slightly light-headed; maybe it's the codeine pills she took for her headache.
"Don't look now," says Tony.
"Crones is not so bad," says Charis. "Age is just attitude." She's staring dreamily at the candle.
"Tell that to my gynecologist," says Roz. "You just want to be a crone so you can mix potions."
"She already mixes them," says Tony.
Suddenly Charis sits up straight in her chair. Her eyes widen. Her hand goes over her mouth.
"Charis?" says Roz. "What is it, sweetie?"
"Oh my God," says Charis.
"Is she choking?" says Tony. Possibly Charis is having a heart attack, or a fit of some kind. "Hit her on the back!"
"No, no," says Charis. "It's Zenia! She's dead!"
"What?" says Roz.
"How do you know?" says Tony.
"I saw it in the candle," says Charis. "I saw her falling. She was falling, into water. I saw it! She's dead." Charis begins to cry.
"Honey, are you sure that wasn't just wishful thinking?" says Roz gently. But Charis is too absorbed in her grief to hear.
"Come on," says Tony. "We'll go to the hotel. We'll check. Otherwise," she says to Roz, over the top of Charis's head, which is bowed into her hands now and swaying back and forth, "none of us is going to get a decent night's sleep." This is true: Charis will worry about Zenia being dead, and Tony and Roz will worry about Charis. It's worth a short car ride to avoid that.
As they get their coats on, as Roz settles the bill, Charis continues to sob quietly. Partly it's the shock; the whole day has been a shock, and this an even bigger shock. But partly it's because she saw more than she's told. She didn't only see Zenia falling, a dark shape turning over and over, the hair spreading like feathers, the rainbow of her life twisting up out of her like grey gauze, Zenia shrinking to blackout. She also saw someone pushing her. Someone pushed Zenia, over the edge.
Although she couldn't see it clearly, she thinks she knows who that person was. It was Karen, who was left behind somehow; who stayed hidden in Zenia's room; who waited until Zenia had opened the door onto the balcony and then came up behind her and shoved her off. Karen has murdered Zenia, and it's Charis's fault for holding Karen away, separate from herself, for trying to keep her outside, for not taking her in, and Charis's tears are tears of guilt.
That is just one way of putting it, of course. What Charis means, she explains to herself, is that she wished Zenia dead. And now Zenia is dead. A spiritual act and a physical one are the same, from the moral point of view. Karen-Charis is a murderer. She has blood on her hands. She's unclean.
They go in Roz's car, the smaller one. There is some delay while Roz tries to find someone to park the car; as Roz complains to the man who is finally provided, the Arnold Garden is not exactly Johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to service. Then the three of them walk into the lobby. Charis has pulled herself together by now, and Tony has a steadying hand on her arm.
"She's in the fountain," Charis whispers.
"Shh," says Tony. "We'll see in a minute. Let Roz do the talking."
"I was here this afternoon, checking out your hotel as a convention possibility, and I think I left my gloves," says Roz. She's decided it would be a mistake to say they are looking for Zenia, on the outside chance that Charis may be right; not that Roz believes it for an instant, but still. Anyway, if they call the room and there's no answer, what would it prove? Nothing about death. Zenia could have checked out.
"Who were you talking to?" says the woman behind the counter.
"Oh, this was just preliminary," says Roz. "I think I left them out there in the courtyard. On the edge of the fountain."
"We keep that door locked at this time of year," says the woman.
"Well, it wasn't locked this afternoon," says Roz belligerently, "so I just had a look around. It's such a nice patio for cocktails, out by the fountain, is what I thought. That would be in June. Here's my card."
The card has an improving effect. "All right, Ms. Andrews, I'll have that unlocked for you right away," says the woman. "As a matter of fact we often use it for cocktails. We could do a buffet lunch out there for you, too; in the summer there's tables." She motions to the concierge.
"And could you have the outside lights turned on?" says Roz. "I might have dropped my gloves in the fountain. Or they could've blown in."
Roz's idea is to have the whole place lit up like a Christmas tree so Charis will be able to see as plain as day that Zenia is nowhere in view. The three of them go out through the glass patio door and stand together, waiting for illumination. "It's all right, honey, there's nothing," Roz whispers to Charis.
But when the lights go on, big floodlights from above and also from under the water, there is Zenia, floating face down among the dead leaves, her hair spread out like seaweed.
"My God," Tony whispers. Roz stifles a scream. Charis doesn't make a sound. Time has folded in upon itself, the prophecy has come true. But there are no dogs. Then it comes to her. We are the dogs, licking her blood. In the courtyard, the Jezebel blood. She thinks she is going to be sick.
"Don't touch her," says Tony, but Charis needs to. She reaches forward, reaches down and tugs, and Zenia revolves slowly, and looks straight at them with her white mermaid eyes.
55
She isn't really looking though, because she can't. Her eyes are rolled back into her head: that's why they're blank, like fish eyes. She's been dead for several hours, or at least that's what the police say when they arrive.
The hotel people are very worried. A dead woman in their fountain is not the kind of publicity they need, especially with business down the way it is. They seem to think it's all Roz's fault for suggesting that the lights be turned on, as if this is what caused Zenia to materialize in the fountain. But as Roz points out to the concierge, daylight would have been worse: hotel guests would be having breakfast in their rooms, going out on the balcony for a little fresh air and a cigarette, looking down, and you can ima
gine the uproar then.
Because they were the ones who found the body, Tony and Roz and Charis have to wait around. They have to answer questions. Roz grabs hold of the conversation and quickly sticks in her story about the gloves; it would not be at all wise to tell the police that they'd rushed over to the Arnold Garden Hotel because Charis saw a vision while staring into a candle. Roz has read enough detective novels to know that such a story would immediately cast suspicion on Charis. Not only would the police think she's a nutbar - well, objectively speaking, Roz can see it - but they'd also think she's a nutbar capable of shoving Zenia off the balcony herself, and then having amnesia, followed by an attack of psychedelic vision-producing guilt.
At the back of Roz's mind there's a sliver of suspicion: maybe they'd be right. There was enough time for Charis to come back to the hotel before turning up at the Toxique for dinner. She could have done it. So could Tony, who has been frank about her murderous intentions. So could Roz herself, for that matter. No doubt the fingerprints of the three of them are all over the room.
Maybe it was someone they don't even know, some stranger, one of those pursuing gun-runners or whatever, in that yarn Zenia fobbed off on Tony. But Roz doesn't credit that. Instead, there's a worse possibility, much worse: it might have been Larry. If what Zenia said was true, he would have had a good motive. He was never a violent child, he would walk away from the other kids rather than argue; but Zenia could have threatened him in some way. She could have tried to blackmail him. He could have been on drugs. What does Roz really know about Larry, now that he's grown up? She needs to get home as soon as possible and find out what he's been up to.
Tony has dragged Charis off to one side to keep her out of harm's way. She just hopes Charis will shut up about her vision, which - Tony has to admit - was accurate enough, though somewhat after the fact. But what really happened? Tony counts the possibilities: Zenia fell, Zenia jumped, Zenia was pushed. Accident, suicide, murder. Tony inclines towards the third: Zenia was killed - surely - by person or persons unknown. Tony's glad she took her gun home, in case there are bullet holes, although she didn't see any. She doesn't think Charis could have done it, because Charis wouldn't hurt a fly - it being her belief that flies might be inhabited by someone related to you in a previous life - but she's not that sure about Roz. Roz has a temper, and can be impetuous.
"Did anyone know this woman?" says the policeman.
The three of them glance at one another. "Yes," says Tony.
"We all came to see her, earlier today," says Roz.
Charis starts to cry. "We were her best friends," she says.
Which, thinks Tony, is news to her. But it will have to do for now.
Roz drives Charis to the ferry terminal, and then she drives Tony home. Tony goes up the stairs to West's study, where he's plugged into two of his machines via the earphones. She turns off his switch.
"Did Zenia call here?" she says.
"What?" says West. "Tony, what is it?"
"This is important," says Tony. She knows she's sounding fierce but she can't help it. "Have you been talking to Zenia? Has she been here?" She finds the idea of Zenia rolling around on the carpet with West among the synthesizers highly distasteful. No: unbearable.
Maybe, she thinks, West did it. Maybe he went over to Zenia's hotel room to beg and plead, hoping to run off with her again, and Zenia laughed at him, and West lost it and heaved her off the balcony. If that's what happened Tony wants to know. She wants to know so she can shield West, think up a watertight alibi for him, save him from himself.
"Oh, yeah," says West. "She did call, I don't know - a week ago. But I didn't talk to her, she just left a message on the machine."
"What did it say?" says Tony. "Why didn't you tell me? What did she want?"
"Maybe I should've mentioned it," says West. "But I didn't want you to get hurt. I mean, we both thought she was dead. I guess I would've liked her to stay that way."
"Really?" says Tony.
"She didn't want to talk to me," says West, as if he knows what Tony's been thinking. "She wanted you. If I'd had her on the phone in person I would've told her to forget it; I knew you wouldn't want to see her. I did jot it down - where she was staying - but after I thought things over, I threw it out. She's always been bad news."
Tony feels herself softening. "I saw her, though," she says. "I saw her this afternoon. She seemed to know that your study's on the third floor. How would she know that, if she's never been here?"
West smiles. "It's on my answering machine. Third floor, Headwinds. Remember?"
By this time he's unwired and standing up. Tony goes over to him and he folds himself up like a bridge chair and wraps his knottedrope arms around her, and kisses her on the forehead. "I like it that you're jealous," he says, "but you don't need to be. She's nothing, any more."
Little does he know, thinks Tony. Or else he does know and he's pretending not to. Squashed up against his torso, she takes a sniff of him, to see if he's been drinking a lot. If he has, it will be a dead giveaway. But there's nothing besides the usual mild scent of beer.
"Zenia is dead," she tells West solemnly.
"Oh, Tony," says West. "Again? I'm really sorry." He rocks her to and fro as if she's the one who needs to be consoled, and not him at all.
When Charis gets back to her house, still shaky but under control, there's a light on in the kitchen. It's Augusta, taking a long weekend break, paying a visit. Charis is glad to see her, though she wishes she'd had time to tidy up first. She notes that Augusta has washed the dishes from the last couple of days and has done away with a couple of major spider webs, though she's known better than to disassemble Charis's meditational altar. She has noted it, however.
"Mom," she says, after Charis has greeted her and has put on the kettle for bedtime tea, "what's this chunk of stone and this pile of dirt and leaves doing on the living-room table?"
"It's a meditation," says Charis.
"Christ," Augusta mutters. "Can't you put it somewhere else?"
"August," says Charis, a little tersely, "it's my meditation, and it's my house."
"Don't snap at me!" says August. "And Mom, it's Augusta. That's my name now."
Charis knows this. She knows she should respect August's new name, because everyone has a right to rename herself according to her inner direction. But she chose August's original name with such love and care. She gave it to her, it was a gift. It's hard for her to let it go.
"I'll make you some muffins," she says, attempting to conciliate. "Tomorrow. The ones with the sunflower seeds. You always liked those."
"You don't have to keep giving me stuff, Mom," says Augusta, in an oddly grown-up voice. "I love you anyway."
Charis feels her eyes watering. Augusta hasn't said anything this affectionate for some time. And she does find it difficult to believe - that a person would love her even when she isn't trying. Trying to figure out what other people need, trying to be worthy. "It's just, I worry about you," she says. "About your health." This isn't really the part of Augusta that worries her, but it stands in for the other, more spiritual things. Though health is a spiritual thing too.
"No kidding," says Augusta. "Every time I come home you try to stuff me full of veggie burgers. I'm nineteen, Mom, I take care of myself, I eat balanced meals! Why can't we just have fun? Go for a walk or something."
It's unusual for Augusta to want to spend time with Charis. Maybe Augusta isn't totally hard, not lacquered and shiny all the way through. Maybe she has a soft spot. Maybe she is part Charis, after all.
"Did you mind a lot, not having a father?" Charis asks. "When you were little?" She's been on the verge of asking this for a long time, although she's feared the answer because surely it was her fault that Billy had left. If he'd run away it was her fault for not being appealing enough to keep him, if he'd been kidnapped it was her fault for not taking better care of him. Now, though, she has some other possible views of Billy. Whether Zenia was lying or not, ma
ybe it's just as well Billy didn't stick around.
"I wish you'd stop feeling so guilty," says Augusta. "Maybe I minded when I was small, but look around you, Mom, this is the twentieth century! Fathers come and go - a lot of the kids on the Island didn't have them. I know some people with three or four fathers! I mean, it could have been worse, right?"
Charis looks at Augusta and sees the light around her. It's a light that's hard like a mineral and also soft, a glow like the luminosity of a pearl. Inside the layers of light, right at the centre of Augusta, there's a small wound. It belongs to Augusta, not to Charis; it's for Augusta to heal.
Charis feels absolved. She puts her hands on Augusta's shoulders, gently so Augusta will not feel seized, and kisses her on the forehead.
Before she goes to bed, Charis does a meditation on Zenia. She needs to do this, because although she has often thought about Zenia in relation to herself, or to Billy, or even to Tony and Roz, she has never truly considered what Zenia was in and by herself: the Zenia-ness of Zenia. She has no object, nothing belonging to Zenia, to focus on, so instead she turns off the lights in the living room and stares out the window, into the darkness, towards the lake. Zenia was sent into her life - was chosen by her - to teach her something. Charis doesn't know what it was yet, but in time she will uncover it.
She can see Zenia clearly, Zenia lying in the fountain, with her cloudy hair floating. As she watches, time reverses itself and life flows back into Zenia, and she lifts out of the water and flies backwards like a huge bird, up onto the orange balcony. But Charis can't hold her there, and she falls again; falls down, turning slowly, into her own future. Her future as a dead person, as a person not yet born.
Charis wonders whether Zenia will come back as a human being or as something else. Perhaps the soul breaks up as the body does, and only parts of it are reborn, a fragment here, a fragment there. Perhaps many people will soon be born with a fragment of Zenia in them. But Charis would rather think of her whole.
After a while she turns out the other downstairs lights and goes upstairs. Just before she climbs into her vine-covered bed, she gets out her notebook with the lavender paper and her pen with the green ink, and writes: Zenia has returned to the Light.