“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 IZoz.
“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 spraypaint-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 o 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, twentytwo. 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 maternaclass="underline" ”
“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 that 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 hirn,” 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?