Month of the dead, month of returning, thinks Charis. She thinks of the grey weeds waving, under the poisonous, guileless water, at the bottom of the lake; of the grey fish with lumpy chemical growths on them, wafting like shadows; of the lamprey eels with their tiny rasping teeth and sucking mouths, undulating among the husks of wrecked cars, the empty bottles. She thinks of everything that has fallen in, or else been thrown. Treasures and bones. At the beginning of November the French decorate their family graves with chrysanthemums, the Mexicans with marigolds, making a golden path so the spirits can find their way. Whereas we go in for poppies. The flower of sleep and forgetting. Petals of spilled blood.

Each one of them has a poppy stuck into the front of her coat. Flimsy plastic but who can resist, thinks Roz, though she liked the cloth ones better. It’s like those awful daffodils for cancer, pretty soon every single flower will be hooked up with some body part or disease. Plastic lupins for lupus, plastic columbines for colostomies, plastic aspidistras for AIDS, you have to buy the darn things though, it protects you from getting hit up every time you walk out the door. I have one already. See?

It was Tony who insisted on this particular day. Remembrance Day. Bloody Poppy Day. Tony is getting more bizarre by the minute, in Roz’s opinion; but then, so are they all.

Remembrance Day is only fitting, thinks Tony. She wants to do Zenia justice; but she’s remembering more than Zenia. She’s remembering the war, and those killed by it, at the time or later; sometimes wars take a long time to kill people. She’s remembering all the wars. She craves some idea of ceremony, of decorum; not that she’s getting one whole hell of a lot of cooperation from the others. Roz did wear black, as requested, but she’s tarted it up with a red-and-silver scarf. Black brings out my eye bags, she said. I needed something else right next to my face. Goes with my lipstick—this is Rubicon, hot off the press. Like it? You don’t mind, do you honey?

And as for Charis ... Tony looks sideways at the receptacle Charis is holding: not the chintzy copper urn with the imitation Greek handles peddled by the crematorium, more like a stirrup cup really, but something even worse. It’s a handmade ceramic flower vase, heavily artistic, in mottled shades of mauve and maroon, donated to Charis by Shanita, from the stockroom of Scrimpers, where it had been gathering dust for years. Charis insisted on something more meaningful than the tin can that Tony’s been keeping in her cellar, so before they got their ferry tickets they transferred Zenia from canister to vase, in the Second Cup coffee shop. Roz poured; the ashes were stickier than Tony had expected. Charis couldn’t bear to look, in case there were any teeth. But she’s got her nerve back by now; she stands at the railing of the ferry, her pale hair spread out, looking like a ship’s figurehead going backwards and cradling the lurid flower vase with Zenia’s earthly remains inside it. If the dead come back for revenge, thinks Tony, the flower vase alone will be enough to do it.

“Would you say this is halfway?” asks Tony. She wants them to be over the deepest part.

“Looks right to me, sweetie,” says Roz. She’s impatient to get this over. When they reach the Island they are all going to Charis’s house for tea, and, Roz trusts and hopes, some form of lunch: a piece of homemade bread, a whole wheat cookie, anything. Whatever it is will taste like straw—that brown-rice, dauntingly healthy, lipstickless taste that is the base note of everything Charis cooks—but it will be food. She has three Mozart Balls tucked into her purse as a sort of anti-vitamin supplement and starvation fallback. She intended to bring champagne but she forgot.

It will be a wake of sorts, the three of them gathered around

Charis’s round table, munching away at the baked goods, adding to the seven-grain crumbs on the floor, because death is a hunger, a vacancy, and, you have to fill it up. Roz intends to talk: it will be her contribution. Tony has picked the day and Charis the container, so the vocals will be up to Roz.

The funny thing is, she actually feels sad. Now figure that out! Zenia was a tumour, but she was also a major part of Roz’s life, and her life is past the midpoint. Not soon, but sooner than she wants, she’ll begin to set like the sun, to dwiAdle. When Zenia goes into the lake Mitch will go too, finally; Roz will finally be a widow. No. She’ll be something more, something beyond that. What? She will wait and see. But she’ll take off her wedding ring, because Charis says it constrains the left hand and that’s the hand Roz needs to draw on, now.

She feels something else she never thought she would feel, towards Zenia. Oddly enough, it’s gratitude. What for? Who knows? But that’s what she feels.

“Should I just pour it out or throw in the whole thing?” says Charis. She has a sneaking wish to keep the vase for herself. it has a strong energy.

“What would you do with it afterwards?” says Tony, looking at her sternly, and after a moment—in which she pictures the vase full of flowers, or standing empty on a shelf, giving off a baleful crimson light in both cases—Charis says, “You’re right:” It would be a mistake to keep the vase, it would be holding Zenia to the earth; she has already seen the results of that, she doesn’t want a repeat. The mere absence of a body would not stop Zenia; she would just take somebody else’s. The dead return in other forms, she thinks, because we will them to.

“Heave ho, then,” says Roz, “last one in’s a rotten stinker!” What on earth is she thinking of? Cold water! Summer camp! Talk about mood swings! Not to mention bad taste. How much more of her life is she going to spend showing off, playing for cheap laughs? How old do you have to get before wisdom descends like a plastic bag over your head and you learn to keep your big mouth shut? Maybe never. Maybe you get more frivolous with age. Their eyes, their ancient glittering eyes, are gay.

But this is death, and death is Death, capital D, never mind whose, so sober up, Roz. Anyway she is sober, it’s only the way things come out of her. Bite my tongue, God, I didn’t mean it. It’s just the way I am.

Tony gives Roz an annoyed glance. What she herself would like is a little gunfire. A ritual cannon shot, the flag lowering to halfmast, a single bugle note quivering in the silvery air. Other dead fighters get that, so why not Zenia? She thinks of solemn moments, battlefield vignettes: the hero leaning on his sword or spear or musket, gazing down with noble and philosophical grief at his freshly killed opponent. Of equal rank, it goes without saying. I am the enemy you killed, my friend.

All very well, in art. In real battles, more likely a quick rifling of the watch pocket and the cutting off of ears as souvenirs. Old photographs of hunters with one foot on the bear carcass, clowning around with the sad sawed-off omnivorous ravenous head. Reduction of your sacred foe to a rug, with all the paintings and poems a kind of decorous curtain to disguise the gloating discourse going on behind.

“Okay,” she says to Charis, and Charis thrusts both arms and both hands and the flower vase straight out from her body, over the railing, and there is a sharp crack, and the vase splits in two. Charis gives a little shriek and pulls her hands back as if they’ve been burned. She looks at them: there’s a slight blue tinge, a flickering. The pieces of the vase splash into the water, and Zenia trails off in a long wavering drift, like smoke.

“Holy Moly!” says Roz. “What did that?”

“I think she hit it on the railing,’’ says Tony.

“No,” says Charis in a hushed voice. “It cracked by itself. It was her.” Entities can cause things like that, they can affect physical objects; they do it to get your attention.