Charis didn’t want fury. She wanted only happy emotions, because any other emotions would smudge her baby. She tried to spend time only with the things that gave her peace: the whiteness just after it snowed, before the soot of the city had a chance to fall; the gleam of icicles, the week they had the ice storm that took the telephone lines down. She walked around the Island by herself, being careful not to slip on the frozen paths. Her stomach was growing harder and rounder now, her breasts were swelling. She knew that most of her white-light energy was being directed into the baby now, not into Zenia or even Billy. The baby was responding, she could sense it; inside her it was listening, it was attentive, it was absorbing the light like a flower.

She hoped the other two didn’t feel neglected, but there was nothing much she could do about it. She only had so much energy, and increasingly there was none to spare. She was becoming a more ruthless person, a harder one; she could feel her grandmother’s ferociousness in her hands more strongly now. The baby inside her was Karen again, unborn, and with Charis watching over her she would have a better chance. She would be born to the right mother, this time.

In her head she spent time decorating the small room, the> baby’s room. She would paint it white, later, when she had the money, when Zenia was gone. In the summer, when it was hot, Billy could build a sauna in the backyard, beside the henhouse. Then next winter they could sit inside it and get heated through, and go outside and roll around in the snow. That would be a good way of using the snow; better than sitting inside and complaining about it, the way Zenia did. And Billy too.

In April, when the snow had melted and the shoots of Charis’s three daffodil bulbs were poking up through the brown earth, and the chickens were outside again, scratching up the dirt, she told Billy and Zenia about the baby: She had to. Soon it would be obvious; also, soon there would have to be some changes. She wouldn’t be able to carry on with the yoga classes, so the money would have to come from elsewhere. Billy would have to get a job of some sort. He didn’t have the right papers but there were jobs to be had anyway, because some of his draftdodging friends had them. Billy would have to get off his butt. Charis wouldn’t have thought like this, before the baby, but now she did.

And Zenia would finally have to go. Charis had been a teacher to her, but if Zenia failed to take advantage of what Charis had given her, that was her own concern.

Enough is enough, said her grandmother’s voice within her head. First things first. Blood is thicker than water.

She tells them one at a time, Zenia first. They’re having dinner—baked beans from a can, frozen peas. Charis has not been so meticulous about organic lately; somehow she lacks the time. Billy’s in the city, again.

“I’m going to have a baby,” Charis blurts out over the canned peaches.

Zenia is not hurt, not the way Charis has feared she would be. Nor does she offer any wistful congratulations or woman-towoman hugs or pats on the hand. Instead she’s contemptuous. “Well,” she says, “you’ve certainly screwed up!”

“What do you mean?” says Charis.

“What makes you think Billy wants a kid?” says Zenia. This takes Charis’s breath away. She recognizes that she’s been going on a certain assumption: that everyone else will welcome this baby as much as she does. She also recognizes that she hasn’t been taking Billy into account. She did make one attempt to imagine what it would be like to be a man, to be

Billy, having a baby, but she just couldn’t do it. After that she made no effort to divine his reaction.

“Well of course he does,” she says, trying for conviction. “You haven’t told him yet, have you,” says Zenia. It’s not a question.

“How do you know?” says Charis. How does she know? Why are they fighting?

“Wait’ll he finds out,” says Zenia grimly. “This house is going to be one whole hell of a lot smaller with a screaming brat in it. You could’ve waited till I was dead.”

Charis is amazed by her brutality and selfishness; amazed; and angry. But what comes out of her is close to appeasement. “There’s nothing I can do about it now,” she says.

“Sure there is,” says Zenia, patronizingly. “You can get an abortion.”

Charis stands up. “I don’t want one,” she says. She is close to tears, and when she goes upstairs—which she does right away, without for once doing the dishes—she does cry. She cries into their sleeping bag, wounded and confused. Something is going wrong and she isn’t even sure what it is.

When Billy gets home she is still lying on the sleeping bag, with the light out and her clothes still on.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” he says. “What’s happening?” He kisses her face.

Charis heaves herself up, then throws her arms around him. “Haven’t you noticed?” she says tearfully.

“Noticed what?” says Billy.

“I’m pregnant!” says Charis. “We’re going to have a baby!” She’s making it sound like a reproach; this isn’t what she means. She wants him to celebrate with her.

“Oh shit, “ says Billy. He goes slack in her arms. “Oh Jesus Christ. When?”

“In August,” says Charis, waiting for him to be glad. But he isn’t glad. Instead he’s treating this like a big catastrophe; like a death; not a birth. “Oh shit,” he says again. “What’re we gonna do?”

In the middle of the night Charis finds herself standing outside, in the garden. She’s been sleepwalking. She’s in her nightgown and her feet are bare; the mud and leaf mould crumble under her toes. She can smell a skunk, a distant one, like those run over on highways; but how could a skunk be here? This is the Island. But maybe they can swim.

Now she is fully awake. In her hand there’s the imprint of another hand: it’s her grandmother, trying to tell her something, trying to get through. A warning.

“What?” she says out loud. “What is it?”

She’s aware that there’s someone else in the garden, a dark shape leaning against the wall by the kitchen window. She sees a small glow. It wasn’t a skunk she smelled, it was smoke.

“Zenia, is that you?” she says.

“I couldn’t sleep,” says Zenia. “So, how’s Big Daddy taking it?”

“Zenia, you shouldn’t be smoking,” says Charis. She’s forgotten she’s angry with her. “It’s so bad for your cells.”

“Fuck my cells,” says Zenia. “They’re fucking me! I might as well enjoy myself while I’ve got the time.” Her voice comes out of the darkness, lazy, sardonic. “And I have to tell you I’m sick to death of your do-gooder act. You’d be one hell of a lot happier if you’d mind your own business:”

“I was trying to help you,” Charis wails.

“Do me a favour,” says Zenia. “Help someone else:” Charis can’t understand it. Why was she brought out here to listen to this? She turns and goes inside, and gropes her way up the stairs. She doesn’t turn on the light.

The next day Billy takes the early ferry into the city. Charis works feverishly in her garden, digging in the spring compost, trying to blank her mind. Zenia stays in bed.

When Billy comes back after dark, he is drunk. He’s been drunk before but never this much. Charis is in the kitchen, doing the dishes, dishes left over from several days. She feels heavy, she feels clogged; there’s something in her head that won’t come clear. No matter how hard she looks, she can’t see past the surfaces of things. She’s being blocked, shut out; even the garden today wouldn’t let her in. The earth has lost its shine and is just an expanse of dirt, the chickens are petulant and frowsy, like old feather dusters.

So when Billy comes in, she turns to look at him, but she doesn’t say anything. Then she turns away from him, back to the dishes.

She hears him bump into the table; he knocks over a chair. Then his hands are on her shoulders. He turns her around. She hopes he’s going to kiss her, tell her he’s changed his mind, that everything is wonderful, but instead he begins to shake her. Back, forth, slowly. “You ... are ... just ... so ... goddamn ... stupid,” he says, in time to the shaking. “You are just so goddamn dumb!” His voice is almost fond.