Honey, page 19
If you don’t call back soon, I’m going to break down your door. Just kidding. I miss you!
At the end of the message there was a minuscule image of what appeared to be an ice-cream cone, or possibly a slice of pizza. What was it with all the hieroglyphics lately?
Now that the phone was in her hand, Honey saw the ridiculous number of missed calls and texts—mostly from Jocelyn, but a few from Nathan, as well as from Corrado. She was drunk enough to listen to the voice mails.
When she heard Nathan’s gentle voice, he sounded to her like a sixteen-year-old. Maybe it was this softness that had made her think he was gay. In his message he said he was sorry if he’d offended her. But I just think you’re fantastic. There aren’t a lot of people I feel comfortable talking with. Especially about art.
And then Honey found herself wincing as he repeated the dreadful words: I’m not going to lie about being attracted to you, but we can skip all that and just—
Honey stopped listening at this point, feeling again the anger she’d felt at the gallery. Normally she wasn’t so judgmental in regard to a person’s sexual fancies; in fact, she prided herself on being open-minded. But, in this case, the only apt word seemed to be the one that kept ringing in her head. Pervert.
Strangely, she’d never thought this in L.A. whenever a younger man had flirted with her. But those other men had gigolo written all over them, and Nathan seemed the furthest thing from that. What was even more curious was the fact that, in the past, Honey had always been able to gracefully dismiss passes from men she had no interest in. But with Nathan she was completely flummoxed. And his attraction to her hurt; it was physically painful.
To distract herself, she began to plumb the depths of Jocelyn’s texts—a continuous stream of them, stretching back for weeks, even months. Had she known the girl this long? It was a vast catacomb of messages, stacked one upon the other like small gray bones. Honey took another slug of wine, and put on her readers.
* * *
For the most part, the texts were bland but affectionate pleasantries.
Let’s have our brownies soon.
Everything A-OK over here! You???
As Honey swiped further, she discovered the links the girl had sent to various dating sites.
Just some examples, in case you want to try your luck.
Attempting to delete one of the texts, Honey accidentally clicked on a link and fell into a rabbit hole—a site called Craver. On the screen appeared a grid of faces, and above them the phrase What do you really want? The query was sexual in nature—and the users of the site could respond in one of three categories: Mild, Medium, and Freaky.
Honey, being Honey, clicked on Freaky, and began to read the most astonishing things. She sensed her face growing hot, reading about a man who was looking for a woman to—No, Honey’s mind refused to preserve it. Disgusting, she thought. Not to mention sad—the way certain individuals found it necessary to look for love in the trash.
Still, she was curious—and as she continued to explore the site, she found herself more and more intrigued. The world, it seemed, had grown wild while she wasn’t looking. Or perhaps it had just grown more honest, now that people could hide inside these caverns of technology.
When Honey perused the Mild section, it didn’t seem mild at all. She was expecting to find things like Young woman looking for a travel companion, but found instead: Young woman looking for full-time slave. Young woman looking for—No, again Honey’s mind shut down.
Attempting to click her way out of this hellhole, she found herself directed, as if by magic, to a gay site. Here, she wandered through ill-lit hallways hung with shadowy photos, gasping when she saw a close-up of a man’s rear end. Good Lord! Was that the best he could do for a headshot? The photo was so detailed it looked like an image from laparoscopic surgery. Quite horrible.
As she made her way through the other profiles, fearful she might be mooned again, she came across several terms she didn’t understand. One man described himself as a “power bottom”—which sounded, to Honey, rather like a pair of sequined slacks she’d worn in the seventies. There were twinks and unicorns, pans and fairies. She giggled at the designation “verbal top”; it made the dominator sound like a toddler who’d just learned to speak.
Oral submissives, pillow biters—an endless parade of monikers. And the descriptions of what they wanted, it was all so dreadfully specific. Everyone seemed to know exactly, but exactly, what they required in the bedroom. Bodies reduced to shopping lists of proclivities and preferences, everything so rigid it seemed that the point of another person was merely to assume a certain position, press a particular button.
Occasionally, someone exhibited a refreshing flexibility: Mainly bottom but can be versatile. (Once again, Honey imagined this sartorially: a miniskirt that might also work as a halter top.) For the most part, though, everyone had their roles down pat. Even those describing themselves as “gender fluid” were looking, it seemed, for a very definite type, a concrete channel through which to pour their fluidity. There seemed to be little room for self-discovery or imagination. Which was what sex was all about, was it not?
Another text from Joss read, This one might be good for you! The site was called StillKickin, and featured older people with bizarrely blurry faces. Seventy but feel thirty, one of the users proclaimed. Which no doubt meant Eighty and deluded.
After closing the various pages, Honey found herself back at the original website—the grid of headshots. As she swiped through them one last time, she studied the faces: some of them stiffly smiling, as if for school photos; others cool and detached, fugitives on a passport. Honey swiped faster, then paused when she saw a shadowy image of a round-faced girl who looked familiar. The girl listed her name as HotSauce, and she seemed to have some sort of medal on her chest that was catching the light—but as Honey squinted she realized it wasn’t a medal but a buckle on a pair of overalls.
Dear God, it was Jocelyn!
Honey clicked to read the profile. It wasn’t very long, but it pierced her like a knife.
Twenty-six, full-figured, open to pretty much anything. You tell me! Long term would be nice. Stronger men preferred.
Honey put down the phone, feeling sick. She was very drunk.
Suddenly it seemed imperative to talk to the girl, straighten out that silly head of hers. A strong man was fine—Honey had liked them that way, too—but brutality, no; it was never acceptable.
The more she thought about it, though—about Joss and Lee, the drugs, the bruises—the more she understood that the only choice was to stay out of it. Every woman was free to invent her own apocalypse.
Honey closed her eyes and wept.
24
Detour
Honey was halfway out the door when she realized she’d forgotten something. She went back to the bedroom and found the vial of geranium oil. Moistening two fingers, she deftly punctuated herself: commas on the wrists, periods behind the ears. Only a little was necessary. The oil’s purpose was not to allure. No, today she was using it as a witch might—for protection. Honey hadn’t been to her father’s house in nearly fifty years.
As she pulled out of the garage, it was just after one o’clock. Corrado had told her to come at two, but she wanted to stop at the cemetery first, say hello to Dominic. It was Sunday, and she drove slowly down peacefully deserted streets. Spotting a market, she decided to buy some flowers. When she stepped from the car, though, a homeless woman blocked her path and began to coo like a pigeon. “I just love that dress of yours. Where can I get one?”
“You can’t,” said Honey.
“And why is that?” the woman asked, in an offended tone. “You think I can’t afford it? Because I’ll have you know I don’t really look like this”—she gestured at her weather-eaten face. “I’m in disguise.”
“Aren’t we all, dear?” said Honey. “But I only meant that you can’t get a dress like this because it’s one of a kind, and the designer is dead.”
The woman seemed to think this was a riot; she slapped her filthy thigh and cackled phlegmatically. “Good for her!” And then, not missing a beat: “Got any cash?”
Honey handed the perceptive loon five dollars and returned to the car, forgoing the flowers.
* * *
Distractedly, she made her way into the poorer part of Ferryfield. Maybe, instead of going to the cemetery, she might stop by Florence Fini’s old house, show the little boy another example of his grandmother’s handiwork. The dress Honey was wearing, a simple but elegant shift, was a Florence.
She parked across the street but didn’t immediately get out of the car. Though she’d met Flo’s family at the wake and had visited them occasionally after that, she wondered how they’d feel about an unannounced visit on a Sunday—a precious day for the working class.
Honey stared at the small white house: 21 Cressida Drive. The address had once seemed magical, lucky—though it’d turned out to be quite the opposite. The Fini family had been cursed with more than its fair share of tragedy. When Florence’s son died on that bridge . . .
No, the story was too long, too terrible. And, more important, it was not Honey’s to tell. Someone else would have to write that book. Suffice it to say: other people suffered, too.
Honey waited, spying from behind a tinted window. Eventually the family came outside and sat on the porch. The first thing Honey noticed was how happy they seemed. Edgar, the albino boy, was smiling, as was his mother, Lucy, who was drinking a beer. When the boy took his mother’s hand, Honey understood how easily love comes, and how easily it is ripped apart.
It seemed she might speak with Edgar about what it had been like when he was abducted. To Honey it was almost as if the boy had been to the underworld and back. What had he seen there? Strands of light, or only darkness? Had he felt the presence of his grandmother?
Honey was ready to get out of the car and make her way to the porch.
But then she thought, What am I doing? I have no right to be here. The boy and his mother were laughing now. Why disrupt their Sunday idyll to reminisce about the dead? Besides, these lovely people were not her family.
Honey pressed the gas and sailed away, unnoticed.
* * *
Soon she was at her father’s house, now the domain of Corrado and his wife. Honey still couldn’t remember the woman’s name—Rita? Rina?
Sitting in the car, Honey gazed out the window at the handsome prison where she’d spent her early life. The bones of the estate were pretty much the same, a sprawling three-story villa with a facade of beige blocks chiseled to look like stones. On the second level there were two good-sized balconies, and at the very top several arched windows with borders of stained glass.
Honey noted the addition of burglar bars on the ground floor—ornate wrought-iron curlicues. A pity, really; from the inside, the bars would spoil the view. The property was huge, with a park-like yard. Some of the old trees had grown so large they delivered an electric shock to Honey’s sense of time.
The driveway was new, significantly widened, with black tiles that sparkled as if embedded with diamonds. The path curved dramatically and was flanked by elaborate landscaping, featuring topiary hedges and enormous concrete urns—a Las Vegas version of Versailles. Honey drove up and parked behind a Hummer. Five minutes later she was still sitting there, debating whether to turn and drive away.
But then she sighed, scolding her fear. It was just a house, for heaven’s sake. She checked her face in the mirror, adjusted her hair. After pinching her cheeks for color, she picked up the pricey bottle of Barolo and opened the Lexus door.
25
All Good Men Have Hairy Chests
As she crossed the diamond driveway, the click of her heels was accompanied by the dull thud of the cane. Though Honey’s leg was feeling just dandy, she’d brought the cane for more esoteric reasons. The scratched-up wreck of cherrywood, with its horrible rubber tip, had belonged to her mother. Honey had taken it from the hospital room at the very end, knowing she would inherit nothing else. Her brother Enzo was already dead, by then; her father too. Everything from her mother’s sizable estate had been left to Enzo’s son—who was now opening the front door, saying, “Aunt Honey!” Kissing her on both cheeks, asking if she needed help.
“I’m fine, dear. Here, this is for you.” She handed Corrado the bottle of Barolo.
“Wow—this looks great.”
He stared at the label a bit too long, and Honey navigated the awkward silence with a theatrical sniff. “Smells wonderful in here,” she said.
“Yeah, Rina’s making manicotti.”
Rina. Honey drilled the name into her head, so as not to forget.
“Can I take your, uh, thing?” Corrado asked. “Your scarf or . . .”
“No, the wrap is part of my ensemble.”
“Oh.”
“Plus, it’ll keep me warm. I get cold easily.”
When her nephew offered to turn down the AC, Honey said she was all right, at the moment. Not quite true. The house was only slightly warmer than a meat locker.
“If you want,” Corrado said, “we can eat in the backyard.”
“No,” Honey replied, too quickly. “Inside is fine.”
“Good. Because, to be honest, Rina’s made a big fuss with the table. Come on, she’s in the kitchen.”
Corrado led her down the hallway—a wide passage that, after all these years, remained jarringly familiar, exerting an intimacy that felt almost inappropriate. The colors of the walls were different, the furnishings, but the architecture hadn’t changed, nor the way the light came through the windows—and it was these more subtle forces that surrounded Honey, owned her.
As they moved toward the kitchen, Rina appeared in the hall and embraced Honey with damp arms, her apron smelling faintly of garlic. Honey wasn’t offended; in fact she found the scent endearing. When was the last time she’d had a home-cooked meal? At her own house, she’d done little more than nibble lately. Here, it smelled like heaven—though perhaps too much so, because it made her think of Dante’s. Of Dominic. She willfully brightened, squeezing Rina’s hand.
“I hear you’re making manicotti. My favorite.”
“And I’m using your mother’s recipe.”
“Yes,” Honey said, “I thought I detected nutmeg.”
“I’ve also got meatballs and braciole, broccoli rabe—and Corrado made cheesecake.”
“You cook?” she said to him.
He shrugged. “I try.”
The three of them stood there stranded, smiling.
“Where are your sons?” asked Honey.
“Peter’s in the living room,” Corrado said. “Why don’t we—”
“Yeah, you guys relax,” Rina said. “I’ll join you in a bit.”
Corrado gave the bottle of Barolo to his wife and then placed his hand on Honey’s arm, escorting her toward the living room, as if she might not know the way.
Peter, the older grandnephew, was lounging on the couch, watching a television the size of a billboard, his white-socked feet resting on a coffee table. When he saw Honey, he raised his head and offered a silent wave.
“Get up,” barked Corrado. “Say hello to your aunt.”
The boy rose—handsome, unshaven, more robust than his drug-addled brother.
“Nice to see you again,” Peter said, shaking Honey’s hand.
“Likewise. Is your wife joining us?” Honey recalled meeting her at Dominic’s wake.
“Yeah, she’s around somewhere. In the bathroom, I think.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Corrado asked
“Yeah, I’ll take another beer,” Peter said.
“Not you, you idiot. I was talking to your aunt.”
Honey smiled. “I wouldn’t mind a beer.”
“You don’t want some of the wine you brought?”
“No, save that for dinner. I’ll just have whatever Peter’s drinking.”
Corrado nodded and headed back toward the kitchen.
As Honey stood beside her grandnephew, she could see the effort he was making not to look at the television. There was a baseball game going; no doubt he had a bet on it.
“I don’t mind if you watch, dear.”
“Thanks.” He returned to the couch. “You can—” He pointed at a large padded chair that looked like a throne. Honey rested the cane beside it and sat.
“Is your brother here?”
“No.”
“But he is coming?”
“She invited him.”
“She?”
“My mother.”
Tension in the boy’s voice. Honey recalled Rina saying on the telephone that the brothers had gotten into a fight. She thought it best to change the subject.
“Would you remind me of your wife’s name? I seem to have forgotten.”
“Addison. We call her Addie. She’s not Italian”—this last bit delivered sotto voce.
“Well,” Honey said, “we’ll forgive her.”
Peter smiled tightly, as if unsure if she was joking.
“I dated a Jew once,” Honey continued, “and it didn’t sit well with my parents.”
The boy looked confused, not to mention alarmed. “Addie’s not Jewish.”
“No, I wasn’t implying . . .” Again, she changed the subject. “So how much do you have on the game?”
“A lot,” he said, turning back to the television. “And it looks like I’m getting screwed.”
* * *
A little while later, they were all seated at the dinner table—well, all of them except Michael, who was late. Honey was eager to see the boy again. Perhaps, at some point, they’d have a chance to speak privately. If he wanted to discuss his problems, she’d attempt to be more sympathetic, maybe even tell him about her own struggles—not only with drugs but with the family. She was glad to see that they’d set a place for him right beside her.
