Honey, page 29
When the phone rang a few minutes later, she didn’t pick up. But when the voice mail arrived, she listened to it. It wasn’t Jocelyn, though, but Teena, saying to please get in touch.
Such a relief, to finally hear from her. Honey sighed and let down her hunched-up shoulders. She almost felt like crying. She collected herself and dialed.
“Hello,” she said brightly when Teena picked up. “I’m very glad you called. So what’s the news?”
“I was actually calling to see if you had any news.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’ve heard from Mica? I only ask because I talked to my friends, and they say he hasn’t arrived yet. He should have been there yesterday, or the day before.”
“Maybe he’s just enjoying the scenery,” said Honey, trying to be positive. She recalled her own slowpoke drive, years ago, when she’d fled to California. What might have been a five-day trip had turned into a fifteen-day meander. Perhaps Michael was doing something similar, taking his time to get his thoughts in order. When she explained this to Teena—talking about the boy as if she knew him better than she did—Teena wasn’t convinced. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe he’s going somewhere else.”
“Such as?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well,” Honey reminded her, “you did say that he should begin a new life. Forget all about us.”
“Yes,” said Teena. “But am I not allowed to worry?”
Though Honey had her own worries, she didn’t share them. What seemed a better choice was to offer comfort. “We can’t let our fears get the best of us.” A comment she compounded with a small white lie. “My intuition tells me that he’s fine.”
“I don’t trust that sort of thing,” said Teena. “I think we better pray for him.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you to be the religious type.”
“Why not? I can’t have God, too? My bar, in fact, is named after a psalm in the Bible.”
Honey smiled, her first smile in weeks. When she told Teena that she was grateful to her, the woman didn’t succumb to sentimentality. All she said was, “I sent you Mica’s notebook, by the way. You should have it tomorrow.” And then, in the same businesslike tone, she asked Honey if she was ready to pray.
“Right now?”
“Why not?”
Honey hadn’t imagined the woman was proposing they do it together, on the telephone.
Having no idea what kind of prayer to offer, Honey suggested that Teena take the lead.
“Sure,” replied Teena, exhaling audibly. “Let me just finish my cigarette.”
40
Wednesday Morning, 9:15
When Honey saw the Hummer pull into her driveway, she felt frightened. Then angry. The unsent letter that Mica had written to his parents, the one she’d found in his notebook, still raged in her heart. She had no intention of opening the door, but then an even stronger feeling presented itself. Curiosity.
Corrado stood on the porch, looking at his shoes—tasseled loafers freshly polished. He seemed uncomfortable, almost sheepish. Honey kept her face strategically neutral, though in her heart the verdict was in.
“Yes?” she said.
Corrado began to speak, then stopped. He looked from his shoes to his hands, as if the words he couldn’t find were hiding there. “Rina said I should come.”
“I see. Is she upset that I’m not coming to her party?”
Corrado ignored this comment and stepped into the house.
“What are you doing?”
“Is he here? Rina said he might be staying with you.”
“Who? Michael?”
“Let me talk to him.”
Honey was suspicious. She wondered if Corrado were performing this lack of knowledge about his son to create an alibi.
“He isn’t here,” she said. “Don’t play games.”
Corrado was breathing heavily. His face was hard to read. He looked irritated, but at the same time he swiped at his nose as if attempting to stifle a more complicated emotion. When he put his hand on the cloisonné amphora sitting on the foyer table, Honey wondered if he’d break it. But he only touched the pattern of clouds and birds, and said, “Well, if he shows up . . .”
“If he shows up—what? Do you think I’d tell you?”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“I know what you did,” she said, sounding as melodramatic as Jocelyn.
The words were effective, though. Corrado fell silent. Again, he looked at his feet.
Honey asked him to leave—though just before he was out the door she said, “Wait. I have something for you.”
And then she gave him Mica’s notebook.
41
Sempre la Famiglia!
Dear Mom and Dad—I’m still going to call you that. I’m not sure why I’m writing this, it’ll only make you angry. You think I’m the angry one, but that’s not true. I have a friend who tells me I should never speak to you again, never see you. But even after everything that’s happened I can’t imagine that. That’s what’s so fucked up. It’s weird, because you taught me all these things growing up, about family and loyalty. About what’s important in a person’s life. But it was just a lie. And I know you told it because you wanted me to love you. And I did. I do. You don’t want that, though. The hardest thing to tell you is I’m happy. Or I will be soon. And even if I go away, don’t worry, I’m here. I exist. You have to live with that.
Sempre la famiglia!
42
Please Forgive Me
The following morning, a package arrived from Johnny. Honey pulled the cardboard tab to open it. She didn’t remove the documents, though—the changes to her will—but only the chocolates in their pretty yellow box. She untied the rumpled bow and, not bothering to sit, ate two of the fleur-de-sel truffles for breakfast. After that, she carried the official papers to her bedroom and tossed them in the nightstand drawer, right beside the Glock.
* * *
In the afternoon, Corrado called. Honey didn’t answer, though she listened to his voice mail, which was short and to the point. I’m sorry, Aunt Honey. Please forgive me.
Strangely, these words did nothing to warm her heart. In fact, a chill came over her, radiating from her chest to the very tips of her fingers. Quickly, in reply, she composed a text.
I’m not the one you need to apologize to.
When her nephew phoned again, Honey ignored the call and retreated to her closet. Not twenty minutes later, there was a loud banging on the front door. This Honey also ignored—though admittedly with a hope that Corrado (she assumed it was him) would break into the house and force her into a confrontation.
* * *
She ran a bath and while soaking let her head slip under the water, opened her eyes. It was something she used to do as a girl, to test the shimmering surface of the world. Back then, the experiment had cost her little—but now, with such a low reserve of breath, she came up gasping.
After climbing from the tub, she stood before the full-length mirror as tiny rivulets of water flowed down her torso. It was then the tears came. She sat at the vanity and wept. Wept for many things, a constellation of piercing distances whose primary star was Michael.
Honey longed for someone to talk to. She considered calling Teena, though she didn’t want to add to the woman’s worries. She thought about the painter, too, who’d been so kind when Mica had first gone missing. But what right did she have to get in touch with Nathan? She’d already enacted a rude dismissal so he’d keep his distance.
When Honey finally picked up her cell phone, it was not to call anyone, but simply to look at the photograph of Michael, the one Rina had sent. In the formal shot, staged before a dark gray curtain, the boy had fashioned a smile out of confusion. There was a stunned transparency to his face. His short blond hair was combed fetchingly to the side, and his long pale neck rose from the open collar of a periwinkle oxford.
Honey swiped the photo away and, in an attempt to distract herself, scanned through other texts, a mess of sloppy prose and hieroglyphs. Most of it was from Jocelyn.
You were right.
I know I probably disgust you.
Can I come over?
Honey couldn’t recall when she’d last seen the girl, or how they’d left things. As if in a trance, she began to compose a reply, writing it as if it were a letter.
Dear Jocelyn, please forgive me for not responding to your messages. I’d just like to say . . .
It was no easy task, pecking out words on the minuscule keyboard. Honey tapped the voice-dictation icon and spoke into the microphone.
Perhaps you feel I don’t care about you, but this isn’t the case at all. That being said, I’m not sure I can be of much help. And certainly I’ve given you far too much advice already. But if I were to say one more thing, it would be this. Be mindful of your choices. They may seem like little things now, but these things will add up. They will accrue and form a pattern from which you won’t be able to escape. Later, you’ll call it your prison, when in fact it was you who designed it.
Honey held the phone as if it were a compact. In the glass screen she could see a ghostly reflection of her face.
You do not disgust me, dear. Not at all. But I am afraid for you. Please be careful.
When Honey squinted to review what she’d written, she realized it was ridiculous. She flicked at the screen to delete it, but somehow this flick was misinterpreted. The phone made a whoosh.
“No!” Honey reached out her hand, as if trying to catch a moth.
But the damn thing had flown out the window.
43
Sorry for Your Loss
When she finally decided to visit the Fazzingas, she dressed as if for a funeral—a black Jil Sander tunic that was stylishly rugged. Honey felt it offered a slightly military effect. Which was good, because she needed to be strong, or at least appear as such.
Ever since reading Mica’s unsent letter to his parents, Honey had been plagued by fits of trembling. During the worst of these, her teeth would chatter and her mind would fling itself in wider and wider circles, each one taking her farther from the self she knew, the self she trusted.
As for Corrado, Honey wasn’t sure what she wanted. Did she want to attack him, or did she want an explanation, to understand his violence in a way she’d never understood her father’s? In her heart there was no clarity. Everything was filtered through the dirty sieve of the past, sabotaging any hope of deciphering the present.
As she was backing out of her garage, a brightly colored blob appeared in the rearview mirror. Honey stomped on the brakes, and not two seconds later the bright blob knocked on the driver’s-side window. It was Jocelyn, in an orange baseball cap and bug-eye sunglasses. Honey experienced a jolt of fear, which quickly melted into embarrassment when she recalled the text she’d sent to the girl.
Jocelyn, her hand raised in greeting, was dressed in her mustard-colored overalls, the same ones she’d been wearing the day she’d driven into Honey’s tree. A senseless nostalgia struck, and Honey found herself rolling down the window. Several seconds of breathy silence ensued; neither seemed to know what to say. Finally, Joss, in her signature style, began to gush.
“Wow, it smells so good in your car. What is that?”
“I believe it’s me,” said Honey.
Jocelyn nodded one too many times, as if to give both parties a chance to figure out what came next.
“I just wanted to thank you for your message.” The girl spoke quietly, and laid her fingers on the edge of the open window.
Glancing at the stubby chewed-up digits, Honey had an appalling desire to kiss the girl’s hand.
“Where are you off to?” asked Joss.
“There’s been a death in my family.” It hardly seemed a lie.
“Oh my God—are you okay?”
“Actually, I’m quite the opposite.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Honey said there wasn’t. “But thank you.”
“Well, I’ll let you go.” The girl lingered, though.
“Is there something else you needed, dear?”
“It doesn’t seem important now, but, yeah, I just wanted to tell you that I broke up with Lee.”
When Honey peered in the direction of the pickup parked next door, Jocelyn seemed to notice.
“He’s moving out soon. I promise.”
“Why are you promising me? I would hope you’re doing it for yourself.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
“We’re just waiting for him to find somewhere to stay. I still care about him, even if that seems fucked up.” When Jocelyn turned her head slightly, Honey glimpsed the bruised patch of skin at the edge of the dark sunglasses. The girl drummed her fingers nervously. “I know you think I’m an idiot, or a loser or something . . .”
“First of all, I don’t think of you that way. And secondly, you shouldn’t care so much about what I think.”
“Why not? You’re a lot smarter than I am.”
“Darling, if you want to know the truth, I’m the idiot. But let’s talk about this later, all right?”
Jocelyn nodded. She seemed to be crying. “Sorry for your loss.”
* * *
When Honey arrived at the Fazzingas’, she found it difficult to breathe. She longed for a Valium. Nearby, the leaves of a maple fluttered wildly, as if they too were gripped by panic.
Rina’s blue Mercedes was in the driveway, the Hummer nowhere in sight. This arrangement was somehow calming, since it might be best to speak to Rina alone. But when Honey knocked at the door, no one answered. After she rang the bell, she could hear someone moving about inside. Several minutes later, though, she was still waiting, staring at the security camera above her head. She wondered what it was that kept Rina from responding. Shame? Anger? Pride? The best she could hope for was regret. Honey was tempted to walk around the property and knock on the windows, shout the woman’s name. In her purse there was a book of matches; the thought of torching the place hissed across her mind.
But she only straightened her spine, as if the evil in the world might be vanquished by good posture. She knocked again, counted to ten, then turned and walked away. Before getting in her car, she marched into the garden and ripped a frail pink rose from a bush in need of pruning.
44
Absolutely Right
So many mistakes. So many misunderstandings. It was hard, at Honey’s age, not to see the knottiness of time as some horrible work of macramé, a mass of connected tangles in which she was trapped, like a fly entombed in silk. Was there no way out? As Honey glanced at her hands on the steering wheel, she noticed the blood—and it took her a moment to remember that she’d scratched herself on the rosebush. The little flower she’d plucked lay on the passenger seat, so wilted it was nearly flat. Not a flower, but a memory.
When she got home, an unfamiliar car was parked out front—a modest beige Toyota. The woman that emerged was blurred by sunshine. A bandage dress of ruched white layers gave her the appearance of a sophisticated mummy.
It was Teena.
“I have good news,” she said.
Honey embraced her. “Thank God! Tell me everything.”
“May we speak inside?” Teena extricated herself, as if uncomfortable with the hug.
“Yes, of course,” said Honey. “I’m so glad you’re here.” As she fumbled to unlock the front door, she felt slightly dizzy. Good news was the last thing she was expecting. This day was nothing if not a Ferris wheel.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked, when they were in the house.
“I can’t stay for long,” Teena replied. “But I felt I should talk to you in person.”
Honey led the way to the living room, where Teena composed herself stiffly on the armchair. “So, I just wanted to let you know that your grandnephew is fine. He called me yesterday—and you were right, he was only taking his time, trying to figure things out.”
“Where is he?”
Teena looked down. “I’d rather not say.”
Honey assured the woman that she wouldn’t share the information. “I just want the chance to speak with him. If you could give me his phone number . . . ?”
Teena nodded, but remained silent.
“Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”
“I’m fine—thank you.” The woman was clearly ill at ease. “What’s important is that Mica is safe. He even has an appointment with a dentist next week.”
“I can help him pay for that,” said Honey. “And if you’d rather not share his number, maybe you could just ask him to give me a ring. That is, if you plan on speaking to him again?”
“I do, yes. But, the thing is, he doesn’t wish to be in touch with the family.”
“That make sense,” Honey said—“though I’m sure he meant his parents and his brother.”
At this point, Teena pulled no punches. “He actually doesn’t want to speak to any of you.”
“But—”
“I know, I know. I told him that you came to the bar. I told him what I thought, but he was very firm about it.”
“Did he mention me by name?”
“He did.”
“I see.” Honey looked down at the thorn slashes on her hand.
“Mica just feels that you’re part of it—of what she wants to get away from. I’m sorry.”
“No. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Honey arranged a smile. “The boy is absolutely right. The girl, I mean. Or . . .”
“It’s okay.”
Stealthily, sunlight shadowed the empty, artless room.
“I suppose sometimes you lose people,” said Honey, repeating Corrado’s words.
“But you and I will keep in touch,” replied Teena. “You’ll come and see me at the bar, yes?”
Honey, though grateful, could make no such promise. “It might be better if I don’t. My heart isn’t what it used to be.”
Teena seemed to understand. “Well, I should go.”
