Honey, page 3
“Willow marrow,” he said, slurring his words, and somewhat out of breath.
Honey looked at him quizzically. “Excuse me?”
He coughed and reached for her glass of wine, and after finishing what was left he tried again.
“Will you marry me?”
Honey paused for only a second before replying. “In what life? This one? Or”—pointing toward the clipping—“that one there?”
But Dominic seemed to be in no mood for irony. He grabbed her hand again, this time with a strength that defied his age. The pressure was so insistent that Honey found herself blushing.
And then babbling.
“Well, as you can see, darling, there’s not much room down there.” She wiggled the fingers on her left hand—every one occupied by a semi-precious hard-candy ring. “Pity I don’t have a free digit.”
Dominic only smiled, undoing her.
“Marry me,” he said again.
Honey’s cheeks felt in need of a fire hose.
In contrast, Nicky seemed absolutely placid. His face had the look of stone, and he was squeezing her hand even tighter. When he said her name again, in abbreviated spurts—“Hon, Hon, Hon”—she wondered if he were about to scold her. But then his smile returned, though it was strangely crooked now. Clearly, he’d had too much wine.
“Dominic, stop—you’re hurting my hand.”
He tilted his head, like a cat playing cute.
And then he was doing more than just tilting his head; he seemed to be falling.
“Nicky?”
When he dropped below the sightline of the table, it had the feeling of a prank.
“Very funny,” she said. “Fine, fine, yes, I’ll marry you—is that what you want to hear? Now stop please and don’t be stupid. Dominic.” She could hear her voice rising; somewhere above her it cried out like a crow.
Honey worked her way out of the booth and walked around to the other side. Dominic lay there mute, with bluish saliva draining from his mouth.
“Help!” screamed Honey.
When a busboy rushed over, she told him to call an ambulance. Behind her she could hear Signor Tarantelli addressing the other patrons. “Don’t worry, people, it’s not the food. They haven’t eaten yet.”
Oh, if only she had brought a gun! She turned and glared at the insipid man. “Get us some water, Tarantelli. A bag of ice.” Honey had no idea what she would do with either of these things, but it was somehow calming to give orders. The shimmering tin ceiling was suddenly teeming with ghosts.
Not yet, she prayed.
When she looked again at Dominic, in the lavender shirt, with his powerful old hands and that awful stained mouth, she felt completely unhinged—and though it was difficult, due to the cramp in her leg, she squeezed into Nicky’s side of the booth and leaned down to slap his face.
“Did you not hear me, you stupid fool? I said yes.”
3
A Serious Blue
At the wake, she wore a dark-blue suit, knowing she’d be judged for black. The other woman did not wear black, unless of course she wished to challenge the family, the wife—vying for the dead man’s loyalty in the world to come, or, even worse, vying for whatever resources remained in this one. Black meant war, while blue could be seen as humility, as deference—old-world rules Honey felt it best to abide by. There were a few women of her generation present—women who knew Honey, knew her past. Some of these women had been friends of Mary’s, Dominic’s rightful other half. Honey sat at the back of the room, planning to wait until the others paid their respects before paying her own.
Of course, such deference wasn’t really necessary. Technically, she was not the other woman. Mary had been dead for several years before Honey took up with Dominic. But that wouldn’t matter in the least to the die-hard Catholics in the room.
Besides, she had been the other woman once before in this town. Twice, actually. Brief affairs during summers home from college. Most of the girls she’d left behind had married early, their young husbands far from ready to give up their hungers. Honey had acted impulsively. Luckily, neither of the men she’d slept with—nor the wives she’d betrayed—were present now; all, in fact, were dead.
Still, there were others in the room who would be quick to judge. Angela Carini, in particular. “Little bitch with a big mouth,” Honey used to call her. The freakishly tiny woman had exposed Honey’s affair with Pio Fini—Florence’s husband. Once the beans were spilled, Florence never made Honey another dress. Angela professed to be Florie’s friend, but she had only broken the woman’s heart by blabbing. Angela had a cold soul, despite the burning crucifix around her neck.
But, seeing how the woman was clearly in failing health (at the funeral parlor she was dragging around a portable oxygen tank), Honey felt no animosity. Only sadness.
Of course that didn’t stop the animosity from flowing in her own direction. Despite the solemnity of the proceedings, Honey’s presence occasioned certain kinds of whispers and petty shakes of pious heads.
No matter. It was enough for Honey to know that her dark-blue suit was as heavy with grief as any widow’s black. It was a serious blue, one that had the feel of black. Darker than a midnight blue. More militant. Vivienne Westwood, circa 1980s, sleekly cut, with a few errant angles that were Honey’s only bid toward power.
Now and then she could feel the eyes on her, furtive disdainful glances—but whenever she caught them, the women looked away.
Afraid of you. Dominic’s words came back.
And then, to make things worse, her nephew Corrado showed up, along with one of his sons—not Michael but the other boy, Peter, named after Honey’s father. The wives came, too.
What business did they have here? They were not friends of Dominic’s. When she asked why they’d come, Corrado put on a show of being confused by her question.
“We’re here for you, Aunt Honey.”
Perhaps they were worried she wouldn’t leave them her money. Act nice to her, she could imagine Corrado telling his family. She’s loaded. Perhaps that’s what the holiday invitations were all about.
“How did you even hear about Dominic?” she asked.
“It happened at Dante’s on a Sunday night. Kinda hard not to hear about it.”
She could smell Corrado’s cologne, something expensive surely—but he’d put on too much. A pet peeve of Honey’s, the way people wore their scents, dousing themselves in it like so much gravy. Only a lover, Honey had always felt, should be able to know the truth of one’s perfume. Others should think they’ve imagined it, or perhaps confused the scent for an emanation of the wearer’s soul.
Honey recalled how much Dominic liked the geranium oil she used. The first time he detected it, they were lying naked in bed. He said it smelled like roses and pepper. “Which about sums you up,” he added, kissing her neck.
Oh, but this terrible musk coming from her nephew—the odor pompous and somewhat fecal. He was standing far too close, overpowering Honey’s memories. More than anything, she wanted to get out of this ghastly room, go home, take a bath, drink some wine, fall asleep.
“I appreciate you thinking of me,” she told her nephew, “but there was really no need for you to come.”
“Like I said, we wanted to.”
Corrado put his arm around her, and Honey felt something tighten—her heart, her breath. Such intimacy was not appropriate. Not only did this man not know Dominic Sparra, he also did not know her—the story of her life, the complicated path that had taken her away from this town and then, at such a late hour, back to it. Her nephew, despite being her brother’s son, was a stranger, and his encompassing arm only made her feel more alone. Still, a touch was a touch, and Honey started to cry. Oh, for heaven’s sake, why hadn’t she worn a veil? She’d actually considered it—but when she tried one on at home, it seemed a little too much, the veil with the suit. A little too beekeeper.
Honey bit her lip but for the life of her could not stop crying.
“It’s okay,” Corrado crooned.
His wife came over next, and then his son and that wife. The four of them surrounded her, patting her arm, one by one, as if she were some creature in a petting zoo.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Thank you all so much.”
Honey could see Angela Carini looking over from across the room, as well as some of the other women. She knew what they were thinking: that Honey was still part of the family—that she still benefited from the money, the connections, the corruption. The truth was, she hardly knew what Corrado was up to these days.
Well, she knew a little. That the business had moved on from garbage to recycling. Apparently it was wide-open territory, where one could make a killing. The greening of the mob. Ha! Honey should write a book.
But even this jest in her head was quickly silenced. It was an old silence, one that had been instilled in her since childhood. One did not speak of these things.
Even to say to Angela Carini and these other women, I’m not involved with them anymore, not involved with that world, would only be to admit that such a world existed. And the game had always been to pretend that it didn’t. It was as strict as any religion, one in which you associated only with your kind, and where it was forbidden to speak of certain rites and rituals. Besides, the more she protested to these women, denied her associations, the more she’d be seen as either a fool or the exact thing she was trying to convince them she wasn’t: a criminal.
Corrado’s hairy, scented hand remained on her arm. The rest of his family stayed close too, hovering, in a way that was both protective and threatening. Though Honey didn’t really know these people very well, she considered them no different from the earlier versions she’d run from.
It was never the corruption she minded, or even the greed. Those things were everywhere—the way of the world. What Honey abhorred was the violence. Violence that they somehow believed could not stain them.
Senza infamia e senza lode, her father had said. Without blame or praise.
Only God can judge, but He doesn’t judge. He forgives. That was her mother.
Honey had heard that things had changed a bit since the old days. The violence apparently was not what it had once been. Still, it hadn’t vanished—she was certain of that. Even if Corrado hadn’t killed anyone, he was no doubt an expert in intimidation and threats. The breaking of bones, surely, would never go out of fashion; it would remain as common as salt on the table. My father is an animal, to quote the man’s own son.
“You know, I saw Michael the other day,” she said to Corrado.
Immediately he let go of her arm, and his wife looked nervously in his direction.
“So, what’s wrong with him?” asked Honey. “He seemed very distraught.”
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” Corrado said sharply. “What did he say to you?”
“Michael’s just,” the wife cut in breathlessly, “he’s just a little confused.” Corrado glared at her, and she fell silent.
When Honey glanced at the other son, Peter, she detected a subtle sneer of disgust.
Now she was curious. She asked the boy if he was close to his brother.
But Peter only grunted and excused himself, mumbling, “I gotta pee.”
Honey turned away from his crudeness and caught a glimpse of the coffin. She immediately came to her senses, remembering what was important. Not Corrado, not Michael, but the lifeless man at the front of the room, whose cold hand she wished to hold one last time. “Thank you for coming,” she said to her family, “but I must pay my respects.”
“Of course, of course.” It was the wife—Rita? Rina? Honey couldn’t remember her name. The woman was smiling awkwardly, brushing her fingers against her husband’s arm. “Corrado, let her go.”
Let her go? As if it was his decision, as if he held all the power. It’s what they all thought, these men.
“Goodbye,” she said to him.
“Aunt Honey, listen—we really would like you to come to dinner sometime. Fourth of July, maybe? We’re doing a big thing in the yard.”
“Let me think about it, dear. Parties are hard for me, at my age.”
Corrado nodded. And then, as if to torment her, he kissed her, in the old way, on both cheeks.
* * *
At the front of the room, Honey knelt before the casket. The pain in her knees, stark evidence of life, only increased the gulf between her and the body before her.
This business of saying goodbye was always dreadful—but, as the years went on, it got a little less so. When she was younger, such final encounters with beloved bodies had wrecked her. She’d completely lost it at her mother’s wake.
But now there was no need for such a torrential fuss. Honey would be leaving soon herself. And so with Dominic it was less an arrivederci than an a presto: see you soon.
Though how or where she would see him remained a mystery. Honey liked to imagine there were certain energies, delicate strands of light that in the chilly vastness of eternity would become entangled again. She’d had a vision once, in her twenties, while standing near the edge of a cliff, her own soul unraveled by LSD. She’d seen them everywhere, those strands of light, and she knew they were the emblems of the dead.
Of course, in such a form, she and Dominic might not remember each other’s names. Possibly language became irrelevant. What were names, anyway? No more than candy wrappers.
Still, as she peered down at what was possibly the last man who would love her, Honey was frightened. What if he didn’t remember her at all?
From her purse she took out the small vial of geranium oil and rubbed a drop on Dominic’s cheek—a sailor’s wife sending her man off to sea, keeping him safe and true with a scented handkerchief. And then she kissed him.
Behind her, she could hear a few whispers, as well as a gasp that was clearly generated by Angela Carini’s oxygen-deprived lungs. Honey ignored the peanut gallery and straightened Dominic’s collar. He was wearing not the lavender shirt but a white one that had gone slightly gray. The dark serge suit was not one of his best. She wondered who had dressed him. Why hadn’t they put him in the Brioni she’d helped him pick out? Suddenly she was crying again.
Strands of light? Reunions of energy? It was a theory she’d held to all her life, but now it seemed preposterous. What was more likely was that she’d never see this darling man again.
* * *
She stood at the side of the room, by a bank of candles—like those in a church, except without a coin slot. Kneeling down before the coffin and then standing again had used up a considerable amount of energy, and she was hiding by the candles mainly to collect herself before making her exit.
“She’s definitely had some work done,” someone whispered.
“And look at what she’s wearing.”
Old people! thought Honey. The deaf ones were the worst—they imagined everyone else was deaf, too.
Or perhaps the women intended her to hear their jibes.
Honey would have liked to have turned and said, “Yes, this suit was made by Vivienne Westwood. You know Vivienne, don’t you?—she designed those wonderful outfits for the Sex Pistols.” And as for her face, she’d inform them that she had indeed had some work done—quite a lot. And so what? She was not ashamed of it.
But when Honey turned, she said nothing. She merely nodded at the women.
Angela Carini nodded back.
Oh, the poor thing looked terrible. Silver hair as insubstantial as smoke, and those plastic tubes running into her nose. Honey found herself approaching the creature. “How are you, dear?”
Again, Angela nodded, her whole body trembling slightly. MS, perhaps. Or Parkinson’s.
“So strange that we were girls once, isn’t it?” Honey said. The question contained no malice, simply wonder.
Angela’s only reply, though, was more nodding, more trembling.
Honey wished to say something else, to offer some kindness or innocuous reminiscence, but a few of the other women were glaring now.
“Well, take care, ladies.” Honey held up her hand in a gesture of peace, and as she walked away she heard Angela’s voice, a deep breathless hiss.
“Bitch.”
* * *
Outside, Honey decided she was too tired to walk and opted for an Uber. Her driver was a woman around fifty, in a stretchy glitter-encrusted T-shirt, her hair in pigtails. Mutton dressed as lamb, thought Honey. Why certain women insisted on doing themselves up like children was beyond comprehension. It only made them look deranged.
“You can sit up front,” the woman offered, but Honey, feeling vulnerable and wanting privacy, squeezed into the rear. The tiny blue hatchback was basically a lawn mower pretending to be a car. But at least it was clean, and the woman silent, though her driving was a bit sloppy. She seemed preoccupied with other things—stealthily pressing M&M’s into her mouth, frenetically tapping on a small computer screen attached to the dash, checking her phone.
And then she made a right on Redneck Avenue, which was not the most direct route. The poor woman seemed to be under the control of her computer, unaware that it was misleading her. Honey didn’t speak up. The long way home was fine. The evening ahead would be interminable, crowded with regrets. Sleep would not come easily.
Now and then the driver eyed Honey in the rearview mirror and flashed a smile. It took a surprising amount of effort to flash one in return. Honey longed for the dark glass barrier inside a limousine. She’d been chauffeured in quite a few of them, during her younger days with Mr. Hal. And she’d often taken town cars in Los Angeles, where she’d lived for nearly forty years.
California. For Honey, the word always came in song, chirped by Joni Mitchell. There was still a bit of the folk song out there in Cali. The wide-open hearts of everyone, like messy bedrooms presented without shame. The whole innocent immorality of the place. Honey had loved L.A. enough to think she would spend her final years there.
But then her two dearest friends, Lara and Suzanne, had died within a year of each other. Lara, at sixty-nine, of breast cancer. Suzanne, only in her fifties, by her own hand. Powerful women, both. Honey, who’d worked for an auction house, had consulted with these ladies about their acquisitions. Paintings and fine objects, Honey’s area of expertise. Quickly Lara and Suzanne had evolved from clients to become two of the greatest intimates of Honey’s life.
