Honey, page 35
There was very little time.
Part Six
56
Vittorio
Since her no-show at the baby shower, Honey hadn’t heard a peep from the Fazzingas. But in early October a large cream-colored envelope arrived, an invitation to the christening. The ceremony and after-party were in mid-November, on a day that Honey had already scheduled an appointment. It was as if the universe had decided for her.
Besides, it was not as if they were begging her to come. On the card there was no personal note, or even a signature. Also, Honey’s name and address, though seemingly handwritten, were clearly generated by a computer program designed to mimic penmanship. Her label might have been spit from a machine and stuck on an envelope inadvertently. Or perhaps Corrado had mailed the invitation on his own, against Rina’s wishes. Whatever the case, Honey didn’t RSVP.
Still, she kept the card on her desk, propped up against the reading lamp. Occasionally she traced a finger over the embossed cradle, above which floated a golden cross, like the sword of Damocles. This was, after all, a child born to powerful men; there’d always be danger.
And it was a boy, no less. Of course it was. Even as Honey shook her head at this, she wished the best for the kid—a kid she’d never get to know. The age difference alone prevented it.
Vittorio Carlo, his parents had named him (so it said on the invitation). Honey found it curious that he’d been given the same middle name as Michael. Certainly, it couldn’t have been Peter’s idea; he, more than anyone, seemed to despise his brother. Honey didn’t attempt to figure it out. Every family had its own magic for dealing with its skeletons—so who knew what these people were up to, what act of erasure or rehabilitation this Carlo implied? At least it was a mellifluous appellation. Vittorio Carlo. Hopefully they wouldn’t end up calling him Victor or Vito, neither of which Honey cared for.
Well, maybe she’d leave him something in her will. There were other beneficiaries she wanted to add, as well. For example, she wanted all of Florence’s dresses to go to the grandson—that albino child Edgar, the angel of Florie’s life. Of course, she still planned to leave most of her money to Mica.
It was an interesting moment for Honey. Some days, she was almost happy—not inappropriately so, but with a sense that her life had reached a pleasing balance, the lighting perfect, the relationship of foreground to background deftly handled. Often, for no reason, she found herself smiling.
Recently, Teena had shared more of Mica’s music. One of the videos had over two hundred thousand views. That Honey knew anything about her grandnephew’s life was solely by virtue of Teena. The women lunched together frequently, and always at Dante’s. Honey felt she’d finally found a mature female friendship—something she’d not had since her days with Lara and Suzanne. Jocelyn was more of a child. But Teena was a peer, and at times an excellent sparring partner. The two women shared a perspective on life that was both compassionate and sardonic. And despite the pair of them being somewhat jaded, they could easily be seduced by wonder. They laughed often, occasionally to tears, and Teena was a fabulous gossip. The most delicious news, of late, was that Mica was in love—though Honey had already suspected as much. The songs hid nothing.
* * *
On the morning of the christening, Honey got dressed for her appointment earlier than was necessary. She chose a pumpkin-colored blazer and an upbeat tweedy skirt with flecks of pink. It seemed a good choice for the day, which was bright and cloudless, the sky a flawless cabochon of azurite. It might be nice to take a little drive before her noontime commitment. Maybe stop at that new café that had opened next to Mabel’s, enjoy one of the potent espressos they served in those charming Le Creuset cups. A surprisingly stylish place for Ferryfield. No doubt its proximity to the gay bar was its raison d’être. That sort liked a fancy cup.
When she was in the car, though, she didn’t head toward Mabel’s. Chopin was on the radio, one of the nocturnes she’d played repetitively during her soul sickness this past spring. The music exerted a mesmeric influence, and Honey found herself driving in another direction. Chopin, it seemed, wasn’t in the mood for coffee.
Listening to the bright cold notes, Honey realized that beneath her fluffy mood there remained a heavy stone of sadness. It felt good, in a way—like justice. An all-encompassing happiness was not what she deserved. Often she recalled her moment with Lee. What she’d done to him. Even more: what Corrado may have done. Whatever had happened to Mr. Czernik after he’d been escorted from the closet, all the blame lay on Honey.
“Take him to Connecticut,” she’d told her nephew. It was something her father used to say when he meant something quite different from New England. Had she forgotten that? In the car, under the spell of Chopin, Honey wondered if she’d been avoiding Corrado as a way of avoiding herself—which was to say, her guilt. Surely it was time to confront it.
She drove to St. Margaret’s and parked across the street—not planning to enter the church, but merely to spy on the comings and goings. Perhaps, as penance, she’d be subjected to a glimpse of the baby.
And then, somehow—either through an error in time or her own judgment—Honey was inside the place, sitting in the last pew, not far from the statue of the patron saint. This area of the church was drenched in shadow, and it was unlikely that anyone other than the saint would see her.
The service had already begun, and apparently the family was going whole hog, with a full baptismal mass. Scripture, hymns, Communion, all the bells and whistles. In the air the festive reek of frankincense. It had been ages since Honey had attended a Catholic mass, yet it was so familiar—the drone of the priest, the liturgical phrases etched so deeply into her being, it was as if the man in the pulpit were stealing Honey’s innermost words.
But it was the sound of the congregation that she found the most hypnotic. The communal responses, half mumbled, achieved the lonesome din of animals. And then the bang and creak and rustle, every time the worshipers kneeled or stood or sat. It was like a depressing square dance, in which no one touched. Honey danced along, feeling like an impostor. She’d always felt like that here. Even when she was young, at six or seven—when she’d been an absolute ray of innocence—she was filled with terror, waiting for the Almighty to find something wrong with her. As a child, she could never stop fidgeting during mass. She was doing the same thing now, glancing around in an effort to spot her family.
When, finally, it came time to perform the sacrament, the parents got up and approached the altar—Addie in a pale blue dress, carrying the child. Honey couldn’t see it very well from the back. The best she could make out was a squirmy blur wearing a pint-size gown. It was a very tiny baby. Even more shocking was its coloring. That, Honey could see. The child was fair-skinned, the hair on his head diabolically blond. In this regard, he looked nothing like his parents, both of whom were brunettes. He looked more, in fact, like Michael—which was to say, more like the Great Pietro. Honey, too, had once had hair like that.
She wondered if the young father, standing at the altar, could see the various faces implied by the creature he’d created; if he could see his brother there. Genetics was nothing if not a spook show. The ghosts waited in the blood. Then pounced.
A moment later, another young couple ascended to the stage. The godparents, no doubt. They stood beside Peter and Addie, all of them behind what looked like a rococo birdbath. The squirming child was absolutely quiet as they prepared to drown him. The priest adjusted his microphone and then, with the fervor of McCarthy, began to interrogate the godparents.
“Do you renounce Satan and all his works?”
“Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth?”
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, His only son, our Lord, who was born into this world and suffered for us?”
“And do you believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting?”
“I do,” said Honey, as the priest poured the water over the child’s head. The poor thing wriggled desperately, then opened his mouth, as if to wail.
But he only closed his eyes and yawned.
* * *
Honey glanced at her watch. If she didn’t leave immediately, she’d be late for her appointment. And yet she stayed in the ill-lit pew as the congregation exited the church.
Not a single person turned to look at her. It was as if she were invisible. Even Corrado and Rina went blithely by. The godparents followed, heads bowed over the celestial glow of their cell phones. When Addie and Peter approached, they walked slowly, Addie smiling at the baby, and Peter lost in thought, looking as he often did: twitchy and pensive. A selfish man, thought Honey, not to mention a dishonest one. But it turned out it was he who noticed the old woman sitting in the shadows.
“Aunt Honey? Is that you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“I should have told you I was coming.”
Addie offered a warm hello as Peter shouted toward the exit. “Mom! Dad!”
“No, that’s all right.” Honey stood. “Please don’t make a fuss. I just wanted to congratulate the two of you. I can’t stay for long.”
It was too late, though. Rina and Corrado had already turned around, and then they were beside Peter and Addie, the whole group peering awkwardly at Honey.
“You’re here,” said Corrado.
Rina’s greeting was only a nod.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” fibbed Honey. “But then I decided to come at the last minute.” She was babbling, feeling tossed around by her own ambivalence. To steady herself, she focused on the child.
“He’s beautiful,” she said to Addie.
“Would you like to hold him?” the girl asked.
“Oh, no,” said Honey. “He looks so peaceful with you.”
Peter encouraged her. “You gotta hold him. He smells amazing.” Addie was already extending the tiny creature in the white gown.
Honey reached out nervously. “What if I drop him?”
“You’ve got him—don’t worry. Just put your hand under his head. There you go.”
Honey could hardly bear to look at the child, but she did so, in order to avoid looking at her family.
It was all too much. The boy had green eyes—as if the blond hair wasn’t enough!
Michael’s eyes. Her father’s. Her own.
“Hello,” she said to the baby, in a ridiculously formal voice.
Vittorio Carlo only stared, blinking. Honey could tell, from the purity of the child’s gaze, that half of him still existed on the astral plane, the source of all wonder and possibility. Honey rather wished she could send him back there, where it was so much safer, and where surely there existed a more perfect communion of souls. It was harder here on earth, after being assigned a name, a body. These things were sometimes prisons; often they didn’t fit. Part of Honey wanted to take the child and run. Take him into the Lexus and drive away.
But where would they go? That was the rub. The possibilities, as she saw them, were mere poetics. Still, they seemed compelling. To take the little thing to Toms River, wrap him in the buried blanket, say I’m sorry. A long overdue apology to the child she’d given away. In her time-traveling mind, she imagined, as well, giving the child to her mother—if only she could manage to arrive just after Enzo’s death. If nothing else, she could simply take Vittorio home, hide him in her closet, among the dresses.
The baby stared at her, reading her mind. Then he lifted a tiny fist, as if to sock her in the face.
Peter laughed. “He’s a bruiser already.”
“Yes,” said Honey, handing him back to Addie.
For a moment, everyone was quiet. Honey was aware of the mud-puddle of her heart. Nothing was clear.
“We should really get to the restaurant,” Rina said. “People are probably waiting.”
“Do you want to drive with us?” asked Corrado, reaching out to take Honey’s arm.
“No,” she said. “But thank you, dear. I just . . . as I said, I just wanted to come to the church to wish you all the best. Unfortunately, I have an appointment, so I won’t be able to come to the party.”
Once more, she could hear the formality of her voice, and she felt disgusted with herself. But there was nothing to be done about it. It was too late to break free from the armor of decorum.
“Congratulations,” she said again to Peter and Addie. “I’m very happy for you.”
Kisses were dutifully applied. Corrado, looking hurt, turned away. His clan followed.
“Who invited her?” whispered Rina, apparently forgetting the excellent acoustics.
“I did,” said Addie, after which she turned around to glance at Honey. The girl offered a beseeching smile, as if to say, I know—but you have to forgive them.
Honey returned the smile, though it felt more like a defense, a dam to restrain her tears. A moment later, she shouted out: “Corrado!”
Rina mumbled something into her husband’s ear. Honey suspected it was an admonition, telling him to ignore the old woman. But Corrado told Rina to wait outside. Then he turned and walked back toward Honey.
Uncertain what to say, she stood there mute, her mouth hanging open.
Corrado filled the gap.
“So what kind of appointment do you have on a Sunday?”
“Oh, it’s a minor medical thing,” Honey said, with a dismissive flick. “Nothing to worry about.”
“You have a doctor’s appointment?”
“It’s complicated,” she replied. “But I’m fine. Honestly.”
“If you’re meeting a doctor on a Sunday, it must be pretty serious.”
Oh God, she wished she hadn’t gone down this path.
“Really, Corrado—I’m not about to croak.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
“Is it?”
Neither of their voices was particularly warm—the tone was more argumentative. Honey desperately wanted to ask her nephew: Did you take that man to Connecticut? But this wasn’t the time, and it definitely wasn’t the place, what with St. Margaret looming behind them.
Instead, Honey said something even worse. She said, “I’d really like to have you and Rina—and the children—over for dinner sometime.”
Corrado regarded her coolly, as if he didn’t trust her pleasantries, her smooth generalities. “Sometime?”
“I mean it,” she said. “Why don’t you all come over next weekend?”
When her nephew didn’t respond, Honey pushed on. “Really, Corrado. I want to try. For Michael’s sake.”
“What does Michael have to do with it?”
Honey admitted that she’d had news of him. “He’s doing well,” she said. “And he was curious how you and Rina were doing.”
Corrado seemed not to know how to process this information. Unbelievably, he didn’t ask about his son. As for coming to dinner, he said he’d need to talk to Rina first. “With Vittorio around, she’s been pretty busy.”
“Well, you just let me know . . .”
“Listen, I better get out there, before . . .”
“Of course.”
Corrado leaned forward and kissed her—in the old way, on both cheeks. It felt a bit perfunctory, but then his arms surrounded her, and she could smell the insistent cologne, whose only purpose seemed a will to dominate. Honey didn’t pull away, though. She breathed her nephew in, eager to unravel him.
After drawing away from each other, they lingered in the aisle.
“Amazing hair on that kid,” Honey finally said.
“Yeah,” Corrado agreed. “Second chance, I guess.”
Honey felt a chill. “I’m not sure it works like that,” she said. It didn’t seem right to let her nephew off the hook so easily. She told him she didn’t necessarily believe in second chances. And though she tried to express this kindly, Corrado stiffened.
“Of course, the same goes for me,” she added quickly, not wishing to let herself off so easily, either. “I’ve hurt people, too.”
Corrado’s smile matched her own—a grimace to stifle tears. Honey patted her nephew’s arm. “They’re waiting for you.”
“I’ll let you know about dinner,” he said.
It did not sound promising.
57
Secrets, Lies, and Facial Powder
Secrets can be fortifying. Honey had said this to Jocelyn, just the other night. They’d both been tipsy, and the girl was talking too much about Lee, particularly about those last moments with him. Honey sensed that, eventually, Joss might forget herself and speak about it to others. She was a blabber by nature. It had seemed prudent to educate the girl about the various ways to organize a life—about the art of silence, the power of negative space. What should be said and what was best left unspoken. She’d told the girl that a woman’s public and private selves needn’t be bosom buddies. After a half-bottle of Barolo, this had all sounded quite reasonable.
But now, as Honey drove away from St. Margaret’s, she wondered if her little lecture on secrets was nothing more than drunken blather. Because the more she thought about it, the more she had to face a very simple fact: secrets were inseparable from lies. For two people to keep a secret with each other, it was often necessary that they lie to others.
A minor medical thing, she’d said to Corrado. It wasn’t minor at all. It was her heart, for heaven’s sake. And no exaggeration to say, a matter of life and death.
Honey parked in the filthy alley, wondering what she’d got herself into. Jocelyn wasn’t the only person with whom she shared a secret.
* * *
“Ilaria,” he said, opening the metal door.
“I’m sorry I’m late, dear. I got caught up with some family business. Where is everyone?” Honey was inside now, and the room was strangely empty. A large fold-up table, featuring a generous offering of wine and sparkling water, looked untouched. Nathan was having an open studio today, in an effort to drum up business. It had actually been Honey’s idea.
