Honey Read online

  Grandad's credit, everything on our farm-- the barns, the henhouse, the fields, the equipment-- was kept in sparkling clean shape. Dirt, rust, grime, and grease were all treated like symptoms of disease. As soon as I was old enough to bear any responsibility and complete any chore on my own, I was given work. Mommy and I bore all the responsibility for the house itself, but Grandad Forman had me out in the fields bailing hay, helping with the planting and the harvesting, cleaning equipment, picking eggs and feeding chickens as well as cleaning out the henhouses. Often, when the work was really too hard for me. Uncle Simon would instantly be at my side, completing it quickly. I had the feeling he was always watching me, watching over me.

  One consequence of having all these chores was the difficulty, if not impossibility of participating in after-school activities along with other students my age. Mommy complained about that. and I think because of her complaints. Grandad restrained his criticism of my violin lessons. At least I had that, thanks to Uncle Peter, who on occasion would stand up to Grandad and argue, which was something Daddy just never would do.

  But I never thought Daddy was simply a good son honoring and respecting his father, As I grew older. I became more and mare curious about Daddy's relationship with Grandad Forman. I sensed there was something beyond the biblical commandment to honor your parents. There was something else between them, some deep family secret that kept Daddy's eyes from ever turning furious and intent on G-randad, na matter what he said or did to him or to Mommy- and me. Rarely did either he or Grandad raise their voices against each other. Grandad's voice was raised in his glaring eyes rather than his clicking tongue. and Daddy choked back any resistance, disapproval, or complaint.

  He seemed to go at his work with a fury built out of a need to channel all his unhappiness into something that would please Grandad and, at the same time, give himself some respite, some form of release from the tension that loomed continuously over us all, that darkened our skies, and that kept the shadows on our windows and made us all speak in whispers.

  In the evening, when all my chores were done and all my homework, too. I would practice my violin. My room faced the barn. and I could often see Uncle Simon sitting by his open window, listening to me play. He had no television set, nor did he have a radio. For Uncle Simon, watching television in our house was equivalent to my going to a movie in town. Mommy asked him over often, but when he came, if he ever came, he came meekly, moving in tentative steps, waiting for Grandad to bark at him, telling him he should be getting an early night to prepare for the morning's work. Sometimes he did drive him out, but if Mommy protested enough. Grandad backed down and went off muttering to smoke his pipe.

  Daddy enjoyed Uncle Simon's company, even if it was only to talk about the farm, the crops. and Uncle Simon's flowers. They also talked about animals and the migrating birds. Daddy knew how close Uncle Simon had been to Uncle Peter, After Uncle Peter's death. Daddy did tend to make more of an effort to spend time with Uncle Simon.

  Because Uncle Simon was not usually invited to eat with us. I was to bring him his hot supper.

  If Mommy could have her way. Uncle Simon would be invited to eat with us every night. but Grandad complained about how he stank and said it ruined his appetite.

  "What do you expect. Pa?'" Mommy countered. her Russian accent still quite heavy even after all these years. "He doesn't have a decent place to bathe or shower. That outdoor shower you constructed isn't much, and it's cold water!"

  "You don't need to spend hours wasting water. Keeping it cold makes him move faster and waste less," Grandad said.

  "You have hot water, don't you?" Mommy fired back at him. Sometimes she showed great courage, and when she did. Grandad always looked for ways to weasel out of the argument, rather than take a fixed position and stubbornly defend it.

  "I don't use much of it," he bragged.

  "But you have that choice." she continued.

  "I won't waste any more time talking

  nonsense," Grandad proclaimed, and left the room. The upshot was that Uncle Simon was still not welcome on a continual basis. and I was still bringing him his hot food.

  I didn't mind doing it, especially after Uncle Peter's death. I. like Daddy, wanted to do what I could to keep the wolf of loneliness away from Uncle Simon's door. The little bit of mirth we had in our lives was gone for him as much as it was for me. I thought.

  Most of the time he was waiting for me at the barn door, but occasionally, I brought it up to his makeshift living quarters, furnished with an old, light maplewood table with only two chairs, a bed, and a dresser. Grandad had wired the room so Uncle Simon had a standing lamp and a table lamp. There was a rug Mommy had given him and a pretty worn easy chair, its arms torn in places.

  I know it embarrassed him to have me come up the stairs with his food. He'd hurry to stop me at the door, if he could. I offered to sit with him while he ate, but he always told me no. I'd better get back and help my mother or practice my violin.

  "Don't know why you send the child over there anyway," Grandad would tell Mommy. "Just leave it on the porch and let him come fetch it. He'll turn her stomach with his pigsty ways."

  "Put it out like food for a dog, Grandad? Is that a Christian way to treat so hard a working man?"

  Grandad pretended he didn't hear her.

  I never paid all that much attention to what Uncle Simon smelled like anyway. All of the odors on the farm seemed to comingle. Mommy practically bathed herself in her cologne before she went shopping with Daddy, and she bathed twice a day. despite Grandad Forman's groaning about wasted water.

  "This farm has submersible wells," he lectured. "They could run bone-dry on us one day. Waste not, want not."

  "Cleanliness is next to Godliness," Mommy fired back at him. Their duels using biblical quotes, quotes from psalms as swords, were sometimes amusing to watch.. I knew Mommy enjoyed beating him at his own game. She was always telling him to do unto others as he would have others do unto him. His retort was something like. "That's what I'd expect them to do to me and they're right to do it. Don't forget, an eye for an eye."

  To which Mommy would shake her head and say, And soon we'll all be blind."

  Grandad would wave his hand as if he was chasing away gnats and walk off, his head down, his long arms swinging in rhythm to his plodding gait.

  When did he ever laugh? When did he ever feel happy or good about himself? Why was he so worried about sinning and going to hell?

  Maybe he thought he was already in hell. It wasn't to be very long before I would understand why..

  3 Tears on My Pillow

  Uncle Peter's death remained vivid and depressing, a burden I could not easily unload. Sometimes, I would just stop doing my homework and start crying. Sometimes. I woke up in the middle of the night and pressed my face to my pillow to stifle the tears. My throat ached from holding down my grief. No matter how clear the day, how blue the skv, it looked gray and overcast to me. I spent my free time walking alone, my hands in the pockets of my jeans, my head down. It was even difficult to play the violin, because when I did, it made me think of him and I made mistakes. Mr. Wengow abruptly ended my first lesson after Uncle Peter's death and told me I was just not ready to return to my daily life. He was sympathetic and told me grief, especially grief over someone very dear to you, becomes a part of who and what you are and is not easily put aside.

  "Give yourself a little more time," he advised. I didn't want him to leave. I was caught between my great sorrow and great guilt. feeling I was letting down Uncle Peter and his memory. Both Daddy and Mommy were very concerned. They both knew that, except for when I had to eat with Grandad. I barely touched my food. Even the simplest of my farm chores became nearly impossible. Uncle Simon was everywhere, covering for me so that Grandad Forman wouldn't complain. Many times I found my work had already been done before I arrived to do it. I knew it wasn't fair. Uncle Simon had more to do than most people, even for someone as big and powerful as he was.

&n
bsp; The few friends I had at school began to avoid me. I knew why. I knew I was too depressing to them, and there was just so much time they wanted to give my period of mourning. They wanted to talk about their flirtations, their music and television programs, and here I was staring at the lunch table in dark silence, not listening to what they were saying and not caring.

  I didn't watch television or listen to music and had no interest in going to the movies or on trips with anyone who asked, so they stopped asking. I felt like a balloon that had broken loose and was drifting in the wind aimlessly, carried in whatever direction the breeze was going, and slowly sinking into darkness.

  Finally, one night when I had wandered off after dinner. Daddy came out to find me. I had gone down to the pond and sat on the small dock, my feet dangling only an inch or so from the inky water. Around me, the peepers were conducting a choral symphony, punctuated occasionally with a splash when a bullfrog leapt into the water. Because of the way the stars danced on the water and the solitude here, the pond was one of Uncle Peter's and my favorite places.

  "Hey," I heard Daddy say, and turned in surprise to see him walking toward me. "Why aren't you doing homework or practicing your violin?" he asked when he was beside me.

  "I have it all done. Daddy. I did it in study session today."

  "Okay, but I've gotten used to hearing that violin," he said.

  I looked out at the dark water.

  "Uncle Peter would be pretty upset, after all he did to get you started," Daddy said softly. "I told you I was going to continue paying for your lessons."

  "I know,"" I choked back my tears.

  Daddy then did something he had never done before. He sat next to me on the dock, keeping his feet just above the water. too. For a long moment neither of us spoke. The silence seemed to engulf us like a warm blanket. I imagined his arm around my shoulders, just the way Uncle Peter would embrace me occasionally and laugh or try to cheer me up.

  "I miss him a great deal. too," Daddy said. "Every time I hear someone laugh. I turn to see if Peter is coming through a door or over the field toward me. I warned him about doing that crop dusting, but he was so carefree about everything in his life. He just refused to see danger or evil anywhere. He was too pure a spirit."

  "I know." I said. A fugitive tear started to run down my left cheek. I flicked it off quickly, the way I might flick off a fly.

  "However, the last thing Peter would want is for all of us to stop living. too. Honey. You know that. right?"

  I nodded.

  "It just hurts too much. Daddy. I can't be anything like Grandad and

  I don't want to be." I said defiantly.

  He was silent and then he nodded.

  "No. I don't want you to be like him, either." he admitted.

  "I don't think he really loves any of us," I continued.

  "I guess he does in his own way. Honey." I shook my head.

  "You don't accept terrible things happening to people you love as easily as he does."

  "You don't know how he mourns or when. He does, in his own way.' Daddy insisted. "It doesn't do any good to dislike him. It doesn't bring Peter back. Did you ever hear Peter speak against him?"

  "Not in so many words," I admitted. "But he didn't approve of him." I insisted.

  "I think he felt sorry for him. That's the last thing Grandad wants, however," Daddy warned. "anyone feeling sorry for him."

  Why not? I wondered. What was so terrible about people showing you sympathy?

  We were both quiet again. Then Daddy reached out and put his arm around my shoulders.

  "I don't want to see you so unhappy so long, and your mother is very worried about you, Honey," he said.

  "Did she send you out?"

  "No. I'm here because I'm just as worried," he told me. I relaxed and let my head fall against his shoulder.

  "What all this dots. Daddy, is make me afraid of ever loving anyone else. It's like what happened when we lost Kasey Lady."

  I was referring to our beautiful golden retriever, who had eaten some rat poison Grandad set out for rodents in the henhouse.

  "Mm." Daddy said. He loved that dog, too.

  "After we buried her, Mommy told you she never wanted to have another animal. She couldn't take the pain of loss."

  "She'll change her mind one of these days. or the first time she sets eyes on another cute puppy.

  "People lose people all the time, Honey. You can't stop it and you can't stop yourself from loving someone. It isn't like turning the lights on and off. It has its own life, its own power, and sweeps over you,"

  "Is that what happened to you, Daddy? Is that why you and Mommy got married?" I asked.

  He was quiet and then he laughed. "No," he said. "Hardly."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Our situation was somewhat reversed. We got married first and then fell in love." he revealed.

  I pulled back and looked up at him.

  "I don't understand. How do you do that?"

  "Well, after your grandmother Jennie had died. Grandad Forman decided we needed a woman on the farm. He wasn't going to remarry. He said he was too old and God didn't mean for him to have a wife, but I wasn't exactly burning up the world with my romantic skills. Matter of fact. I hadn't had a girlfriend since the tenth grade, and she got married to someone else a day after graduation.

  "Oh. I had a date here and there, or what you would roughly call a date. I guess, meeting someone at a dance or at the movies, but nothing ever became anything. Peter was seeing lots of women, but he was too free a soul to give any woman the sense she'd be important enough to be his wife forever and ever. He liked what he called 'playing the field.'

  "There were many nights when he and Grandad went at it. Grandad ridiculing and criticizing Peter's lifestyle, even calling him sinful and warning him that God would not look kindly on him."

  "I'm Sure he believes Uncle Peter's death was because of that, doesn't he?" I asked quickly.

  Daddy looked away,

  "Maybe."

  After a moment, he turned back to me.

  "Anyway, it was clear that the obligation to bring a woman into our lives fell on my shoulders.'" He paused and tossed a pebble into the lake.

  "You know your mother came here when she was only just nineteen."

  "With her aunt, yes," I said.

  "Well. Grandad was impatient with my failure to just go out and find a wife, so he contacted Mommy's aunt Ethel, who brought your mother to America to marry me."

  "What are you saying, Daddy? You mean, she knew she was coming here to marry you, even though she had never seen you before?"

  He nodded.

  "And Grandad arranged it?"

  "Yes."

  "But why would Mommy do that?"

  "Things were hard for her where she lived in Russia, and this was an opportunity to escape it."

  He laughed.

  "I'll never forget the way we were introduced. Your grandad said, 'Here's your wife. The wedding will be tomorrow.'"

  "But why did you do it? I mean. I know Mommy is very pretty and all, but she was still a stranger. How can you many someone without knowing anything about her?"

  "When I first saw your mother that day, I actually felt sorrier for her than I had been feeling for myself. No one looked more helpless, more lost, more terrified of tomorrow. I couldn't even utter the word no.

  "And then I looked into her eyes, past the fear, past the terror. and I saw something that warmed my heart. I don't know if that qualifies as love at first sight, but I thought I could make her feel good. and I hoped she could do the same for me.

  "In time, we grew closer and closer. Maybe we didn't have the sort of romantic start people see in movies and read in books, but what we have is strong. We've become tied to each other in deep ways. I don't think she could stop herself from loving me any more than I could stop myself from loving her.

  "If that could happen to me, it will surely happen to you. Honey. Don't worry about it. Love will
find its way into your heart, and it will be more comfortable there because of what your uncle Peter gave you and taught you."

  "I hope so. Daddy."

  "I know so," he said. He smiled at me and stood up. "'How about you come home and practice that violin?"

  "Okay, Daddy," I said. and rose. He reached for my hand.

  "Look at you," he said. "with calluses on your palms from your farm chores. I bet that alone scares away most of the boys today. You're too tough for them."

  I laughed.

  "I haven't held hands with any lately," I said.

  "Never mind, you will," he said.

  I couldn't remember the two of us having a more warm and wonderful conversation. It did help me to regain my composure, and that night. I played the violin better than I had for weeks. When I looked out the window. I saw Uncle Simon had come to his. I couldn't see the expression on his face, only his big body was silhouetted in the frame. but I knew that he was wearing a smile. I could feel it even across the yard.

  I never stopped mourning the death of Uncle Peter, but in the days that followed my quiet conversation with Daddy at the pond. I felt myself emerging from the darkness and looking forward to the light. I began to talk more at school, cared more about my appearance, and practiced my violin with greater determination. Mr. Wengrow was very pleased with my progress and told me so.

  One day he made a surprising proposal.

  "I have another student I tutor. He's a pianist, and I think it might be of great benefit to you both if you practiced some music together. I don't know if it's possible. but I would suggest you come to my home to do so. I have a piano there. What do you think of the idea?

  "Actually." he said before I could respond, "the two of you are my most exciting and promising students. I would want to give you both extra help and not charge you for it. I wouldn't be in this work if I didn't have a passion for it and I didn't get great satisfaction out of finding students like yourself and Chandler,'" he added,

  "Chandler? You don't mean Chandler Maxwell?" I asked.

  Chandler Maxwell was a very wealthy boy in my class whom everyone considered to be the poster boy for being stuck-up. Except for some geeky younger boys who seemed to idolize him, he had no friends whatsoever. He came to school in a shirt and tie, with his hair trimmed almost military style and his slacks perfectly creased. There wasn't a single school activity that appeared to interest him. He didn't belong to any team, any group, any club. Everyone had the feeling he was looking down on their efforts, and everyone wondered why he didn't attend some expensive private school anyway.