Honey Read online

  Standing up to him once. Mommy recited Scripture in defiance of his dreadful threats and promises.

  'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal," she told him, backing him off.

  Surely, she was right. Merciful God would not hurt me for anything I had done without knowing why it was sinful. I thought, and I picked up the Bible, intending to put it aside. but I couldn't help being drawn to the pages Grandad obviously had marked for me to read before I went to sleep.

  He had marked First Corinthians, 5:11: But now I have -written unto you not to keep company, if any man that is called a brother be a fornicator, or covetous, or an idolater, or a railer or a drunkard, or an extortioner; with such a one, no, not to eat . . . put away from among yourselves thatwicked person.

  What did he mean? Did he mean Chandler? Did he mean me. myself?

  How dare he make such an accusation? He had never even met Chandler, how could he condemn us without knowing what was truly in our hearts?

  I felt like heaving his Bible and his threats out the window, and actually walked toward it to do just that, but when I started to open the window, I stopped. I couldn't put the blame on the Good Book, and it was sacrilegious to treat it like some garbage. Feeling trapped, I grew furious, went to my desk, and ripped a sheet of paper from my notebook. Using a black Magic Marker so it would be large and prominent. I wrote one of Mommy's favorite retorts: Judge not that ye be not judged, and then I taped it to the cover of Grandad's old Bible.

  I went to his room and placed it at the foot of his door so it would be the first thing he saw when he rose in the morning. I felt good about it, but I couldn't help trembling. Mommy was the one who stood up to him the best of all of us, certainly not me.

  But someday soon I'd like to know why I was his favorite target for his hell and damnation speeches. Why did he see the face of a sinner in me? What had I ever done to give him such thoughts and fears? How could he ever think such dreadfully disgusting thoughts about Uncle Peter and me? It gnawed at my insides like some ache that would never go away. I vowed I would know the answers.

  Yet. I was almost as afraid of the answers as I was of the questions themselves,

  Saturday was the long and difficult day it had promised to be. By the time I rose and went down to breakfast. Daddy and Grandad were long in the fields with Uncle Simon. I looked at Mommy to see if Grandad had said anything about his Bible and what I had taped onto it. I expected he would rail about my defiance and lack of remorse or something, but Mommy's talk was only about how hard Daddy was going to work and how she wished Grandad would agree to hire another man, at least during planting and especially during harvesting.

  "Simon does the work of two, maybe even three ordinary men, but your father hates to see him take on so much and do so much of what is his. Your grandad is a different story. The man feeds off his defiance and stubbornness. It fuels him and gives him the strength and energy of a man half his age. Say what you will about Abraham Forman, you have to give the devil his due." Mommy rattled on.

  "I'll get out there and help." I said.

  "You shouldn't be out there under this sun. Women and girls your age work like that back from where I came, but they quickly grew old beyond their years. I don't like your hands getting too tough and hard. It will hurt your violin playing, Honey."

  I looked up with surprise. She had always admired and encouraged my playing, but she didn't speak of it as anything I would definitely do with my future.

  "You really think that's important, Mommy?"

  She paused in her work and mined to me, wiping her hands on a dish towel,

  "Your father and I have had a talk with Mr. Wengrow. That man thinks a great deal of you and your talent. He did from the start. I have a mother's pride, of course, but he's a musician, a teacher, and he thinks you have what it takes to make a life with your violin. He wants us to let you try out for a school in New York City."

  "I know," I said.

  "Your father's worried about it. but I'm not." "How come?" I asked.

  She sat at the table and reached for my hand to hold.

  "You are not much younger than I was when I set out for America with Aunt Ethel," she said. "We arrived in New York City first, and all the traffic and the people, the tall buildings, hustle and bustle was frightening, but," she said with a small smile an her lips. "exciting, too. I had lived my whole life in a small country village. I thought I had landed on another planet, and don't forget, our English was not so good then, but we had some cousins who helped us and then we came here to Ohio to live.

  "You have lived all your life in a rural world, too, but you have had the advantage of being in big cities and seeing what it's really like on television and in your movies. It won't be as strange to you, and you're a good girl. Honey. You'll always do the right thing, I'm sure. I'm not worried." she emphasized. "If it's right for you, you'll be right for it."

  "I don't know if I am, Mommy. I don't know if I'm really as good as Mr. Wengrow thinks."

  "Well, we'll find out." she said, patting my hand and rising. "What will be will be."

  "Daddy agreed then?"

  "Daddy agreed," she said. Her smile faded quickly. "Don't expect any encouragement from your grandfather. He'll be reciting prayers for the dead as soon as you set out."

  "Why does he think so little of me, Mommy? Why does he expect me to be a sinner'?" I asked her.

  She shook her head.

  "It's his way with everyone," she said and continued her work.

  "No, it's not. Mommy. You know it's not. He's always been on me, lecturing, warning, trying to frighten me into being a good girl. Why?" I pursued.

  "It's his way," she repeated, this time with her back to me.

  I told her what he had done the night before with his Bible and what I had done in return. She listened, her eyes growing smaller and darker.

  Then she nodded.

  "I thought he was quieter this morning and had that mad gleam in his eyes, like someone who had seen Satan himself stroll through the house."

  "I'm afraid of him," I admitted.

  She stared at me and nodded again.

  "It's good that you'll leave this place," she said with such vehemence, I lost my breath for a moment.

  "But why. Mommy? Why do you say it like that?"

  "I just do."

  "Why is Grandad so stern with me?"

  "Because he's a sinner himself," she blurted.

  "I don't understand. Mommy. How is he, of all people, a sinner? Because he won't go to church?"

  "No."

  "Then why. Mommy?"

  "Leave it be. Honey. Go on, play your violin. Practice," she ordered and once again turned her back on me.

  It left me cold, even colder than I had felt when I had seen Grandad's Bible on my bed.

  Chandler phoned mid-afternoon and asked me if he could come by. "I have something I want to give you." he said.

  "What?"

  "If I tell you, it won't be a surprise."

  I laughed and told him to come. Then I told

  Mommy. Daddy, Uncle Simon. and Grandad were still out in the fields. I waited outside for Chandler, who arrived even sooner than I had anticipated. He stepped out of his car and handed me a gift-wrapped box.

  "What is this? Why did you buy me something? It's not my birthday or anything," I said.

  "I don't need a reason to buy you something,"

  he insisted. He looked so intense, so determined. I

  nodded.

  "What is it?" I sat on the front steps and undid

  the ribbon, then tore away the paper and opened the

  box. There was a pile of sheet music within, all for the

  violin.

  "Chandler, this is a lot. It must have cost a lot,

  too," I said, thumbing through the pieces. I estimated

  well over two hundred dollars worth.

  "It's all Bartok," he said.
"You've got An

  Evening in the Village. First and Second Sonata, First

  Rhapsody. Hungarian folk tunes. and Romanian folk

  dances. I was thinking about your audition and what

  you should prepare for it. I suggest the First Sonata

  and something from the Romanian folk dances.

  Anyone would get a good view of your ability from

  that."

  "Thank you. Chandler," I said. "It's a wonderful

  gift and you brought it at the right time. My parents

  are going to let me try. Mr. Wengrow convinced

  them."

  "I knew he would," Chandler said.

  "Well, you knew more than I did." I embraced

  the box of music and stood up. "Thank you," I

  repeated and kissed him on the cheek.

  Just as I did. Grandad. Daddy, and Uncle

  Simon came around the barn. My heart stopped and

  started. Daddy waved, but after a moment's hard stare.

  Grandad turned and went into the barn, with Uncle

  Simon trailing behind him.

  "Come inside," I said. "I'll put this away and

  we'll go for a walk."

  Chandler said hello to Mommy, who made

  conversation with him while I put away the gift of

  music. Then we left the house and I took him toward

  the pond.

  "This is my favorite place here," I said "I used

  to spend time with my uncle Peter here."

  Chandler nodded, gazing around. "Very

  peaceful. pretty."

  "Sometimes I sit on the dock and dip my naked

  feet in the water. Minnows swim around my toes." "Let's do it," Chandler said, and sat to take off

  his shoes and socks. I laughed and did the same. "Wow, that's a lot colder than I expected," he cried when his feet hit the water. "I think my ankles are going to turn blue. How come it's not bothering

  you?"

  "I guess I'm just used to it," I said with a shrug,

  "All I've ever been in is a heated pool."

  He closed his eyes to endure it, then finally

  surrendered and brought his feet out, curling his legs

  so he could rub his ankles. I laughed and helped,

  rubbing the chill out vigorously.

  "You must have steel flowing through your

  veins to enjoy that," he said.

  "Feeling better?"

  "Yes, thanks."

  "It's refreshing. It wakes you up,' I said. "I was awake, thank you!"

  I brought my feet completely out and he rubbed

  mine, too.

  "In some countries, we'd have to get married

  now." he said. "Touching someone's naked feet is

  very intimate."

  We looked into each other's eyes, locked in the

  warm flow of our gazes. I knew he wanted to kiss me

  and I wanted him to kiss me. I spun around and

  lowered myself to his lap, the move taking him by

  delightful surprise. He laughed, moved to make me

  comfortable, and began to stroke my hair.

  "You grew up in a very beautiful place. Honey.

  I'm jealous. I wish I had a place like this to run to

  when I wanted to be by myself, instead of just closing

  my bedroom door or putting on my headphones and

  turning up the music. It's all in you: the water, the

  fresh smell of wild grass and wildflowers, the

  sunlight. It gives you your glow, makes you blossom." "Funny you say that. Uncle Simon thinks of me

  like he does his precious flowers."

  "He's right."

  He touched my lips and I kissed the tip of his

  fingers. He smiled.

  I lowered my head gently from his thigh to the

  floor of the dock and spread out beside me so we were

  face to face. Then he kissed the tip of my nose. "I might come to you someday," he said. "and

  remind you I've touched your naked feet. Then I

  might ask you to marry me. Honey."

  "I don't know if I'll ever get married."

  "Sure you will. If anyone might not. it's me." he

  said. "I haven't had good examples. My parents aren't

  exactly poster children for the institution. But," he

  continued, running his finger down the side of my

  face and under my chin. "with you. I'm sure it would

  be very different. You're real.

  "Although," he added. "sometimes I think

  you're too good to be true and you really are just a

  dream. The only way I'm sure is when I do this." he

  said, and leaned forward to kiss me.

  I closed my eyes. I felt the warm breeze and

  smelled the fresh water and the scent of wildflowers. I

  breathed deeply, filling myself with such happiness

  and pleasure as his lips lingered on mine, and then I

  opened my eyes and gasped.

  Grandad was standing over us, gazing down,

  his eyes blazing, a machete in his hand.

  For a second Chandler didn't realize Grandad

  was there and looked confused by my expression.

  Then he turned on his back, looked up at Grandad,

  and practically leaped to his feet in a single move. "Sinners," Grandad accused, waving the

  machete at Chandler. "And on my land. You'll turn it

  into Sodom and Gomorrah, just as I was told you

  would," he fired at me. His eves widened. "The

  prophecies, the prophecies!"

  "We didn't do anything wrong. Mr. Forman,"

  Chandler began to protest. "We were just..." "Fornicator. Get thee. away, Satan," Grandad

  ordered, raising the machete again. Chandler's eves nearly popped. He backed up, looking confused and frightened. I got to my feet and scooped up our shoes and socks. I took his arm and marched him off the

  dock.

  "Don't look back at him. Just keep walking," I

  said.

  "He's crazy. Wow! He was going to kill me. I

  think. Would he swing that at me. really? Is he

  coming after us?"

  "Just keep walking," I muttered, the tears

  choking my throat. Grandad was shouting biblical

  phrases at us.

  "I'm sorry, Chandler. I didn't think he would

  come sneaking around after us. I thought they were

  working on the grain combine."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "He's afraid of going to hell," I said, gazing

  back. He looked like a mad prophet razing against the

  heavens, his arms lifted, that machete painted in our

  direction.

  "He should be locked up somewhere. He's

  dangerous."

  Daddy and Uncle Simon had just parted and

  Daddy was stepping onto the porch when we

  appeared, hurrying from the path to the pond toward Chandler's car. Both he and Uncle Simon turned to

  watch us a moment.

  "Why are you guys walking barefoot?

  Something wrong, Honey?" Daddy asked when we

  drew closer.

  "Grandad," I said.

  "What did he do?"

  "He frightened us and accused us of things," I

  said. "And he waved his machete at Chandler." "He did what?"

  Daddy and Uncle Simon looked toward the

  pond.

  "I'd better get going," Chandler said, reaching

  for his car door handle. He didn't pause to put on his

  shoes and socks first. "I'll call you. Or, maybe you call

  me when you can," he added. He looked absolutely

  terrified. I couldn't blame him.

  "I'm sorry," I said. He nodded, started the

  engine, and drove off qui
ckly, forgetting the bump

  again. I looked up at Daddy.

  "He's horrible," I cried. "I don't care if he is

  your father and my grandfather. He's just horrible. I

  hate him!" I shouted and ran up the steps, past Daddy

  and into the house, not looking back.

  Inside. I burst into tears.

  "Honey!" Mommy shouted after me as I

  charged up the stairs "Why are you barefoot? What's

  wrong?"

  "Grandad!" I cried. "I wish he was dead!" Such was the mad old man's influence and

  effect on me all my life that I immediately regretted

  saving such a thing. I bit down on my lip so hard. I

  could taste the blood. If God was nearby, waiting to

  swoop down on me for being an evil person. He

  would surely do so now, I thought.

  Shivering and wishing I could crawl inside

  myself and hide. I threw myself on my bed, embraced

  myself, and closed my eyes, waiting for the sound of

  thunder even on a day like this.

  All that followed was silence and the slow

  ticking down of my racing heart until I drifted into a

  welcome sleep.

  10 Sins of the Father

  When I awoke, I was greeted with a funereal silence. Mommy had let me sleep and it was well into the early evening. Through my window I could see the last vestiges of daylight were clinging to the horizon like the hands of a drowning person hoping to be pulled back up. The yellow shafts of thin light against the inky sky resembled fingers, reaching, searching for help.

  I sat up, scrubbed my face with my dry hands and sighed so deeply, I thought I would crack my spine. I listened again for any sounds. but I didn't even hear the drone of the television set or anyone's footsteps or muffled voice. For an additional few moments I sat there, resurrecting the terrible moments at the pond. I saw Chandler's expression of terror and shock again and again. Surely, he would not want to have a thing to do with me now. He must believe I came from madness.

  I rose and went downstairs slowly, still listening for someone. I found Mommy sitting on the front porch in her rocking chair. She had a knitted shawl wrapped around herself and her eyes were closed.

  "Mommy?" I said, and she sat up.