A Taste of Honey

by Jabari Asim

  A few minutes later Shom came rushing onto the front porch, screen door slamming shut behind him. He pushed between us like he was late for an important appointment. I wasn’t studying him. He was acting all grown because Pop had finally decided he could walk down to Pierre Records and pick out his own 45. I heard him tell Petey that he was going to get “Soul Man” by Sam & Dave, but I knew that wouldn’t stop him from strutting around the store and trying to examine every record they had, a crisply folded dollar bill burning a hole in his pocket. Ed never went to Pierre. He said he preferred Black Circle on Grand Ave. because they had a bigger selection and even knew something about jazz, his latest obsession. Lately he’d switched his loyalty from the Temptations and Impressions to Miles Davis and John Coltrane. Shom didn’t care anything about jazz, and Black Circle was much too far away. He started whistling “Soul Man” and headed off toward Vandeventer Ave.

  I had my own record collection and was thinking about mentioning that to Polly. I feared she might get distracted by Shom’s dimples and loose curls. Not that Shom cared. From our parents’ bedroom window, he’d watched Polly and her mom arrive. He said he thought she looked like Riff Raff on Underdog, only rounder.

  My mom bought me a whole set of 45s from the department store where she worked. I had “Humpty Dumpty,” “Jack & Jill,” and a lot of other good songs. I had an album too, Let’s Play School with Miss Kay. She posed on the album’s jacket with her friend, a puppet named Mr. Owl. Miss Kay was blond and cheerful and looked nothing like the teachers at Farragut Elementary—not even the white one, Miss Gordon, who was neither blond nor cheerful.

  Thinking about Miss Kay gave me an idea. I turned to Polly. “You want to play rock school?”

  She shook her head. “Naw, we shouldn’t exercise so soon after we eat.”

  Exercise? I looked at her. To play rock school all we had to do was scoot up and down the steps.

  “Besides,” she added, “there’s still some cereal left.”

  I started to say that there was nothing but crumbs left, but she’d already lifted the bowl and forced her whole face into it. She put the bowl down and grinned. Bits of cereal and sugar twinkled in her eyebrows, on her cheeks, and between her teeth.

  “I just love Crispy Critters,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “They’re okay,” I replied.

  “Really? I figured you’d love ’em.”

  “Why did you figure that?”

  “Because they sound like your name, Silly. How’d you get a name like Crispus?”

  “My daddy gave it to me.”

  “My daddy got a girlfriend now,” Polly said. “She don’t look nothin’ like my mama.”

  Even at nine I knew enough to change the subject.

  “So,” I said, “which do you like better, Quisp or Quake?”

  She answered without hesitation. “Quake.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Me too,” I said.

  I was thrilled. Everybody else I knew preferred Quisp, that stupid alien with the propeller on his head.

  “My mama said I could send off for Quake’s cavern helmet,” I boasted.

  Polly looked skeptical. “Do you think that light on it really works?”

  “Of course,” I said. She even knew about the helmet.

  “Mama’s taking me to see Doctor Dolittle,” she said. “Maybe you could come.”

  “Okay, if my mom says I can.”

  That sealed it. Love was in the air.

  Long after the Garnetts left, Shom and I scooped the remains of the lemon pie from the pan and licked our fingers. It was incredibly good. Shom said something had to be wrong with her.

  “Wrong with who?”

  “You know who I mean. Sweet Polly Purefat.”

  Dimples gets one stupid 45 and thinks he can go around saying anything. I was ready to hit him. Instead I asked him what he meant.

  “Why else would a ten-year-old girl, even a fat one, hang out with a bigheaded, redheaded monkey?”

  I had visions of opening my bedroom window and sending “Soul Man” whizzing into the night like a flying saucer.

  The next time they came over, Mrs. Garnett brought another lemon pie. I caught a whiff of her as she entered the kitchen, and she smelled delicious, just like the pie. She was wasting her time with Avon perfume. If she could bottle that stuff, she’d be a millionaire.

  My mom didn’t take any chances the second time. She sent Polly and me to the porch right away, fortified with pumpkin seeds and Tang. I was feeling so good about Polly that I showed her my autographed photo of Captain Nice. She had a ball and some jacks, but there was no way I was going to mess with those on my front porch in broad daylight. No telling who might pass by and see me, Choo-Choo, Petey, or even worse, one of the Decaturs. They were still on the prowl, and Bumpy being in reform school seemed to have made them even meaner than before.

  I watched Polly crunch the seeds without even bothering to shell them, blissfully smacking away while salt and white stuff from the shells stained her lips.

  Sure, she was a bit strange, but probably because her family was going through a “personal crisis.” I still thought she was cute, despite Shom’s insults. We had possibilities. We could have been real good together. I could see—and smell—a future full of lemon pies. But then she ruined everything by popping the question that would keep me up nights.

  “Do he talk?”

  “Huh?”

  “The boy on the couch.”

  “What boy?”

  “That white boy all the time sitting on your couch. Do he ever say anything? He always look so sad.”

  I watched Polly lick her lips. Could Shom be right?

  “Sometimes he takes a deep breath, and lets it out. Like this.” Polly gave a dramatic demonstration.

  “That’s called sighing,” I said. “Polly, we don’t have any white people in our house.”

  “That’s what you think. There’s a little white boy, he’s about five or six and he’s wearing old-time clothes. I saw him last time when I was chasing those marbles. I tried to say hi, but he wouldn’t speak to me. I figured he was quiet because he didn’t know me. Some kids ain’t allowed to talk to strangers.”

  “Slow down. We don’t have any white boy in our house.”

  Polly stood up and brushed off her lap. “Come on, Crispy Critter. I’ll show you.”

  We went in.

  “See,” Polly said. She looked real satisfied, like she’d just beaten me at Avalanche.

  I looked, but I didn’t see a thing.

  “No, I don’t see,” I told her.

  Polly put her hands on her hips. “You mean to tell me that you don’t see that white boy sitting right there on your couch?”

  I shook my head. “What’s he look like?”

  Polly squinted and tilted her head. “Well, his hair’s kinda long, like a girl’s. He’s wearing a hat. He’s got a vest on, knickers, long brown socks, and lace-up boots.”

  I stared at the empty couch. I stared at Polly.

  “You still don’t see him, do you?”

  Something about Polly’s certainty shook me. “You’re just messing with me,” I said. “Why are you messing with me? Let’s get out of my mother’s living room before she gets mad.” I turned to go.

  Polly put up her hand. “Hold it. Didn’t you hear that? He just sighed. Sounds awful, like he just wants to lay down and die. What’s the matter, little fellow? You want some pumpkin seeds?” She approached the couch.

  I approached the door. But I never took my eyes off my almost-girlfriend.

  Polly turned and looked at me. “Crispus, give this boy some seeds.”

  “Stop teasing, Polly. Let’s go.”

  She was pretty fast for such a round girl. Strong too. Before I knew it, she had grabbed my hand and dragged me over to the couch. I didn’t see any boy, but what I did see gave me chills: There was an indentation in the seat cushion as if the material were being pushed down by something about the size and wi
dth of, say, a six-year-old. But there was no one sitting there. I began to feel the way I felt every time Shom hauled me past Burk’s Funeral Home. Not good at all.

  I didn’t say anything, but Polly could tell that my viewpoint had changed. She touched my arm as if she hoped to comfort me. “Maybe he came with the couch,” she said.

  In the days that followed, I avoided the couch. I avoided Schomburg too, because I didn’t want to hear his mouth. I decided to consult the best-known brain in the neighborhood: Roderick’s. He was doing well since Bumpy Decatur tried to take him out with a sharpened screwdriver, real well in fact. He stood up straight these days, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard him mutter. His mom was doing well too.

  The Grandmother loves to tell the story about Uncle Orville waiting for his star pupil to show up for his tutoring session. He’s standing in the living room going on about this and that when suddenly he pauses. He rushes to the blinds and peers out the window.

  “Gracious,” he says.

  The Grandmother says he was almost trembling.

  “What is it, Orville? What do you see?”

  “Big Mama,” he says without turning around, “I think I’ve seen an angel.”

  Just then the phone rang. It was Mrs. Collins, our next-door neighbor. “I got the phone to my ear, but I’m watching Orville open the front door and go out on the porch,” the Grandmother will recall to anyone who shows the slightest interest. “Mrs. Collins says ‘Harriett, you won’t believe this unless you see it with your own eyes. Quick, look out the window.’”

  By then, folks up and down the block were finding any old excuse to lean out a window or fiddle with the flowers in the front lawn or take something to the car. The Grandmother chose the window, just in time to get a glimpse of Roderick’s mother walking slowly but steadily up Sullivan Ave., fussing with her hair with one hand and holding her robe closed with the other. “Thus passes Glory,” the Grandmother swears she heard Uncle Orville say, although now he says he can’t remember saying anything.

  Behind the store, the Genius had just been stabbed and I was still trying to keep him talking. All he would say was, “She’s coming. She’s on her way.”

  Sure enough, we both looked up and saw her, Miss Bates moving toward us like she was in a trance. Over her shoulder I could see Uncle Orville following behind her. His face looked like Charlton Heston’s in The Ten Commandments, when he comes down the mountain after talking with God.

  Uncle Orville and Miss Bates have been keeping company ever since. The Grandmother says it just goes to show that good love is worth waiting on. I was planning to avoid all that waiting. That’s why I made plans for Polly. Looking back, I see now that I made my move too soon.

  “Roderick, you believe in ghosts?”

  Normally, the Genius could answer any question before it finished coming out of your mouth. This one he acted like he didn’t want to tackle at all. “This is all I’ll say,” he said, sucking on his spoon. I had brought along a little chocolate ripple to get his brain juices flowing.

  “My mother believes in spirits. And I believe in my mother.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. I wanted one of those short, confident declarations along the lines of “Yes, the square root of four is two.” Roderick could be counted on for those. Not this time.

  “I don’t want to say that there’s no such thing as ghosts,” he said, “even though I’ve never seen one. Until recently, I had never seen a miracle either. But I knew they were possible. In the end, Crispus, anything’s possible.”

  Definitely not what I wanted to hear.

  Maybe Ed would be more help. I had to catch him at ground level because there was no way I was going all the way up to his room on the third floor. I never liked it up there anyway and really hated it after Ed painted a giant skull on his wall. He had copied it from an album cover, a huge, leering death’s-head with Day-Glo daisies on it. The mural reflected another of the many changes in Ed that made my mother suck her teeth and roll her eyes. He was getting more political all the time. Books about Karl Marx, Chairman Mao, and Che Guevara sat on his shelf, right next to his beloved Doc Savage paperbacks. I just watched and waited for the day when Ed announced that Doc Savage was counterrevolutionary and tossed those books in the garbage. That’s when I would swoop in and silently scoop them up.

  I hardly saw Ed anymore, between his job at SuperMart and his thing with Charlotte. To make matters worse, he and my dad weren’t getting along. Ed was a top student, and my dad wanted him to shoot for Harvard or Yale. Ed told Pop that if Jefferson U. was good enough for him then he should be able to go there too, instead of making himself all uptight at a racist institution. When Ed started preaching about the evils of systematic racism, Pop always cut him off.

  “Get that bass out of your voice,” he’d say. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know? Please. Your grandma likes to say that there are no boys under this roof, but I’ll tell you this: there’s only one man and he ain’t you.”

  Before he found work at SuperMart, Ed used to stay up late Friday nights watching monster movies. He was the household authority on zombies, mummies, vampires, and all things supernatural—not that he had much competition.

  Ed disappointed me too. All he wanted to talk about was Charlotte. He showed me her picture, and I readily agreed that she was plenty cute. But that wasn’t exuberant enough for Ed. As far as he was concerned, she was breathtaking, phenomenal, extraordinary. Ed was big on adjectives and hadn’t met any that he had no use for. You came away from even the briefest of conversations with him with a clear understanding of his likes and dislikes. Incredible Coltrane. Marvelous Miles. Amazing Spider-Man.

  I gave in and decided to ask my mom where we’d gotten the couch. She told me we got it from Nana, my dad’s mom. Nana used to be a maid for some rich white folks who used to give her things from time to time. When my parents got married, she gave them the couch. Mom told me all this while trying to make one of Mrs. Garnett’s lemon pies. She hoped to bring one to the Grandmother’s upcoming birthday celebration.

  “Since when do you have an interest in furniture, young man?” she asked while spooning sugar into a mixing bowl.

  “Just curious,” I said.

  It was beginning to make sense. Those white folks must have had a son who died on that couch. Now his spirit was trapped in it.

  I shared my theory with Polly the next time she came over, but she topped me, to my considerable horror. “Maybe he didn’t come with the couch,” she said. “Maybe he came with the house.”

  The sensation in my bladder reminded me of that part in The Brave Little Tailor where he squeezes the cheese and all that liquid leaks out. I had similar feelings whenever I was scared enough to lose my natural mind. Like right then, for instance.

  Polly was looking at me funny. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

  “Y-you think he came with the house?”

  Polly was maddeningly calm. “Could be. If he came with the house, he probably wanders all over it. He probably just sits on the couch when he’s tired, poor thing.”

  “Poor thing?” I was practically shouting. “Poor thing? That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to live here! Bathroom! Be back!”

  I ran upstairs and relieved myself. Then I went to my room, sat on my bed, and considered the situation. I didn’t like to visit the third floor because it was scary up there. I didn’t like to go to the basement by myself because it was scary down there. I had been avoiding the couch for several days because of the scary dents in the cushion. I was running out of places to cower.

  I calmed down a lot when Polly left. It occurred to me that she may have been having fun at my expense—you know, playing a harmless joke on a stupid little nine-year-old. I entertained the possibility that Shom had told her of my scaredy-cat ways and my easily exploited fear of Burk’s Funeral Home.

  I convinced myself that was the case. My heart was broken, naturally. Hadn�
��t Curly told me that women were nothing but trouble? I was forced to deal with the consequences of my failed romance when Mom gave up trying to perfect the lemon pie recipe and asked Mrs. Garnett to bring one over on the day of the Grandmother’s birthday celebration. She arrived just before dark with Polly in tow.

  When Polly smiled at me and said hello, I nearly growled at her. “How could you?” I said. I coolly exited, while all three women stared at me in open puzzlement. I ignored them and began to hum Etta James as loudly as I could.

  I had nearly forgotten about the boy on the couch amid the hubbub at the Grandmother’s house. She was enjoying her moment in the spotlight so much that she hadn’t humiliated me even once. I was having a good time too, until my mother realized she’d forgotten her camera and ordered me to go home and retrieve it.

  Immediately, my bladder began to bother me. “Umm, isn’t the door locked?”

  My mother shook her head. “No. The door is closed but the latch is off. Just make sure you pull the door shut when you leave.”

  I tried another tactic. “But the streetlight in front of our house is out.”

  Once again, Mom was undeterred. “Mr. and Mrs. Collins are on their porch. They’ll look out for you.”

  She was right. I knew they would. Still, I was resourceful. I gathered my forces for one last effort. “Can’t Ed bring it when he comes?”

  Ed was working that night and would be coming late.

  “Young man, you’re trying my patience,” Mom snapped. “Ed might have to work overtime for all we know. Get up off your hind part and get my camera. Now!”

  Shot down for the third time.

  It got bad for me as soon as I climbed out of the shadows surrounding our house and set foot on the porch. I thought I heard someone moving inside.

  I pushed the door open just as some whispering subsided. I was certain. Maybe the white boy had invited over a few friends. “Anybody here?” I shouted, hoping against hope. “It’s just me, Crispus!”

  Silence. I purposely turned away from the living room as I advanced down the hall. No way I was looking at that couch. I went straight to the kitchen, trying to ignore a feeling of imminent doom.