He asked for an address. Honey said a lease was in the offing, only a matter of time. He inquired about employment. Honey said she’d never had a problem securing a job.
“Never?” he said. “Even in this climate?” Honey didn’t like his manner. “You know the type, Nic,” she said and pulled her ear. “Little gold stud. And that suit. Those shoes. The bald guy buzz-cut.”
When he made the climate remark Inez said she didn’t see what the weather had to do with anything. Honey ignored this, but the manager was amused, even delighted. He laughed and apologized for confusing things. “Of course I meant the financial climate, Mrs. Ramone.” Now and then he sent a conspiratorial glance Honey’s way. She refused to return it.
“Well, ladies,” he said. “I’d like to help, but you’re making it a bit tough for me here. Do you have anything of value, any collateral at all?” Before Honey could answer Inez said, “We sure do. We’ve got a knockout vintage Cadillac. Never driven outside Texas until we bought it with 20,000 original miles. Leather upholstery. And it wasn’t cheap, let me tell you.”
“Is that the car you’re talking about?” he said and tweaked the louvered blinds. All three looked out at the beat-up Eldorado parked at the far end of the lot, alone, as if no other self-respecting car would be caught dead next to it. Honey said that would have been a good time for the license plate to fall off, and she couldn’t believe it didn’t, the way their luck was going.
He sat back. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. Because I know how challenging things are right now. But I just don’t see how the branch can help you. Maybe come back after employment is secured and you’ve got a residential address nailed down and perhaps we can figure out some sort of modest loan.” He gave Honey his card. “Please do call,” he said and looked her hard in the eye.
She had just begun processing the look, weighing the idea of securing the loan in some other way — a speedy transaction (she was sure of it) with no interest whatsoever — when Inez took a gun (the gun) out of her purse and said, “How much could we get with this?”
I thought Honey was putting me on. Or maybe drinking wine and toking had turned me into a character in one of our old thrillers. She admitted that, for a second or two, she felt the same way sitting at the bank that day: the pistol in her mother’s hand (her bangles trembling), the bank manager recoiling in his leather swivel. She hadn’t figured on her mother digging the thing out of the Corn Flakes and packing it in her purse like some kind of new age Bonnie Parker. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any more frantic, Inez cocked the trigger. She expected the guy to hit some kind of alarm, or lunge toward them, or scatter the chairs as he took cover under his desk. In Honey’s mind they were already at the police station with a shitstorm of trouble raining down — but instead he got very calm.
“Ms. Ramone,” he said, “will you please take that gun from your mother’s hand, uncock it — I have a feeling you know how — and put it back in that very nice bag of hers?” Which she did, and then he turned sweet as pie, Honey said. You know, he went on about these being hard times and shit happens and no harm done — along those lines. “You would have thought he soothed away dozens of mother/daughter hold-ups every week,” she said. He escorted them to the door and wished them well. Told them to be careful.
At the last minute he drew Honey aside and asked for her phone number so that he could follow up and see how they were making out. She felt obliged to give it to him.
All the way back to the Noblesse Oblige she tore a strip off Inez, demanded to know what the hell had come over her to pull a stunt like that. “You want to get locked up with a bunch of nut jobs, is that it? They’ll make fast fucking work of you and all that jangly bling, let me tell you. Don’t expect me to row out and visit you in some goddamn old lady’s Alcatraz every weekend. I’ve got my hands full, in case you didn’t fucking notice.” And on and on, furious and scared. Inez watched the scenery rush by and denied she ever would have shot the man.
“You cocked the trigger!” Honey said. “It sounded like somebody dropped a rusty hammer into a bucket. I’m surprised they didn’t hear it at police headquarters, or wherever.”
“But it wasn’t loaded,” Inez replied, impatient.
“Did that prick know as much? Did I? For god’s sake, Mother. You could have gotten us killed by some hopped-up security guard. Or what if the fucking banker had a gun too? Jesus.”
“Men like him pull hold-ups themselves all day long. They just don’t have the balls to use a pistol. Please stop berating me — and pay attention to the road.”
“Oh, that’s just beautiful: the pistol warning the bullet to be careful.”
“It’s no good letting the man think you don’t have the nerve to use a gun if it’s right there in your hand. You have to at least go through the motions,” Inez said and then lit a cigarette and went quiet until Honey lurched to a stop outside the mobile home.
“I’m just tired of everything,” Inez said and threw the cigarette out the window. “I needed something to happen. Sometimes people just do things.”
They were still at odds when, three days later, Gold Stud called and offered Honey what he called “an amazing opportunity for advancement.” This is when she realized why they didn’t get the loan that day. “Turns out it wasn’t because I was slipping or something. You know, losing my edge. It’s just that he saw the opportunity to get something from me instead. I kind of suspected as much. But you still worry.”
She declined the job at first. What did she know about banking? He said he’d teach her everything he knew, which seemed to be a lot according to his business card: Don Aurbuck, CFA, CFP, FRM, and a couple of others she couldn’t remember. She only “toppled,” as she put it, because she and Inez were so desperate.
“But about my mother,” she said, and then went on for a while about how you should tell a person good things as soon as they happen, don’t wait for some ideal time in the future. Don’t even wait a few days, she said, because that’s what she did. After securing the job with the Commerce in Torrent, Aurbuck offered her an advance so she and her mother could settle in somewhere, all on the hush-hush, not a word to Inez. And then she planned the perfect unveiling of their new life.
“I figured I’d take her to the salon first, get her hair done, then out for dinner to stuff her with a nice filet mignon, super-rare, none of that medium-well crap, and maybe matchstick frites and heirloom carrots sprinkled with salt from the Himalayas or some goddamn place, even though all those fancy salts are just bullshit. And never mind the wine, we’d go for a bottle of La Grande Dame, you know, in honor of all the original grand ladies, and a whole cart of fucking to-die-for desserts; and even if she went ahead and dropped a few of those high-end dinner rolls into that knock-off hobo bag at her feet — and she would — I wouldn’t say a thing. Because who really gave a shit? So last day at the Noblesse Oblige I came home after signing a lease on a little bungalow thirty-five minutes from Torrent. It had a massive willow, like a big gushing fountain in the backyard, like at the old duplex on Argyle. Remember?”
“Oh yes.”
By then it must have been midnight, or later, and the quiet had deepened, the delicate chimes on the balcony almost inaudible in the breeze. The sky was clear, almost shiny, but now and then a patch of cloud drifted over the moon and rippled shadows through the apartment. Honey lay back and gazed up as the little patches of soft light came and went.
She said that Inez just didn’t make it as far as her brilliant plan, and that half the time Honey felt like she was stuck in that restaurant waiting for her mother to waltz in, stuff herself, and rip off the dinner rolls. I thought she was on the verge of saying more, but something about her manner, and my blissful sense of timelessness, made me patient, content not to push. She merely added that her mother was right: sometimes people get desperate waiting for something, anything, to happen. And they do somethi
ng stupid.
6.
Saturday, late August: I asked my mother if she felt up to taking a spin in the country, as she and my father had often done on the weekends. We cruised north as far as Dry Creek, had lunch at a tea room in Arnot, and then stopped by the fairgrounds to watch the roustabouts dismantle the Ferris wheel in the last of the summer rains. Ordinarily the grounds stayed open until Labor Day, but Buckthorn’s charm couldn’t compete with the bigger fall fairs down Torrent way. The whole thing had become a habit, just going through the motions — a big wheel turning with nobody on it. The roller coaster was already down, the teacups from the kids Tilt-A-Whirl tipped over next to them, and the carousel horses with their wild manes and colorful saddles lay on their sides in the grass. We sat there awhile thinking our own thoughts — the ghost of my father between us.
On the way home she suggested we have a look at some of the developments east of town (though she knew there was nothing to see but cracked foundations and rusting rebar) and then we might swing by Havenhurst. I asked why she wanted to see that eyesore. “No reason in particular,” she said. “It’s just the closest we have to a famous local landmark these days it seems. If you want to head home, that’s fine with me.”
I still hadn’t mentioned the prodigal’s return, hadn’t been thinking about that aspect of things at all, and it occurred to me that when my mother felt up to doing her personal banking again, rather than having me do it for her, she was bound to run into Honey and wonder why I hadn’t said anything. This oversight might renew her tendency to be touchy about Honey and her mother’s disappearing act.
So I told her the whole story, everything except the part about the gun and that Inez “didn’t make it,” as Honey put it. It was a lot of information, and still my sense was that she knew I had left something out. She quizzed me all the way home and into the house, trying to figure out where I’d hidden the weapon, so to speak, the little gun-shaped piece missing from the center of the puzzle. Where did you say they went out west? When did they come back? You’re saying that car’s still on the road? They were 200 miles south of Buckthorn all these years? I answered each question as best I could and then she went quiet. If there’s anything worse than my mother asking a pile of questions, it’s her asking them and then suddenly falling silent: the baton comes down and the whole orchestra waits but doesn’t relax.
I busied myself doing the things people do when they want to avoid continuing a conversation. Adjust this, fuss with that. I ambled into the kitchen, opened a few cupboards, closed them again. But then habit got the better of me and when I brought her a glass of water she renewed the questioning. Nothing shrill, just her usual reason over passion combined with that sensible tone that was so hard to match. She took a few sips of water, because it’s hard work, getting to the point.
“Have you seen a fair bit of Honey since she got back?”
“We’ve met a couple of times.”
“And it all makes sense — what she’s told you about these last six years?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not? Just because they had the balls to get out of Buckthorn doesn’t mean she’s full of shit.” A little pause here while we both considered my overreaction to her simple question.
“I understood them leaving Buckthorn, Nicole. I just didn’t get them going on the lam without a word — except for that mystifying note left in charge of . . . Mr. Dude.”
“You’re still mad about the dog.”
She gave me one of those long, low looks that meant don’t be an idiot. “You’ve forgotten how long it took you to get over that whole thing?”
“They didn’t just run off, you know. They ran away. From that awful old man. Why are you being so stubborn about this?” There was an inch of water left in her glass. She swirled it around a few times and tossed it back the way some people knock back a belt of scotch to give them more nerve. My mother only required water — straight up.
She set the empty glass on the table. “What happened to Inez?”
“Happened?”
“You said she didn’t make it.”
Now here was a question you’d expect a straight answer to. Except I didn’t know the answer, and how odd would that seem? For a few seconds I couldn’t speak as I recalled Honey and I stretched out alongside each other, drinking, toking . . . I should tell you about my mother . . .
Finally I said, “I’m not sure about all the details. Honey was a bit distracted when she told me.”
“Is she alright?” The way she posed the question (she really wanted to know) was a departure from the style of question and answer we’d been exercising up until then — a Ping-Pong game winding down. I told her that Honey was just getting on her feet, looking for work, nailing down a place to live. We both sat there a bit longer. She picked up her glass and wiped the table underneath with her sleeve. I waited for her, the chairwoman of the board, to adjourn the meeting. But she pushed up her sleeves, so I knew there was another question coming. “Has Honey been in the neighborhood lately?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. Has she been driving around the area?”
“Was she in the Caddy?”
“No.”
“Then it wasn’t her.” I could see her consider further queries, and then decide against. She got up, picked up her empty glass. “Well,” she said, “I’ll set the table.”
Thank god, freedom at last. But not so fast. As she passed me on the way to the kitchen she rested her hand on my head, like I was ten, something she rarely indulged even when I was ten.
“Be careful,” she said. “I don’t want to see you hurt again.”
I made a salad, grilled us a couple of chops. And then I remembered I had a three-hour set to play at the Crescendo in twenty minutes — saved from further pointless discussion by that pointless job of mine. I squeezed myself into my crooner’s uniform — the black skirt, white blouse, dollar sign cufflinks — and out I went with half a chop between my teeth and a napkin stuffed in my collar to save the shirt.
I had to laugh at myself because all the way out to the highway I felt disappointed that Honey wasn’t stalking me.
* * *
I threw in a few extra songs that night, just for fun. It’s not like I had anywhere to go in Buckthorn: “Corcovado,” “Poor Side of Town,” “Don’t Explain” — that sort of thing. The regulars never tired of “Poor Side.”
When I left the casino sometime after midnight I was wound up, as usual, so I took the long way home: Highway 7 up to the Dry River cut-off, then left at the old barn on County Rd. 8, and back into town past the string of motels, all of them nailed shut except for the Villa Capri, then through town via the main drag.
I’d just turned onto Broad Street and was thinking of topping up the tank at the Co-op when I saw her sitting in a booth by the window at Blink’s Diner, an all-nighter that served 24-hour breakfasts and the usual hot beef sandwiches with mashed potatoes and fries, that sort of thing. At that hour the patrons were mostly guys heading up north to blast rock early in the a.m., or truckers with cargo heading south to the city. I pulled over across the street, switched off the ignition, and pushed the door open, thinking to join her. But when I noticed the phone pressed to her ear, I changed my mind.
I don’t know why I sat there studying her for so long. At first I thought she’d notice my father’s old Chevy and wave me in, but she never looked up. Whoever was on the other end of the line, things didn’t seem to be going well. She leaned into the conversation like you do a wind, her fingers shielding her eyes. The last time I’d seen her look that ill at ease she was telling me about her broken arm.
A gray suit jacket lay draped across the back of the booth beside her and she wore a dressy pink shirt. I knew she’d worked Saturday but still, the early 2 o’clock closing at the bank was a long way behind her. The Honey I knew would have been hot to get home, strip off the uni
form, and relax in a pair of cut-offs and T-shirt, glass of wine in hand. But where was her car?
A cab sped by, probably on the way to the bus station downtown to pick up a fare or two on the last express from Torrent, and then a police cruiser. How embarrassing would it be if the cops eased up beside me and wondered why I might be sitting in the dark staring at a woman having a private phone conversation at Blink’s Diner? When the cruiser disappeared I started up the car and prepared to pull away, but then a van turned the corner at Broad and Oak and I waited for it to pass, along with that low bass heartbeat of a sound system. It slowed in front of Blink’s and blocked my view of Honey for what felt like a full minute and then continued on. I adjusted my mirror and watched it make a three-point-turn, drive back up the street, and cruise past again. Then it proceeded up to Broad, turned back onto Oak, and vanished — the thumping bass beat fading away with it. I sat there thinking about vans and their whole suspicious vibe, especially with those tinted windows. You could take them for granted as they bustled here and there all day, but in the later hours the loners stood out; all that room freed up in the back after the day’s deliveries. A loop from The Silence of the Lambs rolled through my mind: the van, the pit, the woman in the pit. The guy who wanted to steal her flesh.
That did it: I swung the car around and parked a half block down from the café with the motor running. Should I wait or head into the diner? Either way, she was going back to Havenhurst in my father’s Chevy.
I still hadn’t decided what to do when in the rearview mirror I saw the restaurant door swing open and out she came with the suit jacket over her arm, yanking her skirt down. She paced along so quickly that I hardly had time to back up before she reached me.
Honey Page 6
