Warm Honey

by Dave Cornford

  “It’s too hot.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Look just get in, we’ll talk on the way home. We can sort this out.” I was conscious of the boys looking over at the slightly raised voices. They watched, sniffing out a lone gazelle. A honk came from behind me. The bus.

  “Look my bus is here.”

  “Don’t be stupid, I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Don’t call me stupid.”

  “Look that’s not what I meant.” The honk again. The boys started picking up their gears and walking over to the bus. They smelt fresh meat.

  “Wooo, lovers’ quarrel!”

  “How much is she charging?”

  Charis turned. “I’ve gotta go. Look don’t phone me. I need a few days.” She closed the door and I had no choice but to drive as the bus nudged forward, impatient to fill my place. I looked in the mirror. One of the boys, tall with stringy blond hair, said something to her and I saw her mouth a reply. The other boys all laughed and he looked embarrassed. When it came down to it they were just whelps. The lioness had put them in their place.

  Charis’ three-fifty sat tight in my jeans pocket as I drove home, the edges of the fifty cents nagging my thigh. I drank six or seven beers in my room and fell asleep. I woke at ten to twelve, getting up for water and a piss. I went back to bed but sleep was gone. I spent the rest of the night sitting up against the cool wall re-running the scene from different angles. I dozed off around three, but late summer dawn arrived at five-thirty, bringing with it the same mixture of dry-mouthed anger and self-loathing the night had begun with.

  * * *

  The heat wouldn’t let up. Chris and I were going to the hospital to have blood-tests at eleven. I waited around the house until the last possible moment, but the phone didn’t ring. I was just as glad it didn’t because if it had it wouldn’t have been Charis anyway. I’d have answered it and felt the sick disappointment as a telemarketer from India or Botswana or somewhere eulogised a product he didn’t own and I didn’t want.

  Chris and I drove in together, not saying anything and listening to the cricket. Some commentator called Iqbal was being patronised by Kerry O’Keefe’s snigger. The Pakistani openers had put on a record partnership when they followed-on and the match had made it to the final day. We were still going to win, but it wasn’t the crushing it might have been. Mum was in her usual chair in the waiting room. Over the weeks she’d given up on bringing food in, and a couple of empties from the cafe were lined up on the table.

  “Hello love,” she said, kissing both of us in turn. Her breath was cheesy, and smelt of being in the same room in the same clothes too long.

  “How about you take a break Mum?” I said, “Go home, have a rest. A nice hot shower.”

  “Do I smell?”

  “No, you just need a break. We’re both here for our blood-tests, we can stay for a few hours anyway.”

  “You sure I don’t smell? I left my toothbrush.”

  “You don’t smell Mum,” said Chris.

  “Well, ok, thanks. Do you want me to go get you some sandwiches and drinks?”

  “No mum, we’ll be fine.”

  “It’ll only take me a minute.”

  “We’re fine Mum,” he said, steering Mum towards her bag and keys.

  “You okay?” asked Mum looking at my bleary eyes. My face felt grey.

  “Bad night.”

  “You too love?” she said with a deep, but wasted sympathy. My own brother, her son, was dying a few rooms away, and the only thing I could think about was Charis.

  “You do look like shit,” agreed Chris, “Been on the piss? Hope they don’t pick up anything in the blood test, you might be over the limit.”

  “Chris!” scolded Mum, “We’re not all as callous as you!”

  “I’m not callous. I cried when Bambi’s mum died.” He stopped and looked awkward. Would he cry if Bevan died? That’s what we all wanted to know. It didn’t seem worth bringing up the Charis thing with Mum. I’d have to go into it all if I did. Mum would start asking questions and want to know why we’d fought and I didn’t have the energy to go there. Besides, she didn’t even know that Dad had other kids. When Charis had spilled the beans about us seeing Dad that time Mum’s only interest was Dad. The rest were just a support act waiting in the wings while Dad performed his one-man-play. Maybe that was about all Mum could bear. That he had other kids, and that they were healthy and happy might have been too much for her. The scene unfolded in my mind of Mum, Dad, and Gracie standing around Bevan’s bed fighting, Jesse and Lauren howling in the corner.

  “They say I’ve got to call Stuart and arrange for him to get a test,” said Mum, “I’m going to phone him when I get home. Any messages?”

  “Tell him to get his sorry white ass over here.”

  “Chris!”

  “Sorry. Tell him to get his unfortunate pale butt over here.”

  “If you’re going to be rude...”

  “Look Mum, just tell him to get here.” She left and we sat down, conscious of the flouro hum. How did she put up with it day after day, just sitting there?

  “He’d better get here, said Chris flipping on the remote on doing a Fosby Flop onto the couch. The smug tone of Dr Phil giving some hopeless couple some equally hopeless advice filled the room. “Where’s Jerry Springer when you need him?” Chris demanded, flicking through the channels and finally back to Dr Phil. “Give me a cross-dressing nympho dwarf over this middle-class white trash any day.” He grabbed a packet of cashews Mum had left behind and ripped them open, spilling some of them down the back of the couch. “How’d you get on with Charis yesterday?” The look on his face told me that he’d seen the look on my face. “Don’t worry mate,” he crooned, patting the couch next to him, “Come over here and tell Dr Phil all about it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The tests came back negative. Chris and I didn’t match. I’d felt so bloodless and lifeless when the needle went in, that I wasn’t surprised by my result anyway. But Chris? He and Bevan were so close and so similar. I’d almost convinced myself that they’d be compatible. We’d all crowded in again to hear the news, and the look on Vicki’s face when the doctor told us was a mixture of anger and despair. She shot us a glance that suggested it was our fault and now that we’d been tested and come up negative our usefulness was over. A slow glycerine tear surfed her foundation.

  “Please God let Stuart be the one,” she said in a small voice when the doctor had gone. Hearing her proto-prayer made the situation even grimmer. People like Vicki don’t pray. Not like that anyway. Vickis threaten God, cajole Him, and even blackmail Him. But petitionary Help-me-God-I’m-at-the-end-of-my-tether kind of prayers just aren’t Vicki sorts of prayers. Things must be desperate.

  “Babe,” said Bevan weakly from the bed, “We’ll tell them.” Vicki went over to him. She sat down and took hold of Bevan’s stubbornly unresponsive hands. He winced. “Careful!”

  Bevan turned to look at Chris, me and Mum. We looked in turn at each other, like they do in an over-done comedy routine. I half-expected a laugh-track.

  “We’ve decided to get married,” said Vicki, wiping her face and smudging her foundation. I watched her hand as it went back to the bed, smearing the white sheets in the process. There was a second or so of silence.

  “You can do that?” asked Chris finally.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to wait and see how things go?” asked Mum.

  Vicki snapped. “I knew you’d all be like this,” she spat, “Couldn’t you even be happy for us about it? Just this once?” Her voice tailed off. Her face had a little-girl-lost look about it that I don’t think even she could have faked.

  “Oh I am dear I am, it’s just...” Mum tailed off and walked over and sat next to them. Tenderness poked its head over the parapet. Vicki let herself be hugged and kissed.

  “It’s what we want Mum,” said Bevan with as much conviction as he could muster in spite of the pain.

  “We’ve c
hecked it out,” said Vicki, “And the Registrar-General can waive the usual thirty days you have to give from the day you sign the forms.”

  “The cooling-off period.”

  “Chris!” Mum was suddenly going in to bat for Vicki. She may have been a snob, but for Mum the “M” word meant that whatever Vicki’s faults, from today she was our snob.

  “Just joking.”

  “Besides,” said Vicki, “There’s every chance the transplant will take, and I want to be Bevan’s wife helping him recover.” She said it with such conviction I believed her. She was sounding almost noble. Too noble. Chris looked at me, and raised an eyebrow. We both went over and hugged her.

  “Congrats sis,” said Chris. “Congrats bro.”

  “So Robert, what do you have to say?” Mum looked at me expectantly, waiting for my words of congratulations. It took me a second to realise that the whole time I’d been thinking of one thing: Charis. There we were, sailing along nicely, and suddenly it all seemed to be going down the crapper. Stu was marrying Susannah. Now Vicki and Bevan were taking the plunge, although it was hard to see them doing it if he’d been well. “That’s great news,” I said finally, “Proud of you both.”

  What about me and Charis? I hadn’t heard from her for nearly a week and every time I’d worked myself up to phoning her I’d put the phone down. She’d said not to call and I hadn’t. Surely that counted for something?

  “We’ll be having the wedding here,” said Vicki, “At the bedside.”

  “Family only?” queried Mum.

  “Family only.” Vicki paused, looking at each of us. “Just one thing,” she said carefully and evenly, “We’ve invited Phil.”

  “Phil who?” asked Mum, even as she got it. She looked confused. She turned to me and Chris, then back to Vicki. Mum’s face had that look you see on car safety commercials, the ones that tug your heartstrings and play to your deepest fears. The victim’s parents open the door and there are the police. You see the parents’ bewildered faces coming to a realisation that life as they’ve been living it up to now is over, and it’s never coming back and there will always be grief and bitterness. And then there is the flashback to a mangled car on a dark night.

  DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE!

  DON’T INVITE HIM TO THE WEDDING! The crushed look on Mum’s face was the weight of thirteen years bearing down inside her skull as she processed what Vicki had just said. Betrayed after a kiss. Why would they do this to me? How did Phil and Bevan get that close? How come he got to know about the wedding before the rest of us?

  “Did you know about this?” Mum had turned to me.

  “It’s as much a surprise to me Mum.”

  “You’ve been speaking to him, though haven’t you.”

  “I didn’t know, okay?” That bit wasn’t a lie. I didn’t know about the wedding. I didn’t want her pushing it any further. I’d gotten Dad to visit Bevan so if you looked at it one way maybe I was culpable.

  “We invited him,” said Bevan, “And he’s coming.” You could almost see his body get weaker as his voice got stronger. “He’s been visiting once a week or so - on Thursdays.”

  “And I didn’t bump into him?” The door opened and a fortyish something nurse with no-nonsense stencilled eyebrows walked in carrying a bag to hook up to Bevan’s machine. “Can you give us five minutes?” snapped Mum.

  “You okay Bevan?” asked the nurse, ignoring Mum.

  “Five minutes.”

  “I’ll be back in five,” she announced looking at the clock in such a way that we all turned to it as well.

  “You shop on Thursdays,” I said to Mum. I didn’t bother to add that it was Gracie’s shopping day too. Dad had the dubious distinction of trying to avoid the scrutiny of two women on the same day, one as he left for the hospital and the other as he entered it. It was a Shakespearean comedy with people missing each other exiting stage left and entering stage right, only without the funny bits. I was pretty sure though, that the final scene would be straight out of Hamlet.

  “Not that woman?” pleaded Mum. It would have been more than she could have borne.

  “No Pam,” said Vicki quietly. There was a touch of respect she’d never had before. “We haven’t invited her. We haven’t even met her.”

  Mum’s face softened to resigned, her jaw slackening. “You’re his son too I suppose. What about Stuart?”

  “We’ll be phoning him tonight,” she said, “We’ll have the results of his blood test in a few days.”

  “Hi Stu,” mimicked Chris speaking into his thumb and little finger like a phone, “It’s Vicki. How do you feel about being a donor-in-law?”

  “Chris!” This time Mum’s protest wasn’t needed, as Vicki smiled an open relaxed smile I’d never seen.

  “That would be great wouldn’t it?” she said, still grinning and looking down at Bevan. “Mum and Dad are getting back next week, so it’ll be in a fortnight at the latest.”

  “Aw well,” said Chris, tugging at Bevan’s starched hospital gown, “At least this way you get to have a white wedding.”

  * * *

  Worrying about Charis at a time like this was akin to a newspaper editor saying on November 23rd 1963: “You know what? I think we’ll go with the front page banner headline about the death of CS Lewis, and push that JFK assassination thing to the inside.” It was certainly an issue, but under the circumstances it didn’t warrant that much attention. In a matter of weeks Bevan was going to be on his way to recovery. Or we’d be going to his funeral. On top of that Mum and Dad would be seeing each other at a wedding. And not the kind of wedding where you can sit warring factions at safe distances from each other. At those kinds of weddings numbers are everything. Invite enough people and you dilute the poison. True, you have to brief the ushers about who can’t sit near whom at the church. The bride and groom have to figure out the number of ex-wives and jilted lovers attending to avoid awkward seating arrangements at the reception. But we didn’t have the luxury of numbers. The poison would be concentrated. Mum and Dad would be standing in a six by five hospital ward with ten other people, nine if Charis didn’t come. There it was again: Charis. My banner headline. The last thing I thought about when I went to bed at night. The first thing I thought about when I got up in the morning. Getting up and going to bed bookended the misery in between. It had been well over a week, nine days actually, since our argument and I still hadn’t heard. On top of that I was now beginning to wonder if she wanted me to make the first move, and was waiting to see if I was man enough. Why was it like that? I didn’t know how man enough I needed to be. No man seems to know that. He’s either too man or not enough man.

  I was sitting in my room listening to Massive Attack’s Unfinished Sympathy when I decided that the best thing to do would be to go down in flames. The house was dark. Benny said he’d be staying out the night again. He’d left with his toiletry bag, a spring in his step, and the last vestige of respect I’d ever have for him. His overnight successes put my own confusion into sharp relief.

  Jude had come over two nights ago.

  “Where is he?” she’d asked standing in the yellow glow of the outside light. She looked strained.

  I’d tried to hide my disappointment. Not Charis.

  “Out I think.”

  “Who with? Some slut I suppose.”

  She’d come in for a coffee and we’d sat there chatting. We talked dangerously. About how Benny was a real root-rat now. How he couldn’t express true love. How Jude was struggling. How Charis and I weren’t seeing eye-to-eye. How Bevan was so sick. How Dad and Mum were going to behave when they met at the wedding. Every now and then she touched my leg when she was stressing a point. She smelt good, like she’d made an effort in case he’d been home. I could feel Evil Homer replete with red spandex and horns on one shoulder, and Good Homer with his gown and halo on the other. Maybe the only difference between Benny and me was the shoulder we turned to for advice. Jude’s mobile rang. Her ditzy ring-tone broke the spell.
Her flatmate had locked herself out, and could she come and let her in? I felt a mixture of disappointment and relief as she left, the distance between us at the end the same as it had been at the start. I comforted myself with the knowledge that Benny’s overnighter would probably end with the same distance.

  Now two nights later I was driving to Charis’ still listening to Massive Attack. I put Shara Nelson’s haunting vocals on repeat: “Really hurt me baby, really cut me baby. How can you have a day without a night? You’re the book that I have opened, and now I’ve got to know much more.” The trip-hop beat defibrillated my panicky heart, and I drove with the window down singing loudly, the tepid evening breeze clearing my head. A bright yellow WRX with lowered everything pulled up beside me at a set of lights, doof-doofing and grunting. “Poofter!” yelled a white Australian guy trying to be a black American guy from the passenger seat.

  “Don’t you mean faggot?” I said under my breath, focussing straight ahead. The lights turned and the WRX pawed the tarmac, squealing in glee as it took off. I passed it further down Leach Highway, driver standing beside his car with a plain-wrap cop looking under the bonnet. The sick tootle of my Camry’s horn never sounded so sweet.

  I pulled into Charis’ driveway. Nerves kicking and whinnying. Shara’s wail was now a Lament Psalm. Why have you forsaken me oh Lord? When will you show your compassion to your people? The old blue Ford Falcon was sitting there. I could see Charis’ dad in the open garage fiddling with something metal and heavy under a halogen lamp. The duller glow of the kitchen light shone through the curtains. The shadow of her mum finishing dishes. Both blithe, unaware, taking it all for granted. A couple getting on with the mundane domesticities of a 25-year-long marriage. Tasks smoothed familiar by the waves of a constant sea. The pang of envy in my own turmoil. I’d been in this place before, right before a break-up. I knew the drill. The parents I’ve come to know and like, who invite me to stuff and offer me dinner can become strangers within an evening. And all it takes is to break up with their daughter. It’s different with your own parents. You can fight and steal and do drugs and break their hearts, and your own parents will keep coming back for more because they’re your parents. Or that’s how it’s supposed to go. But split up with the daughter of another set of parents and you are airbrushed from the photos in a Stalinist purge. You become the one they don’t talk about, “Mr-whatever-your-surname-is”. Someone to meet in the shops and have a careful conversation with.