In the garage, she found two old flowerpots of unadorned terra-cotta. They were large enough for the gardenias, and she used them to replace the broken Talavera. Why should the whole neighborhood know that her life was falling apart?
No news from Teena. Nothing from Michael. At least Johnny Lavin had called. They’d had a pleasant chat, Honey trying her best to sound like her old self. Thankfully, Johnny offered no resistance when she informed him of her decision to add Michael to the will. “At our age,” he said, “what’s more important than friends and family?”—admitting that he was tempted to deliver Honey’s paperwork himself. The two of them could have a weekend together, he said, maybe even drive to Atlantic City. “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Honey replied. “I miss you, dear.”
This flirtation, of course, didn’t lead to any real-world plans for a rendezvous, only to a promise on Johnny’s part to send, along with the paperwork, some sea-salt truffles from Teuscher, a superb chocolatier not far from his office. Chocolate that tasted like tears. Perfect.
As the days passed, the weather grew warmer, the air more fragrant. Was it June already? Honey had no idea, but she played at cognizance. She got her mail, watered her plants. She paid her bills, brushed her hair—all the while sensing the absurd circles of life, the same hopes, the same hopelessness. A few times, when Honey was at the mailbox, Jocelyn waved from inside her house. Less a wave than a frantic metronome, keeping time with what was probably some drug-fueled internal sound track. Or perhaps it was simply the girl’s native mania. Either way, she appeared as no more than a blur behind the glass.
Honey’s only response to these greetings was a gesture of her own—a quick tap to her wrist, signaling her white-rabbit status. I’m late, I’m late. And with that, she’d rush back into the house. Besides, if the girl wanted something, she should step outside like a grown-up, instead of gesticulating from behind a window, or sending melodramatic texts to Honey’s cell phone. The last one had been over the top: I know I probably disgust you. But please don’t abandon me.
Though Honey’s thoughts were somewhat confused in regard to Jocelyn, she’d decided that the girl had made her own bed. Unlike Michael, who was at the mercy of bullies, and was therefore worthy of her sympathy.
And the truth was, the girl did disgust her, a little. It wasn’t Jocelyn’s size or her slovenliness, her clownish demeanor—these were part and parcel of who the girl was, and Honey had even come to find these traits endearing. What bothered Honey, and now more than ever, was what the girl had written on that online dating site.
Stronger men preferred.
Well, clearly she’d gotten what she’d asked for. The girl had chosen to dance with the devil. And despite the fact that she now seemed to be questioning this choice, the more telling fact was that she continued to dance with him. Lee’s truck was still parked in the driveway. Occasionally, Honey could hear the pair of them arguing.
Unbelievable that this affair was still going on, after Honey’s talks with the girl, heart-to-hearts in which she’d attempted to make Jocelyn see the error of her ways. Hadn’t they sat together on the steps of Honey’s porch, holding hands, crying for heaven’s sake? Honey had hoped the girl would take something from those moments, take the gift that was being offered—advice about how the world worked, how a woman needed to protect herself. That Jocelyn wasn’t following this advice—well, it pissed Honey off.
* * *
The following morning, an invitation arrived in the mail. The silvery envelope was addressed to Ms. Honey Fazzinga—the last name spelled in the old way, no doubt intentionally. The invitation was from Rina. She was hosting a baby shower for Addie, the daughter-in-law. The front of the card had a cartoon of an elephant on it—a cutesy beast, with ribbons tied to its floppy ears. At the tip of its upraised trunk was a tiny brown nut with a sketched-in face.
A LITTLE PEANUT IS ON THE WAY!
Inside, there was a personal note from Rina: Would love you to come, Aunt Honey. Please mark the date. Addie, the mother-to-be, had also scrawled something: So nice meeting you! Hope you can celebrate with all of us.
Honey was nearly knocked flat by the absurdity of the situation: Now that our problem child has had his lights punched out, let’s throw a party. Unbelievable, how it was all played with a straight face, with glee even—the foul mechanics of compartmentalization. And to add insult to injury, the baby shower was to be held at Dante’s.
Honey closed the card and stared at the drawing of the elephant. Like a child, she wanted to grab a black Bic and scratch out the eyes, or replace them with X’s. On the animal’s red ribbons there was a thick paste of glitter, and bits of it fell onto the table like bloody sugar.
She read Rina’s note again, recalling what the woman had said on the telephone. “You don’t know what he’s put us through, Aunt Honey. Coming to the house like that, throwing it in his father’s face.”
Honey picked up a pen and checked the second box: I REGRET I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO ATTEND. She put the card inside the stamped return envelope and carried it to the mailbox.