They didn’t hurt him, did they?” Jocelyn asked.
“No,” said Honey. “Don’t be silly.”
“But what were they doing in the house for so long?”
“Well, they couldn’t take him away in broad daylight. It seemed prudent to wait until dark.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Just practical,” said Honey. “No reason for the neighbors to know our business.”
She was trying her best to appear calm, to speak matter-of-factly about the previous evening, though the previous evening seemed to have nothing to do with facts. It seemed a dream, in which some alternate version of herself had run amok, said va fangool to the laws of time and space. Other laws had been broken, too.
“Where did they take him?” asked Joss.
“Do you really care? You wanted him gone, and he’s gone.”
“Yeah, but what if he comes back?”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Darling, you can either believe what I say or not, but please stop with the questions. I know it was a nightmare, but it’s over.”
The girl nodded, though she didn’t seem convinced. They were sitting in Honey’s living room, before a tray of espressos. Joss stirred in enough sugar to kill an elephant. Finally she looked up and said, “So how do you know people like that?”
“Like what?”
“I mean, my God, they arrived in a tank.”
“Don’t be dramatic. It wasn’t a tank. It was a Hummer. And I already told you, they’re members of my family.”
“I thought you weren’t on friendly terms with your family.”
“I’m not. It was a convenience to call them, that’s all. I have no plans to see them again.”
“But you trust them?”
“Unfortunately, I do—in certain ways. It’s complicated.”
“I just wonder if it would have been better to call the police.”
“What’s done is done,” said Honey. “And listen to me, Joss—I need to make something very clear. You cannot speak of this, ever, to anyone. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. Of course.”
A clock ticked as witness, as the women sipped their espressos.
“Signed in blood,” murmured Honey, and Jocelyn repeated the words.
The girl kept her head down, lost in her little cup—but eventually she began to glance around, as if confused. “Wait a second.”
“What?”
“I just noticed how empty the room is. Where are all your knickknacks?”
“My knickknacks?”
“You know, all your stuff. And where are the paintings?”
Honey sighed. “I took them down. I was—I don’t know—I was considering going away.”
“Moving? Where?”
“Don’t be nosy. And, anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I’ve decided to stay. For a little longer, at least.”
“You have to stay,” exclaimed Joss.
“And why is that?”
“Because I . . . I can’t imagine not having you here.” The girl’s face flushed with emotion; she looked like she might start weeping again.
“Don’t,” said Honey. “As my mother used to say: You won’t get far on a river of tears.”
“I can’t help it.” Joss mashed a napkin against her schnoz. “It’s just—it’s all so friggin’ weird. I mean, I keep thinking about last night—thinking, was that me? You know, am I that person?”
Honey had been asking herself the very same questions.
After a while, Joss got up. “I better go or I’ll be late.” She made her way into the foyer, stopping at the broken door jimmy-rigged with masking tape. “This isn’t safe. You can’t just leave it like this.”
“Don’t worry. Someone’s coming later to repair it.”
The girl touched the splintered wood. Lingered.
“What is it, dear?”
“Nothing. I just . . . I mean, how am I supposed to go to work and pretend everything’s normal?”
Honey agreed it was a trick. “Plus, it’s unfortunate you have to spend the day with your hands in other people’s mouths.”
The girl grimaced, perhaps thinking of Lee’s tooth. She seemed hesitant to leave. “Hey, I was wondering if you might want to come over for dinner tonight. I really don’t want to be alone.”
“May I take a rain check? I suspect I’ll be too tired.”
“I can do Italian,” persisted Joss. “I make a really great chicken parm. Well, a variation of it. I do it without the cheese.”
“That’s quite impossible, dear. The whole point of chicken parm is the cheese. Listen—why don’t you come over here, instead. I’ll make you a real Italian supper.”
Jocelyn nodded, then lurched at Honey, enveloping her in a wet and snuffling hug. “I love you.”
“Yes, yes,” said Honey, pushing the girl away. “There’s no need to get maudlin about it. Off you go.”
* * *
What she wanted more than anything was a hot bath. But she was afraid that if she took one she’d dissolve. There seemed to be very little holding her together. Maybe the great enterprise of her life, the construction of a glittering self, was merely a shell game, and one that had gone on for so long that she’d lost track of the little ball of chaos hiding underneath.
It had shocked her, of course, when she’d first struck Lee with the gun. But then she’d done it again, hadn’t she? And though she wanted to be appalled by this, the truth was, she was not appalled. The feeling from earlier remained—that the brutality was somehow a relief. It was a reckoning with both her power and her weakness.
Prior to her suicide attempt, she’d made an accounting of her crimes. But there were others, far worse. When Honey had told the story to Angela Carini, about what her father and uncle had done to Richie Verona, she’d left something out. She’d mentioned the men coming out of the woods, her uncle with the shovel in his hands. She’d told Angela how she’d started screaming, how terrified she’d been.
But she hadn’t told the dying woman about what had happened afterward. How, later that night, when she was finally in bed, safe, clean, in a cream-colored nightgown with embroidered daisies, she’d had a change of heart. In her childhood room, with the little pieces of colored glass on her windowsill and her schoolbooks piled neatly on her desk, she’d stared at the ceiling and felt relieved that Richie was dead. More than relieved, she’d felt glad about what her father had done. She even hoped that just before the boy died, he’d felt something similar to what she had felt, when he’d forced her down on his bed and entered her. A feeling of powerlessness, of being trapped, unable to change his fate. No longer master of his life.
That night, a fifteen-year-old Honey had slept surprisingly well, and the next morning when she went downstairs and saw her father in the kitchen, she kissed him on the cheek. She’d done this, partly, because she was afraid of him, and wanted to appease him. But she’d done it because she’d been grateful, too. Never before had her father done something just for her. Was it not, in some way, an act of love? Later, of course—especially after her years with Kleinerman—she recognized the error in her thinking, understood that what her father had done was an act of pride, of domination, an animal thing.
But, despite this knowledge, she can’t help but go back to the heart of the girl who’d been glad, glad, that Richie Verona was killed in those desolate woods, while she waited in the warm sand, beside her uncle’s baby-blue convertible.
Maybe she was her father’s daughter, after all.