A Taste of Honey

by Jabari Asim

  Straight to heaven, where there is no way I will ever leave. Galloping, surging, flying—melting in the sticky grip of this craving. Loving Charlotte without end, deep in all this goodness.

  The Wheat from the Tares

  spring came early to Sullivan Avenue in 1968, accompanied by a chorus of robins and jubilant bursts of crocuses and tulips.

  Pristine knew that her next-door neighbor Rose Whittier had suffered through a rough winter, although the climate had been surprisingly mild. By February it was in the fifties. The unseasonable warmth had been a disappointment to Shom and Crisp, who’d gotten sleds for Christmas. Crisp found some solace in the new Orlando Cepeda first baseman’s mitt he’d begged for all winter, despite the fact that, as Shom constantly reminded him, he was far too short to be anybody’s first baseman. The boys were free to play catch in the backyard as long as they stayed out of the vegetable garden and the flower beds. On spring afternoons, Pristine gardened while the boys practiced, and on her second-floor back porch, Rose took in the sun. She turned her face this way and that, reveling in the warm golden rays.

  Pristine imagined the weather was drastically different next door in Rose’s flat, most likely blustery and cold. Sometimes on midnight journeys to relieve a bladder weakened by childbirth, she couldn’t help hearing Paul shouting and swearing and God knows what else, followed by Rose sobbing. Once Pristine woke Reuben and suggested that they call the police, but he in turn suggested that she mind her own business. Wasn’t that what she was always telling him when he wanted to go out and investigate every dropped bottle, muffled shout, or mysterious bang that he heard?

  Come spring, when day broke and the increasingly disheveled Paul staggered off—late—to his job at the plant, Rose liked to sunbathe on her back porch and feed her pet rabbit, a gift from Paul in happier days. Hugging the animal close, she lifted her eyes heavenward, and slowly, magically, the sound worked its way from the depths of her soul. Rose’s repertoire varied, but she usually began with something a resident of North Gateway was likely to hear on any given Sunday. Something like

  I tol’ Jesus it would be all right

  If He changed mah name.

  Jesus tol’ me I would have to live humble

  If He changed mah name.

  Rose’s voice was an extraordinary thing, an effortless blend of longing, power, and love. It reminded Pristine of her grandmother, whose plaintive hymns had resonated through the house on late summer evenings when Pristine was a teenager, sitting close to Reuben on her family’s front porch.

  The two of them had gone off to Jefferson University together, continuing their high school romance. She’d had two years of biology under her belt when she dropped out and got married. It was the end of a promising academic career, but she had no regrets: God had blessed her. Reuben was as gifted as any man and prone, like any man, to fits of temper. But he’d never laid a hand on her. The strong, silent type until you got to know him, he eventually revealed himself as the rascal he was. He was a jock in the early days and a bit of a show-off. Once at the Pine Street Y, he launched a somersault off the high dive to impress her. Somehow he hit his foot against the side of the board and lost his form way above the water. It led to a frightening descent that he managed to limp away from, leaving a huge knot on the side of his foot that still gives him pain. In their more playful moods, he’d rub the sore spot and tell her that he knew firsthand that love was a hurting thing. “Talking about your little toe?” she’d tease. “Compared to having a baby it must ache something awful.”

  Reuben worked hard, and she always knew where he was. When he wasn’t at the Black Swan, he was in that firetrap of a studio down in the basement. No matter how busy he got on the job, she could always count on him to come through the door with her cigarettes and pumpkin seeds, right on time. Every Sunday, to his kids’ delight, he brought them ice cream from Horack’s Dairy, a tradition they began when it was just the two of them and Ed in that little flat on Emerson Avenue.

  Pristine dedicated herself to creating the kind of family life she and Reuben had often dreamed of during those front-porch sessions. Working part-time at a department store and selling Avon allowed her to be at home, waiting with hugs and kisses, when her children arrived from school.

  She fancied herself a collector of memories: Late at night, with her pumpkin seeds and Belair Lights at her side, she assembled scrapbooks. She had volumes of them by the beginning of 1968. Every photo—they had hundreds—every report card, every childhood scribble, every milk tooth and lock of hair was carefully glued into place.

  Pristine used to bring out a little radio and set it down beside her. Tent Meeting with Rev. Josiah Banks kept her company as she hung the laundry or weeded. Most spring days the radio sat silent in deference to the singer next door as Pristine busied herself. In contrast, Rose never seemed to have enough to do. The two women exchanged warm “Good mornings” when Rose came out to feed her rabbit, although Rose’s smile was always brief. Pristine would be clipping sheets to the line or tending her tulips and crocuses when the sound would begin. It started out angelic and sweet, then quickly grew loud, mystically amplified as if some circuitry was hidden in Rose’s throat.

  Occasionally, Pristine would put down her trowel and shield her eyes to steal a glimpse at Rose’s plump, ecstatic face. When the feeling overtook Rose, she’d shuck her customary shyness, stand and grab the porch railings. Her voice would pour out over the garage roofs, garbage cans, and backyards of Sullivan Avenue. Pristine would later swear that the entire neighborhood grew quiet to give Rose center stage. Gone was the sound of trucks and buses belching exhaust along nearby Vandeventer Avenue. Into thin air went the leonine roars of the Dobermans standing guard behind Hudson’s Package Liquor. Everything that had made the world teeming with noise just moments before vanished.

  She sang “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” and the birds respectfully hushed their twittering. She sang “Didn’t It Rain” and you could just see the Flood, torrents of water washing over the bricks and rising up to the ash pits lining the alley, sweeping sinner and saint alike in its holy current. She sang “God’s Gonna Separate the Wheat from the Tares” and the flowers stretched their stems and leaned into the sound.

  She sang only when her husband wasn’t home. The silence that followed his arrival was not a kind that encouraged peaceful contemplation; it was troubling and electric, like calm before a storm. Paul used to at least pretend to be a gospel singer, but months had passed since he last lifted his voice in song. He left with lunch kit and hard hat in hand, but Claude Mays, the kind, fastidious man who lived across the street, claimed to have seen him at the racetrack during working hours. Once, Paul had nearly knocked Crispus down on the way home from school. He was sprinting furiously, eyes bugged out and spittle flying from his open mouth. To Crispus, the running man looked as if he’d seen a creature from another dimension, and he found no comfort in discovering that grown-ups had ghost issues too. Other days, Mrs. Cleveland spotted Paul shooting craps behind Chink’s. One of the most notable of the neighborhood’s many eccentrics, Mrs. Cleveland missed nothing. A Coca-Cola addict, she went through two dozen bottles a day and swept her front walk constantly, her hair tied up in a scarf, her hands hidden in work gloves. Her property was so well-kept that strangers occasionally drove by and took pictures of her house. “Nothing but a sinner,” Mrs. Cleveland said of Paul.

  Pristine was snapping pole beans one Saturday morning when she heard Paul shouting. “I said stop making all that goddamned noise!” The Whittiers’ screen door slapped open and Rose stepped out on the porch. Her arms were folded and she was humming softly.

  Pristine called to her ballplaying boys. “Shom! Crispus! Go inside.”

  “But, Mom,” Crisp protested. “We’re working on our pick-off moves.”

  “Inside now,” she commanded. “Move your hind parts. Go!”

  Muttering objections, the boys slunk past their mother and went inside.

  Next door
, Paul followed his wife onto the porch. “When I tell you to shut up, I mean it,” he said, loud enough for the whole world to hear. Rose never turned around to face him. She leaned over the railing, closed her eyes, and sang. There was something different in her tone, defiance maybe.

  My Lord, what a morning!

  My Lord, what a morning!

  Oh, my Lord, what a morning

  when the stars begin to fall.

  “I’m gon’ tell you just one more time!”

  Oh, you will hear the trumpet sound

  to wake the nations underground,

  Looking to my Lord’s right hand

  when the stars begin—

  “No, Paul! Don’t!”

  Pristine watched Paul raise Rose’s beloved rabbit above his head. Leaning over the railing, he hurled the animal downward with all his considerable strength.

  “He murdered the little critter in cold blood. I saw it all,” Pristine later told Reuben. “I stood up in spite of myself, spilling pole beans all over the porch. The rabbit made that same snapping sound I used to hear when my grandma wrung a chicken’s neck.

  “‘I told you to shut your mouth,’ he said. You should have heard the noise Rose made, Reub. The most awful sound you ever heard. It was like when she sings but backward, like she was sucking all the light and joy back into herself, where it would never be seen or felt again. Her breath seemed to pull dark clouds from all over Gateway. Maybe the sun moved a bit too. That kind of noise doesn’t belong anywhere near good people and I never want to hear it again, Reub. Never.”

  That night Pristine called Polly’s mom and asked her to bake a lemon pie. Mrs. Garnett dropped it off the following morning.

  An hour later, Pristine pressed Rose’s doorbell. She waited, then pressed again. Finally, she leaned on the button. After a long pause, Rose shouted from the top of the stairs.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Pristine Jones, from next door.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “I was planning to ask you the same thing.”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I was in my yard yesterday when—I saw—Thought we could talk. You know, instead of shouting through this thick door.”

  “My husband doesn’t like for me to have company.”

  “I know that, but he isn’t home. I brought some lemon pie.”

  Pristine heard Rose making her way down the stairs. How many locks does a door need? she wondered as Rose turned dead bolt after dead bolt and released the chain.

  She was still pretty, despite everything. She even tried to smile, although it clearly hurt for her to do so. Rose had on a pale blue housecoat and curlers in her hair.

  “Good morning,” Pristine said.

  “Morning. Come in. Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting visitors. And my house—”

  “Child, please. You should see mine. Reuben says if I spent as much time in the house as I do in the yard, everything would be spick-and-span.”

  “He shouldn’t say that,” Rose said as they mounted the stairs. “You’ve got those fine boys to look after.”

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Pristine discovered that her hostess was just being modest. You could have eaten off her floors. Everything gleamed like a Glo-Coat commercial, from the waxed linoleum kitchen floor to the impossibly bad portrait of Rose and Paul above the mantel in the living room.

  “Paul likes things just so,” Rose explained. “Inside, I mean. Outside, well, he doesn’t like me in the yard. I would be perfectly happy hanging clothes out there like I see you doing, but he bought me a big dryer and said I darn well better use it.” Rose smiled again. “But he didn’t say darn.”

  “I haven’t gotten used to those things myself,” Pristine said. “I prefer God’s light.”

  Rose nodded. “God’s light. Who doesn’t like that?”

  “You, I’m guessing. You got all your blinds closed on such a beautiful day.”

  “Every day that the Lord sends is beautiful. I don’t need to look out the window to know that. Besides, I prefer to take my sun on the back porch. I like to sit out there and marvel on God’s creation. To think that He made every blade of grass, every rock and pebble. I like to sit out there with Twitchy. That’s my rabbit.”

  Pristine looked in Rose’s eyes and saw her remembering. Saw her recalling Paul’s yelling, the rabbit tumbling through space.

  “I’m sorry,” Rose said quickly. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please have a seat. Can I get you some coffee? I can’t wait to taste this pie.”

  “I’ve had my coffee for today. But some milk would be nice.”

  Rose poured milk into a glass, sliced the pie, and served it. She was not a small woman, but she moved like one. All her gestures were neat and dainty.

  “Umm, this is good, Pristine. I mean Mrs. Jones.”

  “You were right the first time. Call me Pristine. A friend of mine made it. I’ve tried to do her recipe, but I keep missing something somehow.”

  Rose set her fork on her saucer. “I want to apologize for all the noise my husband makes. Sometimes he feels a lot of anger.”

  “All men feel anger, honey. The smart ones find someplace to put it.” Pristine thought of the abstract charcoal sketches Reuben made after Ed saw Curly die. They were full of slashes and short, sharp lines, as if Reuben had been stabbing the paper.

  “He didn’t used to be so mad. I met him and his brothers at a gospel showdown. They got to do two numbers right before the Staple Singers came on. They looked so handsome in their double-breasted suits, and their harmonies were tight. Paul was full of himself but full of dreams too. He and his brothers were going to be as big as the Four Tops, but they would stick to the holy road. None of that Sam Cooke trespassing for them. Cooke crossed over, and look what it got him. God don’t like ugly, Paul said. He was a different Paul then, before he got … distracted. Now he’s always out in the streets. I tell myself that’s all right as long as he comes home.”

  “I suppose there’s something to that,” Pristine began. “But it’s not just about him being home. It’s about what he does while he’s here.”

  Rose thought about Paul stumbling in smelling of liquor. Sometimes he sprawled across the bed and began to snore without even taking off his boots. At least then he wasn’t cursing and yelling or—worse yet—balling up his fists. The only problem was she felt alone all the time, whether he was home or not.

  “You and your husband go out much?”

  Pristine licked meringue from her lips. “We’ve never been the going-out type. There’s not money for that anyway, so we try to keep it simple. The kids think going downtown for pancakes at Woolworth’s is a big deal. Sometimes, when the little ones have gone to sleep, Reuben surprises me with shrimp from High Wheels or a middle cut from Dempsey Wynne’s. Our routines are familiar, and that might seem boring to some. But it’s helpful too.”

  “How is that?”

  “After all this time we can communicate without speaking. We know each other’s mind.”

  This time Rose’s smile struggled to settle on her face. It quickly vanished as she appeared to choke down something bitter. Pristine noticed but said nothing.

  “Mind, huh? Half the time I’m not sure I got one.”

  “Hmmph. Anybody who sings like you has got to have a mind.”

  “I don’t have to think to do that. It comes from my soul.”

  “Soul, mind. I’m not sure there’s a difference. But I’m sure you have one. Now, peace of mind? You should ask yourself about that.”

  Pristine feared overstepping her bounds. At the same time, she wanted to be sure that she’d made her point. She didn’t know if she’d get another chance to cross Rose’s threshold.

  “Rose, you’ve been on our block two years now. Some folks know your voice, but hardly anyone knows your face or your name. Don’t you think it’s time you met your neighbors? Reuben and I like to sit outside some evenings with the Collinses. They’re goo
d people, and you may have noticed that they seldom leave their porch. Claude Mays is that dapper little man who lives across the street. He’s a tailor. Never been married, and there’s a reason for that. His landlord is Mrs. Cleveland. She can’t keep still, but she’s harmless. You’ve seen Mrs. Scott three doors down? Everybody calls her Aunt Georgia. She sleeps with a gun under her pillow and she doesn’t like to be surprised. You must have seen Mrs. O’Gwynn across the alley. You can see her yard real good from your porch.”

  “I’ve seen her,” Rose agreed. “She’s always arguing with her dog.”

  “Yes, he’s named Shame. He’s loud, but that’s about it. But the old lady herself is a storyteller. A regular raconteur, my Reuben would say. I’m telling you, she should have been in show business. I remember a story she told me when I first moved on the block. She told me she knew someone back in Mississippi whose husband was one crazy cuss.”

  Rose raised an eyebrow above the coffee cup she held to her lips.

  “Used to beat the woman something awful,” Pristine continued. “Seems like he was bound and determined to break her spirit, take all her joy away.”

  Rose lifted her fork to her mouth but thought better of it. She set it back down.

  “One day he beat her and he went to sleep. She went to the kitchen and turned on the stove. The way Mrs. O’Gwynn tells it, the man wakes up after a while and smells bacon frying. He smiles to himself and stretches out in the bed. What a good woman, he thinks. I beat her and now all she wants to do is feed me.”

  Rose’s tongue found the loosened molar in her upper jaw, pressed it into place. She wasn’t aware that she did that dozens of times each day.

  “It turns out that the woman had no intention of filling her husband’s belly. She filled his ears instead. Waited until he was good and asleep and tied him to the bed. Poured hot bacon grease in his ears. He cursed and screamed, but it did him no good.”