A Taste of Honey

by Jabari Asim

  “Anything?” Bob Cobb asked.

  “Nope,” Talk Much said. “Too soon to tell.”

  Day Work

  as casually as he could, Ed strolled through the South Side with his jacket draped over his shoulder. His tie, the same clip-on bow he wore to work, hung tentatively on his loosened collar. It had been part of his ruse. His parents believed he was heading straight to his job after school, but in reality he had left early with the approval of his guidance counselor. He hoped his dad didn’t decide to stop at the store for a six-pack of Stag on his way home from the Black Swan.

  Every street Ed crossed was unfamiliar, but he knew he couldn’t go wrong if he stuck close to Kingshighway. That wide, busy boulevard stretched reassuringly for endless miles, all the way to the friendlier surroundings of North Gateway. Not that the South Side had been unfriendly. Despite the stories he’d heard about the tough whites of Dutchtown, Dago Hill, and other ethnic neighborhoods, no one had threatened his life so far.

  He breathed easy despite seeing a police cruiser idling at a red light up ahead. He hadn’t yet considered that the officers inside had been waiting for him.

  “You’re a bit far south, aren’t you?”

  The policeman on the driver’s side wore aviator sunglasses. His elbow rested easily on the edge of his lowered window.

  “A lot far south, I’d say,” his partner added.

  Ed put his hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the glare, but he still could not make out the partner’s features.

  “Yes, sir,” Ed said, pleased that he’d remembered to say “sir.” He went on to explain that he was returning from an interview.

  “Don’t imagine you’ll get hired around here,” the driver said, “but I guess they figured they had to talk to you.”

  He told Ed he might be more comfortable farther north, especially if he made it there before nightfall. Careful to look at each man and bow deferentially, Ed thanked the cops for their concern.

  “Thank you, Officer, and thank you, sir. Well, so long.”

  The cops said nothing in reply. The driver simply grinned at Ed as he eased off the brake.

  “So long.” He’d gotten that from The Andy Griffith Show. Who could be sure that real-life white people said such things? He’d said it in a nasal, high-pitched voice. Similarly, he had tried his best to walk like a white boy, as if bouncing cheerfully along would make these strangers see Opie Taylor instead of his nervous black self, sweat glistening on his nose and upper lip.

  It was Charlotte’s fault. When he’d finally let on that he hadn’t applied to Harvard after all, his pushy girlfriend had mentioned it to her boss. Apparently, Dr. Artinces Noel had connections. She made some calls, and suddenly he had a private interview with an important alum, an attorney with an office in South Gateway.

  “Deliveries in the back,” his secretary had said when, after changing buses twice, Ed finally found the law office nestled in a small professional building off the main drag.

  Ed said nothing and gave her the chance to take in his jacket, tie, and businesslike manner. But she wasn’t even looking at him. She resumed her filing and typing and seemed genuinely startled to turn around and find him still standing there.

  When at last he gained an audience with the lawyer, a thoughtful, soft-spoken man in his late fifties, Ed found he had no trouble explaining himself. The lawyer nodded sympathetically at the appropriate parts and, when Ed finished, seemed kindly disposed.

  “Harvard can do great things for you,” he said. “But you could do at least as much for Harvard. With your background, your grades, and your work ethic, you’ll make those prep-school boys look like the lazy, pampered dolts they are. My dad washed bottles at a brewery,” he added with a wink.

  “It’s not too late for the fall,” he said. “I have access to the admissions committee. Let me know.”

  “I have access,” he’d said. Was access what the Warriors of Freedom were talking about when they shouted “Power to the People”? Was that what Dr. Noel had? My mother can make calls too, Ed thought. Look what she did for Rose Whittier, the lady who used to live next door. But Pristine didn’t call that access. She called it the Lord making a way.

  Ed paused at another stoplight. To his left he found a shopping strip. It had a Red Goose shoe store and a cake shop sandwiched between a Ben Franklin five-and-dime and a SuperMart. A kiosk on the parking lot sold keys and popcorn.

  He looked at the SuperMart. It appeared to be much grander than the one he was used to. Curious to see how the other half worked, he headed for the entrance.

  It was chilly inside, and not just from the air-conditioning. Ed was amazed to see how much bigger, brighter, and cleaner the store looked. Oblivious to the hostile stares of shoppers and employees alike, he gaped wonderingly at the fresher produce. There were more varieties of apples on display than he was aware existed. He passed by the Frosty-O’s, the Hershey’s Great Shakes, and the Pevely milk chilling in heavy glass bottles, suddenly intent on picking up a big bottle of Tahitian Treat to share with Crispus.

  After locating it next to the Vess Orange Whistle, he grabbed a twenty-four-ounce bottle. He straightened up, and the manager tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Need some help.” He was a tall, fat man with long sideburns and a bad complexion. He didn’t phrase it like a question.

  “Not really, thanks. I’m just buying some soda and checking out the store.”

  “Checking it out for what?”

  “I work for SuperMart too, on Natural Bridge.”

  The manager grunted and dug in his ear with a No. 2 pencil. With his other hand he tapped a clipboard impatiently against his thigh.

  “North Side, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Didn’t even know they had groceries way up there, let alone SuperMarts.”

  Ed nodded. “Yeah, we have stores. Of course, with all the grass huts and wildlife, it’s hard to make them out sometimes.”

  The manager squinted and began to drum the clipboard against his knee. “It’s almost seven,” he said. “Don’t you want to be on your way.”

  These South Siders are so considerate, Ed thought. They all want me to get home before dark, and so anxious about it that they forget their question marks.

  Outside the store with the Tahitian Treat safely in hand, Ed crossed the street and boarded the first of his three buses home.

  The envelope was addressed to Rose Reynolds, and no one had called her that in years. That was the first thing that disturbed her. The return address said Joanne Whittier, and that was the second thing. Who could that be? Rose racked her brain, ran through a mental list of every one of Paul’s female relatives whom she had ever met or heard about. She came up empty.

  So she put the envelope on her dresser and busied herself with other things. At the end of the workday, she returned to Mrs. Garnett’s and discovered, to her misery, that she hadn’t imagined the envelope after all. She picked it up, sat on the edge of the bed, and took a deep breath. “My strength and my redeemer,” she muttered. “Get ahold of yourself, girl.”

  Minutes later, the screen door on the front of the Garnett residence swung open with a bang. Mrs. Garnett, enjoying the comfort of a porch swing with Lucius Monday, turned to find Rose standing on the porch. She had her hands on her hips and a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Everything okay, child?” Mrs. Garnett asked. She was genuinely concerned but having great difficulty turning away from Lucius for even a single minute.

  “Fine,” Rose said, not looking at either one of them. “I’ll be back. Maybe.”

  “But where?—”

  Rose was already down the steps and heading toward the corner. Mrs. Garnett stood up and followed her with her eyes. “I do declare,” she exclaimed. “That child’s not walking. She’s running.”

  On the bus, Ed took note of the half dozen or so black ladies carrying large shopping bags. The bags held the clothes they were required to wear when cleaning white people�
�s houses. As soon as they got off work, they couldn’t wait to put on outfits that better suited their real selves. So, though their feet were sore and their backs were tired, they sat upright in their dignified dresses, hats atop their heads like crowns.

  Ed recognized his grandmother in their careworn faces. Reuben’s mom, Nana, had spent a lifetime doing “day work,” as it was politely called, until crippling arthritis forced her into a painful retirement.

  Ed’s reverie was interrupted by the bus driver. “Hellsfire!” he shouted from behind the wheel.

  In the distance, a row of police cruisers stretched end to end, sirens flashing. A solitary policeman, standing in the path of the bus, waved it to the curb. The driver pulled over and the cop got on.

  “Mayor’s orders,” the cop barked. “I’m shutting you down.”

  The driver was incredulous. “Shutting me down? What ever for?”

  “Urban unrest,” the cop said with a flourish. “No buses north of Manchester for the foreseeable future. Everybody off, please.”

  One of the day workers raised her hand. The cop pointed at her patiently, like a kindergarten teacher.

  “How will we get home?”

  “Best of luck, ma’am,” the cop replied. “Tonight you’re on your own.”

  Ed and the others got off and stood by the side of the road. At the gas station on the corner, a jackleg work crew was attaching plywood to the windows. Shirtless and lean, the workers were so tan and muscled that they looked like black men. Ed approached them and discovered they were not.

  But they weren’t unfriendly, just busy. As they hurried about their work, a few other stragglers from the bus joined Ed on the station’s lot.

  “Hurricane coming?” an old woman asked.

  One of the workers, a cigarette hanging from his lips, turned and answered her. His tone was surprisingly polite. “Might could be, ma’am,” he said. “Somethin’ like that.”

  Ed and the others stared at the man. He took a long drag off his cigarette, pinched it and tossed it aside. “Y’all haven’t heard, have you?”

  Ed shook his head. “Heard what?”

  “Some damn fool killed Martin Luther King,” he said. “Shot him down dead in Memphis.”

  Ed gasped, the wind sucked from his body. One woman began to sob quietly. Another commenced to crying, high-pitched and keening. Yet another sat down quickly, as if punched by an invisible assailant. “Lord Jesus,” she said.

  Gabriel was turning on the radio in his room when Rose burst in.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  Rose grabbed his radio and yanked it from the wall. She leaped on Gabriel and knocked him flat on his back. Before he could speak or protest, she covered his mouth with hers.

  Don’t panic, Ed told himself. Kingshighway is a straight shot to the North Side. If folks go wild, and I suspect they will, I’ll be watching them from the comfort of my third-floor window.

  Two blocks up, he ran into another barricade. Police were steering all travelers, including pedestrians, away from a multiblock area containing Midwestern State and its hospital complex—the city’s crown jewels. The detour would take him several miles out of his way. That’s okay, he told himself, as long as I’m heading northeast. Toward home.

  “I’m still a little confused here,” Gabriel said. He and Rose had climbed from the floor to his bed. He couldn’t believe it, Rose was finally in his bed. Fully clothed, but hey, that was a relatively minor obstacle.

  “What?” Rose said. “But you swore to me that you could read.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Joanne Whittier is Paul’s wife—a wife he never told me about. She’s been trying to find me because she wants to divorce him. She’s heard about me and wanted to warn me that Paul is liable to vanish without warning—just imagine that. To make a long story short, because Paul and Joanne never divorced, Paul and I were never married.”

  Gabriel couldn’t help smiling. “So I’ve got a single woman up in here?”

  “That’s right.”

  Gabriel looked at Rose like he was three seconds from tearing her clothes off. Maybe two seconds …

  “A single woman but a godly one,” Rose said, sitting up suddenly. Coming back to her senses, she realized that the wild-eyed woman who’d run all the way to the rectory and jumped on poor Gabriel Patterson was actually her.

  “Okay,” Gabriel said.

  Then he and Rose were at it again, kissing furiously. They stopped, breathing hard. “We gotta find the reverend,” Gabriel said.

  They stood up, and once again Rose straightened her clothes.

  There was a knock at the door. Gabriel looked at Rose. She shrugged.

  The second series of knocks was more insistent. Gabriel opened the door, and PeeWee Jefferson came flying in.

  He dispensed with the pleasantries and began shouting immediately. “Brother man, it’s on!”

  “What’s on?”

  “You don’t know? What have y’all been doin’?”

  PeeWee slowed down for the first time since entering. His eyes shifted back and forth from Gabriel to Rose. “No time for none of that tonight,” he said. “Sorry about that, but warriors have no choice. Isn’t that right, Gabriel? Mr. Liberator? You used to say that all the time. Warriors have no choice.”

  “I still don’t get why you’re here,” Gabriel said. “Has something happened?”

  “Turn on the radio, brother. King is dead.”

  “Oh, no,” Rose said. She sank to the bed, deflated.

  “Oh, yeah,” PeeWee corrected. “The Peacemaker got shot down, and now warriors can rise up.” He turned and spoke softly to Gabriel, who remained frozen in one spot.

  “I got the brothers together and they got the goods. We can move on some shit tonight.”

  “I won’t be moving with you.”

  PeeWee got in Gabriel’s face. “I know I’m not hearing you right.”

  Gabriel backed away, hands up. “Leave it, PeeWee. I got other priorities now.”

  PeeWee jerked a thumb in Rose’s direction. “Women? Is that what you’re talking about?”

  Gabriel smiled at Rose. “Marriage, actually. Marriage is what I’m talking about.”

  “My man,” PeeWee said. He was struggling to be patient. “Marriage is the opiate of the masses.”

  “Said the man who’s never even been with a woman,” Rose said, dripping contempt.

  PeeWee turned on her, eyes blazing. “Bitch, I’ll—”

  Gabriel moved swiftly, throwing the smaller man to the floor. He sank a knee into PeeWee’s chest and drew back his fist.

  “No! No, Gabriel. Don’t be that kind of man. Please.”

  Rose’s pleading calmed Gabriel. He removed his knee from PeeWee’s chest. He stood up, took a step back, and looked sadly at his former friend.

  “This is how it starts,” he said.

  PeeWee scrambled to his feet, whipped a handgun from his waistband, and pressed the snout to Gabriel’s forehead. “Nigger,” he said, “I should shoot you where you stand.”

  Neither man moved or spoke. The only sound was breathing and Rose’s fiercely uttered prayers. At last PeeWee pulled the gun away and stuffed it behind his back. Staring at Gabriel, he backed slowly toward the door.

  “‘Nigger’? What happened to ‘Brother’?”

  Ignoring him, PeeWee slipped away as quickly as he had come.

  Rose collapsed in Gabriel’s arms, sobbing.

  “Just when I finally have you, I almost lose you,” she said.

  “It will be just fine, baby,” Gabriel said, rubbing her back. “You and me together. Just fine.”

  Burning Desires

  the backseat of Ananias Goode’s New Yorker was surprisingly roomy. Of course, the extra space might have been attributable to unusual factors: (1) Mr. Goode was not in the car, and (2) Rose Whittier—make that Reynolds—was sitting on Gabriel’s lap. Guts Tolliver rolled smoothly through North Gateway’s burning streets while Rev. Washington joined
together what no man should tear asunder.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” he said, as the midnight blue sedan crossed Delmar Boulevard. If he’d been looking out the window instead of at his Bible, he might have spotted Pristine Jones’s eldest son making his way up Vandeventer.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Gabriel said.

  “Don’t mention it, and don’t forget to thank Mr. Goode, who was kind enough to lend us his car, and Mr. Tolliver, who was kind enough to donate his services as well.”

  Guts looked in the rearview mirror and tipped his hat.

  They rode in comfortable serenity as the car rolled into the city’s fashionable West End. Under an immense baronial arch, a policeman granted them entry to a gated community where lush splendor muffled all outside noise. Inside Parkmoor, the riots might as well have been a rumor.

  The car eased to a stop beside an immense, beautiful mansion. “To consummate your union,” Rev. Washington said to the astonished pair. He held before them a key on a length of jeweled chain.

  “You’ll find everything you need inside, once again courtesy of Ananias Goode. He asks your forgiveness, he says, but it was the best he could do under such urgent circumstances.”

  The New Yorker eased away. Gabriel leaned forward and placed the key in the lock. Before he could turn it, Rose grabbed his wrist.

  “Gabriel.”

  “What is it?”

  “Is this crazy?”

  “Crazy? What do you mean?”

  “Reverend King is dead. Years from now, our children will ask us about this night. How we reacted. What we did.”

  Gabriel smiled and kissed Rose on the nose. “We’ll tell them that while everyone around us was losing their minds, we did the one thing that made sense.”

  A spotlight, bigger than a console television, came whistling out of the sky. It crashed to earth a few yards behind Ed, sending glass and metal shrapnel in several directions. Ed caught only a few shards in his back and shoulders. Ahead of him, fire and smoke billowed from burned out stores, piles of tires, garbage—anything that could sustain a flame. Sooty and wild-eyed, North Siders pushed pilfered shopping carts full of other people’s stuff. Beauty supplies, groceries, blackboard erasers, car parts—they all rolled by. Other people, mostly youngsters, simply wreaked havoc, happily tossing firebombs and throwing rocks. The spotlight had come from a billboard mounted on a roof three stories up. Parched and exhausted as he neared Royal Packing Company, Ed saw two slender, barefoot women carrying a huge couch. They lugged it as easily as utility workers handling a telephone pole.