Stolen Honey

by Nancy Means Wright

  And there was Shep Noble at the bottom, smiling at her, a glass in his hand.

  “Take me home, please, Shep. You said you would. You said you have a motorcycle.”

  Shep made a mock bow. His hair fell into his eyes; he pushed it back with a damp hand. “Whatever milady wants. One for the road?” He held out his glass. He had a rather nice lopsided smile.

  “No, thank you.” She didn’t want it. He accepted her refusal with a shrug. She liked that; he seemed to understand.

  Outside, she took deep gulps of the cool April night. The snow was clean and pure and fresh in contrast to the indoor scene with its mixed odors of people, pot, and perfume. She was surprised to see that at least a quarter of an inch had fallen, although it was a light, fluffy snow and would be gone with tomorrow’s sun. She scooped up a handful and washed her face.

  “Shit,” he said. “Snow. And we have practice tomorrow.”

  Shep was the baseball captain—Emily had told her that. He was a skier, too. This was an athletic fraternity. What was she doing here anyway? Though if Shep asked her, maybe she would come to a game.

  “Hop on,” he was saying; his motorcycle loomed up beside her. It looked like a great black bear. Bear was the symbol of her father’s clan. Her hand almost froze to the bike’s cold metal, to the nameplate where Shep’s full name was inscribed.

  She climbed on behind him. He stuck his helmet on her head and they roared off. She was touched by the gesture. It seemed a small sacrifice. Her fears subsided. It was exhilarating to ride through the night, to feel the wind and snow in her face. She gave him directions to her house.

  “Mountain road?” he called back, sounding surprised. She realized he didn’t know, probably thought she lived in town.

  “Just partway up,” she said. “Not so far as the national forest. Though our land extends almost to there. My mother keeps bees.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He didn’t ask any more questions; he was concentrating on the driving. He didn’t want to be picked up again, he said—he’d been hauled into the police station one too many times. Just last weekend some belligerent cop had given him “the third degree—like I was some kind of criminal.” The cycle slipped and swerved in the fluffy snow.

  She wasn’t worried, though, not a bit. She was enjoying the excitement of it, the thrill of hanging on to his black leather coat. They raced through town and then, more laboriously, up the mountain road and onto the dirt road that took them to the Woodleaf Apiaries.

  “Here,” she shouted over the roar of the cycle. “Stop here.” He went into a skid, barely missing a tree, and pulled the machine up to lean against the sign.

  “Those bees fly at night?” he asked. “I’ve got allergies.”

  She laughed. “No. And we only keep a few hives on the grounds. You won’t get stung, don’t worry. Mother keeps them well fed. She’s got hives all over the state, on farms and orchards. She and Leroy are always on the road taking care of them.”

  “Leroy?” He was leaning against the tree now, pulling out a flask. She didn’t like that, but he’d brought her home. She couldn’t complain.

  “Oh, he just works here—lives in a trailer up behind the house. He can heave those hives around while Mother can’t.” She thought she heard a rustle in the bushes and listened a moment. But it was only wind. Though she wouldn’t put it past Leroy to wait for her to come home.

  Shep grunted something and then said, “You don’t wanna go in yet. We’ll take a walk. Snow’s practically stopped.”

  It wasn’t a question about taking a walk; already he was yanking on her arm, pulling her along. But she didn’t mind, did she? She hadn’t gone out with boys much in high school, she’d had to study hard to get into college. Not many Abenaki girls went to college. But Donna had a special Native American scholarship. She was to finish college, the first in her family to do so;

  it was her mother’s obsession. Her father was proud of her going, too. He never said that, but she felt it was true.

  Shep was still pulling from the flask. But he didn’t seem drunk, except for a little slurring of his words. He had asthma, he told her—that’s why he couldn’t play football; he had an inhaler, but he’d left it in the frat. She rather liked the idea of his asthma; it made him seem vulnerable, less the jock. His walking was steady enough. She would go just a little way with him. Soon they’d come to the swampy part of their land; it was where a stream ran through and spilled over, especially now, in spring. The ground was still thawing from winter and their feet would get soaked. She told him this.

  He laughed. Everything seemed funny to him now. He put away the flask, pulled out a slim cigarette, and puffed on it. It helped his asthma, he said, to smoke.

  “Smoking helps asthma?”

  He laughed again. “Not nicotine—cannabis. Cures a lot of things. Like inhibitions.” He handed her the joint. “Indians smoke, right? In ceremonies? Powwows?” He seemed amused by the word “powwow.” He repeated it. “Pow-wowww.” He gave a high-pitched giggle.

  “Not marijuana, they don’t.” She felt indignant now. “Tobacco is a spiritual thing. The Abenaki used to think it had special powers that could help them communicate with spirit beings.” Donna was careful to refer to the Abenaki as “they” and “them.” Careful to use the past tense. “Today it’s a kind of hospitality thing. You can’t go visit my Aunt Therese without a gift of tobacco. You wrap it in red cloth with red yarn and beads to show honor. It’s important to her,” she said when he was suddenly quiet. “Of course, she herself doesn’t smoke.”

  In case she had somehow offended the boy, she took the joint he offered and inhaled. And coughed.

  He was once again amused. He laughed and laughed and drew her toward the swamp.

  “There are toxic plants in here,” she warned. “Oleander, nightshade. Mother grows them for medicinal purposes. She has them marked with red sticks so we’ll stay away. As kids, my brother and I were never allowed in here.” She didn’t mention the marijuana her mother grew for her grandfather’s tremors.

  It was hard walking now, thick vines and roots twisted about their feet. He said, “Jesus!”—he’d tripped on a root. He backed out a few feet and paused to lean against a tree. He finished the joint. Then he grabbed at her hand and pulled her roughly toward him. She went, she had to, he was strong. He was kissing her now. She didn’t like it, he was too rough. She pulled away, but he only yanked her harder against him.

  “You want it, you know you do, you little squaw, you,” he said, and kissed her again, a smothering, painful kiss.

  She wrenched away. Her hand flew up and slapped his face.

  For a moment he held her at arm’s length, stared into her eyes. “I don’t like that,” he said, spacing his words. Then, before she could catch her breath, he’d shoved her down on the ground. A stone cut into the small of her back and she cried out. He grabbed at her blouse. She cried out again, it was a brand new blouse, he had no right. She yelled, “Stop!” but he didn’t stop, he was pulling at her underpants, unbuttoning his belt with his other hand, and she screamed.

  After that, things happened so fast she was dazed. She hit at him with her fists and scratched with her nails. She didn’t care, she just wanted him to stop. “Little bitch,” he finally grunted, and, pushing her roughly from him, he rolled off and fell back on the damp ground, his eyes shut. She stared down at him, then got up and tried to pull herself together. Her blouse was torn, her new skirt filthy.

  There was someone behind her then, with a flashlight, yanking her up. It was Leroy. “Come on. I’ll take you to the house. Here,” he said, jamming his coat around her shoulders, “so your mother won’t see your dress.”

  She was embarrassed, mortified! “I don’t need your coat,” she protested, but he was moving her along. She glanced back and Leroy said, “He’s passed out. He’s drunk as a skunk.” He added, “You’re not much better,” and scowled.

  “You’re not my keeper,” she said. “And we can’t leave him ly
ing there.” She tried to release herself from Leroy’s grasp, but he held fast.

  “I’ll take care of him,” he said. “I’ll get him back on his big old motorcycle. How far’d he go with you, huh? Not all the way, I’ll kill him!”

  “Who are you, my father?” she said.

  He gave a grunting laugh and kept tugging her along with him. She heard her mother’s voice calling from an upstairs window. “Donna? Is that you? Donna?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “Just me, ma’am,” Leroy called. “I was checking the hives— I thought I heard a noise—animal or somethin’. But it was Donna driving in.”

  “Well, be quiet getting in bed, then, Donna. Your little brother’s asleep. I’m glad you’re finally home.” And the window dropped down.

  Donna was relieved, she had to admit it. Her mother would think she’d come home with Emily. She wouldn’t have to tell about the motorcycle. She wouldn’t have to tell about Shep— not if Leroy got him out of there as he’d promised.

  “You will help him back,” she reminded Leroy. Not that she wanted to see Shep again—she was disgusted with him now. He’d been trying to rape her, hadn’t he? If she hadn’t fought back, if he hadn’t been too drunk . . . She shuddered. Still, she didn’t want him hurt. She should have realized he would expect something from her. Boys did. That’s what Emily said, Emily had had more experience with boys than Donna. Donna’s mother had home-schooled her until her junior year in high school. She waited for Leroy’s answer before she opened her door. She was still embarrassed—how much had he seen, anyway?

  “I said I would, didn’t I?” said Leroy. “I said I’d take care of him. And I will.”

  Chapter Two

  Gwen was loading the pickup, ready to make the rounds of the Branbury farms where she kept hives, when the police car pulled up behind, blocking her exit. She knew who it was and she didn’t want to see him right now. She loaded in her record book, the smoker, gloves and bee veil, the sugar syrup, a few extra boards to put under hives that might need them, and then climbed into the driver’s seat. “Olen,” she shouted at the lanky, gray-haired man in the white car, “I can’t talk now, I’ve work to do. Mert will give you a cup of coffee. He likes company while he works.”

  She was usually glad to see Olen Ashley, but now she was busy. He was a local cop, a friend of her father’s. As a child she’d called him Uncle Olen, but when she grew older he became more of a big brother. In her last year of high school she grew aware that he had more interest in her than a brother might have, and for a few years she was rather pleased with his attentions, the presents he’d bring her. But six months into the state university she’d met Russell while she was doing a history paper on the Abenaki, and Olen took second place in her affections.

  Shortly after that she and Russell married, and so did Olen. But two years later he was childless and divorced; he needed Gwen’s ear, her advice. At least he kept his feelings in check, and for her sake he more or less tolerated Russell’s activism. Although he’d told Russell point-blank that if he caught him doing something illegal he’d have to bring him in. They both understood that. It was getting to be sort of a cat-and-mouse game.

  “It’s not coffee I’m looking for,” Olen said, sounding gruff, more like the police lieutenant he was and less the family friend, “it’s a missing person.” He leaned his arms on the cab of her pickup. His face looked huge and flushed in the window.

  For a moment Gwen was worried. She counted mentally:

  Donna was home and in bed after a late night. Brownie, too, was in bed; it was Sunday, his sleep-in day. Russell’s dad was in his workroom, surrounded by tangles and twists of split wood. Leroy was beside her in the pickup, staring straight ahead as though he didn’t realize a policeman was present. His left leg, though, was jiggling a little from nerves.

  “A missing college boy,” Olen went on. “He was last seen driving off with your Donna on a motorcycle.”

  Now Gwen’s stomach was doing twists and turns. A motorcycle? But it was Emily Willmarth who’d driven Donna home, wasn’t it?

  “I’d like to speak to the girl, Gwen. Not that she’s under any kind of suspicion.” He waved his arms, smiled a little. “But she was the last person to see the boy. He hasn’t been back to his bed in the fraternity.”

  “Well, he’s not here. Donna came in at ten of one from a dance. I know, I called out to her, I looked at the clock. Leroy knows. He was still up, weren’t you, Leroy?”

  Leroy jerked his head about, his mouth slightly open, as though suddenly aware that there was a police officer nearby. “Yeah. She went in the house then.”

  “You see,” Olen said, still leaning his elbows on the open truck window, “his parents were coming up today to take him out to brunch at the Branbury Inn. He’d planned to meet them at ten-thirty. And he wasn’t there.”

  “A college boy,” Gwen said. “You were in college once, Olen. Did you ever take off on a Saturday night?”

  “Sure, but I wouldn’t leave my motorcycle out on a mountain road. We found it half a mile below here. Look, I’ve got two men searching the general area now. When I heard about the kid’s bringing Donna home, I thought I’d come on up and ask.” He looked sympathetic, his eyes on Gwen’s face. “I’d like to talk to Donna, please, Gwen. These are New York parents. They’re all in a twit.”

  Brownie appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Mom! There’s no Froot Loops in the pantry. What’m I supposed to eat for breakfast?”

  She saw her son the way Olen would see him, a slight, poor-complexioned boy with bowed legs like he didn’t get enough calcium in his bones. Though she did try. Brownie had always been a fussy eater.

  “Have the Raisin Bran,” she called. “I’ll buy some more Froot Loops. And go wake Donna, will you? Tell her Uncle Olen wants to see her.”

  She’d had the children call Olen “uncle” when they were small, and they still called him that. The word “uncle” made the mission seem more innocent. And it was innocent, wasn’t it? What college boy wanted to have brunch with his parents when something more exciting might come along?

  Another concern sprang up. Had he really brought Donna home last night—and on a motorcycle? She and Russell had had a few drinks, made love, and slept like babies—at least he had— until Donna came home. With Donna safe in bed, she’d slept soundly. Russell was out of the house by five-forty-five. Had he seen a motorcycle? She hoped not. It would blow his mind! She was suddenly upset with that college boy, upset with Donna. With Olen, too. It was a gorgeous April day. The pussy willows were out, the bees were overjoyed. Why was Olen pulling a shadow over her world?

  And here was a second police car, pulling up behind Olen’s. Would she never get away this morning? A short, robust-looking woman shouted, “The cycle’d been here, I could see the tracks. Shall we search the woods?”

  Olen glanced at Gwen. “With your permission? He might have just gone in the woods to, um, sleep it off. They’d been at a party, right?” His tone was more conciliatory, his voice sorter, throatier. “He could have got lost, trying to get back to his bike. He’s had a couple warnings for that thing—shouldn’ta been driving it. I suppose Donna didn’t know.”

  “But why was the bike a half mile down the road if he was in our woods? Does that make sense?”

  “Gwen,” said Olen, poking his big gray head close to her face, “nothing makes sense when you’re twenty years old. Right, Leroy?” For the first time he addressed the hired boy. Leroy nodded and pulled the bill of his feed cap down over his bushy red eyebrows.

  “So we’ll have a look,” Olen said to the officer, a sergeant, who was out of her car now. “Tell Donna not to go anywhere,” he warned Gwen. “We’ll want to talk to her. The boy might’ve said something about where he was headed, you know.”

  “It’s damp in there,” Gwen said, resigned to losing half a morning’s work. “You’d better let me come with you. You don’t want to get th
ose nice black shoes muddy.” She wasn’t going to worry. What would a college boy be doing in her woods? This “missing person” label was definitely premature. “So let’s get going,” she told Olen, who was lifting an anxious eyebrow.

  “Stay here and explain to Donna what we’re doing,” she told Leroy. “Don’t alarm her, though.” She strode on ahead of the two officers. For one thing, she wanted to steer them away from the barrel she illegally burned her trash in.

  They were partway into the swamp, picking their way slowly through the frosty grasses, when the sergeant, who had gone on ahead, gave a yell. “Stay back,” Olen warned, and lurched forward. For a moment the woods were silent except for twittering birds and snapping twigs where some small animal had squeezed through.

  But she wasn’t going to stay back. If they’d found something—someone—in her woods, she wanted to see. This was a controversial area they were in now. A variety of unusual plants grew here: oleander, nightshade, pokeweed. Marijuana. She didn’t want them to recognize that!

  “Be careful, I told you,” she called out. “Watch for any plants you’re not familiar with.”

  “Too late for this kid,” the sergeant shouted back, and when Gwen caught up, she heard Olen say, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

  A dark-haired boy lay there, face down, the skin horribly red and swollen on the back of his neck and hands as though he’d been rolling in the leaves. When the sergeant turned him over— though Olen swore at her for doing that—she saw the hot red dry puffy skin of his face, the purple black bruises on the neck, something that looked like an unhealed cut on his cheek. Flies were buzzing about his head; she heard the hum of wild bees in the white Adder’s Mouth that grew nearby. She saw the discolored place in the grass where the boy had been vomiting. He appeared to be sleeping—if that’s what he had been doing—in a patch of deadly nightshade.

  Gwen had a headache when she woke up the next morning; it was drumming and drumming in her temples. She had just had a call from Olen. The news was bad. She had asked Olen to give her time, to let her talk to the young people alone. She had had to turn aside his insistent questions yesterday. “You can see Donna later, not now,” she’d told him, feeling disoriented, swept away. “She’s upset enough without you hurling questions at her.” Now she, Donna, and Leroy were walking the woods together. She wanted Donna to retrace her steps, Leroy to tell his part of the story. She needed the facts herself before Olen tried to elicit them in his plowmanlike fashion.