A Fool and His Honey

“John David flies in this morning. Melinda’s going to meet him at the airport and get him to the hospital. That’s something she can do with the kids in the car,” she said. Mother smiled briefly, and I saw with a kind of unworthy pang that she had become very fond of Melinda, Avery’s wife.

“What’s the prognosis?” I asked, dreading the answer. Behind her back I noticed Martin standing in the doorway. I didn’t know how long he’d been there.

“We don’t know yet,” Mother said quietly. “He’s been conscious, off and on. He’s in some pain.”

“Don’t worry about us, Aida,” my husband said. He moved until he was by Mother’s side, and he gripped her shoulder. Her hand came up briefly to cover his, and then they both retreated back into more comfortable personas. “We’ll be fine, we just have to get this straightened out.”

“Roe,” Mother said, as she picked up her purse and went to the door. “This is just an awful lot of trouble at one time.”

I realized she was half apologizing for focusing on her husband, or at least extending her regrets that my trouble was not her only concern.

“We’ll all get through it,” I said briskly, trying not to cry. “I’ll be checking with you later. Tell John I’m thinking of him.”

She nodded. She’d scrawled John’s hospital room phone number on a sheet of paper, and she handed it to me. I stuck it on the refrigerator with one of the magnets Martin loathed.

After Mother left I sank down into a chair and put my head in my hands. If the baby started crying, I just couldn’t bear it.

The baby started crying.

I forced myself up and to the refrigerator, thinking (as I pulled a bottle from the shelf and popped it into the microwave) that I was almost willing to forgive Regina for everything if she would just return and leave again with the baby.

Martin had made coffee. I noticed he was dressed in khakis and a sweater, about as casual as Martin gets in day wear. He was staring out the window sipping from a mug, looking like a Lands’ End ad. I was still in my velour robe, my hair was trailing down my back in a cascade of waves and tangles, and I was in a very tense mood. Hayden, still dressed in the same red sleeper and a diaper that was undoubtedly dirty, was yelling.

“Pick up the baby,” I said to Martin.

“What?” he said, turning to me with an automatic smile. “I can’t hear you, the baby’s crying.”

I hadn’t had a cup of coffee.

“Pick… up… the… baby,” I said.

Martin was so surprised he put down his mug, picked up the baby.

I took the bottle from the microwave and shook it. I tested some formula on my arm. It was the right temperature, as far as I could tell. I handed the bottle to Martin, who had to free his left hand to take it.

I left the room.

I stomped across the hall, or at least I tried to, but stomping is uphill work in fuzzy slippers. I stuck John’s hospital phone number by the desk telephone. I flung myself down sideways on the red leather sofa, my back braced against one armrest, and stared out the window at the nasty gray cold windy day. That was exactly how I felt inside, I fumed, nasty and cold and gray. Maybe not windy... Then all my rage turned into something much more immediate as a head appeared between the back of the couch and the window. It was the head of a young man, a blond and handsome young man, and his expression was groggy.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re Aunty Roe? I thought you’d be old. Where’s the kid?”

I shrieked and set a record for bounding off red leather couches.

Martin was hampered in his rescue attempt by the baby. He looked ready for action when he appeared in the doorway, but the effect was spoiled by the feeding Hayden. Martin shoved baby and bottle into my arms and stood waiting. He was spoiling for a fight, which the young man was just perceptive enough to see.

“Hey, man, it’s okay, didn’t Regina tell you I was here?”

We stared at him.

It gradually sank into his dim consciousness that something was drastically wrong.

“So, where’s Craig?” he asked uncertainly, working his way out from behind the couch. He proved to be not much over five-eight, and he was wearing ancient blue jeans and a none-too-clean flannel shirt hanging open over a T-shirt. A golden stubble made his face look dirty. But he didn’t look threatening. He had an aura of amiable stupidity that I came to learn was, to some extent, quite accurate.

Martin and I exchanged glances.

“Did you come here with Craig?” Martin asked, as if the answer were not important.

“Sure, didn’t he tell you?”

“Was Regina expecting you?” I asked next.

“Well, no. She didn’t expect Craig to get out early, but the jail got real crowded, and Craig really toes the line when he’s in, so they released him early.”

There was so much in this sentence to absorb that we just stood and stared. Visibly unnerved, the stranger tried to fill the silence with chatter. “See, after we stopped for some beer at that liquor store on the main drag, we had to help this lady who was having trouble with her car. And then we got here, but all of a sudden I was feeling really really tired. I never felt anything like that. So we came over here to this house, and Regina was in the kitchen with the baby, and she and Craig started fighting right away, you know, and I could see this couch across the hall while I was standing there listening to them, and I was so sleepy I just came in here and lay down. That’s the last I remember, except I had a dream about hearing someone scream, and I musta hid.”

We exchanged glances again.

“Ain’t you ever going to say nothing? You are Regina’s aunt and uncle, right? Though I got to say, lady, you don’t look old enough to be anyone’s aunt.” He grinned at me, or tried to, but by now it was so obvious something was wrong that his grin was only a shadow of what it could be.

Martin scowled. I am less than thirteen years younger than he, but I look even younger than that. The same genes that are keeping my mother’s skin smooth at fifty-seven are being equally kind to me, and I’ll never be taller than my present inadequate height.

Hayden finished the bottle. I put him up to my shoulder to burp and began patting, trying to think of what to say next.

“Martin is Regina’s uncle and I’m Martin’s wife Aurora,” I said cautiously. “Last night some things happened here.”

“Don’t tell me Craig hit Regina or nothing like that.”

“Could you tell us who you are?” Martin asked, trying to sound very calm.

“Sure, man. I’m Rory Brown, Craig’s buddy. We’ve been best friends forever.”

“Then I have bad news for you… Rory.”

“Craig’s back in jail?”

I had to sit down. This was going to be worse than I thought.

“No,” Martin said. “He’s dead.”

Chapter Tour

I’m no psychic, but Rory Brown seemed genuinely stunned by this news. He sank back down to the couch, his face contorted with horror and disbelief. “But he was alive just a few hours ago!” Rory protested, as if it took a long time to die.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “He was killed last night. We found him lying on the steps to the apartment.”

“Where’s Regina?” Rory’s voice was hoarse with, I swear, unshed tears.

“She’s nowhere to be found,” my husband told him. Martin was in his thinking posture, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping. As he reached a decision, Martin moved toward the telephone.

“You calling the police?” Rory slid onto his knees. “Man, please don’t! I’m violating my parole. They’ll send me back to jail for sure. I’m not even supposed to see Craig, much less leave the state with him!”

“Parole.” Martin said it thoughtfully, as if parole were a common condition among his acquaintances. “You were