Sweeter Than Honey (16 page)

E
xiting the US Airways/America West—whatever they wanted to call themselves—flight, I took ten steps down into the early winter freezing cold. Columbus Day had barely passed, but everything nowadays from the tsunami to 911 was unpredictable all over the world and I wanted to slap that bitch at Las Vegas’s Homeland Security check-in who took my Oh Baby MAC lip gloss because I didn’t have a Ziplock bag to put it in. What in the hell were the plastic bags protecting?

I couldn’t tell if the chill in my bones was the nervousness numbing the inside of my body or the whistling wind, but my brown ankle-length mink coat and thigh-high chocolate boots weren’t keeping me warm.

My gosh. Ignoring my burning cheeks, I glanced at the smaller planes, realizing that I hadn’t been back to Flagstaff in over ten years.

Rolling my overnight bag packed with one change of clothes, I hurried inside the small airport. Five hours was more than enough time to say hi to Honey without having to call Rita a bitch again. One thing I was sure of, my return flight was departing at 5:20 with me on-board. But I hadn’t decided if I was going home once I arrived in Vegas to kick Benito’s sorry ass out or going to confront Valentino. Both of them had good reasons to be very concerned about my next move.

Thankful there was no one waiting at the Hertz counter, I signed my contract, rushed outside to the small parking lot, got in the fanciest car they had available, a Ford Escape, and headed to Interstate 17 North. Merging onto U.S. 89, I was amazed to see new places like Quizno’s, Cold Stone, Chili’s, Target, Bed Bath & Beyond, a huge Barnes & Noble, and a drive-through Starbucks, and I was glad to see old places like Granny’s Closet and the Buffet Restaurant were still in business.

I made my way around the bend onto the famous Route 66, passing South San Francisco Street where I’d gotten kicked out of the house literally one block from the Sunshine Rescue Mission and across the street from Northern Arizona University. Back then at the age of sixteen, I was too young to go to either. After Rita stepped on me, I bypassed the mission and made my way to Route 66 near the Visitors’ Center where I’d hitched my first ride with my first abuser. I still prayed that he’d burned to death in his bed next to that blowup doll. If he hadn’t, God only knew how many other women he’d beaten since I’d left him.

Zigzagging along a few side streets, I arrived at Flagstaff Medical with two minutes to spare. Smoothing out my mink, adjusting my designer sunglasses, swinging my expensive purse, I strutted my five-inch heels through the main entrance and up to Patient Information.

“Yes,” I said, peering over my sunglasses while tucking my silky hair behind my ear, “I’m here to see Honey St. Thomas.”

Smiling with a gap wide enough to slide her tongue through, the receptionist said, “What’s your name, please?”

“Lace St. Thomas. I’m her sister.”

“Oh yes. Yes, indeed,” she said, shaking her finger while frowning. “I remember now. You’re the one your mother said ran away from home. Well, I see you’ve done well for yourself. You look like a celebrity. Nice coat. Maybe you have a nonprofit that can donate some clothes or money to our battered women’s or rape crisis unit before you go.”

What did she think this was? Christmas in October? If I donated the mink off my back, she’d probably be first in line to steal it. Nobody helped me when I got my ass kicked on the regular, not even the hospital. Once I said I didn’t have insurance, I sat in the emergency room damn near long enough for my wounds to heal.

One thing I was sure of, battered women needed psychiatric treatment more than medical because it didn’t matter how many times a man would beat a woman’s ass. If she wasn’t mentally strong enough to leave him, the next woman lying in that hospital bed was just keeping the sheets warm until the battered woman returned.

Shifting my weight from one boot to the other, I exhaled, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling.

“Remember, Lace, it’s more blessed to give than it is to receive. Take the skywalk over to the third floor. Here, you’ll have to stick on this visitor’s badge,” the receptionist said, leaning toward my coat.

Snatching the tag before she stuck it onto my mink, I said, “Why don’t I just hold on to it?”

Apprehensively clicking my heels against the white square tiles, I detoured and stopped at the gift shop, bought a bouquet of assorted flowers neatly arranged in a blue vase, then slowly made my way to Honey’s room, wondering what I’d see.

When I cautiously opened the door, Rita was the first person I saw seated next to Honey’s bed. Rita’s eyes swooped from the
All My Children
soap opera toward me. She looked me up and down, then watched Ryan and Annie discuss what to do about their relationship and what was best for their child, Emma, and heard Krystal’s baby was Tad’s. Whatever. Rita could be in a soap opera her damn self.

As she exhaled through her nose, Rita’s lips tightened while she grumbled at me, “Humph, you’re late. What took you so long?”

Best that I ignored that evil woman before she’d need a room next to my sister’s. Walking over to Honey, I kissed her forehead and softly said, “I miss you. You’re gonna be just fine, sis. This is just a test and as I recall there wasn’t a test you couldn’t pass when you put your mind to it. You want some water?” I asked, tilting the small white plastic cup to her dry lips.

Honey’s eyes swelled with tears and I repeatedly blinked to wash away mine. Opening my purse, I removed my gold-handled hairbrush and began stroking Honey’s hair. Honey never said a word. She didn’t have to. I knew my sister felt guilty for not helping me that day.

“No apology needed,” I said. After a gazillion ass whippings by two exes, I turned out just fine.

What if a teenaged girl kicked out of the house had a safe, clean place to live? A community, not a system, to help her become successful?
I thought, staring through Rita. Barely forcing a half smile, I wanted to cry but I had to be strong for Honey.

Rita leapt from her seat, saying, “I’ma go get the papers so you can sign them for your test,” as she hastily left the room. Rita must’ve guessed I was leaving sooner than she expected.

“She’s still the same,” I said, French-braiding the few strands of hair left on Honey’s head.

“Don’t sign anything she gives you,” Honey said. “I have an advanced stage of cervical cancer and there’s nothing you can donate to save me.”

I was relieved because regardless of what Honey needed, I wasn’t letting anybody cut on my perfect body. Laughing, I said, “Same ol’ Rita, huh?”

“Lace,” my sister whispered, forcing out the words, “I need to know that you forgive me.”

“Hush, Honey. It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “I’m putting my business card inside this drawer. If you ever need anything, and I mean anything, including me, I’m just a phone call away.”

“Thanks, Lace, but you’ve got to let me own up to my mistake. It was partially my fault. Maybe if I had stood up for you instead of trying to help Mama put you out,” Honey cried out loud, “Don wouldn’t have raped me.”

“What!” I screamed, slamming the brush to the floor. Chunks of bristles attached to glistening fiberglass scattered in every direction. “That motherfucka did what!”

“Mama didn’t kick me out. She just pretended like nothing was happening. My son is his son. If I don’t make it, sis, promise me you won’t let Rita steal my insurance money and that you’ll take my son with you and give him the love I don’t know how to because I’m so filled with hatred,” Honey said, placing in my hand an envelope and a wallet-sized photo of the most handsome scrawny young man wearing a jersey with the number 1 on it. His smile was wide but dim. His lips were tight, eyes glossy. I felt the word
cheese
hidden behind his expression. I’d give him a C-plus for trying to look happy knowing he was truly sad, longing for his mother to love him and wondering why his father didn’t claim him. The white envelope slipped away, fluttering at my feet.

Harboring those same feelings, I knew the look. Had seen it on the faces of many women pretending they were excited about their husbands or lovers when the truth was they wanted out of their relationships, but the magnetic codependency mentally fused them in a misery of distorted love.

Squeezing the picture, his shoulder pads touched. Affectionately I asked, “How old is he? What’s his name?”

“I named him Jean St. Thomas, which pissed Mama off even more. He’s ten years old and, Lace, he loves football.”

Hesitantly I asked, almost knowing the answer, “What position does he play?”

“Quarterback. He’s a straight-A student, a starter, and a star, just like you. You look so beautiful. You look like money.”

“Sis, you are so beau—” was all I could say before Rita stormed in waving a white piece of paper like she’d won the lottery. Don trailed directly behind her.

That trifling nigga had the audacity to stroll his nasty balls into my sister’s hospital room. What? Honey hadn’t suffered enough? Or did this selfish dog feel no remorse?

“Here you go,” Rita said, shoving the paper in my face. “Sign it.”

Swatting Rita’s hand out of the way, I kissed Honey on the forehead and said, “You’ve got my word. I promise.”

Stepping on the letter-sized envelope, not knowing what was inside, I instinctively reached down and put it in my purse along with Jean’s picture. If I had to, I’d be the best mother to Jean and smother him with hugs and kisses every day. I’d go to all of his games, teach him street smarts, and make sure he never became a pimp. Maybe having Benito around would be a good thing. Benito wasn’t right for me, but maybe he could be a good father figure and personal trainer for Jean.

Smiling as he walked toward me, Don enviously said, “Well, don’t you look like a brand-new C-note fresh from the mint?”

“You dumb fuck. The U.S. Mint makes coins and protects over a hundred billion dollars of U.S. gold and silver assets. Paper currency is printed by the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington, D.C., and Fort Worth, Texas.”

“You tell him, sis,” Honey said, clapping.

“I see all those years on your back at the Pussyland Ranch banged your head into more than just headboards.” Then he seductively whispered in my ear, “How much, Miss Smart-Ass? Can I get the deep throat special?”

Without blinking or saying a word, I picked up the blue vase, smashed it in Don’s face, pushed him to the floor, then stepped on his chest. “This is your lucky day. If I had my gun, you’d be one dead motherfucka.” Removing my foot, I squinted, staring at Rita while repeatedly back-kicking the hell out of Don with my stiletto piercing into his side.

“Ow! Stop that, bitch!”

“What, Rita? You gon’ take his side again? Say something, bitch. I dare you.”

“Kick him again,” Honey said, trying to yell.

Turning around, I jabbed my heel into Don’s dick and left it there while he squealed like a pig, “Rita, get her!”

“Ha, ha, ha, my, oh, my,” Honey laughed, holding her stomach.

The shit wasn’t funny to me, but my sister had every right to laugh as long and as hard as she wanted. What I didn’t understand was a woman who was assaulted by slime like Don, then felt sorry for the bastard when he got his just due. “Oh, he’s a good person. He didn’t mean to hurt me.” What fucking script were these women being fed? And who in the hell determined it was okay to abuse precious women, the mothers of the universe, bearers of all children?

Before removing my foot, staring Don in his eyes, I twisted my spike into his nuts, watching him bleed and beg for mercy, “I’m sorry! Please stop!”

Rita screamed, “You crazy, good-for-nothing, just-like-your-daddy slut! What the hell are you doing to my man?”

I spoke to Don first saying, “You weren’t fucking crying when you raped my sister. Shut the fuck up!” and giving him one final kick in his ass after he rolled over like a bitch.

“If I had a dildo, I’d shove it up your shitty ass, then down your throat, in that order, you coward.”

“Rita, get her outta here,” Don cried, cradling his nuts.

Swiftly I swept my sunglasses off. Two inches from Rita’s face I stared deep into her eyes, then answered her question. “I’m doing what you should’ve been woman enough to do eleven years ago.” Gurgling saliva, I spat in Rita’s face.

Raising her hand, Rita said, “You—”

That was the only word she got out before I threw her ass on top of Don. “Lay one finger on Honey or call the police and you don’t have to worry about that sorry-ass bastard going to jail for rape. Both you and Don will be dead before the cops arrive. Oh, and, Rita, you are going to give me my real father’s contact information. You’ve got my number and you’ve got,” I said, standing in the doorway, “exactly twenty-four hours starting right this minute.”

Facing my sister, I pressed my fingers against my lips, opened my palm, puckered, then affectionately blew in Honey’s direction. “I love you and I will be back to see you.”

Don hadn’t gotten what he’d deserved. At least not yet. The worst for Don was coming soon. I wasn’t prepared to take my nephew with me, but if Honey didn’t win her battle with cancer I’d keep my word.

Briefly stopping at the receptionist desk, I slipped the lady my business card along with three one-hundred-dollar bills. “If
anything
happens to my sister, Honey St. Thomas, immediately notify me and only me as next of kin.” Rita and Don had better not retaliate against Honey or try to collect on Honey’s insurance policy. So that was probably why Rita wanted me to sign that paper.

Strutting with a volatile, “move, get the hell out of my way” step, bumping into a few people, I exited the hospital, drove directly to the Flagstaff Airport, parked the rental car curbside at one of the two spaces for Hertz return, then checked in early at one o’clock for the 2:13 departure. The attendant, who’d issued my boarding pass, was the same person who screened me at security check-in where the sign read
TO ALL GATES
when it should’ve read
GATE HERE
since there was only one.