Stolen Honey (2 page)

“Yes,” she said, and drank. It tasted rather good, actually: It was icy cold and made with ginger ale, so it wasn’t hard to get down. Her head felt fuzzy and free, like it was floating, unattached, beside her neck. The room smelled of smoke and perfume and whiskey and pot. She saw Alyce go upstairs with a blond boy. They would weave up a few steps, then drop down to giggle and kiss. Shep had dark hair—for some reason, she was glad of that. He was a junior already, majoring in political science, though he was in her sociology class. He wanted to be a lawyer. “The rich get richer,” she remembered her grandfather saying, as he squatted in a pile of brown ash splints.

She must have finished the drink because suddenly her hands were empty; she and Shep were dancing. Shep’s shaggy head was close to hers; she saw the fine hairs inside his ears, a cut on his cheek. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. Her father drank whiskey—too much of it, her mother complained. It was an Indian weakness, people said. But if that were so, then it was a white weakness, too.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Shep said, “I hear you’re Indian—uh, excuse me, Native American. That’s cool.”

She felt her face go hot. “Only half. My mother’s not. I look like my mother.” Though it wasn’t entirely true. She had her father’s nose, kind of flat. His hair, too, where her mother’s was the color of maple syrup.

“I’ve never known an ... uh, native before,” he said. “We’ll have to talk, hmm?”

She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by “talk.” Talk about Native Americans? She didn’t want to be some kind of guinea pig so he could go and tell his roommate he had the inside story on “Indians”—he’d “talked” to one.

But he must have read her mind again because he was pulling her closer. “I mean just. . . talk. About stuff, you know? Like what do you think of our soc prof? Something funny about her, you think?”

“Funny? Like what?” she said. Personally, she liked Professor Wimmet. But Shep just laughed and said, “Never mind. Right now, let’s . . . dance. Close, like this, huh?” He pulled her to him until she gasped. His hand was on her buttocks; she felt her dress inching up, his hand pressing in, fitting itself to her curves.

It didn’t matter. Her brain was comfortably blurry, she felt as though anything could happen, anything at all, and she’d go along with it. Because that’s all she could do now. She couldn’t think. Her brain was shrinking away from her body. The slow music crept on and on, and then suddenly sped up again, a heavy rock beat. She couldn’t dance that kind of dance, she didn’t know how; but it was all right, she swung out away from Shep and moved her hips. Surprisingly her feet moved along with the rest of her. When the music stopped and finally she looked up, Shep wasn’t there at all. A red-haired boy with a purplish scar over his left brow was grinning down at her, handing her a plastic cup. “Shep said to drink this,” he told her.

“Where’s Shep?” she asked, hearing her voice plaintive.

“He’ll be right back,” the boy said, not answering the question. “Want to dance?” Someone had put in a Fugees CD and turned the volume way up.

She shook her head. She wanted to go home now. She was feeling out of control and she didn’t like the feeling. She didn’t like the way this boy was looking at her. As if she were something he had on his dinner plate and he was starving. She pushed past him and felt his hand brush her bottom. The loud music assaulted her ears, the laughter and shouts sounded faraway, although she knew they were there in the room with her. She almost tripped over a body—some guy, wasted, crawling across the floor. She didn’t know where she’d left her coat but then remembered that the boy Emily had come to meet had taken it upstairs.

Did she want to go up there? No, but she needed her coat. She would walk home, even though it was four miles. And she didn’t want her mother to see her like this, smell her breath. If she was going to walk, she had to have her coat. It was chilly out. It was snowing a little, she saw through a window: fat white flakes drifting lazily down, obscuring the moon, telling the world it didn’t care that it was April, that spring had arrived. She liked snow. She liked rain. No sun god for Donna!

She took a deep breath and started upstairs. She found herself lurching, and grasped the handrail. Someone was coming down, another girl. The girl banged into her, she was drunk. “So sorry,” the girl said, and Donna heard a crash at the foot of the stairs.

She heaved herself to the top, but the doors were dosed to all the rooms. It was quieter up here; now and then she heard a giggle behind a door, a groan. She didn’t know where her coat was, she didn’t want to open the doors. She’d have to walk home without it—and how was she to get it in the morning? She went back down again, clinging to the banister for balance.

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 lying 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?