As Sweet as Honey

PART THREE

Returning

(Nine Years After)

The great revelation never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.

—To the Lighthouse





44




Oscar kept an eye out for the ferry. His mother had warned him it might be late. When he had taken the ferry, he had nearly gotten sick, the waters were so choppy. His father told him to look at the horizon, which helped, because he had not vomited. He liked the word “vomit” better than “throw up.” He kept a list of words he liked, and next to each entry, he listed its synonym that he disliked. “Demolish” was better than “break,” “tiffin” better than “tea,” and “British” better than “Paki.” He had been called “Paki” a lot walking home from school this past year, but he’d ignored the taunts. He had discovered if he looked at the name callers, they would beat him up (better word: “pulverize”), so he kept his head down.

What he did not want was for either his mother or father to find out, because if they caused a commotion, he was certain he’d be annihilated. Only villains in his comic books were annihilated by heroes—poof!, they were gone. In the real world the villains, it seemed, usually won. He had one friend, Asha from India, who knew karate. She rode the bus, and told Oscar he had to convince his mother to let him take lessons.

“I don’t want to fight those goons.”

“That’s the thing. You just know karate and it gives you this, I don’t know, aura of confidence.”

“What’s an aura?”

“Like a magic thing. My mum can read auras—mine is purplish, which means I’m a warrior.”

“What color do you think mine would be?”

“I don’t know—maybe pale blue, which is very good for an all-round best friend. But we’d have to ask my mum.”

Asha’s mother told him his aura’s color was aquamarine, and said that he was braver than he himself knew.

“But he’s a really good friend to people, too, isn’t he, Mum?”

“That goes without saying.”

“Only I already said it.”


He missed Asha, and summer in England, and Pibs. Asha gave him a small pink quartz in a nylon pouch before he’d left, saying it was a stone to protect him in his travels. If they’d stayed put, they’d have gone to Craywick, which is what they did for three weeks in July ever since he could remember. He loved Craywick, their country house, where he had a room with twin beds and a secret panel. At least, he was certain it was a secret panel because it moved when he pressed on it. They used to leave Pibs home, with a neighbor to take care of him, but because he was now a middle-aged cat, as his father said, they took him with them. Pibs was usually the first one in the car. Pibs couldn’t come to Pi, though, and Oscar tried to explain it to him.

“It’s too far away, for one thing, and another thing—well, never mind the other thing,”

The other thing was that he’d noticed right off that cats slunk around on the streets in Madhupur, but he hardly ever saw one in anybody’s house. Pibs was being taken care of by Oscar’s London grandparents. Aside from missing Pibs, Pi was not bad—he got many points in school when he said he was going to an island for the summer holidays. He liked Great-Grandmother’s big house, which had more secret-keeping rooms and parts than he’d remembered, plus the nice large swing on the veranda. And there was even a funny cat that slept much of the time, curling onto itself. His mother said that was the cat that his cousins had adopted when they were his age. There were as well three small dogs, who also slept a great deal, in a tumble of long fur and floppy ears. No, Pi wasn’t bad, but people kept pinching his cheeks, which sometimes hurt—old people did not know their strength—or kissing and cuddling him like he was a baby.

They would probably read Treasure Island and make maps in the next school year, Asha had told him, as her class had done. She had burned the edges of the map as their teachers instructed, even as her mother stood watch over her like a hawk. He thought he might read the book ahead of time, but then there were all the Famous Fives, plus Swiss Family Robinson, and the comic books. His father had remarked that he was swimming in reading matter, but Oscar didn’t think so. He always worried he’d run out. Even to the doctor’s office, he took two books, not one; as he explained to his mother, there was always the chance he’d like to begin the other before finishing the first.

Now he scanned the horizon. His father was looking at the schedule while his mother hovered nearby. It wasn’t that it was scary in the terminal; just that it was very busy. There were people rushing about, but there were also people who slept soundly on bits of blanket or suitcase, some passengers, some homeless. One man cleaned his teeth absently with a stick. Oscar had spent some time staring at him until the man looked at him directly; embarrassed, Oscar had looked away. His mother gripped his shoulder. There! The ferry was coming in.