Sourwood Honey

The phone cord wrapped around Jenny's wrist like a promise she couldn't keep. Through the kitchen window, November clouds pressed against the Appalachian ridgeline, bruise-dark and swollen.

"He's sick as a dog," she said into the receiver, keeping her voice level. Professional. The way she used to sound in the biology lab at Radford before Wade, before the move to Cutter's Gap, before everything became about what he needed. "Fever since Tuesday. Won't keep anything down."

Liam sat at the kitchen table, coloring with that particular four-year-old intensity that meant he felt worse than he looked. His Tyrannosaurus rex was turning purple. Wrong, but she wouldn't correct him. The crayon box—sixty-four colors, she'd counted them three times this morning while waiting for the clinic to open—lay scattered across the Formica like dropped ammunition.

"I can see Dr. Patterson's available at three-fifteen," the receptionist said. Brenda. Jenny recognized the voice. They'd been in the same Sunday school class once, back when she still went to church. Back when she went places.

"Three-fifteen's perfect." Jenny's free hand found the appointment card she'd already filled out, dated, signed. Prepared. She'd learned preparation. "Thank you, Brenda."

She hung up before the goodbye, already calculating. Twenty-minute drive if the roads stayed clear. Liam would need shoes—the good ones, not the Velcro sneakers with the ripped tongue. Wade noticed things like that. Noticed when she tried to leave the house looking like she didn't care, which he read as not caring about him, which led to—

The math worked. Wade's shift at the lumberyard ran until five. She'd be back by four-thirty, groceries on the counter like she'd only been to Food City, the appointment card buried in her purse where prescription receipts lived and died unexamined.

Liam coughed, wet and resonant. The sound lived in her chest.

"Baby, we're going to see Dr. Patterson this afternoon."

"Will he give me a shot?" Liam's voice carried that exhausted acceptance she hated hearing. Four years old shouldn't sound like forty.

"Maybe just a look-see. Your throat's probably angry."

"Like Daddy?"

The crayon in her hand—burnt sienna, she'd always loved that name—stopped moving. Outside, the first drops hit the window. Not yet. The rain couldn't come yet.

"Daddy's not angry, sweet pea. He just... works hard. Gets tired."

The lie tasted like pennies. Like the blood she'd found on her pillowcase last month from biting her cheek in her sleep.

Liam returned to his dinosaur. The purple had bled into the sky now, watercolor chaos.

Eleven-forty. Five hours until safety. The rain started for real.

She crossed to the counter. Wade's work jacket hung by the door—she always checked pockets before laundry. A twenty in the left pocket. She folded it small, tight, until it was no bigger than a book of matches. Then knelt beside Liam, adjusted his collar, tied his shoe. The one that never stayed tied. Her hand slipped into her own left boot while her right hand worked the laces. The leather gave way where she'd worked it loose over months. The bills slid into the gap between sole and insole. When she stood, her palms were empty. The boot felt the same against her ankle as it always did.

She returned to the stove. Started water for soup.

By noon, the storm had opinions. Wind shook the doublewide hard enough to rattle the dishes she'd washed twice already.

Liam had fallen asleep on the couch, his breathing audible from the kitchen.

The phone rang. Jenny's hand jerked, knocking the crayon box. Sixty-four colors on linoleum. Rainbow entropy.

"Hello?"

"Jenny." Wade's voice carried wind and distance. "Storm's getting bad. They're talking about sending us home early."

Her throat closed. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Roads are going to hell. Might head out around two."

Two o'clock. The appointment was three-fifteen. Twenty minutes to town. Five minutes to get Liam ready, if he cooperated. If he didn't need convincing. If his fever hadn't climbed. If she could explain this in a way that wouldn't require explaining.

"Okay," she said. Just that. Years of practice in saying nothing that could be used later.

"You got everything you need? Storm could last through tomorrow."

"We're fine. I went to Food City yesterday." Another lie. She'd gone Tuesday. But if he came home early, saw the bare cupboards, the missing milk—

"Good girl." The phrase landed like a hand on her shoulder. Ownership dressed as approval. "I'll try to be home by three. Lock the doors."

He hung up. She stood holding the receiver, listening to dial tone like it was a frequency she could decode. Behind her, Liam coughed again.

Two o'clock. He'd be home by three. The appointment was three-fifteen.

The mathematics of impossible.

Jenny knelt, started collecting crayons. Burnt sienna. Periwinkle. Atomic tangerine. Each one a small, specific name for something that couldn't be confused with anything else.

Macaroni and cheese, she thought. His favorite. Maybe he'll eat and fall asleep on the recliner. Maybe the storm will make him tired.

At one-thirty, she started cooking. The orange powder from the cheese packet coated her fingers. Liam was awake now, fever-bright eyes tracking her movements around the kitchen. She'd given him more Tylenol. Cherry-flavored lies about everything being fine.

"Are we still going to the doctor?"

"We'll see, baby. Storm's pretty bad."

Through the window, the world had turned gray-green, that particular Appalachian storm color that meant serious weather. Trees bent. The power lines swayed. The satellite dish on the Hendersons' place across the hollow had blown loose, hanging by cables like a broken compass.

She stirred the macaroni. Through the window, the world had turned gray-green, that particular Appalachian storm color that meant serious weather.

The front door opened at two-fifteen. Early. Everything was always early or late now, never on time, never predictable. Predictability would have meant control and control wasn't something she was allowed.

"Jenny?" Wade's voice carried rain and something else. Something tight.

"Kitchen," she called, stirring faster. "Making lunch."

He appeared in the doorway, work jacket dripping, tracking mud she'd have to clean before it set. His eyes went to Liam, to her, to the pot on the stove. Calculating his own mathematics.

"Smells good."

"Your favorite. Thought you'd be hungry."

He kissed the top of her head. She felt the gesture in her shoulders, the old familiar tightening. Prepared for either outcome. Affection or accusation. The coin always spinning, never landing clean.

"How's the kid?"

"Better. Fever's down some." Another lie. The fever was holding steady at 101. She'd checked twenty minutes ago.

Wade crossed to Liam, put a hand on his forehead. Liam flinched—tiny, barely there, but Jenny saw it. Wade saw it too. His jaw did that thing.

"He feels hot."

"The Tylenol's wearing off. I'll give him more after lunch."

"You should take him to the doctor."

The words hung in the kitchen like gun smoke. Jenny kept stirring, kept her face neutral, kept breathing in the shallow way that didn't register as panic.

"I was thinking that. Maybe tomorrow if he's not better."

"Tomorrow?" Wade's voice rose half a step. The music of danger. "He's sick now."

"The storm—"

"Storm's nothing. You afraid of a little rain?" He said it smiling but the smile didn't reach anywhere that mattered. "What kind of mother won't take her sick kid to the doctor?"

The trap had teeth. Say yes, she's afraid, she's weak, she's not protecting their son. Say no, then go, drive in weather that could kill them both. Either way, she loses. Either way, she's wrong.

This was the moment she'd been practicing for. All those small adaptations. All that learned behavior.

"You're right," she said quietly. "I should take him. I just didn't want to bother you about it."

"Bother me? He's my kid too." The offense in his voice was real. He believed it. That's what made it work. He genuinely couldn't see the walls he'd built or the ways she navigated around them. "What time's the appointment?"

"I don't... I didn't call yet."

"Christ, Jenny." He pulled out his phone. "I'll call. What's the number?"

Her mind went white. The appointment was already made. Under her name. Brenda would say so. Brenda who remembered her from Sunday school, who might say something careful or sympathetic or just knowing in her voice, and Wade would hear it.

"555-2400," she said. The wrong number. The hospital in Grayson, forty minutes away, not the clinic. "But they're probably—"

He was already dialing. She watched him, watched Liam watching him, watched the macaroni beginning to stick because she'd stopped stirring.

"Yeah, hi," Wade said into the phone. "I need to get my son seen today. He's sick as a dog."

He was using her words. Her exact words from this morning. The phrase she'd chosen to convey urgency. He'd taken that too.

The hospital would tell him to try the local clinic. He'd call there next. Brenda would see his number—they'd kept the landline from her mother's house, back when having his name on everything felt like security instead of surveillance—and Brenda would know.

Unless she'd put the appointment under her maiden name. Had she? The card was in her purse, in the bedroom, too far to check. Her memory scrolled back through the morning call. What had she said? Had she said Hensley or Richardson?

The macaroni and cheese was burning.

"They said call our regular doctor," Wade reported, already dialing again. "What's that number?"

"555-7722." No choice now. "Ask for Dr. Patterson's office."

She turned off the stove. The pot's bottom had that brown edge that meant scrubbing later. Meant evidence of distraction. But Wade was focused on the phone, on being helpful, on being the concerned father who took charge when his overwhelmed girlfriend couldn't handle simple tasks like medical appointments.

"This is Wade Hensley calling for my son, Liam. He needs to be seen today."

A pause. Jenny scraped the macaroni into a bowl. Her hands steady. Years of practice.

"Yeah, four years old... high fever, not eating... uh-huh..."

Another pause. Longer. Jenny set the bowl on the table, got a spoon. Started gathering the scattered crayons from the floor.

"Three-fifteen works. We'll be there. Thank you."

He hung up. Smiled at her. The smile that had made her say yes to coffee, yes to a second date, yes to moving in together. The smile that still worked on everyone who didn't live inside its radius.

"All set. Three-fifteen. I'll drive you."

They left at two-fifty. Wade insisted on driving because the roads were bad and Jenny was "nervous in weather" which was a new fact about herself she was learning. The rain hammered the truck's roof. Liam sat between them in his booster seat, quiet, his fever-warm weight against her side.

Jenny's left boot pressed against her calf. The bill inside was folded tight but it felt like a stone. She shifted her foot, trying to ease the pressure.

"Foot bothering you?" Wade's eyes were on the road but his attention was on her. Always was.

"Just—the seam's rubbing."

"Let me see."

Her heart stopped. "What?"

"Your boot. If it's rubbing, you're gonna get a blister." He glanced down. "Lift your foot."

The road curved ahead. His eyes went back to driving, one hand on the wheel. The other reached toward her boot.

"It's fine." She shifted her leg away, tucked it under Liam. "Really. Just needs breaking in."

He was quiet for three heartbeats. His hand returned to the wheel. "You need new boots."

"These are fine."

"Those are worn out, Jenny. I can see it from here." His hand found her knee. Squeezed. "I take care of what's mine, don't I?"

"You do."

"Then let me get you new boots. Good ones."

She nodded. Watched the trees blur past, rain-dark and bending. The boot pressed against her ankle like evidence. Like a promise. Like a secret that weighed exactly twenty dollars.

They passed the Caldwell place with its roadside stand, closed for winter now. Hand-painted sign: SOURWOOD HONEY. Wade made a sound, half-laugh, half-snort.

"Near fifty dollars a jar. For honey." He shook his head. "You know what sourwood honey takes? Years. Sourwood trees only bloom right every few years, and even then you gotta know when to harvest. Most people don't have the patience." He squeezed her knee. "Rather just go to Food City, get the cheap stuff. Does the same thing."

Jenny looked at the sign disappearing behind them. Thought about sourwood trees blooming on their own schedule. Thought about patience. About knowing when to harvest. About the difference between cheap honey that anyone could get and the rare stuff that required waiting for exactly the right moment.

"I guess," she said.

Dr. Patterson's office sat in a brick building next to Food City. Wade parked close, grabbed the umbrella from behind the seat. The same umbrella she'd planned to use. Different circumstances, same destination.

Inside, Brenda looked up from the reception desk. Her eyes met Jenny's for one long moment. Understanding passed between them, some frequency men don't hear. Then Brenda smiled professional-bright.

"Mr. Hensley? For Liam? Just need you to fill out these forms."

Wade took the clipboard. Jenny sank into a chair, Liam heavy in her lap. Her boot pressed against the bills. Forty dollars. Not much. Not nearly enough. But sourwood honey didn't happen all at once.

"Jenny Richardson?" A voice from the doorway. Not Dr. Patterson. The nurse practitioner, Diane, who'd been two years ahead of her at Radford. "We're ready for Liam."

"Richardson?" Wade looked up from the clipboard, pen paused. "She put it under Richardson?"

"Her maiden name's on our file," Brenda said smoothly. "Some insurance things. We'll get it updated."

The lie was generous. Perfect. Exactly calibrated. Jenny stood, adjusted Liam on her hip, followed Diane down the hallway. Behind her, she felt Wade following, felt the question he was saving for later.

The exam room was small. Diane was efficient. Temperature, throat culture, ear check. Liam was brave. Jenny held his hand. Wade stood by the door, present and proprietary.

"Strep throat," Dr. Patterson announced, arriving with his usual white-coat authority. "Common this time of year. Antibiotic should knock it out. Keep him hydrated."

The prescription was written. Instructions given. Wade took the paper, folded it into his wallet. Everything important in one place. His pocket. His control.

The drive home happened in near silence. The rain had eased but the roads ran with water, small rivers finding their paths down the mountain. Jenny held Liam, held her breath, held the mathematics of what would happen when they got home.

But Wade stopped at Food City. "Need to pick up the prescription. You two stay here."

He left the truck running, took the keys—both sets, even her spare—and disappeared into the building. Jenny watched him go. Beside her, Liam leaned heavy and hot against her side.

Through the pharmacy window, she could see Wade at the counter. Could see him pulling out his wallet. His insurance card. His identification. Everything that proved Liam was his, she was his, the medication was his to control.

Wade returned with a white paper bag. "Twice a day for ten days. I'll keep track." He tucked the bag in his jacket pocket. Not the glove box. Not the kitchen counter. His pocket.

They drove home through gray water and gathering dark.

At the doublewide, Wade made dinner while Jenny put Liam to bed. The antibiotic sat on the kitchen counter now, beside Wade's wallet and keys.

"You should have told me he was that sick," Wade said when she returned. His voice was measured. Reasonable. "That's the kind of thing we discuss."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"I mean, what if I hadn't come home? What if you'd just waited?" He reached for her hand. "I'm not trying to control you, Jenny. I'm trying to keep us safe. Keep him safe. You get that, right?"

His thumb traced her knuckles. The same hand that had held hers at Thanksgiving last year, that had held her throat in February, that held their son with genuine tenderness. The same hand, all those different purposes.

"I get it," she said.

"Good." He kissed her forehead. "Because I love you. Both of you. That's all this is."

Later, after he'd fallen asleep, Jenny lay in the dark and listened to the storm's aftermath. Water dripping from the eaves. Wind dying in the hollow.

She thought about Brenda's lie. About Diane's stillness. About sourwood honey. Near fifty dollars a jar. Years between harvests. Knowing when the moment was right.

Beside her, Wade breathed deep and regular, dreaming whatever dreams men dream who never question their own gravity.

In the next room, Liam coughed once, twice, then settled.

The rain had stopped.

She pulled the boot from beside the bed. Unlaced it. Worked her fingers into the gap between sole and insole. The bills were there—not just today's twenty, but others. She counted in the dark by touch. Two hundred and eighty dollars. Eleven months of pocket change, loose bills from Wade's jacket, money from returned bottles, a five-dollar bill found in a parking lot.

She added the twenty. Three hundred even.

The owl called again somewhere in the hollow.

She folded the stack small, pressed it back into its hiding place. Laced the boot. Set it carefully beside the bed.

And again, waited for morning.