"What you writing about…honesty?" She looked at me with disdain. "Hell, I can write your whole book…in four words: honesty is good, sometimes."
I just looked at her, waiting for more wisdom. "Here's how I see things...we all are animals, or just above 'em. We got brains that remember and can imagine, a teacher told me once. I remember that she said humans can remember what was and wonder and imagine about what will be. Problem is, with that we also can dicker with, you know, change-'ma-nip-u-late' is the word-how we remember what was. And then we can be totally out of our heads about what might be. I buy a Tennessee Lotto ticket every payday. Probably invested three-four hundred dollars over the last couple years. Won $35! But I'm still imagining getting the big pay out. Am I being honest? Honest with myself, that is? Probably not. OK, OK, here's a better way to say it. I got a boyfriend. He's pretty good to me and my three kids.
"We get along good out of bed and in bed, if you know what I mean. Is he the greatest thing since sliced bread? My Dale Junior or even better Allen Jackson? The love of my life? If he came home tonight and was all sweet and asking me if I loved him more than anybody except my kids and would I marry him. Would I answer him honest? Just what I need, another long shot! I'd probably just hug him up something fierce and drag him off to bed, knowing I could talk him out of the marrying idea later. Now darling would that be honest?" She gave me a knowing smile followed by a come hither look, then filled my tea glass and slid off the booth seat. Standing Kathy said, "Honesty is a matter of place and time, honey. It's about survival. If it'll help to be honest to get by, we will be, mostly. Nothing is simple, Hon…figured you'd know that. Hope you work it out." With that, she went back to her chores behind the counter.
I did know things are anything but simple. Why my lapse? Was it about my needing something that wasn't? Idealism? Perfection? Certainty?
I'd had enough of my efforts at defining honesty, interviewing pool hall seers, discerning the truth, considering my psyche's scars, denying reality, and understanding Mr. Jones. Gathering up my folders and materials, I left a ten-dollar bill for five dollars worth of food and five worth of philosophy. I drove around Fayetteville with my mind turning in all sorts of directions, juggling all sorts of ideas, questions and assumptions. Mindless of where I was driving for quite awhile, I finally took note of where I was. I realized I was on Hatcher Avenue and was two houses before passing Helen's old house. I'd made that drive-by hundreds of times in my old gray Chevy nearly four decades ago.