"Nothing scares me," he replied. " Nothing, Honey. Not tappers, not the estate owners, not even the hatchet men up north. I take care of myself, you see. Didn't I tell you how I fought the tiger outside Kuala Berang?"He had, she nodded. Many times, in fact.
"Right at my head, he was. Nearer to me that I am to you right now. I could smell his stinking breath, he was so close, but I split him open, all right. Slit his gullet before he could sink his teeth into me. I still carry one, remember?"
Honey nodded once more. She had seen it more times than he had told the story, but Rutherford pulled out the prize, a yellowish fang that hung like a pendant from the leather thong around his neck. It was a symbol of courage and proof of the story that which was almost true. One of the Kuala Berang villagers who had led the hunt shot the big cat only twenty meters from Rutherford's position, and even though it had been all but dead when Rutherford reached it, there was still danger enough to keep the others at a safe distance. He would never forget the odor of blood as his sharp parang bit deep into the animal's neck and trapped air hissed out, moist with death. The memory gave him a chill. He had been much younger and braver then.
"Nothing scares me," he repeated, hoping the words would revive the old courage. But they didn't. Tigers and trappers had little to do with the message in the blue envelope which Honey was beginning to unfold. The paper was wrinkled and damp, and she smoothed the surface with her fingertips.
"Give me that," he told her, the pain and anger flashing through him once again.
Honey teased him, holding the letter away from his reach. "Why? You not really want it. No, you only throw it off. Look what you do to the stamp here. So pretty, but you do this. From other country, is it?"
Before Honey's curiosity led her further, Rutherford snatched the envelope from her hands. "Here," he said, tearing off the corner of the envelope and a bit of the letter inside it. "You want the stamp, you take it, Honey. Become a collector. Sure. I'll send you plenty of stamps soon, all on neat little blue envelopes just like this one. I'm going home, you see. I'm leaving."
There. It was out. Rutherford took a deep breath and told her once more, "I'm going home, Honey. Yes, that's right. Don't look at me so wide-eyed. I'm going home."
But he had only succeeded in confusing her. "What you mean, 'going home'? Your glass still full. You drink nothing. You don't want Honey tonight? You crazy, Arty."
"Home," he repeated. The word took on greater reality each time he said it, but he had to make her, make himself, understand. "Not the plantation, Honey. Home. Real home. The company is pulling out. They are ordering me back. They've sold the King Estate. That's right. You understand now, don't you. That's the bad news I told you I had, Honey. I'm going home."
He turned his head away, unable to wait for her reaction. There was nothing more to be said. Rutherford took a long drink, then looked back to see Honey's face. Her head was bowed.
"You tell me true?" she murmured. On so many nights before, her broken English had lightened up his gloomy moods. But not now. His stomach knotted in a spasm of pain. Like an ulcer, a canker -- oh God how it hurt -- as he realized he was going to miss her.
"I tell you true," he answered at last. What more was there to say? He didn't want to go, but there was nothing he could do.
Rutherford rose from his seat, making to leave the bar, but the slowness of his movement betrayed his feelings. Honey grabbed his arm and pulled him back down to the booth with a gentle tug.
"You not go yet," she said. "Cannot."
