The Music of Bees

by Eileen Garvin

  “Hello, ladies,” he murmured, mimicking Alice. “Just coming in to have a look. No need to worry.”

  The guard bees frisked his face and neck for a minute or so. Jake was motionless as they zipped in front of his closed eyes, his ears, his mouth. Then they went back into the hive, having decided he was no threat. Jake marveled at his own calm, which then became a self-fulfilling enterprise. He used the hive tool to loosen a frame in the brood box, lifted it slowly with two fingers, and held it in front of his face. This one didn’t have much going on. A few bees, and just the start of a wax layer. Jake leaned it against the side of the hive, loosened another, and pulled it out. He worked through the next two frames, noting that each showed more activity. The fourth frame was harder to extract. He pried up one side, sticky with propolis, and it slipped back down. The bees buzzed in complaint. Jake froze as the guard bees flew up, hovered, and dispersed again. He eased the frame up and out. It hung heavy on his fingertips. Just like the photos in the books, it had a ring of honey on the outside with a pollen band in the center and capped brood cells at the bottom. The frame began to slip in his fingers, and he willed himself to concentrate. He exhaled and slid the frame back into place and kept going.

  The fifth frame was also packed, but he felt something different when he lifted it out. He heard a shift of sound. There it was—that bell-like note. He would swear it was a G-sharp. He lifted the frame to eye level. There in the middle of the wax-covered surface the worker bees moved slowly around one central point. And there she was. In the middle of the golden crawling bodies, Jake saw the queen. Her long, tapered figure was marked with a bright green dot, just like Alice had said. She was discernably larger than the worker bees—her wings reaching far down her torso. Her movements were slower and more graceful than the others. He leaned forward. Yes, now he was sure of it. This other sound, this note, was coming from the queen.

  He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of honey and wax. His heart thumped; his whole body felt the vibration. Jake knew that he was holding the absolute life of the hive in his hands. If anything happened to the queen, the others would not survive. He felt strangely calm and confident, he realized. He would never let anything bad happen to her. He opened his eyes and looked at her again, and then lowered the frame back into the brood box, replaced the other frames, and put the cover back on.

  As the sun moved across the meadow, Jake went through six of the twelve new hives—hatless, gloveless, and without a smoker—with slow and methodical care. He was not stung once. After shutting the second hive, he remembered Alice’s record-keeping book and retrieved it from the barn to take notes. He mimicked her entries as best he could with the date, time, temperature, hive number, and a description of what he saw inside. He made a few sketches. He also highlighted that extra tone with an asterisk at the end of the note. In all six he heard that sound and located the queen—six green-dotted beauties. He was elated. He thought about Harry, who would be there tomorrow evening to get his first instructions for work. Jake didn’t want to share the bees with him, and he didn’t want to share Alice’s place either. He thought of inviting Katz over again when Alice was at work. But now this guy would be hanging around half the day.

  The wind picked up, and Jake rolled into the shop. He cleaned off the hive tool with mineral spirits and put it back in the toolbox. He was physically tired like he hadn’t been in months. A good tired. He moved back over to the shade, drained his water bottle, and fell asleep.

  He didn’t remember the details of his dream, only that in it he was on his skateboard again, flying along the trail by the river at the waterfront. And Cheney was with him. He was so happy. When he awoke, he felt a piercing sense of loss. It came to him like this sometimes. In sleep he forgot. Then he awoke to the understanding that he was no longer just Jake the average fuckup with his whole life ahead of him. He was Jake the particular fuckup—eighteen years old, jobless, not at music school, and using a wheelchair. A knot rose in his throat, and a weight settled on his heart as he considered the state of his life. But then he looked out at the apiary. He flexed his tired hands. He remembered the sound he had heard and the beauty he had seen. He thought about everything he would tell Alice. The weight shifted, and a spark of joy bloomed in his heart. This new thing, this wonder.

  14

  Drone Life

  Bees issue from their hives in the most peaceable mood imaginable; and unless abused allow themselves to be treated with great familiarity.

  —L. L. LANGSTROTH

  The sun beat down on Harry’s shoulder blades as he rode away from Alice Holtzman’s farm. His stomach yawned. He hadn’t eaten since the breakfast burrito. Landing the job had cheered him up but had not changed the fact that he was almost out of money. He and Alice had agreed upon the hourly rate, and she asked him to return the following evening to make a plan for his work schedule. Then Alice asked if there was anything else he wanted to discuss. He almost asked for lunch but stopped himself, sensing that would be an odd request.

  His hunger grew as he rode up the long hill toward town. He stopped at the grocery store to use the bathroom and cruise the deli samples. He nibbled cheese and piled bits of salami on a napkin until the deli lady glared at him. He left, shoving the tiny pieces of meat into his mouth and feeling hungrier, as if the tidbits had only sharpened his appetite. He hopped back on the Schwinn and headed north toward the bridge, the hospital, and his uncle with growing dread.

  At the waterfront, the bike chain jammed and Harry jumped off to unkink it. He washed his greasy hands in the public restroom at the waterfront, and as he came out, he heard a man’s voice over a sound system. “Check one. Check two. Check three. Check, check, check. Hello, Hood River! Yeah, I think that’s good, Doug,” the voice said.

  Harry saw a band setting up on the grass—three guys with a bass, drums, and a guitar. He smelled the scent of grilling meat and saw a woman opening a tall sleeve of red plastic cups next to a sweating beer keg. Harry wandered closer and spotted a long table covered in aluminum serving trays—piles of potato salad, baked beans, green salad, and pie. People were queuing in front of the grill for burgers and hot dogs. He felt dizzy with hunger.

  “Hey, brah. You in line?”

  Harry turned and saw the big guy from the kite beach. His long hair hung in his face, and his tank top revealed muscled, suntanned arms.

  “Oh, hey! Honey Buns Man! S’up?” The guy high-fived him like they were old friends. “Harry, right?”

  Harry nodded, surprised. Harry was not used to being remembered.

  “Yogi,” the big guy said, tapping his own chest with a thick thumb. “Good to see you, dude. Grab me a plate, will you?”

  Harry handed him a paper plate, and Yogi began to pile it high with food.

  “Get in here, man,” Yogi said. “I didn’t mean to take cuts.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t pay, I don’t—” Harry started, but Yogi shook his head, his long hair flapping around his face.

  “Nah. It’s free! The port does this every spring at the beginning of the season. It’s an appreciation barbecue for the kiteboarding crowd. Keeps the natives docile.”

  Yogi laughed and shook his hair out of his face. Harry, unable to believe his luck, filled a plate and followed Yogi to the grill. With two burgers and a cold beer each, they sat on the lawn in the shade of a tree. Between mouthfuls, Yogi launched into an interesting if confusing monologue about his morning kite session and a new trick he was trying to master called “Dark Star.”

  Harry nodded as he listened, not understanding any of it, and tried to make himself chew between bites and swallows.

  Yogi sipped his beer and wiped his mouth on his wrist. “You been out there yet, man? Body dragging or on a trainer kite?”

  Harry shook his head. He hesitated, not one to talk about himself, and told Yogi he’d been busy looking for work and had landed a job.

  “
Most excellent!” Yogi said, and threw up a hand again, and Harry slapped his big paw for a high five. Harry usually hated it when guys did that, but Yogi seemed sincere. He thought he might tell Yogi about the bee farm, but Yogi was talking about kiting again.

  “Listen. Your next day off, come down here and I’ll give you a little intro lesson. I’ve got extra gear, and I can hook you up, show you the ropes. Seriously, it’s not that hard to learn. You don’t need to pay hundreds of clams to one of them,” he said, jerking his thumb at the cluster of kite school trailers.

  “I mean, they’re okay for people with money. But we regular joes need to stick together.”

  Harry nodded, uneasy. The last time someone had told him they needed to stick together, he wound up in jail.

  Yogi set his beer on the grass. He pulled his hair into a ragged ponytail with a rubber band.

  “I’ll tell you the secret, the thing the kite schools won’t tell you, if you want. You seem like the kind of dude that could get it.”

  Harry nodded.

  Yogi held his hands out in front of him, his palms up. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Okay. The secret is: You have to feel. The wind.”

  He closed his eyes, leaned back, and rolled his big shoulders.

  Harry started to laugh but realized he was serious. Yogi, his eyes still closed, sat with his palms up. His voice dropped to a murmur.

  “You have to ask yourself, What is the wind doing and how can I capture it? How can I move within that? What is my place within this beautiful atmospheric moment? Just this one. Right here. Right now. You have to listen to the universe and hear what it is telling you.”

  The big man inhaled through his nose and exhaled out his mouth.

  Harry didn’t know what to say. Yogi opened his eyes and laughed, his voice returning to normal.

  “It’s magical, man. Seriously. Super Zen. I try to live like that. Moment by moment.”

  He punched Harry in the shoulder. “And you are going to fucking nail it! I can tell!”

  He wiped a thick finger across his plate and licked it off. “Right. Gotta motor. I’m meeting some brothers for a downwinder from the Viento launch. But seriously, dude, your next day off—come find me. I’m here every day. Catch ya later, Harry.”

  He held out his fist, which Harry bumped awkwardly. He watched Yogi stride away, waving and calling to people as he went.

  I have a job, Harry thought. And maybe a friend. He smiled and lay back in the shade of the tree, his belly full. He would just close his eyes for a minute, he thought, and then he fell asleep.

  When he woke up, the party was gone and the sun was flirting with the horizon. He remembered his uncle and his promise to call his mother. He jumped on his bike and rode across the bridge. By the time he got up the hill to the hospital, twilight had settled along the ridgeline and the river below was a ribbon of darkness. The hospital doors hissed open, and the sting of antiseptic hit his nostrils. Harry hurried down to Uncle H’s room and stopped in the doorway. The clicking and beeping machines were gone. So were the flowers his mother had sent, and so was his uncle. Harry’s scalp prickled like someone had poured cold water over his head. He walked quickly back to the front desk.

  “Um, I’m looking for Harold Goodwin. He was in room nine?”

  It was the nice nurse, the one who had snuck him dinner. She stood and came around the desk, her face grave and her arms folded.

  “I’m so sorry. Your uncle passed away this afternoon. He went into a respiratory arrest, which is not uncommon after a stroke.”

  She waited a beat, letting Harry take that in. She explained that swelling in Uncle H’s brain had caused him to stop breathing. She reminded him about the advanced directive and said his uncle had not been in any pain.

  Harry’s head spun, and his hands felt clammy. His ears rang, and sweat sprang up on his forehead. The nurse was saying they had called his next of kin. So his mother would already know. The body had been transferred to the morgue. She took Harry by the elbow and guided him into a chair. The scratchy pink upholstery reminded Harry of the visiting room at jail. She sat down and pulled a pen and pad out of her shirt pocket.

  “I’ll give you the number, and you can call them tomorrow to make arrangements,” she said, scribbling on the paper. “And I’ll put Dr. Chimosky’s cell number on here too. He said to call if you had any questions.”

  She handed him the paper. Harry folded and unfolded it and didn’t know what to say. How was he supposed to feel? The nurse cocked her head and looked at him.

  “Your uncle was pretty sick, you know? Boy, he was a tough little guy,” she said.

  She told him Uncle H had been admitted three times since Christmas. The last time he had been so fragile that the staff had decided to move him into residential care. But Uncle H had heard them talking about it and rallied. He took off while no one was looking, and they found him trying to hitchhike up 141 in nothing but his hospital gown and a pair of socks.

  Harry tried to smile. That sounded like Uncle H.

  The nurse asked if she could call anyone for him. He shook his head.

  “Look—sit here for as long as you need to. I’ll be right over there if I can help with anything.”

  He mumbled a thank-you and stared at the floor. He felt weirdly self-conscious about not crying. Was this a loss? Harry had grown fond of his crazy little uncle over the past two months, though they weren’t what anyone would call close. And yet poor Uncle H had died alone. Worse, his mother would know Harry hadn’t been there. Whether or not they were close, Uncle H had helped him. The old guy accepted him as someone to play cards with and share a Spam sandwich with. Harry hadn’t needed much more than that. He’d never had many friends, despite the fact that his mother was always telling him that he needed to meet people.

  “You don’t have to like them that much, Harry. You just need to hang out with people. It’s normal, son.”

  But he never knew what to say to people. Marty and Sam had been his friends since high school just because they were in the same class, and look how that had turned out. Years ago, there was Shane, who lived with his mother in the same apartment complex as Harry.

  Go play with Shane, his mother would say. Harry didn’t like Shane. Then Shane smashed up his Hot Wheels collection—bringing a heavy rock down on the roofs of the little model cars—and wouldn’t stop, so Harry socked him in the nose. Shane ran to his mother, and Harry got a spanking. His track record with friendships hadn’t improved much since then. But he knew his mother was right. He needed to make friends. He just didn’t know how.

  Harry rode slowly toward the phone booth in BZ, dreading the conversation with his mother. How to explain why he hadn’t been with Uncle H when he died? What had he told her about his job, the imaginary one he had before the real one? His white lies almost always tripped him up.

  “Jesus! Just tell the truth, Harry!” Sal would bellow. “It’s easier to remember, kid!”

  But Harry didn’t have to explain anything. He could hear his mother crying as she accepted the charges for the call. She told him she was so glad that he was there. She would have felt terrible if Uncle H had died alone. Family was family, and Harry had done a great thing reminding him that he had people.

  It cheered Harry to listen to his mother’s version of things. It was all technically true. After all, he had gone to see his uncle. Even though Uncle H was unconscious by the time he arrived, maybe he knew Harry was there with him. Maybe it helped. Harry told his mother about the morgue. He told her that he would pick up Uncle H’s remains. She blew her nose.

  “He was such a kind man. Harry, I wish you’d met him when he was younger. Look, son, I’ll come out there soon, and we can scatter Uncle H’s ashes together. That will be nice, won’t it?”

  Harry hung up the phone and stood straighter. He tipped his head back and looked up at the black dome of the
sky—star-studded and brilliant. He had been there for his uncle, sort of. He would start his new job, and things would be okay. He would work hard. He would be reliable. Thing were going to be different. He could feel it.

  Riding up the highway, he entered the corridor of tall trees, and the dark swallowed him up. Harry forced himself to trust that the road was in front of him as he rode the rickety old bicycle along in the night. He thought of the dead animal he’d seen on the shoulder and shuddered. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. To distract himself, he thought about what he would buy with his first paycheck—pizza, mac and cheese, some of the Spam Uncle H had got him liking. A six-pack of beer, maybe. When he reached the bumpy driveway, he got off his bike and walked to the trailer, trying to ignore the sensation that he was being followed. He stood in the darkness and tried to shake it off, but he imagined someone watching him as he climbed the ladder. From the doorway, he looked into the woods and willed himself to see whatever might be out there. Nothing. Then a twig snapped, and a bird startled into flight in the dark. Harry felt a streak of fear knife down his spine. He closed the thin door and locked it and put a pillow over his head. It took him a long time to fall asleep and he slept badly, waking every hour or so thinking he heard something rustling around outside the trailer. He got up at dawn for a glass of water and finally fell into a deep sleep.