The Music of Bees

by Eileen Garvin

  “You know, Yogi might not even be here. So, we can head back, you know, like, whenever,” Harry said.

  His voice squeaked with anxiety, and Jake felt his own worry diminish with a rush of empathy. Poor Stokes, he thought. He tipped back and balanced on his back wheels, smiling at Harry.

  “It’s cool,” he said. “Let’s just hang for a bit.”

  They moved through the kiters, and Jake unleashed Cheney, who raced toward the sandbar. Jake watched the big dog belly-flop into the channel and then look back for his boy. His throat tightened as the dog sprinted back, sprayed him with river water and kisses, and ran out and away again. He tore along the water’s edge, barking and snapping at seagulls. Jake’s sadness lightened a bit at his dog’s joy. He closed his eyes and smelled the river, felt the warm wind on his bare skin.

  “Shit!” Harry whispered.

  His eyes were locked on a big dude striding up the grass in a dripping wetsuit, his long hair slicked back. The guy grinned hugely and punched Harry in the shoulder.

  “My man! The conditions are perfect, dude. Gonna be epic!”

  He looked down at Jake, and the wattage of his smile increased even further.

  “Howzit going, brother?” He held out a meaty fist. “I’m Yogi.”

  Jake bumped the guy’s fist. “Jake.”

  “Good to meet you, brother. Harry is gonna love this shit, aren’t you, Harry?”

  Jake recognized the quiet terror in his new friend’s eyes, but Yogi did not seem to notice.

  The big man clapped his hands together. “It’s gonna be sick out there! Okay, here’s what we’re doing today. Equipment intro and kite basics. C’mon. I’ve got it all set up.”

  Yogi strode away from the sidewalk toward a cluster of adolescent boys and one girl slouching around a pile of gear on the grass, skinny arms crossed over their chests against the chill of the wind. Jake followed Harry after confirming the ground was navigable. The children stared wordlessly at Jake’s chair and his bald head. Then they looked at Yogi.

  “Okay! Listen up, kidlets! Rule number one: This is not a kite lesson. I am not an instructor. I’m simply standing around talking about kiteboarding and you happened to be nearby. Any of you tell your parents I gave you a lesson, I’ll kick your little butts. Consider this a public service announcement, all right? All right, Tommy?”

  He turned to the closest boy, a pale redhead who looked like he weighed less than Cheney.

  “Uh. Yeah. Right, Yogi. It’s not a kite lesson,” he said in a soft soprano.

  “Great. Okay. Rule number two: Know your equipment.”

  The children leaned in as Yogi showed them the gear: wetsuit, helmet, impact vest, harness, bar, lines, board, and the banana-shaped kite. He talked about how the equipment worked together, showed them the safety releases, and explained the need to take care of your gear. That meant stowing it properly when you weren’t using it and not leaving it out in the sun. He unrolled the kite, which was Pepto Bismol pink, and the kids took turns at the pump, their skinny arms going up and down, until all the struts were inflated. Yogi flipped it over so it was facing into the wind and weighed it down with the board to keep it in place.

  “Nice job!” he said, slapping his palms together. “Good. Okay. Rule number three: Don’t be a douche nozzle on the beach!”

  He talked about the wind window, the power of the kite, safe launching and landing, and beach etiquette. He explained where to stand when you were out among the kites on the sandbar and how to be aware of people around you. He told them how important it was to look out for other kiters for safety. The kids hung on to every word.

  “What’s rule number three?”

  “Don’t be a douche nozzle on the beach!”

  “Right on!”

  The girl raised her hand.

  “Autumn?”

  “What happens if the kite crashes in the water?”

  “You gotta relaunch the dang thing,” Yogi said. “There’s no one right way. Depends on the wind and the water current. One thing is sure, though. Your attitude is everything. If you want that baby to fly, you gotta believe you can make it happen. Make sense?”

  The kids nodded, and Yogi grinned.

  “Great! Now, you pip-squeaks are too skinny to try this out yet. But Harry Stokes here is going for it!”

  He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and shook him. Jake saw Harry’s face turn gray.

  “We’re going to practice launching and landing out on the sandbar. You can come watch, but again, what’s rule number one? This isn’t a—”

  “Kite lesson!” the kids shouted.

  “Tommy, you take the kite. Autumn, you grab the bar and lines. The rest of you, follow and get that kite rigged. Harry, get your gear on,” he said.

  The little crowd took off running, and Yogi picked up the kiteboard and followed them. Harry struggled into the wetsuit, which was far too big for him, being Yogi-size. It sagged in the crotch and bagged around his neck. He pulled on his helmet, his face beaded with sweat, and handed the truck keys to Jake, mumbling, “I don’t think . . . Should be back pretty . . . If I . . .”

  “Hey, Harry,” Jake said. “Breathe, man.”

  Harry met Jake’s eyes, swallowed, and nodded.

  From the water’s edge, Yogi yelled, “Get yer stoke on, Stokes!” and laughed at his own joke.

  Jake watched his friend walk toward the sandbar, his shoulders slumped and his eyes trained on his feet, looking like he was headed to jail. Jake could hear Yogi’s encouraging voice over the sound of the wind. He had enthusiasm enough for the two of them, Jake thought. They crossed the channel to the sandbar, and then Jake couldn’t hear Yogi anymore.

  The spring sunshine warmed his head and shoulders as he looked out at the river. The park was not as crowded as it would be in the summer. About two dozen kites dotted the sandbar awaiting launch, and a handful of windsurfing sails flashed out in the white caps. A barge chugged into mid-channel and blasted a warning as kiteboarders and windsurfers sailed out of its path.

  Jake felt an unexpected ease settle over him. No one was staring at him, not really. Sure, people noticed the chair, but so what? That was fine. He closed his eyes and felt the sun heating up his T-shirt. He heard a familiar hum and looked down at the lawn in front of him. A honeybee landed on a cluster of dandelions and crawled through the great puffs of pollen, joined soon by others. One landed on Jake’s chest and crawled around, perhaps mistaking his orange T-shirt for a giant blossom, and then returned to the dandelions.

  “Hello, there, ladies,” Jake murmured.

  He scanned the sandbar and saw Cheney charge up to Harry and Yogi and put his paws on Harry’s chest. Then the big dog put his nose to the ground and made his way back across the channel and up the grass. He threw himself at Jake’s feet, panting and smiling.

  Jake stroked his broad head. “Good boy, Cheney.”

  The big dog dropped his chin onto his paws and fell asleep.

  Jake heard the clatter of a skateboard and a prepubescent boy doing a Tarzan call. But it didn’t make him feel sad. He felt almost carefree, sitting in a favorite old spot with Cheney. Sunshine, wind, honeybees, and a snoring dog. He tried to put his finger on how he was feeling and was surprised to name the word. He felt happy. Yes, he just felt content to be sitting there in the sun by the river with his dog on a windy weekday. It was just fine.

  He watched the bees work the dandelions, and his mind returned to what he had been reading that morning about the bee waggle—that strange series of spins and booty shaking that the forager bees performed to demonstrate the location and quality of a good nectar cache. The better the source, the more enthusiastic the dance. The others would replicate it until they had learned it by heart—how far away, at what angle to the sun, which direction, and how robust. That was all pretty amazing.

  The bee waggle had ma
de him think of “Wiggle Waggle,” the piece that his jazz sextet had performed at state his junior year. He and Noah were the brass, which played the opening riffs and short punctuations. They were flawless that day—tight and punchy—and they took first place. More than the award, he remembered the way it all felt—the valves under his fingers, the pressure of the mouthpiece against his lips, the regulation of aperture. The other day he had taken his trumpet out of the case and held it in his hands. He raised it to his mouth, but was overwhelmed and couldn’t play, so he had put it away again. He felt a deep longing for it now. Maybe he would pull it out when he got back to Alice’s and mess around a little. Perhaps he could just run his scales. He wondered what the bees would think if he played “Wiggle Waggle” for them.

  Jake took a swig from his water bottle and scanned the sandbar. He could see Harry and the kids gathered around the big pink kite at the north end of the large sweep of sand. He heard a girl laugh, and he glanced back at a group of teenagers standing behind him. He recognized some of them from school. They were all girls and just one guy. One of the girls was Megan Shine’s little sister. What was her name? Michelle? She was blond and had the same cheerleader body as her sister. The boy had a Husky on a leash. Michelle leaned over to pet the dog, which was staring in Jake’s direction. Cheney bolted upright, growling, and ran straight for it.

  “Oh, shit!” Jake muttered. He released the brake on his chair and followed.

  “Cheney!” he yelled. “Come, buddy!”

  The two dogs stood nose to nose, doing a stiff-legged dance with their tails held high. Cheney offered a deep play bow and then tore off toward the water. The Husky yanked her leash out of the boy’s hand and bounded after Cheney. The boy ran after her, calling, “Yuki, come! Yuki! Bad dog!”

  Jake sighed and watched them go. He draped Cheney’s leash around his shoulders.

  “They’ll be back,” he said to no one in particular.

  He could feel the girls staring at him from behind their sunglasses, and he told himself it didn’t matter.

  “Landon is hilarious,” Michelle said, giggling. “I mean, Yuki runs away every five minutes.”

  Jake moved back toward his spot on the grass.

  “Hey! Um, did you go to HRV?” a voice said. A girl with short black hair detached herself from the group. She took a step toward Jake and pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head. She wore a black T-shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and red Chuck Taylors. Her skin was pale, and under her dark hair was a pair of intense green eyes.

  “Yeah. Class of 2013,” Jake said.

  The girl stepped closer and shoved her hands in her back pockets. She slouched and crossed one ankle over the other. She did not look like a cheerleader. Not one bit, and Jake couldn’t take his eyes off her—her lanky Bugs Bunny arms and legs, her messy hair, and those green eyes.

  “I think I sat in front of you in band?” she said. “I was in the clarinet section. I remember you and your friend, the big one with the curly hair?”

  “Katz. Noah Katz,” Jake said. “Yeah, Schaffer’s class.”

  “You guys were trouble, huh? I was there that day you poured milk into Matt Swenson’s tuba,” she said.

  Jake’s smile disappeared. That had seemed funny at the time. He looked away. “Yeah, well. We were being idiots. Stupid shit.”

  Her cheeks flushed red. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jake said, smiling. “I’m the idiot. Not you.”

  She smiled back at him, her cheeks still red, and her green eyes seemed to darken. He had a faint memory of her from band class. She’d been a freshman. Clarinet. Yes, definitely. Her hair had been longer then.

  A brown blur flashed between them, and Cheney shook from head to tail, flinging sand as he wriggled from his big ears down to his rump. The girl squealed.

  “Beast!” Jake yelled, throwing his hands up. “Sorry.”

  The girl laughed and wiped her face with her arm. “It’s okay. I was sandy already. He’s sweet. What’s his name?”

  She knelt next to the big dog, who rolled over and offered her his sandy belly.

  “Cheney. He’s a lover, not a fighter,” Jake said.

  The boy called Landon stalked back up the lawn with the Husky straining against her leash. Cheney jumped up, whining, and Jake grabbed him by the collar.

  “Dude! You know there’s a leash law down here, right?” the boy said, glaring at Jake.

  “Jesus, Landon,” one of the girls muttered.

  “Cheney, sit,” Jake said, and Cheney sat. He nodded at the Husky. “Pretty dog,” he offered. “Looks like they want to be buddies.”

  “This is a pedigree Alaskan Husky,” the boy spat. “She’s going to breed champion sled dogs. Not get knocked up by a fucking beach mutt.”

  “Hey, dude,” Jake said, and held his hands up. “Why don’t you take it down a notch?”

  There was a loud hissing noise as someone deflated a kite. Yuki jumped at the sound and took off toward the water, trailing her leash. The girls laughed as Landon pursued his dog. Jake let go of Cheney’s collar and let his dog join the chase.

  “Whoops,” he said, and the green-eyed girl laughed.

  “Hey, Amri!” one of the girls called. “We’re going. You want a ride or not?”

  “Yeah! Wait for me!” she said.

  She turned back to Jake. “Well. Um. Nice to see you again. It’s Jake, right?”

  He nodded. “Good memory,” he said. “Amri?”

  “Short for Amrita.” She rolled her eyes and pushed a hand through her short hair. “My mom and dad are old hippies.”

  Jake leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. “I think it’s a nice name.”

  Her cheeks flushed again.

  “Amri! Let’s go!” her friend called.

  “Well. See you around,” she said.

  “See you around,” Jake said.

  She ran to catch up with her friends, waved at him over her shoulder, and then she was gone. Jake turned back to the water. He saw the bees in the dandelions. He saw Cheney sprinting back up the lawn. He saw Yogi’s pink kite high in the air over the water. He thought of Amri’s green eyes, which grew dark when she smiled.

  21

  Requeening

  If they cannot find [the queen], they return desolate home, and by their sorrowful tones reveal their deep sense of so deplorable a calamity. Their note at such times, more especially when they first realize their loss, is of a peculiarly mournful character; it sounds somewhat like a succession of wailings on the minor key.

  —L. L. LANGSTROTH

  Alice stared at Nancy like she was speaking a foreign language. Behind her purple-framed glasses, her friend’s large brown eyes blinked under blue eye shadow and thick mascara. Had Nancy been wearing the same makeup since high school? Alice wondered.

  She’d only been half listening to Nancy chattering away across the table from her in the conference room as they stuffed envelopes for the county-wide noxious-weed mailing.

  “Really putting our education to use here,” Alice had joked, irked that this job had fallen on her.

  The intern was working on some problem with the servers, and Debi Jeffreys, the office manager, claimed she didn’t have room on her small desk for the mailing job. Last year she filed a workers’ comp claim because she said the filing cabinets were not ergonomically correct and caused her neck pain. Since then the unspoken rule was whatever Debi wanted, Debi got.

  Rich Carlson, who was in charge of all annual grant money from the state, said the mailing had to be posted by midnight to qualify for funding. Alice was not surprised that Rich would micro-manage the mailing without actually helping out, and annoyed that he had waited until the last minute.

  “Teamwork! That’s what holds this place together,” Rich had said, dropping a large box on the table
with a thunk.

  Alice glowered at his back. The memory of their conversation about her retirement plan was still fresh in her mind.

  “Well, I guess old Rich isn’t on the team,” she said, smirking at Nancy and reaching for a stack of fliers.

  “Well, Alice, I’m sure Mr. Carlson has important things going on today.”

  Alice snorted, but Nancy didn’t crack a smile.

  “Right!” Alice said. “I’m sure he’s in his office right now making a color-coded spreadsheet of his spreadsheets.”

  Their running joke was how Rich filled up his time without really doing anything. He buzzed around the office, checking up on everyone else but serving no clear function. Everyone knew he collected a level-one salary with a 5 percent annual raise and a yearly bonus built in. Alice hadn’t had a raise in four years.

  “Sorry, Alice,” Bill had said at her annual review in March, wagging his big head and frowning. “The recession, you know. Our budget is frozen. I’d do it if I could. You are invaluable to us.”

  “. . . You don’t know what pressures the managers might be under, Alice,” Nancy was saying. “They do a lot of work we don’t see—important work.”

  Alice stared. Was she serious?

  “Hey, Nance. Hello? That you in there?” Alice knocked on the table. “Invasion of the body snatchers?”

  Nancy set her mouth in a prim line and shoved a flier in an envelope, moistened it with a sponge, and smoothed it shut. “I just think you should show a little respect,” she said flatly.

  Alice sat back in her chair and gave a short laugh. “Well, aren’t you a little suck-up?” she said.

  Rich banged through the door with another box.

  “Thank you, ladies!” he sang out. “Oh, and take a break at ten thirty. We’ll need the room for the meeting.”

  “What meeting?” Alice asked.

  “Quarterly all-staff. Don’t you read your email, Alice?” he scolded in a teacher voice, wagging a finger at her.