Harry slow-clapped as Yogi made the faint sound of screaming fans through cupped hands.
“Thank you, South Padre!” he yell-whispered.
Harry laughed.
“You stoked for today, Stokes?” Yogi asked. “We’re in charge of that pack of rug rats from L.A. again.”
Harry groaned and slouched into the shower. “You have to take those horrible twins, Yogi. They don’t listen.”
“That’s cuz their brains are in their balls right now. They’re fifteen. What do you expect? You can handle ’em, Stokes. Know why? Cuz yer always stoked!”
He hollered this last part as he left the bathroom.
Yogi had gotten Harry a job for the season with South Padre Kiteboarding Adventures. The Texas season ran from October to May, which were the dark and rainy months up north. Yogi had worked for SPKA for years. After he’d watched Harry excel over the summer, he offered to talk to his boss. Harry jumped at the chance. He’d had to miss the fall harvest, but Alice said she expected him back at the end of spring.
“All hands on deck this summer, Harry,” she said.
He was elated that he still had a place there. He hadn’t been sure she would keep him on after he told her about the TV heist and his jail time. He remembered how he stood in the kitchen and recounted the whole stupid story the day he stole the SupraGro truck. He let it out in a rush, staring at Alice’s feet. She’d taken off her work boots, and Harry could see she had a hole in one sock.
Alice put her hands on her knees and exhaled when he finished. She looked mad. Harry braced himself.
“Those little shits!” she exclaimed. “Let you take all the blame. Sounds like they both need an ass-kicking.”
Harry stared, and Alice shrugged.
“Look, I didn’t ask you if you had a record. And you didn’t tell me. You gave me references, and I didn’t call them. So.” She stood. “Who wants more pie?”
She went into the kitchen.
Harry looked at Jake, who stifled a laugh.
It felt good to come clean, although he hadn’t really needed to tell her. He thought everything would come out when he was arrested for stealing the truck.
Up at Uncle H’s old place, he climbed down out of the cab to face the flashing blue-and-red lights of the sheriff department’s Jeep. He didn’t regret what he had done, not a bit, even as he faced arrest. He wanted to help, even if his action only delayed the spraying by a day or two. It was something.
The door of the Jeep opened, and out popped Ronnie. He slammed the door and strode toward Harry.
“Dude! What the hell are you doing?!” Ronnie said, his face shiny with sweat. “I’ve had the lights on since the bridge.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, man. I—I didn’t notice. I would have pulled over—”
“I can’t figure out how to turn the damn siren on!” Ronnie said, miserable. “I think there’s a short or something. Fuck me.”
Harry opened the Jeep door and located the fuse box. He found the tripped fuse and flipped it. He punched the siren button and let it scream a round or two.
“Jesus! Thank you, dude,” Ronnie said.
Harry knew Ronnie would have to take him in. He told him about his previous record and what county Ronnie should call to get the details.
Ronnie leaned against the door of the Jeep, took off his hat, and ran a hand through his short dark hair. That wouldn’t work, he said. For one thing, he didn’t want his Auntie Alice mad at him again, and arresting her handyman would really piss her off. Plus, Harry hadn’t told anyone about Ronnie misfiring his gun. That could have cost him his job. This siren thing was minor, but the other guys would have teased him about it for weeks.
“I have an idea,” Ronnie said.
He picked up the CB and radioed in to dispatch that he had removed the SupraGro truck from the protest on Fir Mountain Road to deescalate the conflict. He couldn’t find the driver, so in the confusion he asked a civilian to do it for him. It was an issue of safety, he said. Harry climbed behind the wheel of the big truck again and followed Ronnie back down into town, where Ronnie had the truck impounded at the sheriff’s department. And for the second time, Harry was delivered to Alice’s doorstep courtesy of the Hood River County Sheriff’s Department.
After that, Harry wanted everything out in the open, no matter the consequences. He wanted to be held accountable for his decisions. He understood the power of taking responsibility for his actions. He could make things happen, he realized now. Like his own kiting and the leaf hive he had designed for Jake. And Jake’s kiting.
That was, hands down, the greatest accomplishment of Harry’s young life. After watching an old-school dude at the beach who was kiting circles around everyone seated in what he called an “air chair,” Harry resolved to get Jake out on the water. The boy had plenty of upper-body strength. He just needed an alternative to the board. So Harry tailor-made him an air chair and rigged the harness so they could ride tandem as he taught Jake to fly the kite.
That first day on the water, Harry had a flash of self-doubt as he struggled to position Jake and hook up the harness as the waves broke at his back and the wind whistled through his helmet. But then he looked at his friend’s face, wild with anticipation, and confidence enveloped him like a giant hand from above. Yogi launched the kite, and the two young men flew across the river, spraying a rooster tail in their wake. Jake hollered and whooped over the sound of the wind, rushing into an unexpected, incredible new happiness. It was a gift Harry had never expected to receive—being responsible for someone else’s joy.
Now Harry showered and changed into board shorts and a rash guard. He walked back to the dorm and dropped off his toiletry bag and hung up his wet towel. He stood in the rollup doorway and looked out at the flat expanse of blue water that stretched into the Gulf of Mexico.
He would wade all day in the warm, waist-deep water, patiently coaching the spoiled twins from L.A., who were there for spring break, about safe landing and launching practices. He would teach them to respect the power of the wind and tell them about beach etiquette, which they were too self-centered to understand. Next month he would pack his bags and board a plane back to Oregon. He would return to the little farm at the bottom of the road where his friends waited, where the bees flew, where the wind sang him to sleep, and all of it called him home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a solitary endeavor, but publication is not. I’m grateful for the support and hard work of the many people who helped get this book out into the world.
Molly Friedrich and Heather Carr, thank you for seeing the potential in this story and insisting on the ruthless first edit that made it so much better. You’ve been with me every step of the way, and I’d be lost without you. Thank you, Hannah Brattesani and Lucy Carson, for all the behind-the-scenes work. Laurie Frankel, your willingness to help a fellow writer made all the difference, and I’m deeply grateful. Lindsey Rose, thank you for seeing promise in the manuscript. Your smart questions and deft editing greatly improved the story. From the beginning I trusted that you would be the best guide for this book. Maya Ziv, thank you for your guidance, support, and diligence. I’m so happy you were there to carry me through. To Emily Canders, Katie Taylor, and everyone on the Dutton publicity and marketing teams, much gratitude for your enthusiasm and hard work on behalf of this book. Vi-An Nguyen, thank you for a beautiful cover.
Several people offered their insights to help me draw Jake’s character as faithfully as I could. Many thanks to you all: Mathew Lucero, Lindsey Freysinger, Jessica Russo, Nate Ullrich, and Tina Catania.
I’m indebted to the Oregon State University Extension Service’s Master Beekeeper Apprentice Program for teaching me so much about honeybees. Special thanks to my mentor, Zip Krummel.
Matthew Lore, I’m so grateful for your support, encouragement, and friendship. Cory Jubitz, thank you for being a gre
at sounding board. Nancy Foley, you are such a generous first reader and the “writers’ group” I’ve always wanted.
Many thanks and much appreciation go to my family and friends who cheered me along the way.
And to Brendan Ramey, bottomless love and deepest thanks. You are my home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EILEEN GARVIN is a beekeeper and writer living in Hood River, Oregon. Her memoir, How to Be a Sister, was published in 2010. The Music of Bees is her debut novel.
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The Music of Bees Page 32