“Maybe I can listen to you play sometime,” said Ethan. “‘Air on a G String’ is one of my favorite classic songs. Can you play it?”
“I’m amazed that you even know the name of that song,” said Cynthia. “You’re obviously familiar with the classics.”
“I love the classic songs,” said Ethan. “Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ is another one of my favorites. I would love to hear you play it sometime too.”
“Well, I’m not very good at it yet, but I’m working on it. I’m absolutely impressed by your knowledge these songs. Pachelbel’s ‘Canon’ is my favorite. I’m sure you are familiar with that one, of course.”
“Oh, absolutely that one,” said Ethan, hoping she didn’t ask him to elaborate any further.
“Maybe I’ll let you hear me peck through it sometime. But I better get going for now. It was really nice talking to you.”
“It was super nice talking to you too,” said Ethan, disappointed that she was leaving so soon. “Maybe I’ll run into you at the library.”
“That would be great,” she said, turning away, walking towards West Cedar Street.
Ethan, feeling frustrated and abandoned, watched her until she was no longer in sight. In his mind he replayed every word of their conversation, sure that he had said something stupid, stupid enough that she’d avoid him next time they met. He so hoped they would become friends, maybe a little more than that. Retrieving his bike, he pedaled slowly home, his thoughts half optimistic, half pessimistic.
The next day he washed the beautiful 1958 Lincoln Continental again. Oh, if he could only hop in that masterpiece of a vehicle and drive it down the surrounding country roads. It must have a powerful kick with its V-8 engine. He wished he had the money to buy it from Miss Green. It would surely be a classic in a few years, by the time he got old enough to drive, and he’d keep it forever. The first thing he would do is to have an eight-track player installed. That little am radio would be the one thing he would change about it. You couldn’t be a cool dude without some loud tunes playing over your car speakers. He thought about what it would be like to pull that old masterpiece into Cynthia’s driveway and take her out on a date, a classic Elvis love song, or maybe Fleetwood Mac, playing over newly installed speakers.
Deep in these thoughts, he washed, cleaned, or polished every speck of the classic vehicle. Zelma inspected it when he had finished, declaring that she was glad to finally find someone who appreciated it as much or more than she did herself.
Wednesday morning Clara Satterfield met Ethan when he entered the kitchen. “Zelma is out back behind the garage with her bees,” she said.
“I didn’t know she had bees,” said Ethan, perking up a bit from an otherwise glum mood.
“Yes, she raises the best honey in the county. It’s the orchard surrounding the hives that gives the honey its wonderful flavor. Feel privileged that she is inviting you to observe her hives. She won’t let me or almost anyone else near them, something I find quite offensive. Don’t be surprised if she starts talking to the bees or if she says they talk to her.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Ethan, even more intrigued.
“You’ll have to ask her about it. I don’t have time to stand around here and talk all day. I’ve got plenty of errands to run.”
Ethan felt a little offended. No one asked her to stand around here and talk all day; he was just asking a question.
“She wishes your assistance. Careful though, the bees don’t sting her for some reason, but they may not take too kindly to you. You will find a little path into the woods behind the garage. The path will lead you to the bee orchard, as she calls it. Since it seems she is going to let you near her bees, I’m going to count on you to make sure she doesn’t fall on that path. She’s too unsteady to be walking it by herself with a just a cane, but who is ever going to stop her. She’s as stubborn as an angry mule.”
With that she walked out the back door of the house and got into her car, a yellow 1972 Chrysler Newport, and drove away, leaving Ethan a little bewildered. His curiosity aroused, he went outside and walked around to the back of the garage. There he saw the opening to a little path surrounded by tall trees. He had noticed the opening in the woods before, while he was mowing, but hadn’t thought much about it at the time. He followed the path for a short distance and came upon a terrifying sight.
“Don’t worry, Miss Green,” he shouted, his heart pounding. “I’ll get you some help.”
He started to run, but Zelma called for him to stop. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing: Zelma Green’s upper body was almost completely covered with bees, even most of her face. She’d be dead for sure if the bees got angry and started stinging her.
“Don’t be frightened, my dear Ethan,” she said. “The bees love me. Do you hear their buzzing?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, near tears with fright.
“The buzzing sounds are like words. Come closer and see if you can understand what they are saying. People say bees are messengers of God. They know the past and the future. Do you hear how the buzzing sounds are like tiny voices speaking in unison?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Ethan, almost shaking. “It sounds kind of like it.”
“Come here and listen to the bees. Don’t be afraid. The bees will love you as they do me.”
Slowly becoming mesmerized by the soft humming of the bees, Ethan stepped closer, jumping nervously when a bee landed on his arm.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Zelma. “Walk over to me.”
He inched closer, losing fear with each step. A few more bees landed on him, but he didn’t jump this time. As he walked, the bees began to leave Miss Green and fly to him, a few at a time, until most of the bees had transferred from her to him. He closed his eyes and felt almost as though he were in a dream. The whirring of the bees began to sound like music from another world, like a million voices singing at once.
“Isn’t it wonderful,” said Zelma, clasping her boney hands together. “The buzzing sounds are like words, like they want to tell us something.”
“I wish I knew what they are trying to tell us,” said Ethan, smiling.
“Only God truly knows what the bees are saying,” said Zelma. “But I think that to learn the language of the bees would be to learn all the secrets of the universe. Bees are such profound and mysterious creatures.”
“Yes, it is like they are talking,” said Ethan. He was no longer frightened. As the bees swarmed him, he became, in fact, thrilled, not unlike the thrill one receives from the sudden steep drop of a roller coaster.
“You’ve got the gift,” said Zelma. “Otherwise the bees would not have taken to you so. Bees only take to gifted people such as you.
“What do you mean by gifted?” asked Ethan, almost laughing in his amazement, his fear now completely evaporated. He raised his bee-covered hands and looked at them. What a crazy and amazing day this was turning out to be.
“You have the ability to sense things that most others cannot—a sixth sense, as most people call it. I thought it before, but I know it now, seeing how the bees have taken so to you. I’m sure if you think back you will remember instances of dreams or premonitions. I feel that the dream you described to me is trying to tell you something. You need only to find the answer.”
“Yes,” said Ethan, “I believe you’re right. I’ve had a few things happen that I can’t explain.”
“Like what, for instance. Tell me.”
“Well, I don’t talk about it much, but my great grandmother sat beside my bed and talked to me all night on the night she died. I didn’t even know she was sick. She told me everything was going to be okay, that she would be in Heaven, and everything would be okay. All this time I thought it had only been a dream, but it seemed so real.”
“Yes, yes, I knew it,” said Zelma. “I sensed it in you the first day we met.”
“I’ve had a few other things happen too,” said Ethan, “but I’ve always tried to explain it away.
”
“It’s fortunate that we found each other,” said Zelma. “We’ve so much to talk about. I want to tell you about my life. I’ve wanted to tell someone about my life for so long. I feel that you are the right person to tell it to, that you came along for a reason. I so hope that you are willing to hear my story and that my words can be a help to you in some way. I know it may be too much to ask of someone so young, but I sense in you an old soul. I think it will be a help to you, as well as to myself.
“I would love to hear your story,” said Ethan, waving his bee-covered arms around slowly.
“Wonderful! But for now I’m feeling tired, and we should get back to the house soon.” She clapped her hands together three times, and the bees began to leave Ethan and return to the hives.
“The bees listen to me,” she said. “And when I die the bees will either die or leave here and find someone new, someone who will love them as much as I do.”
When all the bees had returned to the hives, Ethan extended his hand, and Zelma held onto it as they walked slowly back to the house. He still felt too amazed by what had just happened to say very much. Zelma seemed to know that he needed the quiet to sort things out, for she said very little herself. He went home that day thinking that the experience with the bees had been one of the most incredible things that had ever happened to him.
He didn’t mention the bees incident to his mom that night, afraid she would freak out and forbid him to return. This job was turning out to be really interesting, what with the talking bees and the mysterious cellar. There were so many questions to be answered. And what had happened in Miss Green’s life that she felt so compelled to tell him her story? He was sure it had something to do with the cellar. The world to him no longer seemed a math equation but rather a complex piece of art, a masterpiece of things not easily understood.
A phone call that night gave Ethan a few flutters in his stomach. Miss Satterfield was going to be out of town until the end of next week, at least. Her sister in Louisville had died suddenly. Miss Green did not like to stay in the house alone at night, and she was offering more money if Ethan would come later each day and spend the night. He would be paid twenty-five dollars for each night he stayed, a huge sum to a poor kid like Ethan. He accepted the offer, dreaming of the new clothes and shoes he’d be able to buy, but the thought of spending the night in that big old house gave him the shivers. He was starting to like his job and Miss Green, but this was pushing it.
He agreed to work from six pm until he got up in the morning, a good deal because he would be allowed to sleep in one of the bedrooms. How many people got paid to sleep? He would have all day to do whatever he wanted to. That night he packed his suitcase, and Sandy drove him to Miss Green’s spooky old house. He was a little excited and nervous at the same time. If nothing else, he would be almost rich by the end of next week.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but Zelma Green didn’t own a television. He thought about that as he undressed and climbed into the imposing Renaissance Revival bed, the tall deeply-carved headboard towering above him. The bedroom was furnished with dark walnut furniture that matched the bed: a tall dresser with a mirror, an old-fashioned washstand, and a large wardrobe that served as the room’s only closet. He thought the room was pretty cool overall, but it definitely needed a television. Fortunately, he had remembered to bring some comic books along. Tomorrow he would check out the library and pick up a few books, hopefully finding Cynthia there. He sorted through his comics and selected one called Tales of Terror, just fitting for the occasion, even if he did have a few nightmares. He read for a mere few minutes before drifting off to sleep, the Egyptian-themed slag glass lamp still illuminated, the comic book lying open across his chest.
He dreamed that the boy was standing beside the bed, the boy in the photo at the birthday party. The boy smiled and touched Ethan’s face. Ethan jumped awake startled. It occurred to him that he was sleeping in Benjamin’s bed; somehow he knew this for certain. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments and contemplated this, feeling that the bees had somehow awakened something in him that had been slumbering before. He felt strangely comforted by the thought of being in the boy’s room. He placed the comic book on the nightstand and turned off the lamp, soon falling back to sleep.
Waking up feeling refreshed the next morning, he made the bed quickly and walked down the hallway to the only bathroom on the second floor. It was an old fashioned bathroom, probably never having been updated, that had a large claw-foot tub. He was disappointed that there was no shower; didn’t anybody own a shower in this town? He brushed his teeth, wet his hair and combed it, and put on some deodorant he had recently started using. Deciding to forgo a bath, he dressed quickly and headed down the stairs.
Zelma Green was in the kitchen fixing a breakfast of sausage, eggs, and toast. Spreading strawberry preserves on his toast, Ethan gratefully ate and drank a cup of coffee, talking to Zelma for a bit before heading out the door. He thought of asking her more questions about the bees but decided to wait until a better time, maybe that night. Right now he was ready to get out and enjoy life. He’d have all day to do anything he wanted to do. He hopped on his bike and rode to town.
Chapter 5
He went to the drugstore on the square first. It had an old-fashioned soda shop inside. He ordered a banana split and enjoyed it thoroughly as he sat at the counter. The waitress was very talkative. There were no other customers, being too early for the lunch crowd and too late for the breakfast crowd, so all her talkativeness was directed towards him. Ethan guessed she was about his mom’s age, maybe a little older. She was a somewhat skinny woman, her dyed red hair pulled back into a bun and heavy makeup almost giving her a clown appearance.
Puffing on a cigarette, she asked Ethan many probing questions about his life, seemingly unconscious that the cigarette smoke was burning his eyes. Ethan explained to her how he had ended up in Rocky Creek and described how wonderful life had been in Eastern Kentucky. She blessed his heart a few times for having lost his father and assured him that he would eventually come to love Rocky Creek as well, once he had made friends. Before he left, she introduced herself as Frances Batts and told him to be sure and come back. She refused to let him pay for his food, just so he didn’t mention it to anyone, especially her boss. Ethan left the drugstore smiling, thoroughly impressed and humored by Frances Batts.
His next stop was the Goodnight Memorial Library. He looked forward to finding a book just suited for reading while spending nights in a shadowy Victorian house. He smiled a bit as he thought about how he had matured in the last few years; he wasn’t such a kid like he used to be. Back when he was about eight or nine years old, his parents had to make him sleep in his own bed instead of theirs. Of course, when he did sleep in his own bed, he’d keep his lamp and ceiling light both on. He was sure an alien would carry him away before morning if he ever forgot to leave the lights on. His dad had made the mistake of letting him stay up late one Saturday night to watch a movie about a boy who saw aliens land in his backyard. He felt proud that he wasn’t so afraid anymore.
He was browsing around the library, not sure where to look first, when he spotted Cynthia sitting at a table. She was staring intently into a book and hadn’t noticed him yet, so he quietly sat down at the table across from her, hoping to surprise her. He cleared his throat for effect.
Cynthia jumped slightly and said, “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you sitting there. The world could end while I was reading a good book, and I wouldn’t notice.”
Ethan laughed and said, “That’s okay. I guess I kind of snuck up on you. I’m glad to find you here, though. I haven’t been to a library in a while. Maybe you can help me find something good to read.”
“What kind of book are you looking for?” asked Cynthia, laying the book she had been reading on the table between them. She unconsciously straightened out her hair as though suddenly aware of a loose strand.
“I’m not sure yet. I was thinking of something
kind of scary, maybe gothic. I’m staying at Miss Green’s house for the next week or so, and I thought it would be fitting to read a scary book.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Cynthia. “There’s no way I’d spend the night in that house, let alone read a scary book while I was staying there. I wouldn’t sleep for sure. Why are you spending the night? That’s an interesting development.”
“Her secretary had to leave town because her sister died, and Miss Green don’t like staying by herself at night.”
“Secretary? Why does she have a secretary? I’ve never heard of anyone having a secretary living at their house.”
“I guess she’s called the secretary because she takes care of all the finances and sort of runs the place,” said Ethan.
“That’s kind of weird. I guess she must be pretty rich to be able to afford a full time secretary. My family has a housekeeper named Sadie, but she just comes during the day and takes the weekends off.”
“I’ve never known anyone rich enough to have a maid or secretary, either one, until I moved here,” said Ethan. “My mom works at the sewing factory and probably don’t make a whole lot more than your maid.”
“A lot of people on my street have housekeepers,” said Cynthia, “so I never thought much about it. I guess my parents are pretty well off, but I’ve never tried to act like I was rich. I’ve met a few snobs in my life, and I’ve always aspired not to be one.”
“That’s a good attitude to have. I guess there ain’t too many rich people who have as good an attitude about it as you do.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Cynthia. “A lot of rich people aren’t as stuck up as you’d think. I’ve got two sets of parents now, I guess, and only one of them is stuck up: my dad’s new wife. And she’s the least one to have a reason to be stuck up. She didn’t have a dime to her name until she married my dad, and now she tries to put on like she’s the Queen of England, even started having tea parties for some of the women on the street.”
A Million Doorways Page 5