The Honey Bus

by Meredith May

  I stayed in my spot until the sun slipped behind the ridgeline and the crickets came out to sing. The men flicked on the construction lights in the bus and hung them from the handrails so they could keep working into the night.

  I was drawn to the bus like a moth to flame, by an irrepressible longing that I felt as a physical ache, a gnawing in my belly to disappear into the secluded protection of an enclosed space like a submarine, or a bus. The honey bus looked like it was warm inside, and safe. I wanted the men to invite me to join their secret club, and to teach me how to make something beautiful with my hands. My pulse sped up when I watched them work together in a harmony of familiar dance movements, passing frames of dripping honeycomb between them and taking turns capturing the honey into glass jars as it flowed out of the spouts. I could tell the bus made them happy, and I believed it could do the same for me.

  I was struck by a certainty, from some deep place inside myself, that something important was waiting for me in the bus, like the answer to a question that I hadn’t yet asked.

  All I had to do was get inside.

  3

  The Secret Language of Bees

  1975—Late Spring

  I didn’t limit my snooping to the outdoors. I brazenly opened drawers, rifled through closets, and took a keen interest in what Granny and Grandpa had tucked away inside the house. Because my grandparents were old people, their stuff was old, too, and I enjoyed hunting for rare artifacts forgotten in the far corners of their history. I found arrowheads that Grandpa had unearthed while digging pipelines in Big Sur, and inside the cedar chest I dusted off a stack of LIFE magazines with JFK, Elvis, and the first astronauts on the covers. The kitchen cupboards held a boneyard of cooking gadgets that Granny had tried once and then deemed ridiculous.

  One morning I dug out an Osterizer blender from deep in the back of the cabinet under the sink. I wedged the glass pitcher onto the base, put the lid on, pressed one of the buttons and it whined to life. For a bored girl with few toys, I suddenly possessed this most miraculous machine and a whole kitchen packed with mystifying things pickled in mason jars. I opened the pantry and selected a jar containing a bright green Jell-O-looking substance, unscrewed the lid and sniffed: mint jelly. That could taste good—I liked mint gum, as well as jelly on toast—so I scooped it into the blender and added milk. Figuring I needed more than two things to make a smoothie, I did another quick scan of the kitchen until my eyes rested on the cereal boxes lined up on top of the fridge. I dragged the stool over and pulled down the corn flakes, thinking it would make my drink thicker. I pressed the button for the highest speed and whirred it into a concoction resembling runny, lumpy toothpaste, which I poured into a ceramic mug and brought to Grandpa, who was at the dining room table watching the birds peck at seed he’d sprinkled on the deck railing.

  Grandpa would eat anything. He chewed chicken gizzards, said cow tongue was so delicious it put hair on his chest, and devoured artichoke leaves whole. He’d even developed a technique to pull every kernel clean off an ear of corn, using only his lower teeth and running the cob back and forth before his mouth like the carriage return on a typewriter. I presented him with my milkshake. He took a swig and then needed a few seconds to come up with an adjective.

  “Refreshing!” he said, chasing it down with coffee. “What’s it called?”

  “Mintshake,” I said.

  He nodded thoughtfully and strummed his fingers on the table, like a gourmand considering a tasting note.

  “Let’s share it,” he said, sliding the cup back toward me.

  It was a dare, all right. I could tell Grandpa was trying to keep a straight face as I reached for it, but just as I was about to take a drink, a low hum distracted us from our standoff. Grandpa reflexively turned toward the sound and tracked something flying in the air. I followed his gaze until I saw what he did—a honeybee hovering over the dining room table. It was suspended in the air with its legs dangling beneath its body, keeping itself in place by beating its wings so fast they became invisible. I set the cup down and leaned back in slow motion. The bee, watching my every move, began to slowly come toward me, flying in slow arcs left and right, inching closer with each swing.

  My muscles tensed, and I willed the bee to please, please, go take a hike. But it was attracted to the sugary smell inside my cup, and determined to have a taste. When it was about to land on the rim, I swatted at it.

  The bee emitted a shrill zzztttt! in response, and zoomed in an anxious circle above our heads.

  Grandpa jumped out of his chair and grabbed my forearm so tightly I could feel him pressing bone. I startled, frightened by the sudden aggressiveness of his touch. He’d never gotten mad at me before; he always fake-spanked Matthew and me when Granny forced him to punish us for misbehaving. He leaned toward me until we were nearly touching noses and locked eyes. His words were deliberate and forceful, each one like the clap of a church bell.

  “You. Must. Never. Hurt. Bees.” He didn’t look away until he was certain his words had landed in my brain. I must have done something truly awful for Grandpa to scold me, but I was confused. Bees stung people. They were pests, like mosquitos. Who cares if I smashed one? Wouldn’t I be doing the right thing by protecting myself?

  “It was going to sting me!” I protested.

  Grandpa’s eyebrows sprang up in disbelief. “Why do you say that?”

  The bee was now slamming itself into the window trying to fly away. Its buzz rose to a shriek. I thought perhaps we should be having this conversation in a different room, but Grandpa was unperturbed by the sight of a stinging insect going berserk. I kept one eye on the frenzied bee as I tried to answer Grandpa’s question.

  “Because bees always sting.”

  “Come here,” Grandpa said.

  I followed him into the kitchen, where he searched the cupboards until he found an empty honey jar.

  “Go get a piece of paper,” he said.

  I was eager to do anything to get back on his good side. I raced to Granny’s desk and pulled out a piece of her fancy stationery, and practically bowed as I offered it to him.

  “Listen,” he said, cupping his ear and cocking his head toward the buzz. “It’s high-pitched,” Grandpa said. “It’s in distress. Do you see it?”

  I followed the sound until I saw the bee gliding in a wobbly circle around the room, looking for a way out, until it rested on the dining room window facing the deck.

  “There!” I pointed.

  Grandpa crept softly toward it, hiding the jar behind his back. When he was directly behind the bee, he reached up and imprisoned it in one swift motion. With his free hand, he slipped the paper between the window and the mouth of the jar, forming a temporary lid. He stepped away, holding the trap in his hands, and the bee crawled up the glass, tapping the inside of the jar with its antennae.

  “Okay, come get the door for me,” he said.

  We stepped outside together, and instead of releasing the bee, Grandpa sat on the back step and patted the space next to him, signaling me to sit near.

  “Hold out your arm.”

  He tilted the jar as if he was going to release the bee onto my forearm. I jerked my hand back.

  “It’s going to sting me!” I wailed.

  He sighed like he was summoning all his patience, and then turned to me again.

  “Bees won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.”

  Most of my information about bees came from cartoons in which bees always traveled in bloodthirsty swarms terrorizing all manner of people, coyotes, pigs and rabbits. I mentioned this to Grandpa.

  “That’s make-believe,” he said. “Honeybees don’t go on the attack. They will only sting to defend their home. They know that if they sting they will die, so they’ll give you plenty of warnings first.”

  Grandpa reached for my arm again, but I tucked it behind my back, still uncertain. The
bee was now incensed, banging into the walls of its glass prison. Grandpa set the jar down and spoke to me slowly and carefully.

  “Bees can talk, but not with words. You need to watch how they behave to understand their language. For example,” he said, lifting a finger to numerate his points. “If you open a hive and hear a soft chewing sound, that means the bees are busy and happy. If you hear a roar, that means they are upset about something.”

  I watched the bee get more frantic by the second.

  “Two,” he said, holding up a second finger. “Bees will ask you to back away from the hive by head-butting you. It’s a polite warning to step away so they don’t have to sting you.”

  I was starting to understand that Grandpa might know bees in a different way than everybody else. He spent every day with them, so he probably could tell what they were thinking. But that didn’t mean that I wanted a bee to crawl on me. I trusted Grandpa wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, but I couldn’t say the same for the trapped bee, who by the looks of things was now totally, royally, pissed. He reached for the jar again and brought it over to me. I shook my head no.

  “You mustn’t be afraid around bees,” he said. “They can sense fear, and it will make them scared, too. But if you are calm, they will stay calm.”

  “I’m still scared,” I whispered.

  “The bee is more frightened of you,” he said. “Can you imagine how scary it is to be this small in a world that is so big?”

  He was right, I wouldn’t want to change places with a bee. A little bit of my trepidation melted knowing the bee was also scared. I knew I wouldn’t hurt it, but the bee couldn’t know that for sure. I stretched my arm out again, ever so gently.

  “You ready?”

  I nodded as I watched the bee fall onto its back inside the jar, its six legs scrabbling to find footing.

  “Bees are sensitive, so no sudden movements, and no loud noises, okay? You must always move slowly and quietly around bees to make them feel safe.”

  I promised to hold still, an easy pact because I was too terrified to move. I tried to summon calming thoughts, but it was impossible to do on command. Grandpa tapped the jar on the underside of my wrist, and the bee tumbled out. It stood still as I held my breath, then it took a few tentative steps.

  “Tickles,” I whispered. This close, I could see that a honeybee’s body was a miracle of miniature interlocking parts, like the insides of a watch. Its antennae, two L-shaped sticks that swiveled in sockets on its forehead between its eyes, searched the air and tapped on my skin, reminding me of a person without sight using a cane to get a mental picture of a place.

  “What’s it doing?”

  “Checking you out,” Grandpa said. “A bee’s antennae can smell, feel and taste.”

  Imagine that. Having a body part that is a nose, fingertip and tongue together. As the bee got used to me, I got used to it. Grandpa was right. This small insect was not my enemy. I carefully lifted my arm until I could see into its eyes, shaped like two glossy black commas on the side of its head. Fear gave way to fascination as I studied how it was put together, so small, so perfect.

  Veins crisscrossed its shimmering wings. It was furry, and its abdomen expanded and contracted with each breath. I looked closer at the stripes, and noticed that the orange bands had small hairs and the black ones were slick. The bee’s legs tapered to tiny hooks, and it was now using its front two pair to stroke its antennae. Cleaning or scratching them, I guessed.

  “What do you think?” Grandpa asked.

  “Can I keep it?”

  “’Fraid not. It will die of loneliness if you separate it from its hive.”

  I was beginning to understand that bees have emotions, like people, and like people they live in families where they feel safe and loved. They will lose their spirit if they don’t have the security of their hive mates. I was about to ask if we should return this bee to its hive when it parted its mandibles and unfurled a long red tongue.

  “It’s going to bite me!” I shrieked.

  “Shhhh, hold still,” Grandpa whispered. The bee tasted my arm tentatively, realized that I was not a flower and recoiled its tongue. The bee put its hind end in the air and fanned its wings so rapidly that I could feel a vibration on my skin. Then it lifted off and was gone.

  Grandpa stood, reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet.

  “Meredith, never kill something unless you are going to eat it.”

  I gave him my word.

  That night when I got under the sheets, Mom was already snoring. I cleared my throat hoping that would wake her, and when that didn’t work, I jiggled the bed, just a little bit.

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  She grunted and turned toward me with eyes closed. “What?”

  “Did you know bees die after they sting?”

  “Shhhh. You’ll wake your brother.”

  I lowered my voice and whispered.

  “Their guts come out with the stinger.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Mom rolled me away from her, then tucked her knees under mine and drew me to her stomach. I was about to brag about picking up a bee with my bare hands, but I felt her legs twitch and realized that she had fallen back asleep.

  I lay there, my mind swimming with new questions about bees. Grandpa had just cracked open a portal to a secret microcosmos in our backyard, and now that I knew bees lived in families, I wanted to know everything about them. Which bees are the parents? How many bees in one family? How do they remember which hive they live in? What does it look like inside a beehive? Do they sleep at night? How do they make honey in there?

  Grandpa had proven to me that I could get close to a honeybee without getting stung. I was coming around to the opinion that fearsome animals and insects rarely live up to the reputations foisted on them by circuses and monster movies. Grandpa was teaching Matthew and me that all creatures were sacred, with their own inner emotional lives. As part of our education, after dinner each night we climbed into the recliner with Grandpa to watch his favorite nature shows. I’d been astonished to watch male lions play with their cubs, aquarium octopuses reach from the water to embrace their human handlers, or elephants dig stairs leading out of a deep mudhole so a drowning baby could clamber to safety. So it made me wonder, what if bees were compassionate like that, and what if I could teach myself how to see it? As a girl needing to know that love existed naturally all around her, it was thrilling to realize that I didn’t have to wait for Wild Kingdom or Jacques Cousteau to be reassured. The mysteries of the animal kingdom were within my reach, anytime I wanted. That night when I went to bed, the confines of our small room expanded ever so slightly. I had found one good thing—a reason how California might make me happy.

  I awoke to the percolator bubbling on top of the stove, so I knew my grandparents were up. I tiptoed down the hall and pushed open their bedroom door. Granny was reading aloud to Grandpa from the Monterey Herald while he looked at the photos in a beekeeping magazine called Gleanings in Bee Culture. On weekends, they liked to ease into the day. I climbed onto their small four-poster bed, wedged myself in between them and asked Grandpa if he could show me his beehives.

  “Whoa, Nelly,” Grandpa said, putting down his magazine. “I haven’t had my think-juice yet.”

  “Excellent point,” Granny said. “Sounds like the coffee’s done, Franklin.”

  Grandpa dutifully threw back the covers and slid his feet into slippers, and I heard his joints crack as he pushed himself upright. I sighed dramatically, but nobody acknowledged it. I was in for a long wait. On Saturdays and Sundays they savored several cups of coffee in bed, as Granny curated the newspaper front to back, reading aloud particularly important paragraphs to Grandpa, enhanced by her commentary. Grandpa would often get weary at a certain point, but he never complained. Instead, he would distract her by gripping se
ctions of the paper with his strong toes and dropping the pages on her lap. Granny thought it was repulsive; Grandpa thought it was a riot.

  I wandered outside and spotted Matthew lifting his chubby leg and stomping on something near the vegetable garden. When I got closer, I could see that he was killing snails. He smiled when he saw me approach, and lifted his shoe to display the slimy puddle he’d made on the ground. He was helping Grandpa, who’d shown him how to hunt the marauders who ate his crops. Snails and gophers were the only exceptions to Grandpa’s no-kill rule.

  “Gross,” I said, slightly unnerved by how much my brother was enjoying himself.

  He held a snail between a thumb and forefinger and dropped it on the ground.

  “You do it,” he commanded.

  I reached for his hand instead. “Come on, I have another job for you.”

  His eyes widened, and he bounced alongside me as I walked him toward the honey bus. There was about a foot and a half of clearance under the chassis. If we crawled underneath, we could hopefully find a rusted-out hole or some type of entry and maybe climb through to get inside the bus. I’d already tried pushing all the windows, and had inserted all manner of sticks and screwdrivers and butter knives inside the opening where the back door handle used to be, hoping to pop the lock. This was my last idea. I figured I’d need Matthew if we found an opening too small for me.