A Recipe for Bees

by Gail Anderson-Dargatz

  “Mom?” said Augusta. “Mom!” She ran around to the door and scrambled inside, but there was no one there. Just the many empty hive boxes, and all her mother’s equipment. Augusta sat on a stack of hive boxes and hugged herself. “Mom?” A few lambs bleated in the barn, the sound so muffled by fog that they seemed to be a great distance away. She looked around at the equipment in the dim light, then stood to inspect the extractor, the bottles, the boxes themselves. Except for a layer of dust they were all in good shape. The boxes only needed a few nails and a fresh layer of paint.

  • • •

  “I’d like twenty dollars,” said Augusta.

  “Twenty? What for?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “You know we’re low on money.”

  “You were willing to give Sara McKay money; I think you can spare me a little.”

  “All right, all right. But I’d like to know what it’s for.”

  “Bees,” said Augusta.

  Joy looked up from her plate. “Bees?”

  The bees came in the mail, buzzing away in a wood-framed screened box. Honey was popular again, as everyone was suddenly concerned about eating natural things, wholesome things, when all through the fifties it had been sugar they’d wanted. She could get as much as thirty pounds of honey off each hive at first harvest, and she’d put the honey in bottles with pretty labels. It wouldn’t be that much extra work. A beekeeper needed to make only eight or ten visits to each hive a year, checking for problems like raiding by other bees or wasps, covering the hives come winter, feeding sugar-water syrup to help them along, examining the hive to see that the queen was alive and well and that there was lots of brood, and adding supers as the hive grew. If she didn’t give the bees enough room, half the hive would turn emigrant on her and swarm off to find a new home. But if she could catch swarms from wild hives, or swarms that had taken off from other beekeepers, early enough in the year she could put them into new hives. The swarm, like immigrants, would be much more productive than the established hives.

  Augusta had Joy help her retrieve Helen’s hive from the honey house. It was relatively easy, just a matter of climbing into the attic and cutting the combs down one by one. But the bees were more active this time of year, and they didn’t take kindly to having their home moved. Augusta dressed Joy in overalls, gloves, and a bee veil, and had her stand at the base of the ladder as Augusta handed down honeycombs to her. Joy then put the combs in bee boxes that Augusta had made ready. All was going well until a few bees made their way inside Joy’s veil and she ran off shrieking, trying to yank the veil off. Augusta climbed down the ladder and ran after her, trying to get her to stop, but she couldn’t keep up with her. Finally she stopped and watched Joy run around. Joy eventually ran back to Augusta, with one glove off and the veil half off her face. Augusta calmly removed the veil and inspected the few stings the girl had received on her face. She took her into the house and put a poultice of baking soda and water on the stings.

  “If you don’t panic, they usually don’t sting even when they get inside the veil,” she said.

  “I hate bees. I’m never helping you again.”

  “Oh, come on. Do the stings hurt any more?”

  “No.”

  “When you’re thrown, the thing to do is get right back on the horse,” said Augusta. She took Joy’s hand and led her back outside.

  “Where are we going? I don’t want to go near those bees again.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re not going there.”

  “Where then?”

  “You’ll see.” Augusta led her around back of the barn, where one of Helen’s old hives had built a home inside the barn walls. It had grown over the years and had swarmed many times. There was a swarm now that had landed in a clump only a few feet from the original colony. It clung to the wall at about shoulder height. Joy stood back, but Augusta reached up and ran her hand over the bodies of the bees, petting them as her mother had. A few bees flew off and hovered around her, but none seemed interested in attacking. “Come, try it,” said Augusta.

  Joy tentatively held out a hand, touched the ball of bees, then quickly pulled away. “Slowly,” said Augusta. “Like this.” She showed her again, and Joy followed her example, grinning at the wonder of it.

  In late April, Augusta drove from farm to farm in the valley, putting out the word that she’d give ten pounds of honey at fall harvest to anyone who alerted her to a swarm she could capture. When there was a dramatic change in the weather, from a cold winter to an early, warm spring, as there had been that year, hives were sure to swarm in May. The only farm she didn’t stop at was Sara McKay’s. (Sara had worked only a month for the old fellow in Kamloops before she was back with her husband on the farm.) Augusta left her name at the police and fire stations too, in case they got a panicked call from somebody in town about a swarm. It was good thinking on her part, because she ended up with twice as many hives from swarms as from the mailorder bees.

  Most swarms landed on bushes or the limbs of trees in one big clump. All she had to do was carefully cut the branch away with pruning shears and shake the bees, like so many tiny dried leaves, into a burlap bag. She tied the bag tight and drove home with the bag of bees buzzing away in the back seat of the car. Once home, she simply spilled the bees at the entrance to a stack of empty supers—the bee boxes—and the bees, attracted to the smell of honeycomb on the frames inside, quickly ran into the hive by themselves. Occasionally the swarm landed on the ground and she had to scoop the bees up with her hands. If they were calm enough, she often went without gloves. A handful of bees felt for all the world like a handful of warm black currants, and when she gently dropped the handful into the burlap bag a few still clung to her hand. Bees always walked uphill. They walked the length of her sleeve, up to her shoulder, before flying to rejoin their sisters in the bag or on the ground.

  She found beekeeping meditative, relaxing. It was work that involved her completely; she lost herself in the concentration required to handle the bees, and soon learned that if she entered into the work fearful or upset, the bees would smell it on her, and read it in her suddenly clumsy actions, and sting her. But if she worked in a calm manner, keeping her movements slow and deliberate, she was stung much less frequently.

  That first summer of beekeeping, she collected a hive from Mrs. Grafton’s barn. It wasn’t a swarm, but a hive that had made a home for itself between the studs inside the walls. Protected by a bee veil and overalls and wearing Karl’s work gloves, Augusta took a crowbar to the siding of the barn and opened the hive to the sky, then pulled the honey and brood comb from the wall with her hands, only using the knife to loosen the comb from the wall. She put the comb into the boxes she’d brought with her, covered them, and left the new hive by the barn for a week, so bees out foraging when she had collected the colony would make it their home.

  When she returned for the hive it was late evening. Martha Rivers was visiting her mother. She came out as soon as she saw Augusta in the yard. She was looking a little tired, but was still a handsome woman. “Come in for a visit?” she said. “I see you at church, but then we never get a chance to talk after.”

  “It’s getting pretty late. I’d like to get these guys set up tonight.”

  “So you’re starting up the beekeeping, I hear.”

  “Yes.”

  “Using your mother’s equipment?”

  “Haven’t had to buy anything but the bees and foundation.”

  “Well, you’ve got your first customer.”

  “You’ll buy my honey?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I’ll give you five pounds free if you find me a hive to capture.”

  “I thought you promised my mother ten.”

  “All right then. Ten.”

  “It’s a deal.” Martha offered her hand and grinned.

  Augusta hesitated and then shook it. “I should get going,” she said, and squatted to lift the super containing her new hive.

>   “Here, let me help.”

  “You could get stung.”

  “Nah. What if I do?”

  Together the two women loaded the hive onto the back of the International. “Look, no stings,” said Martha.

  Augusta got into the truck and waved her thanks. “Don’t be such a stranger, eh?” Martha called out as she drove off. Augusta looked back at her in the truck mirror. Overtures of friendship from Martha Rivers, of all people. But unexpected friendships jumped up everywhere that summer she went into bees. When she went round asking about swarms, she was invited into kitchens by farm wives who, she discovered, were as lonely as she had been. And when she went round again selling that first harvest of honey, she found the women not only willing to buy her pretty jars but hungry for conversation too. She could count on at least an hour’s visit for each farm she stopped at. More often it was two. When she visited Mrs. Grafton’s farm it was three hours before she left, whether Martha Rivers was there or not. She’d been suspicious of Martha during those first few visits, scared she’d bring up the past. But Martha was on to other gossip, other women’s affairs, other women’s misdeeds, and Augusta found herself caught up in the gossip, revelling in it, passing it on. All those years she had thought that she was the only one starving for companionship, that somehow the town’s talk over Helen’s death and Joy’s birth had marked her as an outcast no one would welcome into her kitchen. But now it seemed that much of that had been forgotten or, if not forgotten, put aside. It was that summer that Augusta and Karl finally got a phone on their place; they were the last in the valley to get one.

  The society of other women was a side benefit she had never guessed would come of beekeeping. Or maybe it wasn’t a side benefit at all; maybe it was the point. Maybe it was conversation, more than independence, that had driven Helen to sell honey hand to hand all those years ago, and maybe company, not charity, had been the reason she carried syrup cans of stew to Mrs. Grafton.

  Rose and Karl dozed in their chairs. Augusta sat with them, watching Rose sleep. Rose’s face was relaxed. Her cloud of white hair, pushed up against the chair back, formed a nimbus around her head. She could be a decrepit angel, Augusta thought, wings tattered from too many years of good deeds, grumbling and complaining as she lent a hand. She wished she could tell Rose about the dream premonition she’d had on the train that day; she needed to talk about it, to work it out. But she knew she couldn’t. Its meaning was as plain as the fore-warning Augusta had had of her own mother’s death. It would scare Rose, just as it scared Augusta. Would she die today or tomorrow, she wondered, or would it be a year, two years, five years from now? She felt suddenly alone, with both Rose and Karl sleeping. She shook Rose’s knee and Rose startled awake. “What? Did the phone ring?”

  “No. No. I remembered that I hadn’t told you about the boys on the train.”

  Rose yawned. “Couldn’t it have waited?”

  Augusta took another cookie from the plate on the coffee table. “Remember how we stopped that kid who tried to steal your purse?” A boy on a skateboard had scooted behind Augusta and Rose that past spring as they walked along the street in broad daylight, and grabbed Rose’s purse by the shoulder strap. But she and Rose had been quick-thinking. Rose felt the tug on her purse strap and clutched it, so the boy had to stop and try to wrestle the purse out of her hand. That gave Augusta enough time to hook him behind the knee with her cane—just as Karl had once caught sheep by the leg with his crook. She gave one good yank and the boy lost his balance and down he went, losing his grip on Rose’s handbag. He scrambled up and took off, but without the purse. That afternoon Rose and Augusta got pink and tiddly on a sweet, bubbly wine.

  Rose laughed. “Yeah. Grannies’ revenge!”

  “Well, I got revenge again today. There was a boy smoking on the train and I gave him heck.”

  “He quit?”

  “You bet he quit. I threatened him with my cane!”

  Rose laughed but didn’t press Augusta for details. She stretched and yawned and closed her eyes. In a few moments she was snoring her own particular snore, a low whistle that vibrated her bottom lip. Just as well, thought Augusta. Rose wouldn’t have liked hearing about Esther again.

  The train was a dayliner, two cars long. The seats were upholstered with red striped fabric. There were “No Smoking” stickers everywhere and yet the car smelled deeply of stale smoke.

  The boys who had sniggered at Esther sat in seats that faced each other, like those Augusta and Esther sat in. She could see their gestures, their laughing faces when they turned, but because of the noise of the train she couldn’t hear their conversation. One boy had on the most ludicrous hat she had ever seen. It was made of fleece but was shaped like a crown, like that cartoon character Jughead’s hat. In her mind she called him that: Jughead. The other boy wore a hat that looked for all the world like an old sock. She christened him Sockhead. She gave the third boy the name Spitter because he chewed sunflower seeds and every few moments he spit the shells onto the aisle floor. He had the jittery, jackrabbit moves of a person trying to quit smoking; every few minutes he smelled the yellowed tips of his index- and forefinger.

  Augusta had been sleeping when the train horn sounded several times, startling her awake and leaving her ears ringing. Then the train lurched to a stop, sending her cane clattering to the floor. The Spitter stood and looked out the window. “Hey, wildlife!” he said. The other two boys stood to take a look, and they all laughed. A deer? What wildlife? Augusta gripped the arm of her seat and heaved herself up. Esther bent over to retrieve Augusta’s cane, and together they made their way to the other side of the train. There was no deer, no wildlife by the tracks. A young, drunk Indian man stumbled along beside the train, slapping the car with his hands as he might slap to get a horse moving. Jughead pretended he had a rifle and was shooting the man. “Let’s go hunting, eh?” he said, and they all laughed again.

  Didn’t they see that Esther was Indian, she wondered. How could they be so crass? She thought Esther might turn on the three—she had every right to—but she didn’t. She watched with Augusta as the frizzy-haired conductor jumped down from the first car and talked to the drunk man. “I lost a son like that,” she said.

  The drunk man stumbled back, away from the tracks, as the conductor pulled himself up into the first car. Augusta and Esther held onto the seats to steady themselves as the train began to move again. Augusta instinctively raised her arm as the man fell so close to the tracks that she thought the train was going to hit him. The train sped on and the drunk man crumpled beside the tracks disappeared behind a forest of arbutus and blackberry bramble. Augusta and Esther returned to their seats and sat heavily. Esther slipped her glasses down to rest on her chin, and rubbed her eyes.

  “You said you lost a son,” said Augusta.

  “Well, he wasn’t a true son. I didn’t give birth to him. But he was like a son, my nephew. He was my little sister’s boy. She died when he was, oh, fifteen, so I took him over. But he was already gone by then, wild and drinking. He killed himself like that, on purpose. Got drunk and walked right in front of a train.”

  “We should have got off, maybe.”

  “Yeah, two old women with bum hips fighting a drunk man. Why didn’t these three strong huskies here stop to help?” Augusta looked away, at the boys. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Young punks. No regard for anyone but themselves. They were young Percy Martins, the lot of them. Spitter pulled out a cigarette and lit it. How dare he? Augusta grabbed hold of her cane and banged it against the floor of the aisle. “You!” she said, surprising herself. “You put that cigarette out!”

  The boy exchanged a look with his companions. Sockhead poked his head over the seat to glance at Augusta, then turned back. She hoisted herself up and steadied herself against the seat, and Spitter pointed his chin at her and blew smoke into the air. “Put it out!” she said. He took another drag and stared out the window in defiance. Sockhead and Jughead were watching Augusta no
w, along with the other passengers. She clung to the backs of the seats and made her way to them. As she reached them she lifted her cane over their heads and pointed at a “No Smoking” sign over their window. “Don’t you see the signs?”

  The Spitter said, “What’s it to you?”

  Augusta pounded her cane hard on the floor between their feet. The three of them flinched. “Put it out now or so help me God I’ll smack it out of your face.”

  Jughead said, “Put it out, man. You can smoke later.”

  “Old bitch can’t tell us what to do,” Spitter said quietly.

  “What?” said Augusta.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Sockhead said to Spitter. “You don’t smoke if it’s bugging somebody else. Get some manners.”

  Spitter said, “Fuck!” but he tossed the lit cigarette to the train floor between their feet and put his foot to it. He crossed his arms and stared out the window.

  “Thank you,” said Augusta.

  Sockhead said, “Sorry about that.”

  Augusta nodded at him and made her way back down the aisle. She caught Esther grinning at her as she lowered herself into the seat, and laughed at her own improbable behaviour. Although she could smell the fear on herself—she was sweating in it—it felt good to give those young goats heck. She felt triumphant. And silly. She suddenly had to use the washroom.

  Augusta washed her hands and looked into her bathroom mirror. She’d developed a cold sore over the course of the day, a reminder of the stress of the last three weeks. She pressed a finger to the sore as she passed Rose and Karl sleeping in their chairs, and made her way to the kitchen. There she spooned a little honey from the jar and dabbed it on her lip. It soothed and coated the hurt, a sticky kiss. It was the antiseptic ointment of past ages, the salve warriors had taken into battle to heal their wounds. The ancients used it to embalm. They immersed the bodies of infants who had died during birth in vats of honey, preserving their bodies for all eternity. She would like to be buried that way, encased in honey, like the bee suspended in amber that she carried in her purse.