by Hal Ackerman
“You’re giving me too much credit. I’d like to keep Hollister out of trouble. And for my own curiosity find out why the owner of an orchard would buy empty boxes.”
“Okay. You shall find no more than you ask. Hollister’s been arrested. He’s in jail.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.”
“I just saw him!”
“Justice moves swiftly.”
“Don’t tell me he tried to kill that ranger.”
“Just about as stupid. He tried to liberate his equipment.”
“Well, there’s a sweet American irony for you. The guy who steals the stuff goes free. The guy it belongs to goes to jail.”
Spector shrugged a “that’s the way it goes” gesture that infuriated Stein.
“You’re going let him sit in jail?”
“What does it have to do with me? He stole because he was greedy and frustrated and impatient. He got caught because he was stupid.” He cut Stein off. “No, whatever you were going to say would be wrong. The sixties are over. People get what they deserve, not because they deserve.”
“This isn’t very enlightened of me, but I hope you get what you deserve.” With that as an exit line Stein headed for the door.
Henny wouldn’t give Stein the pleasure of sulking. He accompanied Stein to the door like he was a losing contestant on a quiz show that Henny was hosting. “I hate see anyone go away unhappy,” he said. “Do you have half an hour?”
“I don’t really. No.” He pressed the usual complement of wrong buttons to open Lila’s electronic door lock.
“I thought you might like to get Karma Moonblossom’s bees for him.”
Stein took a long time turning around to face him. “You have Karma Moonblossom’s bees?”
Henny made a gesture with his fingers that formed a triangle with a circle inside it.
“Why didn’t you tell me that half an hour ago?”
“There you go. Correcting peoples’ behavior. Do you want the bees?”
“Of course I want the bees.”
“All right then. Let’s go.”
Stein reacted suspiciously to the word “go.”
“Obviously these were special bees. They had to be housed in a special place.” Henny lowered the ramp of his truck, and rolled a winch and a forklift onto it.
“Wait a minute. You’re not thinking I’m going to take them. Nonono. I don’t have a truck. And second of all—second doesn’t even matter.”
“No truck, no prob.” Henny hit a remote that opened a gate, behind which was a gaggle of vehicular equipment. Backhoes, mini-tractors, and right out front, a small U-Haul. He glanced at the rear bumper of Lila’s Lexus. “Hook you right up. But hey, no skin if you can’t walk the talk. I just need to release them.”
Stein emitted a wordless sigh.
“These are really Karma Moonblossom’s bees?”
“Like you said. We’re both busy men. Call, fold, or raise.”
Stein opened the passenger door of Henny’s truck. “How far away is this place?”
“Not that far.”
***
The road followed a branch of the California Aqueduct, carrying water diverted from rivers hundreds of miles away. A few puffs of frayed cotton clouds reflected off the water’s tranquil surface. It was a perfect day to bask in sunshine and not even think about carcinoma. Bounding the road on the left, separated by a well-maintained fence, was an unending expanse of what Stein now recognized to be almond groves. The Family Farms, Inc. “Happy Face” logo was emblazoned under mile after mile of NO TRESPASSING signs.
“This is America’s disease,” Stein said, offering his terminal diagnosis. “Corporate farming.”
“Tragic. Next thing you know prices will come down, production will increase, and people will be able to afford to put food on their table.”
“I don’t want to eat corporate food.”
“There is no such thing as a corporate tree. A tree doesn’t know it belongs to Family Farms. It belongs to the sun and the earth and the water. To an outsider, and I used to be one, agriculture is all about politics or economics. To the people who live in it, it’s about the smell.” He stopped and opened his door. The warm baked scents of grass and clover, almond blossom and rich, loamy earth, insects, and their own skin wafted in. “Take a breath. That’s God’s abundance. What have you done to be helpful today?”
Henny had not stopped here just for the smell. There was a turnoff to an access road that continued into the orchard on the other side of a reinforced gate. The gate bore a sign enumerating many dire consequences of trespassing. Stein looked askance as Henny undid the chain.
“Are you sure about this?”
“That’s where the bees are at.”
Deeper into the vastness of the orchard they penetrated. The plethora of unending trees standing at uniform height, uniform distances apart, all awash in blossoms was driving Stein snow blind. Direction became meaningless. He could barely tell where the sun was coming from. They jounced over a rut and Stein’s head nearly banged against the roof.
“Easy.”
Stein did not feel easy. He had a sense they were being followed. But when he looked back he didn’t see anyone behind them.
“We all right?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t we be?”
“I thought you said it wasn’t too far. This seems far.”
Henny turned the engine off and let the truck glide to a stop. He pulled up the emergency brake and took the keys from the ignition. “You want out?”
“Easy, man. I’m just a rube from New York. All these trees are freaking me out.”
Stein could almost watch his answer filter down through a cross-section of Henny’s paranoid/schizo psyche—topsoil, gravel, sand, and silt—until it reached his mood control center where it luckily settled into a good slot. He retracted the keys from his shirt pocket, started the truck and they drove down deeper into the explosion of plenitude. Stein wished he could call Lila again and let her know he’d be late. He looked about the cab of Henny’s truck for evidence of a phone but there was none.
“Got to pee?”
“No …” Though he did, now that Henny mentioned it, have a lot of pressure in the bladder area.
“That’s surprising. Pomegranate’s a natural stimulant to the kidneys.”
They reached a small wooden trestle that spanned a four-foot-wide irrigation stream. It was a wooden walking bridge and clearly would not carry anything near the weight of the truck, even if it were wide enough to accommodate it. “I’ll assume we’re here,” Stein said with authentic camaraderie. But as he unlatched the door, Henny floored the engine and veered off the road. They jounced down the steep embankment. The front end hit the stream like a moose in rut.
“Hang tight,” Henny warned. Stein’s forehead bashed into the windshield, sending a flash of constellations whirling past him. “I told you to hang on.”
“Yeah.”
The rear wheels routered a pair of gullies into the soft earth as the truck tried to climb up the other side. It caught traction, mountain-goated up the embankment, bucked itself onto the road, shuddered like a golden retriever coming out of a lake, and settled. Stein was dismayed to see an amount of blood from his forehead.
Henny tossed him a rag from the side pocket. “Ain’t no thang but a chicken wing.” Henny grinned.
The road, such as it was, came abruptly to the end of itself in a pancreas-shaped cul-de-sac. “This is us,” Henny announced.
Stein wondered how the hell they were going to get back. He envisioned their driving in reverse through the long wooded lane. But with a series of confident back and forth maneuvers, Henny got the truck facing around the right way, plucked the key out and pulled up the brake. He tossed Stein a cloth that had not recently been sterilized and sprang into action. He had the tailgate down and wheeled the forklift down into place. He was surprisingly springy for someone who walked like he had multiple bone fractures.
A metal trunk had been installed against the back of the cab. Out if it, Henny grabbed a well-used bee suit and tossed it to Stein.
“Suit up!”
Stein took some pride in not appearing a complete novice. He got into the suit with some aplomb. Henny meanwhile rummaged through the trunk, spilling its contents out in an arc all around him. A few blankets, a Coleman stove, a propane lantern, a sleeping bag. “Hmm.” Stein heard him grunt. “Well, that’s poor planning.” Henny’s lips were mashed together as he looked down into the now empty recesses of the storage bin. A series of disaster scenarios hurtled past Stein’s inner eye like asteroids: No gas. No water. No brake fluid. A storm coming. Trapped here forever.
“Damn. I thought I had two suits.”
“It’s your suit. I’ll just wait in the cab.”
“Not a prob, amigo. I’m a professional.” He helped Stein’s arms into the sleeves, zippered up the front and Velcroed the face netting in place. He wheeled the forklift toward a narrow lane that broke between adjacent citrus trees and bade Stein follow.
“Is that where the bees are?” Stein asked.
“That’s where the bees are.”
Henny crumpled a square of burlap into a metal canister and lit it up. A small bellows blew smoke out its spout. It seemed a pitiful defense to Stein, safely in his HAZMAT armor and Henny all exposed. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Stein asked.
“We’re good!” Henry ducked his head under a protruding branch and shouldered his way forward. Stein followed. As he entered the grove, the thought belatedly occurred: What the fuck am I doing?
The spot Henny had chosen for the bees’ home was idyllic. Stein had never thought too heavily about what would constitute a desirable environment for bees, but this would have to be up there. They were off by themselves in a little glade. There was sunlight. There were wild flowers. The white rectangular boxes sat stacked in two regular columns that made them look like an altar.
In the shank of the afternoon, with the heat of the day rapidly dissipating, the worker bees were returning. The air was alive with motion. Stein was in their flight path. Many landed on the arms of his suit. On his back. On his face mask. He found himself eye-to-abdomen with the underside of a bee, half an inch from his face. The bee eyed Stein hexagonically. She wiped down her antennae, one then the other, then the first again. Stein felt his heart pounding. His chest was ready to rupture. He couldn’t breathe. His legs faltered and he backed away. “I can’t do this,” he gasped. “I have to wait in the truck.”
“Are you sure?”
“I should have told you. I’m horribly allergic.”
“I never would have guessed that.” Henny escorted him magnanimously back to the little patch of moss where the truck was parked. He helped Stein out of the bee suit and then zipped himself into it. He grabbed a Gatorade out of the cooler, shook it up, and tossed him the bottle. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
Stein took a small sip. Then a longer quaff. It was tangy and sweet. Not sugary but rich and loamy. “This is not Gatorade. What is it?”
“It’s mead.”
Stein didn’t think mead existed since the days of Robin Hood and evil Prince John. It crossed his mind momentarily to question why Henny would need the suit now if he didn’t before, but if it was available, why shouldn’t he wear it? Leaning back against a tree, Stein poured a little mead over his head and felt it run in sensuous droplets down his forehead and into the well of his ear and down his cheek. Its scent alone was intoxicating. A feeling of well-being washed away his anxiety like an animated TV commercial for pain relief. The word mead had a familiar ring to it. Something mead-ieval. Like flagons of ale. It was made out of something weird, right? What was that? It’s possible that he heard the buzzing but just tuned it out, or that he was in such a state of relaxed pleasure his mind did not bother to isolate the sound and give it a name. Oh yeah, it was honey. That’s what mead was. Fermented honey! He loved the feeling of relief and harmony when you can’t think of something and it suddenly hits you.
The first stinger penetrated the left side of his neck. It felt like he had been Tasered. He rocketed forward. The drink splashed the front of his shirt. The next stinger hit his cheek. He slapped at it. He waved his hands crazily as three, four, a dozen cohorts flew around him. A cluster of them were on his shirt where the drink had spilled. It seemed to be attracting them. He yanked at the shirt to get them off. One flew under and stabbed him in the chest alongside his heart. It was like a shot from a thirty-eight. He had to run. Now there were more. They sounded angry. They dove at him.
He got to his feet, stomping and waving at them. He screamed Henny’s name. One flew into his mouth. He felt the back of his throat explode in pain where he was stung on the soft esophageal tissue. The scream choked in his throat. He had inhaled the bee into his windpipe. He coughed and screamed and Heimliched himself. The bee carcass catapulted from his throat. Three more got him around his soft doughnut middle. He had to get to the truck. He ran in a blind panic. Grabbed the driver’s side door and pulled. It was locked. A whimper of terror emanated from his swollen throat. They were in his hair, stinging his scalp. Piercing into his brain. He smacked his head again and again to disperse them. He ran to the passenger side. That door, too, was locked. When did that happen? He didn’t remember locking it.
He was losing consciousness. The day was darkening. He couldn’t put thoughts together. He rolled himself onto the flatbed, crunching bees under his weight as he rolled to the storage bin. Rising to his knees, he managed to lift up the lid and topple inside, pulling the door closed with his last strength. He could not breathe. He could not scream. The last image he saw was a veiled figure standing at the edge of the clearing, shrouded by fecund citrus trees. The canister the figure held sent puffs of smoke wafting up all around him, an emissary who had emerged through a crevasse in the earth from hell.
Chapter Thirteen
Angie was pissed that her father had not returned by dinner time. It was a matter of pride that she would never betray any evidence of missing him. She enjoyed affecting indifference at his absence, to the extent of pretending not to notice that he had been gone. She enjoyed having that power. She had always viewed her growing up from a fixed perspective, as her molting away from her parents, blasting into her own glorious orbit, giving off a brilliant incandescence in whose heat and light they might luckily bask. She had never considered that her father might be subject to any conflicting gravitational pull.
Matthew was gone. His mother had discovered his little charade and had summoned him for a command appearance. So Lila and Angie were alone. Lila’s voice got high and flitty, as it often did when she was nervous. She swilled down the last quarter glass of red wine and offered to pour one for Angie.
“My dad might not be too happy with your getting me plastered.”
“Oh, I’m guessing this wouldn’t be your introduction to red wine,” Lila trilled. “Finding your pot stash in the heating vent freaked him out.”
“He should talk.”
“It’s different when you’re a parent.”
“It gives you the right to be a hypocrite?”
Lila had to laugh. “That’s exactly what it does. No, not the right—the necessity.”
“So where is he?” Angie finally blurted out.
Not that he had considered the mission he was on dangerous, but he saw his parental role as being an external kidney whose job it was to filter life’s troubles away from his child. So he had invested Lila with the task of not giving Angie any reason for alarm, to be vague about his whereabouts and the mission that had summoned him.
Prevarication and mendacity were not among Lila’s well-developed assets, and had the opposite effect of provoking further questions and doubts, rather than dispelling them. Angie’s succession of responses to Lila’s evasions began at slightly annoyed: “I’m sorry, did you just say you don’t know?” Then moved to argumentative: “I’m not interrogating you. I am simply attemptin
g to acquire the information of my father’s whereabouts. Information you are inexplicably withholding from me.” Then to combative: “Do you expect me to believe you actually don’t know where he is?” And over the line, to insulting: “If you don’t really know he might not consider you important enough to be told.”
The last one drove Lila from the table feeling abandoned by all of those to whom she had given love and shelter. It did not take Angie long to regret the outburst. She knew she needed to make it right, but was unschooled at the technique of apology. The experience of watching her parents’ arguments and their aftermath had taught her more about one-upmanship than forgiveness. The admission of being wrong was tantamount to abject surrender.
She called her friend Alyssa for advice on how to unmuddle the situation. Alyssa’s parents were not divorced, but the running joke was that they should be. Her father was a violin virtuoso and flagrant womanizer; her mother had a voice that could scrape the varnish off a coffee table. She gave Angie good sage advice on what to say to Lila. But unpracticed as she was, Angie was reluctant to risk it without a buffer/translator present who could shepherd Lila around the chasms of her insecurities and who would shoulder Angie away from her snide, superior sarcasm.
She did not sleep well that night, awakening several times to check her cell phone for a message from her father and finding none. She finally nodded off around five and slept deeply until ten. When she came down to the dining room Lila was not alone. Matt was there and a man in his mid-forties, with white hair and lively blue eyes. His suit jacket was off but his tie and dress shirt were crisp.
“Hi,” Matt said.
“Hi back at you. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The visitor bore the confident smile of a man used to holding the high card in the hole.
Fearing he was there with bad tidings, Angie blurted out, “Are you with the police?”
“This is my make-believe uncle, Richard,” Matt said. “He and my father were best friends.”
“This is Angie Stein,” said Lila.
Angie was afraid to look at her.