The History of Bees

by Maja Lunde

  “No . . .” I struggled against the cowed ten-year-old inside of me, tried to remain calm, but noticed that I was shaking. When I finally managed to speak again my voice was high-pitched and forced. “I would very much like to continue with my research. But it’s just that . . . as you, professor, can probably understand . . . there isn’t enough time.”

  “What do you want me to say? That it’s completely acceptable?” He stood up. “Acceptable that you can’t find the time?” He stood there on the floor in front of me, moved a few steps closer, grew, became large and dark. “Acceptable that you still haven’t finished writing a single research article? Acceptable that your bookshelves are full of unread books? Acceptable that I’ve spent all this time on you and you still haven’t achieved more in life than a mediocre boar?”

  The last word hung quivering in the air between us.

  A boar. That’s what I was to him. A boar.

  A weak protest rose inside me. Had he really spent that much time on me, or had I first and foremost been a henchman for his projects? Because that was perhaps what he actually wanted, that I should inherit his research, keep it alive. Keep him alive. But I swallowed my words.

  “That’s what you want to hear? Right?” he said, with eyes as empty as the amphibians’ who were staring at us from the glass tanks. “That that’s how life is? One reproduces, has offspring, one instinctively puts their needs first, they are mouths to feed, one becomes a provider, the intellect steps aside to make way for nature. It’s not your fault. And it’s still not too late.” He stared at me until it hurt. “That’s what you want to hear? That it’s still not too late? That your time will come?” Then he laughed suddenly. A small, hard laugh without joy, but full of scorn. It was brief, but it remained inside me. He fell silent, but did not wait for my answer, knew that I wouldn’t have the strength to say anything. He just walked to the door and opened it. “Unfortunately I must ask you to leave. I have work to do.”

  He left me without saying good-bye, let the housekeeper show me out. I wandered back to my books but didn’t take any out. I couldn’t even bear to look at them, just crept into bed and stayed there, stayed here, while my books accumulated dust. All of the texts I’d once wanted to read and understand.

  They were still there, in disarray on the shelves, some with the spine further out than others, like an uneven row of teeth on the shelf. I wrenched myself away from them, could not stand seeing them. Charlotte lifted her head, became aware that I was awake and quickly put down the book.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  She got up, found a mug of water and held it out to me.

  I turned my head away.

  “No.” I heard the severity in my voice and hastened to add, “Thank you.”

  “Do you want anything else? The doctor said—”

  “Nothing.”

  She looked at me closely, as if she were studying me.

  “You look better. More alert.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Really. I mean it.” She smiled. “At least you answer.”

  I refrained from saying anything else, as any further speech on my part would only reinforce the impression of restored health. Instead I let the silence confirm the opposite, and my gaze slide away, as if I no longer noticed her.

  But she did not give up, just remained standing by my bedside, holding one hand in the other, wringing them a little and releasing them again, until she finally came out with what was clearly weighing on her heart.

  “Has God abandoned you, Father?”

  Imagine if it were that simple, if it had something to do with Our Lord. To lose one’s faith, for that there was a simple remedy: find it again. When I was a student I had immersed myself in the Bible. I always had it at my side, and I took it to bed with me every evening. I kept searching for the connection between it and my field, between the small wonders in nature and the big words on paper. I lingered especially over the writings of Paul the Apostle. I can’t count the number of hours I’d sat studying Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, because so many of his fundamental ideas are found in this, it was the closest one that came to a theology according to St. Paul. And having been freed from sin, you became slaves of righteousness. What did that mean? That he who is captive is perhaps the only one who is truly free? Doing the right thing can be a prison, a form of captivity, but we had been shown the way. Why didn’t we manage it, then? Not even in meeting with His creation did human beings succeed in doing the right thing.

  I never found the answer and I took out the little black volume more and more seldom. It gathered dust on the shelf, along with the others. What was I going to say now? That this, my so-called sickbed, was far too banal and vile to have anything to do with Him? That its core was to be found solely within me, in my choices, in the life I had lived?

  No. Perhaps another day, but not now. So I refrained from answering her, only shook my head feebly and pretended to fall asleep.

  She sat with me until peace descended upon the house below us. I listened to the pages being turned, she read quickly, the soft sound of muslin moving when she now and then changed position. She was apparently chained to the books, just as I was chained to the bed, even though she was wise enough to know better. Book learning was a waste of time for her; she would never have use for the knowledge anyway, simply because she was a daughter and not a son.

  But all of a sudden she was interrupted. The door opened. Rapid footsteps stomped across the floor.

  “Is this where you’re sitting?” Thilda’s stern voice, and without a doubt her equally stern gaze upon Charlotte. “It’s bedtime,” she continued, as if the information in itself were a command. “You have to do the dishes from supper. And Edmund has a headache, so I want you to put on some tea water for him.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  I could hear Charlotte’s feet against the floor as she stood up and the sound of the book being put down on the sideboard. Her light footsteps moving towards the door.

  “Good night, Father.”

  Then she disappeared. Her serenity was replaced by Thilda’s brisk steps. She walked over to the stove and with loud, brusque movements she put in more coal. She did it herself now; the maidservant had long since been obliged to find other work, and now Thilda suffered daily over having to take care of the heating herself, a suffering she did very little to conceal. She emphasized it rather, by accompanying all of her movements with sighs and groans.

  When she finally finished, she just stood there. But I had only a moment of silence before her perpetual orchestra started up. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know that she was standing down by the warmth of the stove, allowing her tears to flow freely. I had seen it a number of times before and there was no mistaking the sound. The crackling of the coal accompanied her tirade. I squirmed, laid my ear against the pillow in an effort to muffle the sound, but without any particular success.

  A minute passed. Two. Three.

  Then she finally relented and concluded her lamentation with a powerful blowing of her nose. She probably understood that she wasn’t getting anywhere today, either. The mucus warmed by her body flowed out of her, with loud, almost mechanical snorting sounds. She was always like this, so well lubricated, whether she cried or not. Except for down there. There it was woefully dry and cold. And all the same she had given me eight children.

  I pulled the blanket over my head, wanted to shut out the sound.

  “William,” she said sharply. “I can see that you’re not sleeping.”

  I tried to keep my breathing quiet.

  “I can see it.”

  Louder now, but no reason to move.

  “You have to hear this.” She took an extra deep sniff. “I’ve been forced to let Alberta go. Now the shop is empty. I’ve been obliged to close.”

  What? I couldn’t keep myself from turning over. The shop closed? Empty. Dark. The shop that was supposed to provide for all of my children?

  She must have noticed my
movement, because now she drew closer. “I had to ask the shopkeeper for credit today.” Her voice still choked with tears, as if she might at any minute start honking again. “The entire purchase was put on credit. And he stared at me so, with pity. But said nothing. He is a gentleman, after all.”

  The last words were swallowed by a whimper.

  A gentleman. Unlike yours truly. Who probably did not incite any great admiration from the surrounding world, and especially not from my wife, where I lay, without a hat and cane, monocle or manners. Yes, imagine; I had such bad manners that I was leaving my entire family high and dry. And now the circumstances had grown dramatically worse. The shop was closed, my family would not manage without me for long, although it was wholly necessary for them all that the daily operations continued. Because it was the seeds, the spices and the flower bulbs that put food on the table for all of them.

  I ought to get up, but could not manage it, no longer knew how. The bed paralyzed me.

  And Thilda, too, gave up on me today. She inhaled vigorously, a deep, trembling sigh. Then she blew her nose one last time, probably to make sure that every single little drop of mucus had left the ear, nose and throat region.

  The mattress complained when she lay down. That she could bear to share a bed with my sweaty, unwashed limbs was more than I could fathom. It essentially said everything about how headstrong she was.

  Slowly her respiration grew calmer; finally it was heavy and deep, a credible sleep-induced breathing, wholly unlike my own.

  I turned over. The light from the masonry stove rippled across her face, her long braids lay on the pillow, released from the tight intricate bun on the back of her head, her upper lip covered her lower lip and gave her a dogged look, like an old toothless woman. I lay there and observed her, tried to find my way back to what I had once loved, and what I had once desired, but sleep overcame me before it happened.

  GEORGE

  Emma was right about the snow. By the next day it was already melting all over the place, running and trickling so you couldn’t hear anything else. And the hot sun beat down on the boards of the house, bleaching out the color on the south wall a little more. The temperature crept steadily upwards, growing warm enough for the bees’ mass defecation flight. They are clean creatures and won’t relieve themselves in the hive. But when the sun is finally beating down, they fly out and empty their bowels. I had actually hoped for this, that the winter would release its grip now while Tom was home. Because then he could come along out to the hives and clean the bottom boards. I had even given Jimmy and Rick the day off, so Tom and I could have the chance to work alone. But as it turned out we didn’t go until Thursday, just three days before he had to go back.

  It had been a quiet week. We walked in circles around each other, he and I. Emma stayed between us, laughing and chatting as usual. She was clearly putting her heart into finding food that suited Tom, because there was no end to the number of fish meals she conjured up, how much “exciting” and “delicious” fish they had suddenly acquired in the frozen goods section at the store. And Tom, he bowed and scraped in thanks, was so pleased about “all the good food.”

  When yet another fish meal had been consumed, he usually remained seated at the kitchen table. He read alarmingly thick books, tapped away feverishly on the computer or was completely consumed by some Japanese crossword puzzle thing he called sudoku. It apparently didn’t occur to him that he could move somewhere else, that outside the day was suddenly flooded with sunshine, as if somebody had put in a more powerful lightbulb.

  I found things to do, of course, I knew how to stay busy, too. One day I even drove to Autumn and bought house paint. As I stood there painting the south wall, I could feel how the sun scorched the back of my head. And I knew that we could take the chance on a trip out to the hives. I didn’t really need to clean the bottom boards just yet, but it was the last chance for Tom, so it wouldn’t hurt to start with a few hives. The bees had already been out for a while; they gathered pollen when the sun was shining. He used to enjoy this. He always used to go out with me. Jimmy and I cleaned the flight holes a few times in the course of the winter, but apart from that we left the bees alone, so it was always a special occasion when we were out among the hives for the first time. Seeing the bees again, the familiar buzzing, that was a joyful get-together, like a real reunion celebration.

  “I need help with the bottom boards,” I said.

  I was already dressed to go out; I stood there in my rubber boots and overalls, in the middle of the room. My legs were restless, I was looking forward to this. I had folded the veil up, I could see better like that. I had taken out extra gear, too, held it out with both hands.

  “Already?” he asked and didn’t look up. He was slower than molasses. Just sat there all pale in the glow of the laptop with his fingers on the keyboard.

  I suddenly noticed how I was holding the suit and veil out a bit too far, as if I was going to give him a gift he didn’t want. I pushed both under my arm and put my other hand on my hip.

  “It’s rotting underneath them. You know that. Nobody likes living in muck. You wouldn’t, either, even though student dorm rooms aren’t exactly known for being the cleanest.”

  I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a croak. One of my hands was also at an odd angle. I removed it from my hip. It remained dangling idly at my side. I scratched my forehead just to give it something to do.

  “But you usually wait a couple more weeks,” he said.

  He looked up now. My boy’s eyes stared at me.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Dad . . .”

  He saw that I was lying. Looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

  “It’s warm enough,” I hastened to say. “And we’ll only take a few. You’ll be spared the rest. I’ll take care of them with Jimmy and Rick next week.”

  I tried handing him the suit and hat again, but he didn’t accept them. He basically gave no sign of moving, just nodded at his computer.

  “I’m in the middle of an assignment for school.”

  “Aren’t you on vacation?” I put the gear in front of him on the table. Tried to stare at him firmly, let my eyes say that he’d better help out now that he had finally decided he could be bothered to pay us a visit. “See you outside in five minutes.”

  We had 324 hives. 324 queens, each with her own colony, located throughout the area in different places, rarely more than 20 in each place. If we’d lived in another state, we could have had up to 70 hives in one site. I knew a beekeeper in Montana, he had gathered close to 100 in the same place. The region was so fertile that the bees only had to fly a few yards to find everything they needed. But here, in Ohio, the agriculture wasn’t diversified enough. Mile after mile of corn and soybeans. Too little access to nectar, not enough for the bees to live on.

  Emma had painted the hives, all of them, over the years, the color of candies. Pink, turquoise, light yellow and a kind of greenish pistachio color, as artificial as sweets full of additives. She thought it looked festive. For my own part they could just as well have been white, like before. My father had always painted them white and his father and grandfather before him. They used to say that it was the inside that counted—not the color. But Emma thought the bees liked them this way, that it made it more personal. Who knows, maybe she was right. And I had to admit that the sight of the colored hives scattered across the landscape, as if a giant had dropped his sweets, always gave me a warm feeling inside.

  We started on the meadow between the Menton farm, the main road and the narrow Alabast River, which, despite its fancy name, this far south wasn’t much more than a riverbed. Here I had assembled the majority. Twenty-six bee colonies. We started on a shocking-pink hive. It was helpful that there were two of us. Tom lifted the box while I changed the board. Removed the old one, which was full of debris and dead bees from the winter, and put in a new, clean one. We had invested in modern bottom boards with screens and removable ventilated pollen trays l
ast year. It had been expensive, but it was worth it. The air circulation improved and the cleaning was simpler. Most beekeepers operating on this scale had dropped changing the bottom boards at this time, but I didn’t believe in letting things take their own course. My bees were going to thrive.

  A lot of debris had collected on the bottom board in the course of the winter, but otherwise everything looked good. We were fortunate, the bees stayed calm, few flew up. It was good to see Tom out here. He worked skillfully and quickly, was back where he belonged. Sometimes he wanted to bend his back, but I stopped him.

  “Lift with your legs.” I knew several people who had ended up with slipped discs and spasms and no end of back troubles because they had been lifting wrong. And Tom’s back would have to last for many years, withstand thousands of lifts. We kept working without a break until lunchtime. We didn’t say much, just a few words, and only about the work. “Hold on here, like that, good.” I kept waiting for him to ask for a break, but he didn’t mention it. And as the hour approached 11:30, my stomach was growling, so I was the one who suggested a bite to eat.

  We sat on the edge of the flatbed and dangled our legs. I had brought along a thermos full of coffee and some sandwiches. The peanut butter had been absorbed by the spongy bread and the slices were sticky but it’s incredible how good everything tastes when the air is fresh and you’re working outdoors. Tom said nothing. He was definitely not one for small talk, this son of mine. But if that was his preference, it was fine by me. I’d gotten him out here, that was the most important thing. I just hoped that he was enjoying it a little and felt it was good to be here again.

  I finished eating and jumped down onto the ground to work again, but Tom was still toiling away. He took baby-size bites and stared intently at the sandwich, as if there were something wrong with it.

  And then suddenly he came out with it.

  “I have a very good English teacher.”

  “Is that right,” I said and stopped. I tried to smile, even though there was something about the way he said this completely ordinary thing that gave me a lump in my stomach. “That’s good.”