The History of Bees

by Maja Lunde

  The college buildings were of red brick—of course they were, all schools are made of red brick—and even though the college wasn’t particularly old, it was built to seem venerable, tall and wide, paned windows with white frames, was probably supposed to remind you of Harvard, or one of those places. Command respect. But it didn’t scare me.

  I hadn’t been to this place since we’d brought Tom here in the autumn of last year. Set him up in a tiny room he would share with a short, bespectacled Japanese boy. The room smelled of dirty socks and hormones. Poor guys, there wasn’t anywhere you could be alone. But that was apparently part of the deal.

  I hurried in, passing a long row of brass plaques for the college’s benefactors. Green’s Apiaries luckily wasn’t among them. There were various display cases containing trophies the college’s students had won in various senseless competitions, along with portraits of bad-tempered college deans. Men, all of them. There weren’t that many—the college was built in the 1970s and couldn’t boast of a particularly long history.

  I came out into a large round room with a marble floor against which the sound of my footsteps echoed from wall to wall. I started tiptoeing, but then stopped myself. I had nothing to apologize for. I paid Tom’s tuition, it wasn’t exactly as if I didn’t belong here. In a sense I was actually a co-owner of this college.

  I asked for Tom. Loud and clear. Without any preamble. The guy at the counter was lean and had dreadlocks, sat with his head submerged in the computer screen. He checked a register without gracing me with so much as a glance.

  “He has a free period now,” he said.

  He continued tapping away on the computer, playing some game, probably, in the middle of the working day.

  “It’s urgent,” I said.

  He grunted. Doing his job was apparently not at the top of his list of priorities.

  “Try the library.”

  Tom sat bent over some books, speaking quietly with two others. A brunette, quite pretty, but wearing sad-looking clothes, and a guy with glasses. They were clearly deep in conversation, mumbling intensely, because he didn’t notice me until I was standing almost right on top of him.

  “Dad?”

  He said it softly, apparently here in knowledge’s stronghold using your voice was not allowed.

  The other two also looked up. Both with expressions as if I were a buzzing fly that had flown in here by mistake.

  I thought he’d be alone, for some reason, just sitting here and waiting for me, but he was living a life of his own, with people I knew nothing about.

  I raised my hand in a feeble greeting.

  “Howdy, partner.”

  I kicked myself immediately. Howdy, partner? Nobody says that.

  “You’re here?” he said.

  “Darn tootin’.” This was just getting worse. Darn tootin’? I couldn’t think straight. Guess what I’d planned to say would have to wait.

  “Is something wrong?” He jumped to his feet. “Is something wrong with Mom?”

  “No, no. Mom is as fit as a fiddle. Ha-ha.”

  Good Lord. I’d better just keep my mouth shut.

  He took me outside into the sunshine. We sat on a bench. Spring was further along here than at home, the air was heavy and warm. There were young people around us everywhere. College kids. A lot of eyeglasses and leather satchels.

  I noticed that he was looking at me, but suddenly I didn’t know where to begin.

  “Have you driven all this way just to talk?”

  “Seems so.”

  “What about the farm? The bees?”

  “They won’t go anywhere . . . I mean fly anywhere.”

  I tried to laugh, but the laughter came out wrong and ended up like a cough.

  We sat a little longer in silence. I pulled myself together, remembered what I’d actually planned to say.

  “I’m going to Hancock County next week. Blue Hill.”

  “Oh. Where’s that?”

  “Maine. Just ten minutes from the ocean. Do you remember that you went there with me?”

  “Yeah . . . I don’t know.”

  “When you were five, before school. We went just the two of us. Slept in a tent, you know.”

  “Oh yeah. That trip.”

  “Yes, that trip.”

  He fell silent.

  “There were bears there,” he said finally.

  “But it was fine,” I said, a little too loudly.

  “Are there still?”

  “What?”

  “Bears?”

  “No, not anymore.”

  I suddenly remembered those big eyes of his. Round as saucers in the darkness. When we heard the sound of the bear through the tent canvas.

  “They’re facing extinction, did you know?” he said suddenly, the swagger was back in his voice.

  “They’re not alone.” I tried laughing again. “Your old man is, too.”

  He didn’t laugh.

  I drew a breath. Had to come out with it, now, that’s what I was here for.

  “I’ve come to ask you to go to Maine with me,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Do you want me to say it one more time?”

  “Now?”

  “On Monday. Three trucks, one more than before.”

  “That’s good. You’re expanding?”

  “We’re expanding.”

  “I can’t go with you, Dad. You know that.”

  “There’s more work than before. About time you pitched in.”

  “I have finals soon.”

  “It doesn’t have to be for very many days.”

  “I won’t get it approved.”

  “One week, tops.”

  “Dad.”

  I swallowed. My speech had gone down the toilet. The speech with a capital S that I’d prepared the entire way here. All the big words I’d lined up, like brand-new tin soldiers, had turned to lead in my brain. Inheritance, I was going to say, this is your inheritance. This is who you are, Tom. The bees, I was going to say, with a telling pause, that’s where your future lies. Just give it a chance. Give them a chance.

  But none of those words reached my mouth.

  “I can get you the time off, say the family business needs you,” I tried.

  “Nobody gets time off for stuff like that.”

  “How many sick days have you had this year? None?”

  “Two, maybe three.”

  “You see? Almost none.”

  “I don’t think that matters.”

  “Well, then, God Almighty, say you’re sick. You can certainly do your studying anywhere.”

  “It’s not just studying, Dad. We have to hand things in, papers.”

  “Can’t you do that there?”

  “No, I need books.”

  “Take them with you.”

  “Books from the library. Here.”

  “It’s just one week, Tom. Just one week.”

  “But Dad. I don’t want to!”

  He’d raised his voice now. Two girls with short hair wearing outfits that should have been reserved for men, jeans and giant army boots, passed by us, staring in curiosity. “I don’t want to.” He said it more softly now. Looked at me with dog eyes, not all that different from Emma’s. A look I usually gave in to.

  I stood up abruptly. Couldn’t sit still for one more second.

  “It’s his fault, isn’t it?”

  “What? Whose?”

  I didn’t wait for the answer. Just stormed back towards the redbrick hell.

  The faculty wing was located behind the reception.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  I walked quickly past the dreadlocks, couldn’t be bothered to answer.

  “Hello?” He got to his feet, but I was already a good stretch down the corridor, passed office after office, some with open doors. Professor Wilkinson, Clarke, Chang, Langsley. Caught glimpses of heavily laden bookshelves, deep window frames, thick drapes. Nothing personal, everything reeked of knowledge.

  A
nd Smith. There it was. A closed door with yet another brass plaque. Almost made me believe there was a future in brass. PROFESSOR JOHN SMITH.

  The dreadlocks approached.

  “It’s here,” I called to him, noticing that I was short of breath. “I found it.”

  He nodded, stopped and stood there, maybe he wasn’t allowed to let strangers in, before he shrugged his shoulders and sauntered back to the reception.

  Should I knock? Like some puny student with a textbook under my arm?

  No. I would walk right in.

  I stood up straight, swallowed hard. Put my hand on the handle and pushed down.

  It was locked.

  What the hell?

  At that moment a young man came strolling down the corridor. Clean shaven, and with a new haircut, wearing a hoodie and Converse sneakers. A student.

  “Can I help you?”

  He smiled broadly. White teeth, adjusted into a straight line. Everyone got braces these days, looked exactly the same, all the charm of special teeth was gone.

  “I’m looking for John Smith,” I said.

  “That’s me.”

  “You?” I was a little taken aback. He clearly wasn’t as I’d expected. Hard to make a scene with this guy. He looked downright innocent. Just a kid.

  “And you are?” He smiled.

  I lifted my head.

  “I’m Tom’s father.”

  “Right.” He kept smiling, reached out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  I took his hand. Couldn’t exactly turn it down.

  “Nice, yes. Very.”

  “Shall we go in?” he said. “I expect you have something on your mind?”

  “You bet I do.” It came out way too harsh.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” I tried to smile it away.

  “Never mind?”

  “Yes. I mean . . . I have something on my mind.”

  He unlocked the door and let me in. The sun greeted us, pouring in through the windows and painting clear stripes in the air, shining on framed pictures behind glass. Mostly posters. Movie posters. Back to the Future, E.T., Star Wars, the first movie: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . .

  “Have a seat.” He pointed at an armchair.

  I sat down. So did he. On his desk chair. It made me shorter than him, I wasn’t thrilled about that.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  He stood up again, sat instead in the other armchair. We were the same height. Sat in our respective chairs and all that was missing was a drink.

  “There.” He smiled again. “Yes. What can I do for you? Tell me.”

  I squirmed. Looked away.

  “Nice poster.” I pointed my chin towards Star Wars. Tried to keep my voice calm.

  “Isn’t it? Original.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Bought it on eBay when I started working here.”

  “I was about to say—are you old enough for that movie?”

  He laughed. “I saw it on video.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “But I had all the figures. The spaceship, too. Are you a fan?”

  “Damn straight.” There I went again. Guess I’d have to watch my language.

  He suddenly started singing the opening melody while he directed with one finger in the air. I had to chuckle.

  He interrupted himself. “Movies will never be the same again.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  We sat in silence for a bit. He just looked at me. Waited.

  WILLIAM

  I did as Thilda wished, as her gaze commanded, although every step towards the shop hurt. It was my Canossa. I was out early, already at the crack of dawn. A cock crowed hoarsely from a back garden. A metallic hammering could be heard from the saddler’s workshop, but I didn’t see anyone. All was still silent at the wainwright’s, the watchmaker’s and the dry goods shop. The tavern, a stuffy and stinking place in which I had never set foot, lay closed at the end of the road. An intoxicated guest, I recognized him as one of the most frequent regular patrons, had clearly not found his way home to his own bed, but was instead sleeping seated against the outside wall. I turned away; his fate awakened feelings of disgust in me. To lose control in that way, to let alcohol run one’s life, take over.

  Only the bakery was open, and the aroma of freshly baked bread, buns and perhaps a Swammer pie or two seeped through every tiny crack in the building so it was virtually visible. Luckily the baker and his two sons were still deep inside beside the large, hot oven. There still wasn’t time for a break, to come out here onto the street and enjoy a pipe of tobacco as the first customers of the day dropped in at the shop. Or to discover me.

  I usually didn’t open the shop for a few more hours yet, but I couldn’t bear to be seen. Couldn’t bear the questions of the audacious ones: Well, now, if it isn’t that chap. What do you know. So you’re still alive? Been ill, we’ve heard? But all better now? Back to stay?

  The red, low brick building was dark and shut up, and the small stretch of the street in front covered with leaves from last year. I lifted a heavy arm and stuck the key in the lock. Metal against metal, the sound made me shudder. I didn’t want to go in, knew what was in store. A dusty, filthy shop, days and days of work to make it presentable.

  I pushed at the door. It was stuck, was usually reluctant to open, but when I put my shoulder against it, it slid open silently on well-oiled hinges, not with the ancient creak I’d become accustomed to over the years. I reminded myself that the girl I’d hired in a moment of weakness, the bosomy, loud, tittering niece of Thilda’s, could have oiled the hinges. Alberta was a redundant pair of hands in a home a bit too full of children, and was at a long since marriageable, perhaps overripe, age, a pear just a bit too soft that would soon tumble to the ground under the weight of its own juices. Both her parents and Alberta herself were painfully aware of the precariousness of her situation, although it had not proven to be the simplest task to find a suitable and willing life companion for her. They hoped for something second-rate, but she came without a dowry and was not in possession of anything else that made her especially attractive, with the exception of said bosom. But she was to be commended for her efforts; she might just as easily have put herself in the display window. She was so ripe for the picking that she behaved as if every single person of the male persuasion that stepped into the shop was her intended. Apart from writhing invitingly along the counter and showing off the female-reeking, sweaty cleavage between her breasts to anyone who would look (and smell), she didn’t lift a finger. And I couldn’t imagine that she’d done much of anything except put on airs in the doorway of the shop after I fell ill and up until Thilda had been obliged to let her go. No matter what she did, she made a mess of it, and her constantly tittering presence rendered me half amused, half seething with irritation. Her desire, this lack of inhibition, that she could even permit herself to express it so blatantly . . .

  The shop lay in semidarkness. I lit a few candles and was able to light a brass lamp. The interior was surprisingly clean and extremely tidy. The large counter was almost empty, with the exception of the inkwell, receipt pad and the heavy scale of brass situated neatly on the far end. The voluminous ceiling lamp had been polished till it shone, and the glass bulb was cleaned, it was full of oil and ready for use. Usually the floor was covered with a crunchy layer of peppercorns and grains of salt which made itself felt with every single step, but now it was scrubbed so clean that you could see all the scratches, the palest areas in the woodwork, where the floor was especially worn, like a path from the counter to the wall of drawers and out to the exit. Thilda had told me that she had allowed Alberta to take care of closing on the last day. She had not mentioned that anyone else had been in the shop since that time. Had somebody been here nonetheless?

  I walked over to a window. The frame was free of dust. Not a single dead fly, as one would normally expect after all this time. And it was easy to breathe, not heavy
and stuffy, but recently aired out. I moved towards the wall that was covered with small drawers, put my hand on a handle, pulled the drawer out and looked down into it. It was spotless.

  I examined one more. This one turned out to be clean as well.

  Somebody had dusted. Was it Alberta? To the best of my knowledge she’d been promoted to the fabrics department at the dry goods shop, and so I could not believe that she had either the time or the desire to assist me in the midst of all of her so-called important work over there.

  Regardless of who it had been, all I could feel was relief. Everything was shining, the shop was not only prepared for opening—it was cleaner and tidier than ever before.

  I went over to the storeroom, and that on the other hand was a sad story. It was about as abundant as the Sahara. We were out of wheat and seed corn, while the pepper, salt and spices were reduced by half. In the drawers for flower bulbs there were just a few odd leaves and solitary white roots. Alberta had closed when the first snow came. By that time she had clearly sold off everything we had in the way of autumn bulbs, even some rather dubious, dry narcissuses that had been lying there for many years. But there were still spring bulbs and tubers for greenhouse cultivation. In fact, the selection was not bad at all. It felt good holding them, like taking the hand of an old friend. But unfortunately, it was without a doubt too late in the year for these, too late for precultivation indoors, and if planted directly in the ground now, they would not have time to flower before the frost once again crept along the hill during the night hours.

  Nonetheless I had to open and try to sell what little I had, show Thilda that at least I was trying and in that manner quell her incessant fretting, if only for a few days.

  At exactly eight o’clock I opened the door and let the sunlight stretch into the shop.

  I put two potted dahlias outside, which I had dug up from the bed at home. They nodded gently in the wind and lit up the entire stretch of street with red, pink and yellow.

  I stood there, in the doorway. The shop lay bright and inviting behind me. I stood tall. I had been dreading so coming back here, to this shop which had been such a burden, had given me tense shoulders and dark circles under my eyes. But now it was clean and welcoming, scrubbed as clean as I felt. The shop was ready, I was ready, to once again meet the village, look the world in the eye.