Tim Adams
Voorhies Scholarship Winner, 2002
Beekeeper
Lyn stands at the sink and looks out of her kitchen window. The
morning wind idly plays with the curtains. They haven’t been cleaned in five
years. Dust twinkles in the sunlight.
She sips from
a coffee mug. Hives stand like square white soldiers in the distant yard. The
bees float in a dark cloud around the boxes. Their hum is frightened, angry. They
sense Lyn’s distress and resolve.
A bee
drifts past the window. Lyn follows it with her eyes. It lands on an apple
blossom by the house and buries itself in the soft white flower. Lyn took
another sip from her mug. Behind her and the house, the sun yawns into
out-and-out morning. Birds slowly move across the sky. They make an arrow, a
spearhead screaming north! as it
moves.
The bees
know this, too. Of the ones who haven't died yet (or worse, gone mad), they
start old dances and wiggles over the combs. They move like bullets from the
slits in the hive boxes. They roam about the countryside searching for new
patches of flowers, new trees in bloom, the newness of spring.
Lyn frowns
at the sky and drinks the last from her cup. She rinses it out in the sink and
heads for the garage to find the gasoline.
* * *
When Lyn was
young, she used to sit in clover fields and play with the flowers. It was
summertime, and the sun was in full strength. There was very little noise in
the patch; most creatures have the good sense to lie down in a cool place and
be quiet when summer is heavy. Drifting down the hill was Lyn's light humming
commingled with the heavier underscore of countless bees drifting from one
plant to another.
She was
making herself a tiara that day. Every princess needs one. Her dolls looked on
in approval at the beautiful Miss Lynda dancing, a near complete crown on her
head. She stopped spinning and looked down. There, almost crumpled under a
doll, was the perfect clover, its huge ballooning flower bursting into heat.
"Miss
Lynda wants this one for the front of her crown." She pointed down to the
flower. The dolls said nothing. Lyn reached down to the green of the field to
pull at the bottom of the stem.
A bee,
angered by the intrusion, stung her on the back of her hand.
The pain came first. Her fist was angry and red like sunset. For
the longest time, Lyn did not know what to do. She sat down and stared at her
swelling, puffing hand. The stinger was still there, like a dart or the period
at the end of a sentence. She felt violated and hurt, attacked in her field,
her afternoon. The tears now streaming down her cheeks lifted the heat from her
face in streaks. She dropped her tiara and ran home, clutching the hurt hand at
the wrist with the good one.
Her mother
had nursed the wound that afternoon, applying cool water and lotion to the
angry welt. The sunlight was heavy in the window and bounced around the metal
sink. Lyn’s eyes were cloudy from crying; her face was red from pain and summer
light.
Papa
justified the attack with his own gruff logic.
“You
shouldn’t have been in the damn clover, anyway. You piss off the damn bug, then
come crying back here when it gets you.” He turned and started to leave the
kitchen.
Before
vanishing into his den, Papa added as an afterthought, “You know, they die
after they sting you. Leave half their ass on your arm.” He started a chuckle
that turned into a smoker’s cough, and then took his place in front of the
television.
That night,
Lyn cried for the bee, a simple creature only instinctively protecting his
flowers from errant little girls.
* * *
"It's
the neighbors. They want those pests gone." It was David, three nights
ago. He was lying next to Lyn under the blanket.
She took a
drag off his cigarette. "They can bite my ass." Grey spilled from her
full lips as she spoke. David moved his face into the beam of moonlight that
was coming in from the open blinds. His face and chest glowed pale white
streaks.
“Huh, well
you know, they just might.” He gently pinched her backside. She groaned and
pushed him away.
"Lyn,
I know you care about them like they were your pets. . ."
"They
aren't my pets. They are a source of income."
"You're
lying. I know what they mean to you. I had a dog once, and it had to be put
down. I almost cried."
"You
were five at the time, David."
"I was
twenty five, and I'm telling you I almost cried. It's easy to adopt them as
family. I mean, you spend your time out there all day caring for them like they
are family." David reached over and put out the cigarette. The muscles
under his skin moved and tightened. He brought his arm to rest over her belly
and chest.
"But,
the truth is, Lyn, that they are sicker than you think, and they need to
go."
She rolled
over, putting her back to his stomach. The blanket slid down, exposing one of her
breasts. David moved down and kissed the nape of her neck. She felt his naked
body close to hers; she felt his warmth pressing up against her back. Tomorrow
he would wake up before her and quietly leave to his apartment in town. Tomorrow
she would wake up alone again, feeling the other side of her bed for any sign
of him. She would worry about all of these things tomorrow.
"I'll
take care of it in the morning," she said. He knew that she was lying
again and sighed softly, giving in for the night. After that, the room was
quiet and still, so much so that one could hear a bee wing fall to the ground.
* * *
When Lyn
was young, she caught a horrible chest cold. The clouds were heavy with winter
and poured down sheets of illness. She played openly under these sheets,
laughing at the sky and dancing in puddles. She was not aware that bees do not
fly in storms.
Gramma Rosa
spent most of the night in the kitchen making an extract from orange rinds. The
storm had downplayed into a trickle, and the sput sput of water on the windows
added a melody to the percussion of aged hands rattling about looking for herbs
and wooden spoons. The bitter smells crept out of copper pots and floated
upstairs where Lyn was swimming in fever and phlegm. She remembers the basil
oil and the pungent citrus oppressively filling her bedroom.
Momma had
come to her that night and told her that the rain was softening the ground,
making the way clear for the acacia trees and heather plants to grow and live
in the coming spring.
"Don't
forget the clovers, Momma." Lyn coughed. Gurgling noises came from her
chest as she spoke.
"Yes,
hon, and the clovers. In May the fields will come back, and the flats will be
buzzing with bees going about God's work."
The hall
light was left on that night for Lyn. It buzzed like spring.
The next
morning, Gramma Rosa made her way laboriously up the old stairs, creak of hips
and joints matching creak of wood. Lyn was repulsed by the medicine, and had
refused to take it because of the damnable smell and taste. Gramma went back to
the pots, this time infusing honey as a base for her concocting.
Lyn still
remembers the way the syrup had slid down her throat, cooling the hurt places
and sweeping out the slimy ones, making her well again, alive. She remembers
Gramma's smile and hands like paper caressing her throat and forehead, slow and
comforting as honey.
* * *
Two days
ago, the neighbors paid Lyn a visit. She was in the kitchen eating a sandwich. The
fan blew in the windowsill and pushed streamers like flags. Lyn was crunching
into a pickle when then the knock came at the door.
"Lyn,
you have a minute?" Three older women stood on the porch. Their hands were
clasped curt and stony at their sides. "We all need to have a talk."
She had
ushered them into the living room, her Papa's den. The neighbors had taken
their seats on the couch.
"Would
you ladies like some tea?" Lyn ventured nervously.
"Yes,
please," Old Lady One responded. Old Ladies Two and Three turned to glare
at her.
"Okay,
I'll be right back. Make yourselves at home."
Lyn put a
copper kettle on the stove. She paced around her kitchen, grabbing teabags and
cups along the way. The kettle whistled. A faint citrus aroma drifted in the
steam.
The flats will be buzzing with bees going about
God's work.
Lyn poured
the water over the bags and thought about Momma and Gramma Rose. She thought
about them until the tea was ready.
When Lyn
walked in with the tray, two of the old women were smoking. Old Lady Three
coughed. Lyn set the tea down on the coffee table and sat on the recliner
across the room. The ladies peered at her through scrunched leathery eyelids as
they sipped their tea.
Old Lady
One spoke up. "Why, dear, this tea is delicious. What is it sweetened
with?"
"I put
a little touch of honey in. It's an old trick my grandmother taught me."
Old Lady
Three put her cup down. "Honey. That is just why we're here to see you. Lyn,
are you aware that your bees have become violent?"
Lyn
swallowed hard. "What are you talking about?"
"Well
you are aware that little Jake down the way, you know Martha's boy, well he was
stung last week."
"You
can't be sure that was one of my bees."
"Yes,
well, your bees are the only ones around, Lyn." Old Ladies One and Two
nodded.
"That's
insane, and you know it. To assume that only my bees. . ."
"It
was one of yours, Lyn, and the little things need to be stopped," Old Lady
Two interrupted. "My grandchild Mark has also been stung, and so has his
dog."
"Right
on the nose," added Old Lady One.
Lyn stirred
her tea slowly. She looked down into the cup and watched the liquid swirl.
"Listen,
I'm sorry about the sudden rash of stings, I honestly am, but once again, to
insist that those were mine. . ."
Old Lady
Two brought her cup down hard on the table. "Lyn, you are forcing our
hand. If you don't do something about those. . .those. . .," she gestured
outside, "beasts, then I'm
afraid we will have to do something about it legally."
Lyn stood
up. "I think it's time you should go."
The three
looked at her, then at each other. They stood at the same time.
Old Lady
Two stepped toward Lyn. She narrowed her eyes. "Those things are a menace,
and they stink. They will be removed one way or another. That is all we have to
say."
"And
you've said it, now please leave." Lyn moved to the front door and opened
it wide. The three shuffled out and down to the street.
"Thanks
for the tea, Lyn, it was lovely," Old Lady One said as she was ushered
out.
Lyn watched
them walk down the street from her window. She picked up the dirty cups and put
them on the tray. The fan in the kitchen was still humming like a swarm. As she
washed the dishes, one thought stabbed at the back of her head.
They stink?
* * *
When Lyn
was young, her father died. His heart had failed while he was watching
television in his den.
The funeral
was that Sunday.
Her aunts
and uncles arrived at the church dressed in their darkest attire. Each
approached her personally to express their condolences. However, there was something
awkward about their sympathy. Lyn remembers the mental weight like carrying
heavy luggage, the hushed whispers around the congregation: Who will take care of Lyn? Who needs a
fifteen year-old running around their house?
Papa was to
be laid to rest next to Momma. The priest gave the cue for the congregation to
head out to the plot from the chapel. It was still cool this time of year, and
the wind was blowing a hush into the trees and bushes. The procession passed
Gramma Rose, who was buried in the mausoleum. Lyn looked up, then back to the
ground.
The casket was already in
place when Lyn took her seat. Being so young, she was spared having to speak at
the eulogy. Papa's sister, Aunt Claire, approached the podium. She held a small
rosary in her hand, a handkerchief in the other. Everyone focused their
attention upon Claire as she cleared her throat and started to speak.
"We
are brought together here to remember a great man. Husband, father, brother and
son, each of us had our own kinship to Edward and our own feelings of love and
compassion. His sudden and untimely death should remind us to walk in the eyes
of the Lord and be prepared for our own time. Because in the end, we are all
destined to fly away."
Lyn's eyes drifted off Aunt
Claire and onto the casket, which was closed and ready to be lowered. Wreaths
of flowers surrounded her father; their scent was growing heavier, sweeter in
the growing heat. Movement, a hover over the coffin, distracted Lyn’s eyes.
Over one of
the roses placed delicately on the pine box, a single bee circled, and landed.
* * *
Yesterday
evening, Lyn donned her beekeeping gear. She was in the garage, suiting up to
investigate her (pets? David asked)
sources of income. Standing in front of the cracked mirror in the garage, she
pulled her veil on gingerly. The sun was a cooling furnace, a dying ember on
the horizon. Beams of light, dark gold and red, poured through a cloudy pane of
glass and were made visible by the dust. Lyn stood there staring at her image
for a few minutes. She turned and went outside.
The apple
tree blossoms made the air sweet. Lyn made some final adjustments to her gloves
as she walked toward the boxes standing in the yard. There was a mechanical hum
that was growing slowly softer as evening settled in. Her bees were sharing
dinner with their families. They were turning down pillows and sheets all over
the hives. They were preparing themselves for night.
Lyn placed
her hand on one of the hive cases. Lethargic bees came to investigate, but did
not attempt to sting. She gingerly unlatched the top of the box and opened the
hive. Rows of wax hexagons were packed tight and neat within the frames. The
smell was of honey, of pollen, and of. . .something else. Something darker. Lyn
frowned.
She tugged
at a frame. The bees were not so kind at this intrusion. They flocked out of
her box and moved in a tight cloud around her. Some landed on her sleeves and
back. One angrily buzzed about her face and landed on her veil. His stinger was
out and pointing towards her.
Lyn closely
investigated the sheet of hive. The bad smell was stronger here, it was dank
like rotting leaves. There was something wrong with the hexagons containing the
larva; the hatcheries should be sealed off until the bee was grown. Some of the
spaces had tiny holes in them. Lyn pulled out a small ice pick and removed the
protective coating on the cell. No larva was inside.
At least,
not what one would expect to see of a larva. Instead of the healthy white
ribbed oval, there was a small gray scab forming on the bottom of the cell. Lyn
poked around inside. It had the texture of stiffening Elmer's glue. The smell
was of death and decay.
Foulbrood. Lyn had
read of the illness before in one of her catalogues. The bees had a bacterial
infection that attacked the larva. Their cell structure disintegrated while the
disease fed on their tissues. All that remains is a rotten scab stuck to the
bottom of the hexagon. The affliction was carried by adult drones, morticians, as
they were, trying to clean off the remains of their miscarried young. The
condition affected the adults, also, making the bees go mad as their brains
slowly fell apart. Foulbrood was an apt name for the anger and stench that
would characterize the bees as the illness advanced.
There was
no cure, save for fire. The hives had to be burned.
Lyn put the
frame back into the hive and locked the case. The bees still swarmed, but now
more apathetic. They started to file back into the slot on the side of the
hive.
The sun had
turned red and arched fire across the horizon. Lyn walked slowly back to the
house to disrobe.
* * *
The morning
air whirls around the cracks in the walls of the garage, stirring up dust and
sleeping insects. Lyn opens the door and steps outside.
The air is
crisp and slightly damp with dew. Her bees still hum angrily; added to this is
a touch of confusion, a hint of madness.
Lyn lifts
the red gasoline can in her gloved hand. She begins the funeral procession to
the hives.
Nature watches
on, more silently than before. The morning wind ceases its play to float over
and watch. Silence everywhere, except for the buzz and light, padded footsteps
crushing the spring grass. Lyn's eyes water once more for simple creatures and
the errant little girl who will be disturbing them shortly.
She pours
fuel around the bases of the first hive, then the second and third. The bees
react to a stench unlike their own, and move a little more hastily about the
air. Lyn takes a step back. She plays with the fireplace matches in her hands. A
bee lands on the box and looks at her with pleading faceted eyes. She brushes
him aside and lights a match.
Three fires
are slowly kindled on the lawn. Lyn moves from hive to hive and touches each
one lovingly. The fires snap and fizzle; Lyn chooses to believe that this is
because of imperfections in the wood, not the death throes of her bees. The wax
melts into the wood, further fueling the fire. The sun looks on approvingly. Somewhere,
three Old Ladies are smiling.
Lyn
reaches up under her veil and brushes her eyes clean with the padded glove. She
stands there until the last of the fires go out and sigh dark smoke from three
charred places. The bees that were free survey the ashes, find nothing to
salvage and buzz back up into the air. They circle around the destruction three
times each, hum a final farewell to Lyn, and then take to the sky.
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Last updated: May 8, 2002.