Flight Patterns (11 page)

To remove honey from the hives, the bees must first be pacified by smoke from a bee smoker. The smoke triggers a feeding instinct (an attempt to save the resources of the hive from a possible fire), making them less aggressive. In addition, the smoke obscures the pheromones the bees use to communicate with one another, leaving the hive vulnerable to anyone wanting to take their honey.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Georgia

O
utside to take advantage of a temporary lull in the rain, listening to the buzzing of the bees, I stood in my grandfather's apiary and turned my face up toward the wan sunshine. The constant hum was the sound track of my childhood, the taste of honey its sweetener, and for a long while the perfect substitution for my mother's presence.

Maisy was different. Her need for Birdie's acceptance was like the black bear reaching into a hive to steal honey, impervious to the myriad stings on her paw. There was a good reason for this. Maisy was only five when our mother went away for the first time. Grandma and Grandpa said she needed a place to rest, and to talk to special doctors so she'd feel well again. Except she never really got well. Every time she went away she came back brighter and shinier, like a ballerina in
a jewelry box spinning and smiling and sparkling. And just as plastic. By the third or fourth time she went away and came back, Maisy finally understood that it was as good as it was going to get. But that didn't keep her from reaching into the hive.

It was why Maisy hated bees. Grandpa and I knew you had to be calm around the bees, that they know how you're feeling before you do. If you're agitated or angry, they're going to get agitated and angry, too, and that usually means you're going to get stung. Not that I'd ever tell Birdie, but I always hummed one of her favorite show tunes, making me think that at some point in my babyhood she must have rocked me to sleep singing it.

But when Maisy found out that Birdie had left without saying good-bye that first time, she went screaming into the apiary, looking for her and whipping up the bees. She was stung so many times that her airway began to close. She was bigger than me, but I hardly noticed as I hoisted her up on my back and carried her all the way to the house so I could call an ambulance.

Aunt Marlene said Grandpa should burn the hives, but I begged him not to. The bees were only protecting what was theirs, giving their lives in pursuit of the safety of the hive and their queen. I argued that they were a good example of the way things ought to be, something Maisy and I wouldn't be exposed to without the bees. I suppose Aunt Marlene and Grandpa agreed because the bees stayed, but Maisy was forbidden to go anywhere near them and had to carry an EpiPen all the time. And she hated the bees after that. I wanted to tell her that she should hate Birdie instead, and that hating the bees for stinging was like hating the clouds for raining. But I didn't. Probably because I hadn't yet found a way to hate Birdie, either.

A soft brush of wings touched the air around me as the bees examined me. I stayed still, softly humming “Over the Rainbow.” I heard footsteps approaching and turned my head. It was James, his face devoid of fear or apprehension, and I was glad. The bees always knew if you were afraid.

“Stop, but don't stand in front of the entrance—that makes them angry,” I said quietly. “Let them know you're not a threat.”

He did as I asked, and I found that I couldn't meet his gaze. I turned back to the nearest bee box, the blue paint faded and peeling in the sun. “Hum something softly,” I said.

He was silent for a moment, and I imagined him deep in thought, and then he began humming something that seemed vaguely familiar. When I recognized the song “Popular” from the musical
Wicked
, I smiled in surprise, before remembering he grew up in New York City and had four sisters, and going to musicals might be something he did often.

I met his eyes for a moment, then immediately turned away, remembering the scene from the kitchen that morning and what he'd overheard. “I'm glad you're wearing light colors. Most novices make the mistake of wearing something dark, making them appear as bears to the bees. Very few make the same mistake twice.”

He paused his humming and I could imagine him smiling. “Why are the hives painted in different colors?”

Doing my best to imitate Mrs. Shepherd, my kindergarten teacher, using a calm and reassuring voice that I was sure lulled bees as much as five-year-olds, I said, “Maisy and I painted them one spring before Grandpa moved the bees to the deep swamps near Wewahitchka, so he could tell which ones were his.”

I looked at him just as he opened his mouth to speak, and I quickly began to babble, if only to keep him from asking me any questions about what he'd overheard. “He brings them to a spot so deep in the swamp that the only way to get there is by hauling the hives onto a raft. There's been a lot of rain this year, so some of the lower places where the hives usually go might be flooded. They might have to find another spot.”

“I was about to ask if I could go, too, but I'm not so sure I want to go out to a flooded swamp. I'd probably see more wildlife up close than I'm comfortable with.”

“Probably. Unless you've spent a lot of time with panthers and alligators. And water moccasins. Makes for good security if you're
trying to get around the revenue man. Back in the day they say bootleggers used to put their stills out in the swamps near the makeshift apiaries and use beekeeping as a cover for their illegal operations.”

I felt him watching me with those clear blue eyes, but I couldn't meet his gaze, reliving the profound embarrassment of the morning every time I looked at him. Which was why I was telling him more about bees and tupelo honey procurement than he'd ever wanted to know.

He continued to hum softly as I spoke. “I've only gone once, and remember the mosquitoes the most. Unfortunately, that's where the white tupelo blooms, between the middle of April and early May, but it's the only way to make tupelo honey. Grandpa's is a smaller operation, mostly for his own personal use and to sell a few jars at some of the downtown stores.”

His humming paused again. “Sounds like a lot of trouble to get just a little honey.”

“It is. But it's the purest kind of honey, and worth the effort. It doesn't granulate, so it keeps for a long time—some say as long as twenty years—and is more readily tolerated by diabetics than any other kind of honey. Grandpa has been taking his hives there every spring since before I was born.” I barely paused for a breath, trying to fill up any empty space where he could ask any questions. “His daddy was in the lumber business but sold it when Grandpa was a boy and took up beekeeping as a hobby. He even sent Grandpa all over the world to study different kinds of beekeeping.”

James stopped humming, and when I looked up I realized that he was standing next to me now, his eyes focused on the hive, seemingly unconcerned with the bees zigging and zagging around us. “What's going to happen this year?”

I turned away again and began walking slowly down the row of bee boxes. “I spoke with a beekeeper friend of Grandpa's this morning, and she said she'll bring his hives along when she takes hers. Although she's afraid that if the rain keeps up, the bees won't leave the hives. Could be a wasted effort, but we've got to try.”

He touched my arm, and I knew he wanted me to look at him, but instead I began to babble again. “When the white tupelo is at its
fullest bloom, the bees work extra hard, as if they know their time is limited. The life span of the worker bees during that period can be as short as twenty-one days. They wear out their wings and die.”

I looked at his hand on my arm and we were both silent, listening to the incessant buzz of the hives. One alighted on his sleeve and he didn't flinch, moving only after the bee flew away. “If you get stung, lick it,” I said. “Bees have over two hundred pheromones they use to communicate with each other, and they leave some on your skin when they sting to alert the other bees that there's danger.”

James finally spoke while I drew breath. “I'm sorry I walked away so abruptly this morning. I—” He stopped as if suddenly deciding to tell me something else. “I thought you might want some privacy.”

He dropped his gaze, and I began to walk back toward the house, sensing a change in the atmosphere, a growing agitation that vibrated from me like a taut wire that had been pulled too far.

I heard his footsteps behind me. “You can't ignore me forever, you know.”

I stopped, then whirled around to face him, hearing a loud buzzing near my left ear. “Aren't you going to ask me if it's true?”

His eyes were troubled, as if he'd been having the same internal argument for a while, and I found myself holding my breath. “No.” He paused again, and I was sure this time that he was definitely arguing with himself, as if it were important that he knew the truth, just as much as he knew he shouldn't.

He met my eyes again. “I'd much rather know why you collect antique keys and locks. That's a lot more relevant to me than something that did or didn't happen a long time ago.”

I was so surprised by his response that I wasn't aware at first of the sharp sting on my arm, staring dumbly at the carcass of my attacker as it tumbled to the ground. I remembered my grandfather telling me to always remove the stinger as quickly as possible, because it will continue to pump venom into the skin for as long as ten minutes. But all I could do was stare at the small pink welt and feel sorry for the dead bee.

“Aren't you going to lick it?”

I shook my head, almost enjoying the pain as just punishment. “Let's go look at china catalogs. And while you're doing that, I'll make some phone calls to the Limoges museums and other collectors I know—including the one you found on the Internet. Unless you're ready to leave now. I imagine you've had enough drama, and I'm happy to continue here on my own.”

My arm throbbed but I ignored it, knowing the pain would eventually fade. It always did.

“You know why I'm here, and I'm prepared to stay for the duration. I'm the stranger on a plane, remember? It's not my place to pass judgment.”

I studied him in the bright sunshine, noticing how the light turned his hair different shades of gold and reflected off the tips of his unshaven cheeks and jaw, and I wondered where he'd been when he'd received the news that his wife had been killed; if they'd kissed good-bye that morning and said, “I love you,” or if they'd argued. And I realized that my little dramas were tiny blips in the grand scheme of things.

“I search for padlocks because I believe everything has a key. Every question, every relationship. Everything has a lock and a matching key. That's why, when I find a padlock and a key that fits, I put them in a place of honor in that vitrine you saw in my apartment. I feel like I've finally found an answer to what had once been an unanswerable question.”

He smiled and I saw again how beautiful he was. “I was right. That's a lot more relevant. And very telling.”

I turned back toward the house. “Come on then. Let's go look at those catalogs.”

He followed me inside while the pain in my arm continued to throb, a reminder of what Maisy had said, and how pride and resentment could poison a relationship between sisters as surely as bee venom could stop a person from breathing.

I awoke to the sound of breaking china, unaware whether it was real or part of my dreams that flittered through my head like a bee, never settling
for long. Sitting up abruptly, I was aware of a blanket that I'd last seen on the back of the couch sliding off my shoulders as I blinked my eyes and tried to remember where I was. My lap was covered with books—I was pretty sure they were china catalogs—and I was still fully dressed. I widened my eyes, taking in the moonlit room, the old familiar couch and chairs, the rectangles on the wall that held school photos of Maisy and me.