The Keeper (20 page)

“Who’s Annie?”

Julia frowned. “A girl Menno seems to be quite taken with.”

“No kidding. Little Menno is growing up, Julia.”

Julia slowly shut her eyes and pulled in a breath. “Do you think I don’t know that?” The irritation in her voice sounded a bit strident even to her ears. She couldn’t think about Menno and Annie right now. So much to worry about! “What did you want to talk to me about?”

He shook his head. “I’m heading over near Lancaster tonight. Switching hives from one farm to another. Tomorrow, I want to talk to someone at the hospital about getting Amos on the transplant list.”

“At the hospital? You want to march in and put him on the transplant list?”

Rome took his hat off and raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how I’ll do it. I just want to know what needs to happen and how much it will cost and what we could do to persuade him to consider it.”

“Dad won’t even consider a transplant.”

“I know,” Rome said with a sigh.

“So you’ve tried talking to him?”

“A couple of times. He shuts down the conversation.”

Rome looked so earnest that Julia found herself softening, just a little. But then she reminded herself that this was the Bee Man, the source of great aggravation. “It really is Dad’s decision. No one else’s.”

“Julia . . . it’s just that . . . there aren’t many things in life that we can do anything about. Here you have a chance to save him, to keep him around for another couple of decades. You’ve got to make him see . . . that you all need him to stick around.”

She found herself baffled by this man, mildly fascinated by his contradictions. It bothered her when people refused to fit into pigeonholes. It made life murky. The longer he was with them this summer, the more her curiosity about him grew. “You know, Rome, you’re starting to break your own rule.”

“What rule is that?”

“Not getting involved in people’s lives. Isn’t it easier just to dole out advice and move on your way?”

For once, Rome had no answer for her.

This was no way to start a day. M.K. gave some serious consideration to canceling the birthday party for Sadie and Menno. If this morning was an indication of how much cleaning Fern thought needed to happen to prepare for the gathering, then the week ahead looked grim. Fern had given her enough extra work to rub the skin off a person’s knees.

“I just washed the floor. Now look at it. Just look at the dirt those shoes have left. Do you think I have nothing better to do than to clean up after the likes of you?” Fern must have carried on about those shoes for nearly an hour before diverting her attention to M.K.’s rumpled bed. M.K. had sat on it to tie her shoes. The way Fern set to caterwauling, you would have thought she had committed a murder. It seemed the tiniest mishap could set Fern off.

Personally, M.K. thought Fern’s irritable behavior was directly attributable to consuming too much roughage. Fern took everything seriously, especially food, and since Amos and Sadie were on a low-to-no-sodium diet, the entire family was put on it. It was steamed rice and vegetables, broth or tofu, and enough bean sprouts to keep a small barnyard well fed.

At the end of the school day, M.K. burst out of the door to find Fern scowling at her, waiting by the door with arms crossed against her thin chest. M.K.’s mind flipped through the week, trying to narrow down which particular misstep had traveled straight from the schoolhouse to Fern’s ears.

Fern pointed to Menno, waiting in the buggy, and told M.K. to wait while she talked to the teacher.

“What did you do now?” Menno asked as she climbed into the backseat.

“Never mind,” M.K. grumbled.

Ten minutes later, Fern joined them and told Menno to head home.

From the backseat of the buggy M.K.’s voice welled up. “It was Jimmy Fisher’s fault! He said something I took exception to—”

“I got that part of it,” Fern said. “You always have your knickers in a twist over something that boy said or did. But I can’t be running to that school every whipstitch. And school’s just about out for the summer. There’s limits on what I can do.” She swiveled her head to the backseat and gave M.K. a long look.

“I’ll keep a closer eye on her,” Menno said.

M.K. glared at him.

At the turnoff to Windmill Farm, Fern pointed to the side of the road. “Menno, you go up to the house and find Sadie. She’s got a list of chores for you. I want them finished by suppertime. I want to see that list checked off.”

Menno hopped off. “Where are you two going?”

“M.K. and I have an errand,” Fern said.

“What kind of an errand?” M.K. waved a sad goodbye to Menno.

Fern slid over to the driver’s side and flicked the horse’s reins. “Mind telling me why you had a pile of
Seventeen
magazines under your bed?”

M.K. rolled her eyes and rested her chin on her hand, caught red-handed. Of course, she thought. In this house, Fern knew everything. “I got ’em when Julia and I went to town last week to sell cherries and peaches at the farmer’s market.”

“And just why did you buy them?”

“Someone was selling the whole pile for one dollar.”

“So you bought them because they were cheap?”

M.K. shrugged. “I just like to read. And we keep running out of things to read at the house. I’ve read the
Martyrs’ Mirror
a dozen times. I’ve read
Young Companions
so often I have them memorized.”

Fern gave up a rare smile. “And
that
is why we are going to the public library.”

They spent time getting a library card set up for M.K. Then Fern walked around the bookshelves like she owned the place, piling up books in her arms. Every time M.K. pointed to a book that looked interesting, Fern gave off a clucking sound. She had titles in mind.

On the way home, Fern pulled the top book off the pile and handed it to M.K. “There’s no time like the present. Start with this one.”

M.K. picked up the book:
Keeping Bees
by John Vivian.

“Rome said you’ve been pestering him to harvest honey.”

“He won’t let me. Nobody takes me seriously!”

“Well, maybe you need to learn something first. Maybe then he might be inclined to take you seriously.” Fern tapped the cover of the book. “And I want a one-page summary of the book when you’re done with it. Mind your penmanship too.”

Fern! So bossy! M.K. silently fumed, but then she opened the book and her eyes caught on this paragraph:

A hostile colony will warn you in unmistakable terms. The hum becomes loud, shrill and strident, a high-pitched beeeeeeeeeeeee sound—possibly where they got their name in the old days; our word is Old English
beo
, or
bia
in Old (High) German. The vibration rate is unpleasant bordering on fearsome to humans, high enough to cause inner ear discomfort in many animals. It is an adrenalin-generating alarm signal that strikes a primordial chord in humans, the same as a rattlesnake’s burrrrr or a dog’s grrrrr or an infant’s high keening wail. Bees usually will give you enough time to think better, to close up and return another day. But they may not.

Danger! She was hooked.

Rome had just finished checking on his hives. He moved some brood frames in the center—combs nearly filled with honey—to the back so the bees would start filling the empty frames. He closed the lid, picked up the smoker, and turned to leave, startled to see M.K. running toward him, spewing news like a popcorn popper. Menno trailed behind her, like he always did, and caught up with them in his own slow pace.

“Rome! Am I glad to see you! You’ll never guess what’s happened. I’m going to be a beekeeper!”

“Slow down, M.K. Start from the beginning,” he said, pulling her away from the hives before she got too close to them. As they walked back to the cottage, he yanked his beekeeper helmet off and slipped it under his arm.

“Fern got me a book about beekeeping. So I can help you!” She was ecstatic.

Oh no.
Rome wished Fern would have asked him first. If it were Menno who were interested in beekeeping, Rome would have been happy to start training him. Menno had the temperament for beekeeping—calm, unflappable. Menno was never in a hurry. But M.K.? She was overly blessed with enthusiasm and energy. Never still, never quiet. Yet how could he refuse her? She was waiting for him to respond, an earnest look on her small face. “So, you want to be an apiarist.”

“No,” she said. “I want to be a beekeeper.”

Rome sighed. “M.K., bees are wild creatures. You’re going to have to first develop a respect for them.”

“I have a great respect for bees. I love honey!”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. There’s much more to bees than honey.”

“Well, they can sting. I know that for sure.”

“Honeybees are engineers. Brilliant ones. They build homes for themselves that are identical in measurements.”

“That’s like me,” Menno said. “I’m an engineer.”

“Huh?” M.K. said.

“I build homes for birds. Each one is identical.” Menno looked pleased with himself.

“That’s true, Menno,” Rome said. “You know how important it is to be precise so the birds will return to nest their young. That’s what bees do, M.K. They are constantly working to help the next generation.” He glanced at her. “M.K., do you know why bees produce honey?”

“For people to eat.”

“Not really. Honey is bee’s food. A honeycomb is a bee’s pantry. They store up food for the winter. Good beekeepers always leave enough honey for the bees. The bees come first.” By the look on her face, Rome could tell M.K. hadn’t given any thought to bees other than eating honey.

What had Fern gotten him into?

M.K. jumped up to leave and suddenly reached her hand into her apron pocket. “I forgot! Fern said the mailman delivered this to you.” She handed him a letter addressed to The Bee Man at Windmill Farm and dashed up the hill.

Dear Roman,

I have no evil intentions in buying the farm; I am only trying to right the wrongs I’ve done in my life.

Sincerely,
R.W.

As soon as it was dusk, Rome moved four of his hives onto the bee wagon. It would take him most of the night to get to those pecan orchards, so he wanted to get going while there was still some light left. He had one foot hitched up on the wagon when he heard a familiar voice calling to him.

Fern.

Rome stepped back off of the wagon and walked out to meet her. He had only met Fern a handful of times when his uncle Tom had courted her. He didn’t know much about her, other than she was a spinster who worked as a housekeeper for families. As he saw the determined look on her face, he knew the moment he had dreaded had arrived.

“Have you made any decision about the farm?” she asked, when they met on the path that led to the farmhouse.

One thing he had to hand to her, Fern Graber didn’t beat around the bush. “No, Fern, I haven’t.” He tried to sound neutral, unaffected.

“You knew this, Rome. You knew the farm couldn’t be ignored forever. I told you to do some thinking.”