The Dance

by Suzie Carr

  “Me?” Sophie’s jaw dropped.

  “Saturdays get busy with people stopping by to purchase honey, pollen, and our garden veggies. I could use the muscle power, too. When the honey starts to cap off on the trays, they get heavy. It’s a two person job at that point. Then, there’s also the hydroponic gardening.”

  Sophie twisted her mouth. “Saturdays are my cheerleading day. Practice sits smack dab in the center.”

  “I used to cheerlead too.” Brooke circled around to her side. “So, I understand.”

  “I really want to say yes,” Sophie said with the maturity of a seasoned professional in high demand.

  “Well, if life ever tosses you a free moment, consider the apiary door open.” Brooke turned to Jacky and pointed to her folded bee suit. “Next time, we’re stuffing you into one of these, too.”

  Jacky laughed, enjoying the lift into lighter, filtered air.

  “Who’s getting stuffed into what?” An older man with hair as white as snow and skin as wrinkled as fine leather folded in on them in the greenhouse. “Did she put you into this hot one?” He asked Sophie, taking the folded suit from her arms.

  Sophie giggled like she used to do as a little girl being twirled around on her favorite merry-go-round. “Ms. Brooke said it was the best one.”

  He shifted his stocky chest to Brooke. “Oh, did she now?”

  “Oh, don’t listen to him.” Brooke punched his upper arm.

  The old man faced Jacky. “I’m Tom, by the way. Brooke’s grandfather.” He turned and opened his arm to an older lady with even whiter hair and a gingerly vibe walking in from the path. “And this is Elise, my wife.”

  Elise carried herself with the same breeziness as Brooke. She dipped her head, extending her hand to Jacky.

  “I’m Jacky and this is my daughter, Sophie.”

  “Hi,” Sophie waved without moving forward. She fingered through her tangled hair. “I love your apiary.”

  Jacky hadn’t seen this social prowess in Sophie for the longest time.

  Elise bent down to pet Bee, peering up over her flowery frames at Sophie. “I saw you down at the hives. What did you think?”

  “Amazing. The bees created wind and it blew on my cheeks.” Sophie animated just as she used to as a little girl when she’d jump waves with Jacky on the Eastern Shore.

  “Did you get to see one of the queens?”

  “No, we looked for her in some of the top hives, but no luck,” Brooke said, cutting into the conversation. “Pepe we’ll need to add our pollen collector trays soon.”

  “First order of business after lunch is we have to get to Mr. Pesticide’s yard, then we can do the collector trays. Some of Gary’s bees have swarmed in his tree.”

  “Fantastic,” Brooke whispered, facetiously.

  Elise moved toward them. “The man used to spray pesticides around like tap water. Hence his nickname. Then, Brooke had a talk with him and convinced him otherwise.” She scrunched up her face to mark her disapproval of Mr. Pesticide’s former ludicrous ways. “Obviously Gary isn’t managing his hives again. It’s not the first time he let his hives get too large.”

  “I’ve told him a thousand times how to control a swarm,” Tom said. “He doesn’t listen. And of all yards to swarm, the bees had to pick Mr. Pesticide’s?”

  “I’m going to talk to Gary,” Elise said. “You always talk too much golf when you’re together. He probably isn’t hearing what you’re saying to him.” Elise shook her head.

  They tossed their opinions around like a couple of kids razzing on each other at the playground. They probably argued over silly, normal things like losing the remote control to the couch cushions and forgetting to lock the doors at night. They were adorable.

  Jacky waved Sophie over to her. “We should get out of their way, so they can go tend to this swarm.”

  “I’d love to see a swarm,” Sophie said.

  Jacky would too. In fact, she’d love to hang out with these people all afternoon if she could. She loved their down-to-earth, nonjudgmental attitudes. They could probably enjoy a lively debate, then offer hot cocoa a moment later. But, they had serious work to do, and Jacky didn’t want to push.

  “We’ve taken up enough of their time for today,” Jacky said. She walked toward the entrance of the greenhouse. “We’ll let you get to work.”

  Brooke reached out for Sophie’s arm as she passed her by. “I promise there will be more swarms if you come to work for me.”

  “Especially if we don’t get over to Gary’s and educate him,” Elise said with a straight face.

  Brooke smirked at her grandmother, then turned her attention back to Sophie. “So think about it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They exchanged smiles.

  Meanwhile, Bee sat like a perfect dog. Too perfect, in fact. Her training would be over before they could blink. “Hey,” Jacky stopped short of the entrance door. “Let’s set up another training. This time you will be walking her.”

  “Me?” Brooke’s face flushed.

  “How about Monday morning at eight o’clock?”

  “Really?” Panic spread across her pink face. “Am I ready?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?” Jacky asked with unintended tease.

  Brooke tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and offered her a blink. “I suppose I might be.”

  Brooke’s innocence aroused a curious spark in Jacky. “Then Monday morning it is,” she said with unreserved playfulness.

  Brooke winked. “See you then.”

  Jacky’s heart galloped, firing back to life the rapid flutters that long ago used to power a passionate breath in her movements; flutters she didn’t deserve.

  Even after she and Sophie buckled into their respective places in the car and watched as Brooke disappeared behind the back of her house, she still buzzed. Even her skin tickled as the light breeze blew in through the window, covering her in the romantic scent of a heartfelt high.

  Sophie sat smiling and staring up at the budding trees. “I’ve made up my mind.” Happiness sprang from her core, filling the front seat with air that helped Jacky return to reality.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going to quit cheerleading and become a beekeeper.”

  Infused with visions of bees, warm gooey honey, happy-go-lucky laughs from Sophie and more sights of Brooke’s innocent blinks, Jacky relaxed into the idea with a shrug. “No argument from me. Whatever you want, kiddo.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mr. Pesticide, so appropriately nicknamed by Pepe, was a jerk who moved into the neighborhood the summer before. He would spray his lawn and plants with pesticides. Pepe attempted to educate him on the damaging effects of the chemicals on the honeybee population, but the man refused to listen to a word he had to say because Pepe mistakenly pulled up on his lawn with his Tacoma creating instant mud holes. Mr. Pesticide kicked Brooke and Pepe off his property as Pepe yelled out his window, begging him to stop using chemicals in his yard. Well, being yelled at didn’t sit right with Mr. Pesticide, you see, because that very day, he pulled out his container of toxins and doused his front lawn with it.

  They couldn’t have that happen. Their bees foraged in his yard. Honeybees typically foraged in a five mile radius from a hive. So, from the time Brooke walked and talked, she sat privy to those conversations with new neighbors as Pepe educated them on why they shouldn’t use the chemicals.

  Pesticides and weed control sprays were horrible substances that wreaked havoc on the environment, bees, and humans. They should be banned, yet every major retailer in the country displayed the toxic chemicals on their shelves. At the very least each container should have labeled a warning that those chemicals could kill honeybees. Without honeybees, they’d have no fruit, vegetables, or pretty flowers. They’d die. Yet, no one seemed alarmed by that.

  Not only did every neighbor get a free supply of honey for their beneficial contribution to honeybees, but they also got to enjoy toxin-free honey.

  On
the second day that Mr. Pesticide pulled out his poisonous container and ventured out to his front lawn wearing a mask, Pepe begged Brooke to help.

  Brooke had arrived, carrying a plate of cookies up their front walk. Mrs. Pesticide rocked in her chair on the porch. “Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

  “About what dear?”

  “About mine and my grandparent’s honeybees.” Brooke inched her way up the first step. “My grandfather asked me to come by and bring you cookies because he feels badly about how he and Mr. Pest–” Brooke coughed, “and your husband got off on the wrong foot. You know men, especially the old grouchy kind like my Pepe. They have no clue how to be civil at times.”

  The lady chuckled, covering her mouth. Her eyelids creased and cast a shadow over her delicate icy blue eyes. “My husband is the worst,” she whispered.

  A moment later, Mr. Pesticide had sprung out of his front door as if flames lapped up against his back. “Get off my walk.” He pointed to the street. “Go on now.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mrs. Pesticide said, springing up from her rocking chair. “She is my guest, and she will sit next to me.” She had motioned for Brooke to sit in the empty chair beside her.

  Brooke climbed the steps and halted in front of him. “Cookie? They just came out of the oven.”

  He eyed them and growled, folding his arms across his chest and taking a strong lean position against the porch railing. “What is this about?”

  “I wanted to ask a favor.”

  “Now, why would we do you a favor?”

  “Because I’m asking nicely.” Brooke looked to the lady who nodded her approval.

  “Go on now, sweetheart. What is your favor?” she asked.

  “Our honeybees are dying. The pesticides you’re spraying are killing them.”

  “Oh this is rubbish.” He tossed his hands in the air.

  “Shush, you old grouch,” his wife said. “Listen to what she has to say.”

  Brooke continued. “If honeybees eat nectar from a chemically treated plant, they bring those toxins back to the hive and can infect the other bees with disease and produce chemically treated honey. The bees from our hives help pollinate your garden and flowers. Our neighbors, many innocent children, eat the honey. The bees are wonderful workers, and they need our help to continue their good work. Will you stop using the chemicals in exchange for honey that is free of toxins and straight from our hives?” Brooke exhaled the residual emotions loitering in her chest.

  “I’ve told you,” his wife said, pointing at him. “You’re going to poison us with those chemicals.” She turned to Brooke. “He tells me he needs to spray the roots to keep the bugs from eating his precious tomato plants.”

  “If I don’t, they’re going to rot.” His voice grew loud.

  The wife looked to Brooke again. “He loves those tomatoes more than he loves me, I think. He spends all day talking to them, shining up the leaves, watering them, feeding them, pruning them, and when harvest time comes, he’s like a kid in a field of strawberries. He loves his tomatoes.”

  “I can’t stand the taste of store-bought ones,” he said, wagging his head. “They’re bruised and knotty, and they taste like cardboard.”

  “There are organic ways to garden,” Brooke said. “I’m happy to share some ideas with you.”

  His jaw hung. He looked to his wife, then at the plate of cookies.

  “Do you want one?” Brooke offered him the plate again.

  He contemplated the move toward them with a clench to his droopy jaw. “I suppose one couldn’t hurt.” He reached for one and bit into it. He sealed his eyes closed, savoring it. “So bugs won’t get at my tomatoes if I do this organic thing you’re talking about?”

  “That’s right, and you won’t be poisoning yourself or my bees.”

  He bit into the cookie again. Crumbs dropped to his feet. “Have we destroyed your hives?”

  His wife scooted up in her chair. “We?”

  He cleared his throat. “Fine, I. Have I destroyed your hives?”

  “We’ve got one hundred and fifty of them that are still thriving. So, it’s not too late to help them.”

  “I’m not doing this for that old man of yours. You hear me?” He arched his wiry eyebrow. “I’m doing this for my tomatoes and the bees, and them alone. And only because I’ve got the biggest, juiciest tomatoes this side of Howard County. I’ve never seen juicer ones. I don’t want to screw that up.”

  “With healthy bees, you’ll have healthy crops. I promise. You can thank the bees for your tomatoes being as juicy as they are already.”

  “Well.” The man had turned out to the yard and stretched out his arms. “Thank you bees.”

  That conversation happened a little over half a year ago, and despite Brooke spending a few afternoons with him teaching him about organic gardening, Pepe and Mr. Pesticide still hadn’t spoken. When Pepe would drive by, Mr. Pesticide would chuck him the bird.

  ~ ~

  When Brooke returned home after tending to the swarm in Mr. Pesticide’s yard that afternoon, she strolled out to the patio and relaxed with some lemonade. Since Penelope left her, she enjoyed those quiet expanses of time when she could sit alone for half an hour. She didn’t have to worry about ruining Penelope’s afternoon by forcing her to do something as simple as enjoying the quiet. She didn’t have to answer to anyone, and that freedom thrilled her.

  Did she miss the idea of having someone to cuddle up with, cook with, or dance with? She wished she had that. Penelope never cuddled, cooked or danced. The television blared or they went to a mall. She wanted Brooke to change into someone who enjoyed loud television shows and crowded malls.

  Brooke was a romantic at heart. She wanted the cuddling, cooking, and dancing. Penelope couldn’t provide those things. Neither could any of the women she dated. They turned from bad to worse, always turning out to be narcissistic, petty, or just plain dull.

  As she sipped her lemonade, she tossed Bee a ball. She fetched it, leaping and returning it with slobber. When Bee grew tired of that, she began digging around the bushes to uncover bones she had buried.

  Brooke leaned back in the lounger and closed her eyes. A moment later, her cell rang. “Hi Brooke! It’s me Sophie. I’ve been looking over my project notes from this morning’s visit. Can I ask you a question about bee colony collapse?”

  “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

  “I want to include information on how pesticides affect the health of a hive. I looked it up online, but I’d rather talk with you about it.”

  “That’s a question that could be better answered by my grandparents. They go around to different bee organizations and talk about just that. Maybe you can come by the apiary next Saturday to chat with them?”

  “Can I start working for you then, too, and climb back into the bee suit?”

  “So, you’re interested?”

  “The bees were so cool. They’re so gentle, and all they want to do is thrive. I want to help them thrive.”

  A wave of motherly pride for her bees caught her off balance in a delightful way. “What about cheerleading?”

  “I don’t really care for cheerleading, to be honest. The only reason I joined the squad was to help my friend Ashley overcome her shyness with the other members. She’s more outgoing than me now. Besides, I’m ready for something new.”

  “Well, then, I’m so excited for you. You’re going to love it! We’re going to have so much fun.”

  “What time do you want me there?”

  “I’m not like your mother, Jacky. You can show up whenever you please.”

  “Oh, she’s going to want a time.”

  “You tell her we’re on bee time. That means we work hard when we are called to duty and we rest with gusto.”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to fly with her,” she laughed. “I need a time.”

  “If it’ll settle her, tell her ten in the morning until four in the afternoon.”

  “Okay, bye!”
<
br />   Brooke eased her phone down, then released a happy squeak.

  The teacher in her awoke. She couldn’t wait to introduce the girl to the wonder and magic of bees, and their incredible life lessons.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday morning had started out as any other for Marie and Hazel. They sat across from each other in their breakfast nook eating steel-cut oats with honey and sipping Earl Grey tea. Marie chomped into a mouthful of oats. Honey pooled around the edges of her spoon and dripped. As she caught it, Hazel asked her, “Am I getting dark circles under my eyes.”

  Marie couldn’t lie. Hazel knew that. “You do look more tired than usual.”

  “So that’s a yes,” she asked with a high pitch.

  “Yes. I do see dark circles. But–”

  “But?” Hazel stood up and punched her thighs, before darting off down the hallway in hysterics.

  “Oh for goodness sakes, Hazel,” she yelled after her.

  Marie allowed little leeway on lying. She omitted the truth only if no viable solution existed that would help the situation. In the case of Hazel’s dark circles, some simple frozen metal spoons on the eyes first thing in the morning would do the trick. That or more sleep. They were in their mid-fifties, after all. Heck, for weeks, she had spent an extra hour awake, rubbing her tired eyes to get through crocheting a blanket for their lead trainer’s new baby. So what if she had dark circles? Big freaking whoop dee do.

  Marie stomped down the hallway to their office to defend her case. She always did. Hazel knew that too.

  She found Hazel’s face buried in her hands, tears leaking through her tense fingers.

  “Why ask me if you don’t want an honest answer?”

  “Maybe sometimes I just want to hear something compassionate come out of your mouth.” Her voice muffled under the pressure of her stressed fingers. “Sometimes I just wish you’d be more empathetic and sensitive.”

  Marie stood staring at her, at a loss for what to do. “You know I’m crazy about you, even with dark circles. Who cares about them?” She inched into the office. “Look at me. Look at these dark spots on my face.” She pointed to her cheeks. “If I cared enough about getting rid of them, I would. There’s always a solution, even for your dark circles.”