by Karen White
“It’s silk. You shouldn’t get it wet.”
“Yes, well, I figure if I got the whole thing wet we wouldn’t have to worry about a water stain. And that’s so much better than a bloodstain.”
Too tired to continue the conversation, Maisy pulled out a chair next to her mother and kissed her cheek before sitting down. She took a long sip of her coffee, staring at the jar of Grandpa’s tupelo honey that had sat in the middle of the kitchen table ever since she could remember, then stood abruptly. “I forgot to check my phone. The hospital might have called.”
“Don’t bother,” Georgia said. “They already did, on the house phone. He’s stable but they want to keep him a little longer. I made an appointment for us to talk with his doctor at eleven.”
Maisy gripped the handle of her mug until her knuckles whitened.
“Or I could go myself, if you have other things you need to do. We also need to find someone to help us with moving the hives. Grandpa will be so disappointed if he doesn’t get his tupelo honey—”
“Stop it,” Maisy said, hearing the words before she’d even convinced herself to say them.
Georgia turned off the burner and lifted the pan from the stove top, what looked like genuine surprise crossing her face.
Maisy slammed the coffee mug down on the table, causing coffee to splash over the top. She was aware of Birdie putting down her fork. “Stop acting as if you care, as if we’ve saved a spot and waited for you to come back and resume your place. It doesn’t work that way. It was never meant to work that way.”
“It’s been a long time, Maisy.”
Maisy placed her palms flat on the wood table, glad for the cool feel of it. “This isn’t some game where you’re allowed to change the rules midway just because you’re losing.”
Georgia slammed the pan down on the counter. “This was never about winning or losing. And I didn’t want to come back—ever. But it’s been a decade! When this opportunity came up I said no at first. I knew you wouldn’t be happy to see me. I knew that I promised I wouldn’t come back. Then I told myself I was doing it for work, for James, really. But I think in the back of my mind I knew it was time. Regardless of what other people in town might think or say, my own sister can’t still hate me. I just needed to find out for myself.”
Maisy had a sudden memory of Georgia teaching her how to drive in their grandfather’s old Buick, and how Maisy had been too scared to press the accelerator until Georgia promised her that she wouldn’t let her get hurt. And she’d believed her. Believed her enough that she’d stomped her foot hard on the accelerator, jumping the car forward, and would have hit the magnolia in the front yard if Georgia hadn’t yanked the steering wheel.
“I don’t hate you,” Maisy said quietly. “I’ve wanted to, but I can’t. It’s just easier not to hate you when you’re four hundred miles away.”
Birdie seemed to be watching Georgia, her gaze focused. Georgia approached and took their mother’s plate. “Would you like some coffee?”
She didn’t say anything, but she turned her head toward the counter where the coffeemaker sat. There was something not right about that one movement, something that made Maisy glance at Birdie, wondering whether she’d missed something.
Maisy watched as Georgia poured a mug of coffee for their mother, remembering the two spoonfuls of sugar and dollop of milk even after all this time. And it annoyed Maisy even more, as if Georgia had remembered on purpose because she assumed that Maisy would expect her to forget.
“When are you leaving?” Maisy demanded, wanting to get the conversation under control again. It was what she did best. Georgia was good at mixing things up and making a mess, and Maisy was good at cleaning it all up and fixing things. It was the way it had always been. “I’m assuming your plans have changed now because of Grandpa.” Maisy walked toward the pantry to pull out a box of cereal regardless of how enticing the smell of eggs and pancakes was. She could make her own breakfast and take care of her family. She’d been doing it for years.
Georgia placed the mug of coffee in front of Birdie. Without meeting Maisy’s eyes, she said, “With Grandpa’s stroke, it would seem that our visit has become open-ended.”
“Doesn’t James need to get back to New York? You can’t just drag him down here and leave him stranded.”
Georgia’s spine stiffened as she pulled her shoulders back, a sure sign that her sister was preparing for a fight, and Maisy was glad for it. Georgia had come back to Apalach like a sunbather dipping into the warm waters of the gulf, carefree and unconcerned. Somebody had to remind her why she hadn’t been back for so long.
“I didn’t and I’m not,” Georgia said offhandedly, but with clipped words. “I offered to drive him to the airport so he could fly back to New York, but he told me he was fine here for as long as I need to stay. My boss said just about the same thing. I’m worried about Grandpa. I want to make sure he’s okay and help with whatever needs to happen next. And that will give me more time to do what I came here for, too. Maybe even have time to talk with you. It’s not my goal to inconvenience you, and I’d like to think that talking with you wouldn’t fit into that category.”
Maisy was shaking her head before Georgia had even finished speaking. “Inconvenience me?” She thought she heard a knock on the front door, but she was too focused on the conversation to go check. “That’s like calling a category-five hurricane an inconvenience. I honestly thought you’d show up under the cover of darkness and slip out the same way. Because that’s what I would have done if I were you. But I keep forgetting that you’re nothing like me.”
Georgia’s lips had become as pale as her skin. Maisy was vaguely aware of Birdie sliding back her chair and walking from the room. “Well, thank goodness for that,” Georgia shouted. “Because we all can’t be doormats.”
Maisy slammed her mug into the sink, hearing the gratifying sound of it cracking against the porcelain and satisfied to see Georgia flinch. “Well, somebody had to stick around to fix your mistakes and clean up your mess.”
Georgia took a step toward her, her balled fists pressed against her heart as if to protect it. “That was your choice! You chose, and I went along with it because I thought it would make you happy.”
Maisy clutched her head, wondering whether it was possible to have one’s head actually burst, then remembered something else Georgia had said. “Why on earth would James want to stick around here? That makes no sense. How much have you told him?”
“You mean my version or yours?” Georgia’s cheeks were flushed, her nostrils flaring.
“The real version,” Maisy shouted, glad Becky was with Lyle, and not a witness. Maisy never raised her voice, either in the classroom or at home. She’d learned that from Birdie. Ladies didn’t make a commotion. But she was lost somewhere between anger and heartbreak, and desperate to leave things unsaid. Except it was far too late for that. Ten years too late.
“The real version?” Georgia spat back. “Would that be actual events or the way you want to remember them?”
“The version that includes you being so busy being the town slut that you let something horrible happen to an innocent child!” Maisy screamed, the ugly words staining the air between them.
They both became aware of movement in the doorway and turned in tandem to see James standing there, holding an armful of china catalogs. “Your mother let me in.” He held up the catalogs as if in explanation. “I walked to your aunt Marlene’s and she told me you were here. I brought these over thinking that if we had time, we could get started. . . .” His voice faded as if the echo of Maisy’s last words were still ricocheting against the kitchen walls like bullets, leaving burning black holes in everything they touched.
He set the catalogs on the kitchen counter, then retreated, pausing for a moment. “In answer to your first question, Maisy, I’m here because I’ve recently lost my wife, and Georgia was kind e
nough to let me come along on her mission to identify my grandmother’s china because I needed a distraction.” His gaze flickered momentarily to Georgia before returning to Maisy. “As for your second question, I knew nothing about her family or why she’d been gone so long.” He paused. “But I guess I do now.”
With a brief nod in their direction, he left the room. They listened as his footsteps moved down the back hallway to the foyer, followed by the sound of the front door opening and then closing with a solid snap.
Neither one of them moved for a long moment, until Georgia walked over to the counter and picked up the catalogs. With her chin held high she spoke through bloodless lips. “I’m going to the hospital now so I can meet with Grandpa’s doctors. You can be there or not; I really don’t care. Then I’m calling his beekeeping friend Florence Love to ask her to come over and give me some pointers on what I need to do until Grandpa is back on his feet again to take care of the hives on his own, and ask her about moving the hives to the swamp.
“But I’m not leaving town until Grandpa is better and things are settled, so you’d better get used to having me around for a while.” She left the kitchen, her heels pounding into the wood floors like a punishment.
Maisy’s mouth opened and closed several times as she thought of the thousands of things she wanted to say to her sister. Instead, her gaze strayed to the dirty pan and cold pancakes on the kitchen counter. “You left a mess in the kitchen!” she shouted after Georgia, the words all too familiar.
Georgia answered with the slamming of the front door.
chapter 11
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
Outside 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.”
