by Karen White
chapter 14
“The bee is more honored than other animals, not because she labors, but because she labors for others.”
Saint John Chrysostom
—NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL
Georgia
I leaned my head against the rocking chair on the back porch and held my breath as I began to count the birds I could spot flitting over the calm waters of the bay or lingering closer to the shore. It was another silly game from my childhood, one in which I wouldn’t allow myself to catch another breath until I’d reached the count of ten. I’d often wondered why I’d felt the need to create these little personal entertainments, or why I continued to do them. Maybe I’d never quite grown out of the childish need to create order and routine in a scattered, unorganized life.
“What are you doing?” James asked.
I uncrossed my legs and placed my feet flat on the ground, stopping the chair. I realized my cheeks were puffed out and that I’d been holding my breath for so long I was getting light-headed.
My cheeks flushed. “Just thinking to myself.”
He regarded me calmly, his eyes never wavering, but I saw the corner of his mouth tilt up; he was probably too tired to laugh out loud.
We’d been poring over the catalogs and the Internet—thanks to his laptop—for the past week, and I’d made dozens of phone calls to my contacts in the country and all over the world. Nobody had seen a pattern like ours, or anything vaguely similar. I’d been given more leads on where I should look or what it could be, but I was beginning to feel a lot like Alice chasing the elusive rabbit down a hole that apparently had no bottom.
The sound of an approaching motorcycle slowing and then stopping had me on my feet and walking down the porch steps by the time Aunt Marlene appeared from around the corner of the house.
“You come in so late and leave so early that I figured if I wanted to spend any time with you, I’d better come find you here.” Her hair was windblown from riding without a helmet, and she wore boots with her shorts instead of flip-flops, in deference to her mode of transportation. “I figured I’d see you at home, but you leave before the sun comes up and come back long after the dogs and me are snoring. Best way to visit was to come over here and risk running into Birdie.”
James stood as Marlene approached. “It’s good to see you again, Ms. Chambers.”
Marlene glanced at me and raised her eyebrows as if to say, Now, that’s a gentleman, then turned back to James. “Please sit down. And it’s Marlene. Nobody’s called me anything else for such a long time that I don’t think I even know who Ms. Chambers is anymore.”
He indicated his chair for her to sit, but she waved her hand, then perched herself on the top step. “How’s your granddaddy?”
“He’s getting better, and he won’t need surgery. The doctors say it could have been much worse—we’re so thankful that Lyle was close by to get him to the hospital as fast as he did. He still can’t talk or walk very well, but rehab will help.”
With help from Lyle and James, we’d moved Grandpa into the newly set-up bedroom in his study downstairs surrounded by my grandmother’s watercolors. It was almost as if the painted flowers and honeybees had brought his beloved apiary inside, the silent bees keeping vigil.
“How’s his mind?” she asked bluntly.
“It’s still hard to tell, because he’s not speaking yet, but the doctors say his brain function is good. We’re taking him to a rehab center several times a week, and then working with him at home. I think he’s frustrated by the lack of communication—I feel like he wants to ask me something. But he can’t write yet, either—his right side is the one affected by the stroke.
“We know depression can set in, so we make sure someone’s with him all the time. Birdie keeps him company a lot, but it’s my job to get him up and to walk him around the living room a few times a day while Maisy is at work.”
Marlene nodded. “I’m sure Maisy’s happy to have the help.”
I coughed and James looked away.
Taking a hint and changing the subject, Marlene said, “I saw Florence Love yesterday, and she said she’ll be here tonight right before dark to close up the hives so she can pick them up first thing in the morning and take them to the swamp. That’s real nice of her.”
I nodded. “I’d love to help, but I don’t think she’ll want my interference. It’s been so long that I barely remember all that’s involved. I do remember that the most important thing is to make sure the queen stays with the brood frame on the bottom and isn’t somehow left behind.”
James leaned forward, seeming to be genuinely interested. “So the queen calls the shots.”
I smiled, remembering having the same discussion with my grandfather. “It’s a chicken-and-the-egg sort of thing. The queen can’t survive without her worker bees to feed her and to take care of all the baby bees and the hive. But the worker bees can’t survive without her eggs, either. They each have their purpose, their own reasons for being. They know their roles and behave accordingly. Otherwise the order of things would be in total chaos and the entire hive would die.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “So it’s a matriarchal society. That means the worker bees probably ask for directions when they’re lost and that’s how they all find their way back to the hive at night.”
I grinned. “Yes and yes. They do a sort of dance to tell the other worker bees where good sources of food can be found, and the girl bees do all the work around the hive. The male drone’s job is solely to mate with the queen—which she does with several at a time.”
“Lucky them.” James was grinning now, too.
“Not really. The drone’s penis breaks during intercourse and he drops dead.”
“But what a way to go,” Marlene interjected with a smirk.
James let out a genuine laugh, and I realized that he didn’t laugh often. I wondered whether it had been different before his wife’s death.
“Will Florence let us help if we promise not to get in the way?” he asked.
It was my turn to raise eyebrows. “Are you interested in becoming a beekeeper? The world needs more, you know. Bees are dying off, and if Grandpa and Florence had their way, there would be a law making it illegal not to have a hive in your backyard.”
“Who knows? I’m pretty much open for suggestions right now. And I kind of like bees.”
“I’m sure Florence will let you watch, but I think she’d prefer to do it on her own—she has a system. Besides, you don’t have to, you know. I don’t think it’s in your job description. You’ve already been such a help with Grandpa.”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’m actually enjoying myself. I never imagined I’d ever be in a place like Apalachicola.” His phone buzzed and he turned if off without even glancing at it. “And learning about the sex lives of bees, among other things.”
Marlene gave me a knowing smile and I immediately sent her a sharp shake of the head. No. Don’t even go there.
I recalled something I’d been meaning to ask her. “Have you ever known somebody named Adeline?”
Her brows knitted together as she thought for a moment. Shaking her head, she said, “No, I don’t think so. Not in this town, anyway, and I pretty much know everybody who’s lived here for the last sixty years or so. Why?”
“I thought Birdie said the name when she was having one of her spells. I’m curious who it could be.”
Marlene looked up at me with sympathetic eyes. “It’s probably a character she once played, that’s all.” As if to change the subject, she twisted around to face James. “Has Georgie taken you to Up the Creek Raw Bar for the best oysters in the world? Or to the Old Time Soda Fountain for a chocolate soda?”
James sat back in his chair. “Not yet—we’ve been pretty busy. Although I did buy a beautiful painting of the river at the Robert Lindsley Gallery
on E Street. I thought that would make a nice memento of my visit. But I should eat some oysters while I’m here. Apalachicola is the oyster capital of the world, right?”
I nudged his foot with mine, knowing he’d read that on the welcome sign as we’d driven into town. Marlene threw her head back and laughed, her smoker’s voice like sandpaper against stone.
“You got that right. Most of the restaurants around here brag that their oysters were in the bay yesterday and on your table today. Don’t get any fresher than that.” She jerked her chin in my direction. “Georgia’s daddy—my brother—was an oysterman, just like our daddy and granddaddy. Had his own skiff handmade right here in Apalach from marine plywood—lasted for three generations and would have lasted longer.” She was silent for a moment watching a pair of oystercatchers swooping and hollering in flight as they searched for dinner. “Mama sold it after he died—couldn’t stand the sight of it.”
Marlene leaned against the porch railing. “Did Georgia tell you she’s named after her daddy? His name was George. George the third, to be exact. We called him Trey when he was younger—that means three in French, in case you didn’t know, but with an ‘s’ at the end instead of a ‘y’—because there were already too many Georges in the family and it got confusing. But when our granddaddy died, he wanted to be called George to honor him, so we did.”
James began to tentatively rock back and forth in his chair, as if he were unfamiliar with the movement or even sitting still for long periods of time. His phone lay quiet on the floor beside him, and I wondered whether he’d turned it off. “And then he had a daughter, so he figured he should pass on the name to her.”
Marlene barked out a laugh. “Nope. It was Birdie’s idea. She said it was because it was a family name, but I always thought that she gave it to Georgia because it was the only part of her husband she was willing to share.”
“Aunt Marlene, don’t . . .” I began. I glanced at James and his eyes were calm, as if to remind me that he was just a stranger on a plane.
“Sorry, sweetie. You know I have a lot of grievances against your mama, and sometimes things just pop out of my mouth like a bullfrog’s tongue snatching a fly. I have to remind myself that she has reasons for being the way she is. And I get that; I do. But it’s hard to forgive a mother who doesn’t cherish her daughters the way they deserve to be.”
She wasn’t saying anything that I hadn’t thought myself over the years. I just didn’t like them being said out loud, even with Maisy. Birdie was still our mother, the soft-skinned, perfumed presence in our childhoods, the warm fingers on our temples as we drifted to sleep. The remembered tunes sung softly in the dark. It was as if as children we had known Birdie’s indifference hadn’t been intentional any more than you can blame a bee for stinging in self-defense. Maybe even then we recognized that she was as lost as we were, trying to navigate an unfamiliar world. To us, Birdie was a ghost we could feel but not see, an unexplained force in our lives we’d stumble into head-on, the resulting bruise the only evidence she’d been there at all.
I took a deep breath. “Daddy died when I was three. I hardly remember him—except when I’m walking along the marina and the scent of fish is so strong there. But I do remember that Birdie wouldn’t let him near her after he’d been out on the boat, but he’d swing me up in his arms and hug me, because I didn’t mind. Even today I can’t be offended by the smell of fish.”
James rested his elbows on the armrests of his chair, steepling his fingers, a slight grin lighting his face. “I’ve walked around town and been down to the marina several times. I think it’s a gift if you can find the scent in the air there a pleasant one.”
Marlene threw her head back again and cackled while I smiled at James in appreciation. Maybe it was being raised with so many sisters that had taught him the perfect timing of when to lighten the mood by saying the right thing.
“There’s that,” Marlene said. “Birdie loved George something fierce, I will give her that. And he loved her back. It was a wild kind of love, though. You know how they say there’s a thin line between love and hate? I think they crossed it too many times. It seemed to me that they each desperately needed something from the other that neither was prepared to give. It was hard to watch.” She paused, looking out over the bay, seemingly unaware of the screaming gulls overhead. “I’ve never seen two people more bent on self-destruction than they were. Poor George. I don’t think he ever recovered from watching our daddy drown. Their boat got stuck in a storm they never should have been out in. I think George always blamed himself, because he was the one who said they should stay out a little longer before they headed home. Always looking for the next big catch. I guess that can be a heavy burden to carry.”
We sat in silence as James continued to rock. I was about to suggest getting a few beers, but Marlene spoke again.
“But, Birdie.” Marlene shrugged. “I gave up trying to figure her out. Her mama sent her to that performing arts school, so we didn’t see much of her except summertime. I remember the first time I saw her and I knew there was something not right about her, like half of her was missing, and the other half was doing something much more interesting. Poor George. He was so smitten you could have punched him in the stomach and he wouldn’t have noticed.”
A door slammed somewhere inside the house and I realized it was time for Maisy and Becky to get home from school. Marlene straightened her shoulders just as I was doing the same thing, and I wondered whether Maisy had that effect on everybody. “It’s kind of funny,” Marlene said. “This talk about china. It reminds me of something George once told me.”
“Really?” I asked. “What did he say?”
“That when they got married Birdie refused to pick out china—said she hated it and would rather eat off of paper plates. I said it was probably on account of your grandma being such a junker—she was never one to turn away from a garage sale or Dumpster—and her owning about a thousand different plates in all kinds of patterns. When I said that he got a funny look on his face and told me that wasn’t it, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. So as a wedding present I bought them some cheap no-brand white china on sale at Penneys and that’s what they ate off of their whole married lives.”
I remembered seeing some of it in the china cabinet as Maisy and I sorted through it, easily placing it in the discard pile. I wondered now whether I should pull a piece or two out just to save, or see if Birdie wanted to keep it. I doubted it. As with most of her marriage, there wasn’t a lot she’d hung on to.
Before I could ask her more, the back door flew open and Becky ran out onto the porch full of youth and energy and shining blond hair. I didn’t look to see whether everybody else was holding their breath, too, watching this magnificent creature.
Her tennis racket clanked to the ground as she reached for my arm. I watched as she focused on getting her breath under control, to school her tongue and command the words to leave her mouth without stuttering. I’d begun to smile to encourage her, but it slipped as I had a premonition of what she was about to ask.
“Come on, Aunt Georgia. Let’s go swimming! My friend Brittany has a pool and she said we could go over this afternoon.”
I was shaking my head before I even realized why. “I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“I don’t remember that ever stopping you before.”
We all turned around to find Maisy in the open doorway, her arms crossed over her chest like an avenging angel. The shrieks of the seagulls and the quiet chirping of crickets were the only sounds for a long, excruciating moment. I tried to remember that I was ten years older now and no longer prone to hurt feelings or direct emotional jabs. But the thing with siblings was that no matter how old we got, our relationship remained tied to the twin beds of a shared childhood bedroom and the after-dark confidences and morning taunts.
“I guess I could borrow one of your suits, but it would be way too big.�
� I wanted to call the words back as soon as they were out of my mouth, but, as with most good intentions, it was too late.
Silently Becky dropped my hand and moved to Maisy’s side like a pawn on a chessboard protecting her queen.
Maisy put an arm around her daughter and they looked at me with accusing eyes, which only added to my shame and embarrassment.
James stood and stretched, then smiled at the grim faces around him as if he had somehow missed the last exchange. “I was hoping somebody might mention a swim. I didn’t bring a swimsuit, either, but there are some great shops downtown where I’m sure I can find something. I’ll bring Georgia along with me so she can shop for one, too.”
Becky looked shyly up at him, her cheeks pink. “Y-you can swim? I thought you lived in the city.”
I saw the sadness seep into his eyes again, like moss on a still pond. “I can swim. But I’ll wear water wings if that’ll make you feel better.”
Becky laughed out loud, and there seemed to be a collective sigh of relief. It was then that I decided to stop regretting my decision to bring James Graf on this trip. I could only hope that he was thinking the same thing.
We heard a car door slam, and after a moment we all turned toward the corner of the house to see Florence Love, the beekeeper, walking toward us. She waved. “I knew I’d find y’all back here on such a pretty day. Why aren’t y’all swimming?”
Before we could start that conversation again, I hastily stood and made introductions. James grinned as he took in Florence’s swinging silver earrings in the shape of bees and her T-shirt graphic of a bee with “Show me the honey” written on the front. Her shiny dark brown hair, cut short and wavy, poked out from under a wide-brimmed straw hat, and her eyes were the same pale blue as my grandfather’s. I knew she was around Marlene’s age, but she looked about twenty years younger, most likely due to the hats she never stepped outside without. She certainly hadn’t aged a day since I’d last seen her.
