by Karen White
I paused, wanting nothing more than to head back to the house and close the door behind me. “Sure,” I said instead, and we began walking toward Market Street.
A buzzing sounded from James’s pocket, but he ignored it, shortening his long strides to match ours. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” I asked after it had buzzed five times.
He hesitated before responding. “I wasn’t planning to. It’s probably just one of my sisters again, asking me when I’m coming home. I’ve already told them the answer, so I don’t understand why they keep bothering me.”
The buzzing stopped, and we hadn’t walked three paces before a text message pinged. Reluctantly he pulled his phone from his back pocket and looked at it. He stopped short, his eyes on his phone. “Well,” he said. “It’s from Maisy.”
I looked at him expectantly. “Is it my grandfather?”
He shook his head. “No. Your friend at the Haviland archives has been trying to reach you.” He met my gaze. “She says she thinks she’s found your artist.”
I’d sent her the two names Maisy had given me from the New York Times article. “That’s terrific news. I can’t wait to find out what she has to say.” I’d already turned around to go back when James put his hand on my arm.
“But first we’re going to go downtown, to go shopping and to be seen, and to visit with people you haven’t seen in a while. Then we’ll go home and you can call her back.”
I bristled, torn between thankfulness, embarrassment, and anger. As if he’d heard my unspoken question, he said, “Because you and I aren’t that different.”
The expression on his face made the back of my eyeballs prickle. It reminded me of Maisy, standing in a windblown cemetery, her eyes reflecting the new empty space in her heart. It gave me the courage to nod and to keep walking in the direction of downtown.
chapter 18
“That which is not good for the beehive cannot be good for the bees.”
Marcus Aurelius
—NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL
Maisy
Becky sat at the foot of Grandpa’s bed, her thin legs pulled up in front of her, arms hugging them close. She gnawed on the fingernails of the closest hand, but Maisy didn’t tell her to stop. Becky had been agitated ever since the shopping trip with Georgia and James, but had made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about it.
Birdie sat in the chair by the bed, and before Maisy had walked in she felt sure she’d heard a murmur of sound, like voices from a TV talk show. But Grandpa was asleep and the television off. Birdie, dressed in an elegant knit wrap dress and high-heeled pumps, cradled the broken saucer in her hands, but it lay inert like a sleeping baby while her attention rested on her father.
Maisy recalled Georgia’s question about whether Birdie talked to Becky. Of course she doesn’t. She’d been angry when she’d answered, mostly because she didn’t really know. Despite all logic, Becky and Birdie had been inseparable since Becky’s birth, as if they had their own special language that excluded everyone else. Including Maisy.
Mostly, though, she was angry because if Birdie could communicate, it should be with her. Maisy was the one who took care of her mother, who was there every day seeing to her needs. Who bought her lipstick. If Birdie had something to say, she should say it to Maisy. Then maybe Maisy could unravel the secret that was her mother, peeling back the layers of years that would allow her to peer into her mother’s past and perhaps find understanding. And clarity. To maybe even ease the hurt and anger and sense of abandonment that followed Maisy like a recurring nightmare.
When Maisy had taught eighth-grade science, in one of the textbooks she’d come across a fish that willingly starved itself to avoid conflict. Because it didn’t compete for the food source, the alpha fish would let it be instead of tearing it to shreds. Maisy had identified with that fish, its name long forgotten. She knew what it was like to try to fade into the background to avoid getting hurt. But that never stopped her from trying to eat.
She placed her hand on Becky’s shoulder. “Did he do his exercises?”
Becky nodded, her finger in her mouth as she nibbled on the nail.
“The doctors say he’s getting better, so please don’t worry, all right, sweetheart?”
“He’s w-worried about s-something.”
Maisy looked down at her daughter. “Did he say something to you?”
Becky glanced over at Birdie for a moment before returning her gaze to her shredded nails. She shook her head. “I c-can just tell. He w-wants his bees b-back.”
“His bees? The ones Florence brought to the swamp? How do you know that?”
Keeping her gaze focused on her hands, she shrugged.
Maisy felt a flush of anger. Once again she was on the periphery of the inner circle, excluded like an aging queen bee.
Birdie stood and began to study her mother’s painting of the honeybee in midair, a corner of the hive visible in the background. Soft brushes of paint outlined the bee’s flight pattern, a seemingly aimless path. Georgia had once told her that bees never did anything haphazardly, that even random movements followed precise calculations. Maisy would never admit it, but this fact had always fascinated her, had even made her imagine the lives of those who lived in the house on the bay as ever-widening circles, their patterns of flight always leading them back here. It was how she’d known that Georgia would never be gone for long.
Maisy spoke to the back of Birdie’s head. “Do you need anything, Birdie?”
Her mother turned to her and Maisy noticed she was wearing the new lipstick she’d given her. But there was something about her eyes that really caught Maisy’s attention. They were brighter, focused. As if she were actually seeing Maisy. As if she might actually answer.
“Well, if you need me I’ll be in the dining room with Mr. Graf and Aunt Georgia.”
No one looked up as Maisy left the room and headed across the foyer.
James sat at one end of the dining room table with his laptop, while Georgia sat on the opposite end with several of her thick volumes spread out on the table in front of her. The list with the two artists’ names Maisy had provided for them sat next to Georgia, with annotations added next to each name, the second name now circled in red and the other crossed out, thanks to the new information from the Haviland archives. Maisy recognized the round, looped handwriting, remembered it from sneaking peeks at her sister’s diary when they were younger. The only thing it had in common with her own was its messiness and near illegibility to anybody unfamiliar with it. Becky’s handwriting was the same way. It had never ceased to amaze Maisy that their grandmother had been such a talented artist, yet neither her daughter nor granddaughters could write even their names with any sort of artistry, much less draw with anything more than stick figures.
“Find anything yet?” Maisy asked.
James looked over the top of his laptop. “Nothing new. Georgia’s contact at the museum looked at the two names you gave them and knew immediately which one of them might have painted the bee pattern. Emile Duval designed patterns for Haviland and Co. in the late eighteen hundreds, as well as having been privately commissioned to design exclusive patterns for wealthy customers. The other name on the list designed only for the commercial market, and his designs are well-known.”
Georgia slid back her chair. “So the private market is the angle I’m pursuing now, since I think I’ve looked at every single Limoges pattern ever designed for commercial use over the last one hundred and fifty years and have not seen anything that looks remotely like the one we’re looking for. Nor have any of the experts I’ve contacted and sent a photo of the pattern to. I’m going to assume for now that it was a custom pattern, designed specifically for a single client, by Emile. The good news is that a commissioned pattern will be a lot more valuable. I could be wrong, but I’d rather prove myself wrong than continue to search for
a needle in a haystack. At least this gives me a direction, and I might be pointed on the right path during my search.”
“How long will that take?” Maisy asked.
She felt their eyes on her.
“I mean, it could go on forever,” Maisy continued. “And how do you know you’ve found the right guy? I’d feel better spending time looking for information about Emile if we had more reasons to pinpoint him other than that he painted for the right company at the right time and was known for painting insects.”
Georgia’s demeanor was of calm certainty, and Maisy found it annoying. “My source told me that Emile’s father was a beekeeper near Limoges and his designs were almost exclusively of bees. Since we’ve found nothing else, I think it’s a strong enough lead that we should pursue it until we either hit pay dirt or move on.”
Georgia stood and reached for a stack of old and yellowed papers, then walked around the table and handed the stack to Maisy. “While we’re searching for the pattern and its artist, maybe you can do this.”
Maisy looked down at the pile Georgia had given her, recognizing its contents as what they’d pulled from their grandmother’s china cabinet. “Do what?” she said stiffly.
“Go through these and look for the name Adeline. Read any names on the backs of any of the photographs. The name means something to Birdie.”
Maisy looked into her sister’s eyes, her refusal stranded somewhere in her throat. It had always been hard to tell Georgia no. Especially for a younger sister who’d only ever wanted to be included. “Why?”
Georgia’s nostrils flared and Maisy felt a brief moment of satisfaction.
“Because if you don’t then I will, and that will delay my departure that much longer.”
Maisy swallowed. “Fine, then.” She took the stack and slapped it down on the table before sitting. She looked up to find James eyeing her with amusement.
His phone buzzed on the table and he glanced down at it before reaching over and ending the call, then returned to his laptop. The phone buzzed again but he didn’t even look at it this time.
“You can take that, James,” Georgia said. “You won’t be bothering us.”
Without taking his eyes from his laptop, he said, “But it will be bothering me. It’s my oldest sister, Caroline. Again. She thinks that if she doesn’t hear from me every day, then something’s wrong. I texted her yesterday, and I probably will today as well. If only to keep her from tracking me down and showing up on your doorstep.”
He looked up for a moment, and his expression implied that he wasn’t completely joking.
As if an explanation was required, he said, “Our mother died when I was a freshman in high school, and ever since, Caroline thinks she should act as a surrogate mother. I keep telling her that I don’t need one, but she doesn’t listen. The other three are pretty hands-on, too.”
“Sounds just like a sister,” Maisy said under her breath, then returned to the stack in front of her. She began by sorting them by type—receipts, photos, newspapers, other. The tendency to organize had started long before she became a teacher. She remembered as a child organizing her Barbie shoes by color and her stuffed animals alphabetically by type. She wasn’t even aware of it until she noticed Georgia counting things, and holding her breath, and setting clocks fifteen minutes ahead. It was as if they both realized they existed in constant chaos, their mother at its center, creating a need for some kind of order. And for a long time they’d held hands, grounding themselves to an unstable world until even that connection had been pulled apart.
They worked in silence for almost an hour before Becky joined them at the table. “I’m bored.”
Without thinking twice, Maisy slid a folder off the top of the stack and pushed it across the table. Becky had said the two words she usually remembered not to say in front of her mother. “Good. Because there’s plenty of work to go around. I’d like you to go through every single page—front and back—including photos—and look for the name Adeline. All right?”
Becky sighed as if she’d just been asked to haul rocks up a mountain. Barefoot. And on an empty stomach. She dutifully opened the folder and picked up the first paper on top of the pile. After another heavy sigh, she bent over the papers and began to read.
They worked in silence for a while, until Georgia got up and turned on the antiquated console stereo in the adjacent living room. Maisy hadn’t checked recently, but she was pretty sure her mother’s collection of movie sound tracks in the eight-track format were still stored in the bottom. When they were children, Birdie always had music playing in the house, and she sang along to the lyrics and sometimes danced with Maisy and Georgia.
But that had been before Maisy recognized the disappointment in her mother’s eyes, before she and Georgia understood that whatever life existed inside their mother’s head would always be better than what stood right in front of her.
The overture to Jesus Christ Superstar spilled out into the quiet house as Georgia returned. “It’s low enough that it shouldn’t wake Grandpa.” She tapped James’s shoulder as she passed behind him. “I tried to look for some jazz, but it’s all show tunes.”
“That’s all right. I like show tunes.” Except the expression on his face said otherwise.
Georgia must have noticed it, too. “If you don’t like this one, I can change it.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s all right. It’s just that . . . well, this was one of my wife’s favorites. One of her most-loved wedding gifts was the double album in vinyl. From my best man.” He smiled like a man who’d just been slapped. Hard.
Georgia started to walk back to the living room. “Let me change it. . . .”
“No. Leave it. Please,” he added hastily. “It’s better to rip off the Band-Aid in one swipe than lift it little by little, right?” He looked at Maisy, his gaze finally resting on Georgia. “I was always the kind of person who would leave a Band-Aid on a cut until it disintegrated. I’m squeamish that way, I guess. But Kate always reminded me that we can’t expect a wound to heal unless it’s exposed to air.”
Georgia pulled back her shoulders. “But if you keep it covered long enough, you forget about it.”
“Do you, though?” James asked, the words devoid of confrontation, as if he wanted Georgia to examine them on her own time.
“Who’s this?” Becky slid a photo toward Maisy, ending the conversation. Becky had a knack for interrupting at the right time, as if in her nine years she’d already learned that there were some things adults didn’t want to talk about.
Maisy studied the color photo of a shirtless, tanned man sitting at the edge of the dock behind this house, a fishing rod held in his hand. He was hatless, his dark, glossy hair glistening in the bright sunshine, and he grinned behind dark aviator sunglasses as he looked over his shoulder at the photographer.
“That’s my father—your grandfather Chris. You’ve never met him. He and Birdie were married for about three months. The only thing that survived that marriage was me.” Her smile faltered, quickly skittering across her face. “He lives in Arizona now with his second wife and family. I had to find that out on my own—Birdie never talked about him. I’ve never met him, either.”
Georgia’s eyes softened as she regarded Maisy. If anybody could commiserate with what it was like to be a victim of one of Birdie’s whims, it was Georgia.
Becky was regarding her with the same dark eyes. “Then why’d she marry him?”
Maisy shrugged. “Sometimes people think that good enough is a fair substitution for what they really want.” She avoided looking at Georgia, feeling her sister’s eyes boring into her.
“What’s mumps?” Becky asked.
With relief, Maisy refocused her attention on her daughter, who was staring down at one of the papers in the folder. Maisy moved to stand behind her, and saw that she was looking at her grandfather’s WWII medica
l card. The word “mumps” had been scrawled in typical doctor fashion in a box on the bottom right corner of the form under the typewritten words “Childhood Illnesses,” and right next to the words “chicken pox.”
“It’s a disease that we don’t see too much of anymore because of vaccinations. You and I both have been vaccinated against it. I don’t know too much about it other than that it was pretty prevalent among children before the vaccine. I don’t think it was like influenza that would kill large numbers, but I think the symptoms were nasty enough that nobody wanted to get it.”
“Mumps?” James asked, looking up from his computer.
Maisy nodded. “Yes. Apparently my grandfather had it as a child. Didn’t prevent him from active duty during World War Two, but they did note it on his medical record.”
James looked thoughtful. “Interesting. My great-uncle had it, too, when he was a little boy. I only know about it because there’s an old photo of him with his neck swollen like a balloon that my younger sisters and I used to find hilarious. Uncle Joe would be about your grandfather’s age, so I’m guessing the vaccine didn’t come along until after they were into adulthood.”
The music stopped abruptly, a victim of worn-out technology, and Georgia seemed so wrapped up in the book she was examining that she didn’t seem to notice. As if to fill the void, Becky began humming. It took Maisy a few moments to realize that she was humming Birdie’s tune, the one that Maisy found so familiar yet so annoyingly vague.
“What song is that?” she asked Becky. “It sounds like the alphabet song, but it’s not, is it?”
Becky didn’t even glance up as she reached for a small stack of photographs and began flipping them over for names. “I don’t know—I learned it in kindergarten. From a show called Songs from Around the World or something like that. I got to sing all by myself.”
Maisy sat back, relieved. She remembered now how Becky had rehearsed the song over and over again until they all knew it backward and forward, and how Birdie had sought Becky out to sing it, just like a proud grandmother who actually cared. It certainly explained how they all knew it.
