Flight Patterns

by Karen White

  Her small hands held the object toward me, but all I could do was stare. It was a piece of china, a shallow bowl with a finger hole on each side, its delicate shape and bright colors so familiar, the pattern of bees flitting around the curved white porcelain so real that I imagined I knew their names. Marie, Lucille, Lisette, Jean. I could almost hear my own childlike voice singing them in a lilting tune.

  I took the bowl, cupping it in my hands, the white roundness of it reminding me of a skull. The wings of memory beat inside my brain, making my head hurt. I closed my eyes, suddenly smelling the poisonous fumes of the red tide, the air thick with the miasma of rotting fish and dead vegetation.

  I stared at the bowl. There was something missing. Or maybe not . . . missing. Maybe . . . I turned it over in my hand, my fingers expecting to feel something different, a lid perhaps? A spout?

  And then there was the smell again, making me look into the water to make sure it wasn’t crimson. Something about this bowl reminded me of the red tide, but . . .

  The sun rose higher in the sky, spilling orange and yellow light onto the boards of the dock, illuminating the cracks and the water that undulated beneath, reminding me of another dock, at George’s house at Cat Point. I blinked in surprise at the memory of my first kiss, of the warm water sluicing beneath our feet, his lips soft and unpracticed on mine, and how I’d thought I’d rather die a thousand times than never to have him kiss me again.

  But the cup in my hand was something else, another memory from George’s dock. George’s mama calling from the house that there was a man there looking for me saying he knew my daddy.

  We’d stood, George’s sun-browned hand clasping my pale white one, waiting for the man to approach. He wore dungarees and a long-sleeved work shirt, his face lined and worn. But I could tell, even at thirteen, that he wasn’t as old as he seemed, that it wasn’t the sun or the water that had added years to him in the same way barnacles on dock pilings showed the passage of time. He was small and wiry, and thin, achingly thin, his clothes hanging from him like loose skin. But not thin like so many of the oystermen who worked the boats. They had firm, knotty muscles that bulged from their arms and shoulders. This man seemed to be flesh held together by loose bones, his nose bent in the middle as if once severely broken and not set properly, his smile revealing three missing teeth. He carried a small knapsack on one scrawny shoulder, making him lean slightly to the side, as if he toted a great weight.

  But there’d been something in his smile, something familiar about his eyes that didn’t make me shy away from him, no matter how hard George tugged on my hand and told me to stay back.

  The man wasn’t tall, but I was small for my age, and he knelt down on one knee so he could meet my eyes. “You are Ned Bloodworth’s daughter, yes?”

  I couldn’t answer at first. His voice had brought with it a memory of warm bread and sun-baked hay. I wanted to ask if I knew him, but I was positive that I didn’t. I would have remembered meeting him before. It was his accent, I thought. I didn’t know what it was, but he wasn’t from around here.

  His gaze took in my hair and face the way Mama studied flowers and bees before painting them, as if she were trying to picture the universe from their eyes instead of the other way around.

  “The man at the market said Ned is collecting his hives from the swamp, yes? But that I might find you here.”

  His words seemed out of order, his pronunciation odd, but I wasn’t afraid. He set down his knapsack and dug through it, holding out a jar of honey for a moment to search the bottom before replacing it. He placed on the dock an object wrapped inside a lump of shirts, the waves from a passing boat moving us up and down, and the man grabbed the lump, afraid it would fall. I wanted to tell the man that he shouldn’t worry, that George could get it because he swam like a fish on account of him being raised more on the water than on solid ground. But I didn’t, because the man was crying.

  I wanted to hug him, even knew that the man wouldn’t have found it odd, but George held me back, and we both watched as the man slowly unwrapped the shirts, revealing a small china bowl with elegant loops on each side, like a giant teacup with two handles.

  “You recognize it?” he asked.

  I was already shaking my head before I noticed the bees. He placed the bowl in my hands so I could see every detail of the flying insects—the movement of their wings, the small fuzz on their black-and-yellow bodies—could almost believe I knew their names. Without thinking, I began humming a tune I didn’t remember, the words unknown.

  “You remember,” the man said gently, the tears coming down his face freely, and George pulled on my arm as his mother called from the house to come inside, saying a storm was brewing. But the sky was bright blue, the wind blowing in the west.

  “Yes,” I said, but then shook my head. “Not the bowl. The bees. I remember the bees.”

  His eyes widened, his head nodding rapidly, Mrs. Chambers’s voice more insistent that we come inside now. “You remember another piece in the same design, yes?”

  George pulled me away, and we were running down the dock, and there were tears streaming down my face, too. “Yes,” I said, trying so hard to remember what he wanted me to, knowing somehow that it was important.

  I looked back at the man as we ran. He was standing now and smiling back at us. Mrs. Chambers slammed the door behind us and latched it, then picked up the phone to call the police. It was only then that I realized I still held the china cup.

  Now, staring down at the piece of china in my hands, I knew what it was that the man had wanted me to remember. And the pins holding down the butterflies finally sprang loose.

  chapter 29

  Piping is a high-pitched buzzing sound made by honeybees. Piping usually occurs directly prior to swarming, but can also occur during the disturbance of a hive. Some beekeepers think that the queen starts first. Others say that the piping begins with a small group of forager bees that primes the workers for swarming. It’s a good idea to stay away, as the bees are prepared to defend the hive and their queen, even if your intentions are not to harm.

  —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL

  Maisy

  Maisy sat with Becky in the Lafayette Park gazebo having an early Saturday-morning sketching session. Maisy’s grandmother had been such a wonderful artist, yet neither she nor Georgia could draw more than stick figures. Becky was only marginally better but at least seemed to enjoy the process. Maisy wanted to encourage it, and any other interest Becky expressed either proficiency or passion for. As long as it wasn’t acting or music.

  White folding chairs filled the gazebo, either from a party the night before or for a wedding that evening. It was still early enough that she and Becky had the space to themselves, accompanied by only a small yoga class on the nearby grass and the occasional runner or dog walker. A portable volleyball net had been set up, drooping with moisture into a smile. Fat raindrops still clung to the grass and trees, remnants of the previous night’s storm, which had brought with it slightly lower temperatures and a cooling breeze.

  “There’s another one,” Becky called out, pointing at an orange-beaked royal tern flying over the pier and silhouetted by the morning sun.

  “See if you can sketch its head from memory,” Maisy suggested, wondering how anyone could ever capture the delicate markings of its wings, the fierce look in its eyes inside its black-capped head, the desperate wag of the tail of the fish caught in its beak.

  Maisy remembered their grandfather bringing her and Georgia to see the terns nesting on the causeway that once linked the old bridges to St. George. What seemed like thousands and thousands of birds—royal terns, gull-billed terns, Caspian terns—were packed tightly together on the narrow strip of sand, the sound of all the cawing and squawking like bickering among neighbors, the sound almost overwhelming.

  But what Maisy remembered most was what Grandpa had said
when Georgia asked him why they were so crowded together when there were so many other places they could go and nest. He’d replied that it was because when they stuck together, they were better able to ward off predators, like gulls and egrets and other dangers. His eyes had settled on them as if he understood what their own predators looked like, and how Maisy and Georgia had each other.

  Maisy thought he’d worn the same look the afternoon Lyle had come by to show him the French novel and the postcard. She’d been too afraid to ask whether Georgia had seen it, too—afraid not that her sister would say yes, but that Georgia might also recognize the invisible thundercloud that seemed to hover over them, waiting for the lightning to strike and the rain to begin to pour.

  “I w-want to go to the Tupelo Honey Festival.”

  Becky had spoken so quietly that Maisy wasn’t sure she’d said anything at all.

  “What, sweetie?”

  “I w-want to go to Wewa with you and Daddy for the honey festival next weekend.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I don’t think I can. They’re bringing back Grandpa’s hives from the swamp tomorrow and we’ll be so busy extracting honey. . . .”

  Maisy stopped at the expression in Becky’s eyes. Her daughter was nine but not stupid. It had been a long time since Maisy had been able to evade the truth just because of her daughter’s age.

  “You’re allergic to bees, Mama. I’ve never even seen you outside when they extract the honey. Besides, I heard Aunt Georgia say that Ms. Love said there was hardly any tupelo honey this year, and that she would take care of the extraction this year to help out Grandpa.”

  Trying to defend herself, she said, “But with Grandpa being ill, I figure they’ll probably need help. . . .”

  Becky raised her eyebrows, an indication that Maisy should stop. With a sigh, Maisy said, “I don’t know how I feel about spending a day with your daddy, that’s all. Everything’s so confusing, and I just need to be away from him to sort through my thoughts.”

  Becky took a deep breath, slowing her words. “I can’t draw, but you still make me do it because you say practice makes perfect. Seems like being married is the same thing.” Becky squinted up at her. “Do you still like Daddy?”

  “Of course I do. He’s a good person, and a great daddy to you.”

  “But do you love him?”

  Maisy frowned, wondering whether all only children were this precocious. Realizing it was pointless to lie, she said, “Yes.”

  “Daddy still loves you, too.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He says so all the time.”

  A brown pelican glided low over the marsh grass before settling on the pier’s handrail as Maisy’s heart seemed suspended, too, waiting to land.

  She heard someone call her name, and they both looked over at the curb, where Georgia’s car, top rolled down, was parking. James’s sister sat in the passenger seat beside Georgia, and as soon as the car stopped, James was exiting the backseat to open up the front doors.

  Maisy stood to greet the newcomers.

  Caroline, looking cool and crisp in a linen skirt and blouse, kissed Maisy on the cheek. “The weather was so beautiful this morning that we decided to take a drive around the historic district, and Georgia saw your car.”

  Georgia’s eyes were wide. “We stopped by the house first, because I think I found something in the estate ledgers and I wanted to share it with you.”

  “You could have just called me,” Maisy said, trying to remain aloof but unable to completely curb her excitement. She watched with some satisfaction as Georgia’s face fell.

  “I don’t have your cell number. This town is only three miles wide, Maisy. It’s not like you’d be hard to find without a phone.”

  She has a point, Maisy thought as they all climbed up onto the gazebo and settled into the vacant chairs. Georgia reached into her leather-fringed handbag and pulled out a photocopied page of what looked like minuscule writing in a foreign language.

  “This is a page from the records of the Beaulieu estate that we talked about. I didn’t find Emile’s name, but I did find this.”

  She handed Maisy the page, a single line item highlighted in yellow. She could make out the words Haviland and Limoges on the far left of the line, and a date—19 Juin 1893. There were two lines of words in what appeared to be French, and then on the far right a number that started with a nine but which had been rendered illegible by either water or a tear in the original page.

  “Do you know what it says?” Maisy asked.

  Caroline leaned forward. “I’m fluent, although I must say it’s almost impossible to read. But I could translate enough to know that it says a twelve-piece place setting of china with a custom design.” She pointed to a word, abeille. “That’s the word for honeybee. I think that means we’re on the right track.” She grinned widely.

  “Good job,” Maisy said, smiling at her sister for a moment before remembering she shouldn’t. “So where do you go from here?”

  Georgia glanced at James. “I’m not sure. I think I have enough information to give a fairly accurate estimation of the china now. I’ll need to refer to my records of previous valuations that I keep in my office in New Orleans, but I think my detective work here is done.”

  Maisy wondered whether she’d imagined the slight hitch in Georgia’s voice.

  “Is it?” James asked casually. “What about a possible connection to your grandfather? The postcard found in your grandfather’s truck was from Apalachicola to Château de Beaulieu—that’s definitely more than a coincidence. And what about the people who commissioned the china? If we find out more about the original owners, we might find out how our grandmother came to be in possession of it. And how a piece of it may have found its way to your grandfather’s house.”

  Caroline looked at her brother with sympathetic eyes, as a mother looked at a child who begged to be allowed to stay up a little while longer.

  “That’s true,” Georgia said, studiously avoiding looking at any of them, keeping her gaze focused on two men and a young boy carrying their fishing rods down the pier. “But that won’t affect the valuation, which is what you hired me for. If you decide to pursue the rest of the story, that’s up to you. Mr. Mandeville called me yesterday saying that I have a backlog of valuations on my desk, along with a few estate sales he’d like me to attend, and that I’d probably done everything I could here. I need to get back.”

  She finally looked at Maisy. “And Grandpa is doing much better. I think it’s time to go.”

  “No, not yet!” Becky threw her arms around Georgia, burying her face in her side. “You’ve hardly been here at all.”

  Georgia dipped her head, hiding her eyes. “I know, Becky. It hasn’t been nearly long enough.” She didn’t make any promises to come back. She couldn’t, Maisy knew. But they’d been sisters for more than three decades, strangers for only one. Maisy suddenly imagined all those years thrown on a scale, one side touching the ground, the other floating weightless. But then she saw Becky hugging Georgia, and all the pain and fear pulled at her like a riptide, drowning those years as if they weighed nothing at all.

  Caroline’s eyes widened as she looked past Maisy’s shoulder to the street. “Looks like your friend is here, Georgia.”

  They all turned to see Bobby Stoyber wearing a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops approaching with two friends, all carrying fishing gear. His niece, Madison, and her friend Emily tagged along behind them, Madison holding a primary-colored beach ball, not looking pleased to be up at that hour on a Saturday morning.

  Maisy stiffened, wondering how she’d managed to run into Bobby twice in the same month when she’d spent almost an entire decade avoiding him altogether. Bobby held a beer, despite the early hour, and grinned at Georgia when he spotted her. “You gotta stop following me, or people gonna talk.” He winked and took a swig from his bottle.
He indicated his friends with his beer. “You remember Rich Kobylt and Scottie Ward, don’tcha? Hey, I think she dated all three of us, right, boys?” The two other men at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

  Ten years, Maisy thought. Ten years was a long time to be the same person you’d been, seeing the world just as you had in your twenties. Her grandmother had always said that life wasn’t about standing still—that was how barnacles happened. Maisy found herself regarding Bobby and his friends with disdain. Until she realized she had more in common with them than she’d imagined.

  Bobby jerked his head in the girls’ direction. “Sister got me babysitting this weekend and said I can’t leave ’em alone. But the fish are bitin’ and they wait for no one.” He screwed up his lips to one side as he regarded Becky. “Why don’t you girls make nice? Let me have a good report for your mama.”

  Becky tensed beside Maisy as the girls stopped by the gazebo steps. Madison rolled her eyes before she spoke. “Wanna play some volleyball?”

  Before Becky could answer, Maisy said, “She has a tennis lesson at eleven.”

  Becky looked up at her with a betrayed look. “But it’s only eight thirty.”

  Maisy realized her mistake. She’d tried to give her daughter a way out of a potentially bad situation. But Becky was a lot stronger than most people realized, including herself.

  Maisy forced a smile. “All right. Just don’t wear yourself out.”

  Becky sent her an embarrassed look as she walked past Georgia, receiving a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder from her aunt, and all of Maisy’s insecurities returned.

  “Me and Emily against you,” Madison shouted as she ran toward the other side of the net.

  Maisy held back the teacher in her to correct the girl’s grammar, but only because Becky was present.

  “But that’s not f-fair,” Becky said matter-of-factly, and without any kind of a whine in her tone.

  Emily snickered.