Flight Patterns

by Karen White

  Maisy had hoped that Georgia’s departure would mark a return to what they’d once considered normal. In hindsight their existence had been anything but, yet they’d ceased to realize it when stuck in its routine. Even Grandpa was changed. Ignoring the heat that had greeted the first week of June with a vengeance, he dragged his walker outside and sat in his apiary most of the day, disregarding the sun as it moved across the sky, baking everything in its path.

  At his request, Maisy had placed his chair near the back row, which contained the two bee boxes that were never moved. She’d purchased a beach umbrella and set it up over his chair, realizing that somebody had to be concerned with heatstroke and sunburn. She’d made sure she had her EpiPen, especially since Grandpa had been stung twice already, the bees apparently forgetting who was in charge.

  Ricky Cook from the police department had come by a few times to question Grandpa, but had left without anything new. Grandpa either didn’t remember enough, or made a good enough show of confusion. Maisy found herself wishing that Georgia were still there. Together they would have talked to him, gotten answers, faced the consequences, whatever they might be. Maybe Maisy could do it on her own. Just not now, with everything else in turmoil. The truck had been waiting in the swamp for more than sixty years. It could wait a little longer.

  Florence visited often, sitting next to him under her ubiquitous wide-brimmed hat, her dangling bee earrings flashing in the sun. The backyard and garden, always Grandpa’s domain, had begun to grow wild. Maisy had resisted asking Lyle for help, telling herself that when she found the time, she’d take care of it. The problem was solved when Florence, on one of her visits, had brought her two sons, who’d begun raking and cutting back all the overgrowth, piling it all in a small hill next to the apiary. They promised to come back to burn it, and had even brought a large can of gasoline and set it by the mound of yard waste, as if to remind everyone that they would return.

  Birdie stayed in her room most of the time, barely nibbling on the meals Maisy brought up to her. But she’d watch her father from her perch in the turret, each aware of the other. They were like satellites in the same orbit, never touching, always circling over and over, reminding Maisy of the bee pattern on the china. They all seemed to be holding their breath, the pressing heat of summer doing nothing to alleviate the tension that permeated the house. Even Becky seemed to notice it, her stuttering more pronounced now so that she barely spoke. Maisy found herself turning around during the course of her day, expecting to see Georgia. Wanting to see her. It was an old habit, this sharing of burdens, and one that even now she couldn’t shake, no matter how much she wanted to.

  A movement from the yard caught Maisy’s attention as Lyle walked into the apiary. She’d wondered whether he’d been avoiding her since Georgia’s departure. Not that she minded. Seeing Lyle did nothing to help Maisy return to the elusive normal, or at least to a place where she could pretend that she didn’t think about him every day. Or regret her choices.

  She watched as Lyle squatted by the side of Grandpa’s chair, saw as he tilted his face upward to speak with the older man. She couldn’t see Lyle’s face but imagined it was his cop face, the one with serious eyes and straight lips. The expression that had always made her smile despite its intended effect on offenders.

  “M-Mama?”

  Maisy turned to see Becky hovering in the doorway. School had been out for a week, but Becky’s mood remained dark. She hadn’t gone to the honey festival with her father, saying she didn’t want to go if the three of them weren’t going together. Maisy wouldn’t give in and agree to go, not because she wanted to hurt Becky, but because she wanted to save her from being hurt further with any unspoken promises about their future. It was the hardest part of being a mother, the choices one made that could never be understood in the mind and heart of a child.

  “Come in. I was just brushing Birdie’s hair. Your daddy’s outside, if you wanted to say hi.”

  “I know,” she said. “I saw his car.”

  Birdie stood, indicating that she was finished, then left the room, pausing briefly to smooth Becky’s hair behind an ear. Both Maisy and Becky paused, listening to Birdie’s footsteps walking down the stairs, and then heard the back door open. After a moment Maisy spotted her mother walking across the backyard toward the apiary, her white nightgown floating like a ghost over the grass.

  Lyle was standing now, but Birdie didn’t acknowledge his presence. When she reached Grandpa, she sat down in the grass next to him, looking up at her father as if waiting to ask him a question. Or waiting for him to speak. Lyle said something, his hands animated as if he was trying to make a point, but neither Birdie nor Grandpa showed any reaction.

  Maisy reached her hand toward Becky. “Come here and sit and let me brush your hair.”

  It was an old ritual they’d shared since Becky’s hair had been long enough to brush. Becky had found it soothing and relaxing, enough so that when she was older and she’d been upset and unable to get any words out of her mouth, Maisy’s brushing had been able to relax her enough so she could speak again.

  Becky frowned, but moved forward and slid into the chair. Maisy carefully unwrapped the ponytail and smoothed the hair across her daughter’s shoulders.

  “Is there something you’d like to talk about?” Maisy asked, slowly pulling the brush through Becky’s hair.

  Becky shrugged, which usually meant that the answer was yes, but she didn’t know where to start. Maisy had learned in her nine years of being a mother that it was better to wait than to try to force out the words. That was usually a guarantee of silence.

  She looked out the window again and saw that Lyle was gone, and Birdie’s head was resting on Grandpa’s knee as if she were a little girl. It struck Maisy that Birdie’s behavior since Georgia had left had been almost childlike, the smooth adult sophistication of the last decades dissipating in the summer heat. She wore her hair in a plain ponytail, just like Becky, and moved with the clumsiness of a toddler unaware of the potential dangers in her environment. Like now, sitting at the back of the apiary where none of them ever dared to go. It was as if Birdie had decided to shed her identity and play another stage character. Maisy frowned at the window, sensing a change in the atmosphere that had nothing to do with the weather.

  Becky’s phone lit up, the lyrics of Echosmith’s “Cool Kids” singing out. It surprised Maisy, who wondered when Becky had changed her ringtone from the Frozen theme song, “Let It Go.” It seemed a small thing, yet Maisy saw it as a pulling away from her, a leap from child to girl long before Maisy was ready for it to happen.

  Becky hit the “end” button and flipped the phone over so Maisy couldn’t see who’d called.

  “Would you like me to French-braid your hair?”

  Becky shrugged.

  As Maisy began separating the hair into three sections, she asked nonchalantly, “Who was that on the phone?”

  A gnawed thumb tip went into Becky’s mouth, and Maisy held back from telling her that fingernail biting was a bad habit, or that there didn’t seem to be anything left to chew on anyway. Instead she waited for Becky to talk, slowly weaving the different sections of hair into a tight braid that started at the top of her head.

  “Aunt Georgia,” she finally said over her thumb.

  Maisy didn’t pause. “Oh. I didn’t realize she had your cell number.”

  “I gave it to her. So she could call me on her new cell phone.”

  This time Maisy’s hands stilled. “She has a cell phone?”

  Becky nodded, pulling her hair out of Maisy’s hands. “I wanted to keep in touch with her after she left.” She replaced her thumb with her index finger. “I gave her your number in case she wanted to keep in touch with you, too.”

  “That’s nice,” Maisy said, although she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Georgia had always been able to reach her on the house phone, but this
was more personal, a call more intentional. Maybe that was why Georgia hadn’t yet called her. It was easier to leave things unsaid.

  “Have you had many conversations?” Maisy asked, crossing the hair in her right hand with the two sections she held in her left.

  “Yeah.”

  Maisy bit her lip so she wouldn’t say anything, pretending to focus on what her hands were doing.

  “We talk about Birdie.”

  “Birdie?” Maisy closed her mouth, wishing she hadn’t spoken, yet not wanting to say what she thought she needed to. Why don’t you talk to me about Birdie?

  “Yeah.” Becky’s right hand began to scratch at a bright red mosquito bite, although without nails Maisy was unsure how effective that was. “Birdie talks to me.”

  She yanked on Becky’s hair a little harder than she’d intended. Maisy remembered the stray words of whispered conversation outside her grandfather’s door, and realized she’d probably known all along that Birdie was talking again. And how easy it was to have dismissed the thought knowing she wasn’t ready to hear what Birdie had to say.

  “I mean, like, really talks. It started the night after Daddy brought her home in his patrol car. She came into my room and sat on the edge of the bed and told me stuff. And it scared me, so I called Aunt Georgia.”

  Maisy gave up all pretense of being a casual observer and dropped the braid to move around to the front of Becky’s chair. She sat on the window seat and faced her daughter. “What was so scary?”

  There was no angst emanating from Becky. Just the troubled eyes of a nine-year-old child. “She was t-trying to remember something she s-saw that was important, b-but she couldn’t remember what it was. She said that G-Grandpa knew, but wouldn’t t-tell her.”

  “That doesn’t sound very scary. Was there something else?”

  Becky bit her lower lip. “She s-said the man in the t-truck knew, too.”

  Maisy went very still. “Does she know who the man in the truck is?”

  Becky shrugged. “She didn’t s-say. She said the s-secret is why she c-can’t talk. It’s how she k-keeps it a secret. And she w-wants to t-talk again. T-to everybody.” Her voice had become very quiet, and Maisy had to strain to hear her.

  “Is that it?”

  Becky shook her head. “No.” She stared intently into Maisy’s eyes, looking so much like Georgia that Maisy almost looked away. “T-there was s-something in her suitcase that’s n-not there anymore b-but she needs to f-find it.” Tears brimmed in Becky’s eyes. “I think she’s going crazy.”

  Maisy had the oddest compulsion to laugh out loud. That train’s already left the station. It was something Georgia had always said when they’d discussed their mother’s mental state.

  “And I think s-she wants m-me to help her.”

  All levity immediately evaporated. “Why do you say that?”

  Becky blinked, the tears spilling over onto her cheeks. “B-because I’m the o-only one she can t-talk to.”

  Maisy stood and picked up Becky as if she were a four-year-old, then lifted her on her lap as she sat down in the chair, surprised that Becky didn’t protest. Instead, she nestled her head against Maisy’s chest as if she were a small child. “I’m here, sweetie. You know that. I’m always here for you to talk to.”

  “And Aunt G-Georgia, too?”

  “Yes. And Aunt Georgia. We both love you so much, we only want the best for you. But come to me first next time, all right?”

  “Because you’re my mama?”

  Something squeezed inside Maisy’s neck, and she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Yes. Because I’m your mama.”

  Becky was silent for a while. “I f-found the soup cup. It was in B-Birdie’s drawer and I d-didn’t want to g-get in trouble for snooping.”

  Maisy rested her chin on Becky’s head, smelling the baby shampoo that would probably be replaced soon with something more sophisticated, and she found herself missing it already. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Maisy asked, finally giving up on her resolve to be a better listener and not interfere.

  “Because you were b-busy with school and G-Grandpa. And you d-didn’t believe me when I t-told you Birdie talks to me.”

  “Becky? Are you up there?”

  It was Lyle’s voice, calling up from the foyer.

  “We’re in Birdie’s room,” Maisy called. Becky quickly scooted off Maisy’s lap, as if she were afraid to be caught acting like a child.

  Maisy stood, too, and had the absurd notion of borrowing one of Birdie’s lipsticks before Lyle reached the doorway.

  “Daddy!” Becky ran to her father with outstretched arms, just as she’d done ever since she could walk.

  He lifted her with a bear hug and pretended to clutch his back after putting her down on the ground. “I think all that tennis has been building muscles. I felt like I was lifting a ten-foot alligator!”

  Becky dimpled, her mood taking an abrupt about-face. “Really?”

  Lyle put a serious expression on his face and nodded. “Really.” He looked over Becky’s head. “Hello, Maisy.”

  The blood in her veins betrayed her again by rushing to her heart and head, despite her best efforts to remain neutral in his presence. They hadn’t really spoken to each other since she’d let him know that she wasn’t planning on attending the honey festival. He hadn’t argued with her, which somehow made her feel worse.

  “Did you need something?” she asked, trying to get control of the situation.

  Ignoring her cue, he took a step forward, wearing what she called his “dangerous” look. The kind of expression he used when he had ideas about how to spend an evening together with her. “Do I need a reason to visit my wife and daughter?”

  Before she could point out that she wasn’t really his wife anymore, he stopped her. “Save it, Maisy. I actually have news to share with you. It’s about the man in the truck.”

  Becky’s eyes were wide; she was listening to every word.

  Maisy looked pointedly at their daughter. “I think this would be the perfect time to start cleaning out your closet, young lady. Stack all of your winter clothes that don’t fit into a pile to get started. I’ll join you in a minute.” Maisy crossed her arms over her chest to show she meant business.

  “But . . .”

  A stern look from Lyle stopped her protest. Like a condemned prisoner being led to the gallows, Becky moved as slowly as possible, dragging her bare feet hard enough that Maisy thought she’d draw splinters from the hardwood floor.

  Maisy peered out the door to make sure Becky had gone to her room, then stayed where she was in the doorway. She told herself it was to keep an eye on Becky, but realized it also gave her an easy escape if she needed it.

  “So, what’s the news?” she asked, keeping her voice calm. Because no matter how she tried not to, every time she saw Lyle she remembered what he’d said. I still love you, Maisy.

  “Well, they were able to analyze the honey found in the knapsack inside the truck. It was pretty deteriorated, but they determined with some certainty traces of lavender.”

  “Lavender?” Maisy frowned.

  “Yeah. Ricky called the current president of the Florida Beekeepers Association and asked him if he knew of any beekeepers who had bees near lavender fields in the fifties, but he wasn’t much help. Maybe you can ask Ned yourself. You’d probably get more from him than Ricky or I could.”

  “I can try. Although Georgia seems to be a lot better at talking to him.”

  “Yes, well, she’s not here, is she?” He moved over to Birdie’s dresser and began straightening the tubes and bottles even though they didn’t need to be. He always fiddled with his hands when he was working out how to say something the listener didn’t want to hear, and it made Maisy nervous.

  “There’s another thing, too. How tall do you think your grandfather is? He’s
a little stooped now because of his age, but how tall do you think he was when you were a kid?”

  Maisy smiled involuntarily, remembering the first time Lyle had come to the house to pick her up for a date and met Birdie and Grandpa for the first time. She’d been crazy in love with him already, and it had been so important that everybody like him. She could almost picture him now, standing in the foyer and shaking her grandfather’s hand as they took each other’s measure. Could see them standing side by side. “When you were sixteen, you and Grandpa were the same height.”

  He tilted his head and smiled, and she knew he was remembering, too. “I’ve been six foot three since I was fifteen.” His face grew serious again. “The man in the truck was found in the driver’s seat. The coroner’s report says he was about five-six. But the seat was pushed back so that a much taller man could fit behind the wheel.”

  It felt as if strong fingers were pressed against Maisy’s windpipe, making it hard to breathe. “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing yet. And remember that you didn’t hear anything from me. Everything so far is just pure conjecture. It’s especially difficult when an exact cause of death can’t be determined with just badly deteriorated skeletal remains. All we know for sure is that there doesn’t seem to be any external trauma.”

  “So the man could have died from natural causes?”

  “We can’t rule that out. But there are dozens of ways for a man to die that don’t leave a mark.”