by Dalya Moon
Where am I? I'm in unfamiliar surroundings, in front of a convenience store I've never seen. How far am I from home? I don't remember getting here.
Surprisingly, I'm not tired, even though I've jogged twice as far as I've ever gone. Bee bread. Those words just popped into my head. What is bee bread? Oh, I read about bee bread in that book. Stupid book.
I turn at the end of the block and head back for home, thinking about the still-hot leftover coq au vin waiting in the crock pot.
My breathing is smooth and easy, and it's only the stewed chicken luring me home, because I could run for days.
As I come around the corner for my street, a dark car with something unusual about its appearance passes by me. The car has a strange antenna, plus there are boxy things on the dash—police lights. This vehicle is an unmarked police cruiser. I slow down my jog, keeping my eyes on the car.
The dark car stops in front of my house, and ice water runs through my veins. Don't piss yourself, you haven't done anything wrong, I tell myself. I'm probably just feeling guilty from staring at that lady jogger's nice jogging-top fruit.
A diminutive black woman, Detective Wrong, steps out of the vehicle. By now, my pace has slowed so much, I'm practically jogging in place.
Detective Wrong walks across the front of her vehicle, away from my house (phew) and to my neighbor Crystal's house. She pounds on the door.
When I'm nearly in front of Crystal's house, I stop to re-tie first one shoe and then the other. I watch as Crystal opens the door and invites Detective Wrong inside.
I do the only logical thing for an amateur sleuth in this position. I jump the hedge and creep along the side of Crystal's house until I find an open window.
The two women are talking about something. I quiet my breath to hear better. Carpet cleaners. They're talking about carpet cleaners. For the next five minutes, I try to not keel over dead of boredom as I listen in.
Crystal's got a lot of weeds on her lawn, and the side of her house could use some repainting. Her next-door neighbor, Mr. Tang, is cooking cabbage and pork with something sweet-smelling, maybe even spicy. I can see him from where I'm crouching, as he walks back and forth past his kitchen window. It's dark where I am, not lit by street lamps or porch lights, so he'd have to look really hard to spot me, but every time he pauses, I worry he has. He opens his window wider, letting out the rich aroma. My stomach growls.
Finally, through the window above my head, I hear Detective Wrong asking Crystal about where she was between three and four in the afternoon on Halloween.
“At work,” Crystal says, her voice sounding shaky.
“Then you won't mind if we test the clothes you were wearing for gunshot residue?”
“Why would you ... um ... okay. Just a minute.”
There's a silence, and I imagine Crystal is going to her laundry hamper. Crystal could have shot Newt, I suppose, though I can't imagine why. She's so pretty—not that being pretty precludes you from committing crimes, but I'm sure she could bat her eyelashes and get whatever she wanted. No need to shoot someone.
My legs are cramping up from crouching, so I put my fingers on the windowsill and stand slowly, to the side, hoping to get a glimpse inside.
“FREEZE!” someone yells. That would be Detective Wrong, spotting me from inside the house. The woman has yelled freeze at me before, but I was in the back of a store, with her blocking the exit. I'm in the wide open out here. Instinctively, I do the exact opposite of freezing and run as though my life depends on it, across Crystal's back yard and over the fence in one leap, into Mr. Tang's yard.
Chapter Twelve
Mr. Tang's elderly mother, who is sitting on a lawn chair behind the house smoking a cigarette, doesn't even twitch as I clear the fence and land in her back yard.
“FREEZE!” yells Detective Wrong again. She's so fast, already outside Crystal's house.
Mr. Tang's back fence is higher, and I have to scale it, scraping my elbows and knees, to get over. I'm in the alley now, where Detective Wrong will have a clear shot at me.
That won't do, so I pick a fence three yards over and run at it. I don't scale it so much as I sail right over, as though my legs were made of springs.
I pause, listening to Detective Wrong as she crosses the alley. My senses are so awake right now, I swear I can hear the rustle of the fabric of her clothing and the squeak of her boots.
Even my eyes are working decently, considering how dark this backyard is. I get moving again, running across neat rows of something—a garden, grabbing at my shoes with vines and white lengths of twine tied between stakes.
“Stop right there!” she yells again, sounding close behind me. I keep my head down, hoping she can't recognize me from the back of my head as I leap over another fence. Man, why do these yards have so many fences? Why can't we all share our backyards and be friendly?
I trip over a lawn chair and hit the grass, face first, my chin hitting something hard, a ceramic pig.
“Sorry,” I mutter to the pig as I jump up and keep going. I can hear Detective Wrong puffing and grunting, so I know she can't be far behind me. They're not allowed to shoot people for eavesdropping are they? Though now that I'm running, I'm resisting arrest. Man, you just can't win.
I imagine what bullets might feel like in my back, and the fear makes me go faster, over fences and through backyards, like a gold-medal Olympic athlete, if they made the 500-meter backyard-dash a recognized sport.
Ahead of me is a low fence, easy to jump over, with a flower bed at the base making it even shorter. The easy fence would be the obvious direction for someone fleeing to take. Think, Zan.
I change course and go to the right, straight for a ten-foot high fence. Jumping up, my fingertips barely grasp the top of the fence. It's just a chin-up, I tell myself. The fibers of my muscles snap and strain as I pull myself up and over.
Below me, something sparkles invitingly.
I push away from the fence, preparing to land on wet grass. My feet encounter no resistance, my ankles register no shock.
My mouth and nostrils fill with water.
Of course. The last fence was extra-high because of local fencing regulations for the surrounding of swimming pools.
Down I go, in the deep end.
I open my eyes underwater and see the gold ring on my pinkie finger, sparkling in the murky water.
It's peaceful down here. I open my mouth and three bees come out, in bubbles of air. I reach out my finger in amazement, trying to touch them.
Careful to not splash, I swim up and surface, where I exhale calmly, in case of bees. I'm fine, though, my throat clear and open.
There are footfalls nearby, and the sounds of Detective Wrong cursing the darkness. Save for some softly-glowing lanterns placed in the landscaping beyond this pool, I'm in the dark.
I sink down, treading water slowly and submerging until the water line is just under my mouth. Using my hands as paddles, I back up to the edge of the pool, listening. Seeking a darker corner, I move along the edge, but there are no corners, so I settle under the diving board.
I'm quiet now, not even making a ripple, but I must have made a noise when I hit the water.
On the other side of the fence, Detective Wrong is cursing the thorns in a rose bush.
Ahead of me, inside the warmly-lit house, a man and a woman are discussing the age of the wine they're drinking, and whether or not the neighbor's golden retriever has gotten into their pool again.
One of the doors is open, and I can hear them as easily as my own thoughts.
“I swear I heard a splash,” the lady says.
He says, sounding annoyed, “If you weren't constantly running that damn garbage disposal, you might have heard me say this wine is not from the winery we toured in August.”
“Who cares, it's open now, let's drink it.” Glasses clink and they laugh merrily. “If the dog drowns, are we liable?” she asks.
“If you're so concerned, why don't you go out and check.”
“You go,” the woman says. “Be my big, strong hero.”
“Let the dog have his fun,” the man says. “If that hairy mongrel is in there, I don't want to witness it with my own eyes. I won't be able to swim without imagining all that filthy dog hair getting in my mouth.”
“Dog hair's not filthy.”
“Great, I'll make you a dog hair sandwich tomorrow.”
“Ha ha,” she says, and then there's the sound of wine glasses being clinked together again.
In the dimness, I look around at these strangers' home. The pool is neither rectangular nor circular, but an undulating kidney shape, like one of the paisley things on a dress Austin wears. The tiles lining the pool have patterns on them, flowers or something. Looks expensive—not cheap blue plastic lining, that's for sure.
The house is what people call modern, with big expanses of glass walls instead of mere windows, and visible inside the kitchen are those shiny appliances that cost more than Gran's new-to-her car.
Now that I'm not worried about getting shot in the back, I'm saddened my new running shoes are getting ruined in this chlorinated water, and it's going to cost a fortune to replace them. Doghair-sandwich-couple probably spent the equivalent of my shoes on their bottle of wine alone.
People say money can't buy happiness, but I'd sure like to disprove the expression.
The night is quiet again.
Satisfied that Detective Wrong has moved on, I climb out of the pool, my soaking sweatpants and shirt weighing about five pounds more than usual. I use the gate to let myself out of the backyard and I start making my way home, my shoes squirting and squelching noisily.
To avoid pistol-packing police, I stick to the unlit alleys all the way to my house, going in the back gate and up to the kitchen door instead of the front door. The light is on, and Gran and Rudy are inside the kitchen.
I stop my hand just before it reaches the door, because I hear my name. They're talking about me.
Hunching down, for the third time today, I listen in on a private conversation.
“You can't drug someone without their knowledge,” Gran is saying.
“It's for his own good,” Rudy says.
“I'm putting a stop to it,” she says.
“But you've seen him. He's got his vim back.”
“I'm not discussing this. We don't mess around with nature.”
Rudy shuts up, as well he should. When Gran says a discussion is over, it's over. I still miss that miniature frisbee I used to throw around inside the house, but I did learn my lesson.
I wait about a minute before I try the door handle. It's locked, so I knock, and Gran lets me in. Rudy's not in the kitchen with her now, which doubles my joy about being let into the warm house.
“You're soaking wet!”
“Freak thunderstorm, very isolated.”
She crosses her arms. She's not buying my story for a minute—and she shouldn't, because I reek of chlorine—but she must be tired, because she lets it go.
“Thank you for the chicken, it was so yummy in my tummy.” I offer her a hug, and despite my dripping-wet shirt, she accepts, rocking me from side to side.
“My growing boy.” She smooches me repeatedly on my cheek.
I wonder what she and Rudy were talking about. Three cartons of the juice I've been drinking at breakfast are upended in the sink. Was Rudy giving me drugs? Steroids?
“What were you and Rudy arguing about?” I ask. “I heard you before I came in the door.”
“Oh, it's silly,” she says. “His friend is selling these ridiculous vitamins. Probably a pyramid scheme. He wanted us to buy a year's supply.”
“Was it in the juice?” I point to the cartons.
“No, those just went rancid, so I had to throw them out.”
I don't know why she's lying to me, but I figure if she can let me off for a few fibs, I can do the same for her.
“I'm hungry from my run, I might stay up and have some crackers or something.” The crock pot has been washed and put away, and I imagine the leftover coq au vin is in the refrigerator, in a neatly labeled-container.
She kisses me on my forehead. “Turn out the light. And don't worry about tending Mibs, I already gave him his insulin.”
Mibs, who is sitting on one of the chairs at the table, meows at the mention of his name.
After Gran leaves the kitchen, I get out the crackers and some sliced ham. I pull out a big slice for me and a little slice for Mibs.
With a very low voice, I ask Mibs, “Do you think I'd be a good detective?”
Mibs responds by mugging me for the ham in my hands.
“I'm useless,” I confess to the very-attentive cat. A ghost has asked me to solve his murder, but I'm not getting anywhere. Newt's murder might be like one of those cold cases from TV, where the case goes on for years and years, until finally there's a break. I should try sending Newt a message that I'm not up for being a detective, and he should seek a more conventional solution, like hiring a professional. Not that he has any money where he is. Hey, did Newt only hire me because I'm free?
As I tidy up my crumbs, I spot the corner of the bee book in the garbage and pull it out. Even after a quick wipe-down with some paper towel, it still smells like chicken bones and coffee. I spray the exterior with some kitchen cleaner and rub harder, which reveals an image on the cover, under aged dirt. Fittingly enough, it's a bee, albeit an awfully familiar one. I look at the ring on my finger.
Dammit, I shouldn't be wearing the ring around where people can see it. I'm lucky Gran didn't notice with her keen eyes.
Scrubbing a little harder on the cover, I reveal a bee similar to the one on my ring. Or is it? Bee designs don't vary much. You've got the little head ball and the two other segments of the body, plus the wings. The illustration on the book cover and the design on my ring are both old-fashioned-looking bees, not like modern Japanese anime cartoon bees with big giant eyes and mammal-like eyelids.
My damp clothes are moist and heavy like a dirty diaper. I want these uncomfortable things off me now, and even though it's still early, crawling into my bed is an appealing thought.
Rudy and Gran are watching something on television in the living room, laughing over the super-loud commercials. I've showed them a million times how to use the machine so they can fast-forward through the ads, but they seem to enjoy the ads as much as their shows.
Shaking my head at the stubbornness of older people, I toss the paper towels in the garbage can, on top of some papers.
Gran didn't throw these papers in here, because she's adamant about recycling, so these must be Rudy's. I retrieve them, out of curiosity.
Most of them are boring junk mail, more junk mail, and a boring bank statement. Hmm, bank statements are only boring when they're mine. Let's see here.
Now, wait just a minute, how many zeros are on this deposit for Rudy's checking account? Wow, that is a lot of money for a real estate agent. I know he dabbles in a few small businesses, mostly multi-level-marketing crap where they sucker you for the demo kit and you never make your cash back. This money must have come from his job, but there's no way that deposit is from a single commission, or even a month's worth.
Rudy! Buddy! You're rich! I like you a teensy bit more now. How long until we get a kidney-shaped swimming pool?
I step around the corner to peer at them both, where they're seated and watching television. Rudy's got his arm around Gran and they don't even notice me. They look so happy together I get a squishy feeling in my guts.
Back in the kitchen, I peruse the rest of his bank statement. His other transactions are regular enough: groceries, gas station, and Wild Western Town for his cowboy clothes, of course.
I fold the papers in half and bury them in our box of recycling, under some other mail.
So much for my suspicions about my pal Rudy being broke. Things sure can change quickly.
* * *
After I've gotten out of my wet clothes—what is it about wet cloth
es that makes them so desperate to stay on your body?—I climb into bed with my smelly old book about magic bees. My bed is wonderfully crisp and luxurious tonight. Gran must have changed the sheets today. She's a big believer in the power of tidy rooms and fresh sheets to restore the spirit.
I try turning on my lamp, but the bulb's burned out. Groaning about having to get up, I get a new one from the hall closet.
Finally, I'm all set up and I try starting the book over again from page one, but pretty soon I'm banging my hands on my forehead in frustration.
The stupid text is a jumble of words and doesn't mean anything to me. There are some dire warnings and references to the devastation of war, but I don't understand how that relates to bees.
I flip through the pages, stopping when I hit an interesting illustration. Well, hello there! A naked woman is eating handfuls of something, and servants are bringing her bowls filled with more of the globe-shaped items. I look further down, as I've been enjoying the naked top half, though I should have stopped there. The woman appears to be, uh, giving birth to an army of bees. Yep. They're coming out of her you-know-what.
I slam the book shut in horror.
After a moment of reflection, I decide the illustration must be a metaphor. Sure, let's assume it's not a literal depiction, but as convoluted and skewed as the accompanying text.
I flip the book open and find another drawing, an image of a hot air balloon, made transparent so you can see it's filled with bees. The text on this page is hard to understand, and the typeface is a curly, ornate typeface, which makes it even more irritating to read, but I'll be damned if I'm not picking up some information from this infernal book.
This page reads:
The queen is a harlot, a fragment of the old world, with old values for to be compared to the morality of the time from which she sprang would be the fool's thought and imposition of a time not related. Her bees bid not, serve not, answer not, care not, for among them is the hive mind of the man who would be king of all that is destroyed in the war of living and dead.
