The Death of Bees: A Novel

by Lisa O'Donnell

  Marnie

  I like to think he had a heart attack and did a ton of E or something. It happens all the time, but that’s not how it happened, not for him. Nelly did it. With a pillow. The furry one with the princess on it. I found it next to his head. I don’t know where she got the strength, to be honest; he was wasted no doubt, not even conscious most likely. If they ever dig him up, we can blame the E. Gene was always doing E. He said it made him feel like a better person without stealing his soul. After he quit heroin Gene was always going on about souls and chicken soup and roads less traveled, he was quite the thinker for a while and actually considered himself drug free when he swallowed a tab or took a jelly, even Valium made him feel a little superior over the losers he knew still chasing their dragons. Crystal meth was always a weakness, basically anything he wasn’t injecting made him feel like he wasn’t really using. He used to say, “I only do it now and then,” but it was more now, then and later. I’ve been offered it a couple of times, easy to get hold of, especially in my circle and they always know who to tempt, like Jehovah’s Witnesses and Hare Krishnas seeking out your sad stories, listening for hours like fawning friends, not to help or save you, but to possess you, to control you. Drug dealers work in exactly the same way. Charming. Interested, super-attentive to your needs, until you’re hooked that is. I do E from time to time and a couple of jellies here and there, but that’s all, it wasn’t too bad, E makes you feel pretty good about everything for about five minutes, but then the feeling passes and you get so low you just want to die, maybe become a Hare Krishna and worship God with a vengeance.

  Thinking a lot about God these days and I wonder if he’s going to help the suffering children or punish them. I should have stopped Gene when I had the chance, I’m not sure if I had a chance, but sometimes I think I might have. I should have said something to Izzy, but I didn’t, she wouldn’t have believed me anyway and wouldn’t have heard me. Even when I put the lock on my door she never asked why. Last time I touched him was when I was burying him. It never occurred to me he’d go after Nelly, we’re so different.

  Nelly

  Grammy read us incredible stories, had a true sense of the dramatic. Grammy was a lady, a duchess perhaps, liked to drink bitter-smelling juices sweetened with lime and sugar. Stirred them quickly with hot spoons and forks.

  A graceful woman our grammy, she said so. Carried age like cashmere, her scent drifting in whispers and folds wherever she went, unlike our mother, who preferred tight clothes and fun drinks, sooking them up with straws and slurps.

  “A common type of person,” said Grammy. “Uncouth. Grotesque. How I loathe to hear the woman yowl,” she spat.

  Grammy never yowled, her voice was pure. She read life from cards with Towers and Emperors, Knights and Queens. She told me the future. She told me not to be afraid. She told me I was “possessed of light and have a higher purpose.”

  Grammy would speak of lost things, old things, things we should remember when it is hard to love, when one should play.

  “Music is a feast of love,” she told me.

  It’s what she said.

  Lennie

  They’re gone. The parents. Over Christmas if you can believe it. God knows where they are. They left for three weeks last time. Those girls are too young to be left alone, they’re just children and yet not children. The oldest one sits out back almost every night, smoking mostly. Smoking and staring into absence. You want to reach out sometimes, but you daren’t. I’d probably frighten them. Their parents certainly told them what to think of us. Two years we’ve been neighbors and not so much as a tired smile. I don’t blame them. I’m the boogeyman round these parts, branded and known. You’d be ashamed of me, Joseph, so ashamed.

  Marnie

  It was Gene who started it, me working for Mick’s ice cream van selling confectionery, except it’s not just confectionery. He sells drugs. Anyway Gene owed him money and so I went to work for him to pay the debt off. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a total hardship. Mick’s all right. We understand each other. The only issue we have right now is Gene. I told him Gene had gone to Turkey with Izzy; he didn’t like that and went mental. He banged his fists on the steering wheel. He’s very protective like that. He calmed down eventually and said Gene was a prick and didn’t deserve a daughter like me, and then he gave me a bonus, and told me to keep my eyes peeled if Gene showed up. I said, “No problem,” and it really isn’t.

  Mick’s wife’s a hairdresser, her name’s Julie. She just had a baby. Mick says it never sleeps. When he hired me he told her some sob story and made me out to be some charity case. Now she’s always giving me stuff she hasn’t washed ’cause I can smell her cheap perfume on everything and then she cocks her head to one side and goes, “Awright, darlin’? How’s it goin?”

  Hate her.

  Mick says Julie’s off her head. Unbalanced. He says if she ever finds out we’re fucking she’ll kill the both of us.

  Lennie

  I think about it every day. A man of my age seeking out renters in a public park. Using the dog as an excuse.

  He’d approached me before, the young lad, he looked around nineteen. I said no at first, but walking away from him I knew I’d go back and so did he. I wasn’t even looking for sex. Just a voice. Any voice.

  “Forty for a hand job, fifty for oral, and a hundred for the other,” he said.

  I was silent for a few minutes and wanted him to repeat it. He didn’t. He knew I’d heard him the first time. I went for the oral. Then the flashlight appeared and the renter did a runner, so did Bobby and there was me sitting on a child’s swing next to the slide, my cock out for the world to see. The policeman was disgusted. “Pull your drawers up, you dirty old bastard.” Then he read me my rights and led me to the police car. That’s when I saw him. A young boy, around sixteen, not nineteen at all, but then I find out he’s fifteen, an adolescent and wearing mascara like a girl, bleeding black all over his face, like he’d been crying, but he hadn’t been, he wasn’t the sort to cry, he’d been running, his face wet with sweat. Freckles he had, little orange freckles and a sadness so unfamiliar it chilled me. The boy wouldn’t even look at me and kept staring into the park, he was trying to make me invisible. The policeman at the front kept calling him Sandy and knew him quite well as a matter of fact. Asked after his mother. The boy was no stranger to them, a drug addict most likely, not that it helped my defense any.

  The lawyer said the judge was lenient. “Most men in your situation go to jail,” he said. “Three years minimum. Think yourself lucky.” He told the judge I was a sad old poof with bad eyesight, which did the trick nicely, mostly because it’s true. The judge gave me two hundred hours’ community service, but was obliged to put me on the Sex Offender Register because of the boy’s age. The real punishment was the neighbors of course. They kept spray-painting the door, and your sister wasn’t best pleased either. She won’t visit me anymore. It was an impossible thing to explain, especially to her. I don’t even know how I would have explained it to you, connoisseur of the discreet; you preferred people to think of us as companions, which became easier as we aged, but I couldn’t believe you didn’t cite me as your next of kin. I had to get Sylvie to call the hospital and tell them I was a relative, they wouldn’t have let me see you otherwise. Even on paper you denied me my place, you denied yourself. Fortunately Sylvie let me keep everything. She even gave me the insurance money. I gave her your father’s cuff links. I thought she might like them for one of her boys. Decency came to her late in life. Let me make all the decisions about your care. She grabbed my hand after I signed the consent. She knew you belonged to me then and knew what I was losing, what we were both losing. While we waited for you to leave us she sat opposite me and we watched your pulse lessen on the generator, she held on to you as I did.

  It happens fast when it comes for you, the callous quickening, the blood stilling, the breath falling swift as a swallow. I held you tight then, bound you petrified to a life witheri
ng and anchored in silence, but you escaped me and a quiet calm embraced the room, a kindness drawing you close and letting you go. The passage of a gentleman.

  Not many came to the funeral. Everyone we know is dead or in an old folks’ home. There was me of course, your sister and her son and not the one in jail, the tall one with the black girlfriend, Belle’s her name, but what’s his? I always forget. I know the jailbird is Edward, but the blond one? Nice big bloke, John or Jo or is it James? I think it’s James. Anyway they invited me to their place for dinner, but they never called. Sylvie must have told them about me and about the park.

  The Abominable Albert was a no-show. He still hates a man even when he’s dead. He simply refuses to accept James and Belle’s relationship, even though they’re expecting their first child in March and his first grandchild. Sylvie reckons he’ll come round, but they don’t care whether he does or whether he doesn’t. Albert’s a joke to them.

  They’re having their ruby wedding anniversary soon, down at the Bowling Club.

  It would have been our ruby in March and I know you wouldn’t approve, but I intend to celebrate it. I’m going to cut six roses from our garden and place them on your grave. I’m going to buy a bottle of champagne, expensive champagne, and open it right where you lie, then I’m going to drink it and maybe I’ll cry. People walking by will only see an old man in a woolen coat and a sad little cap keeping his head warm. They’ll assume Joseph William Grant is my brother, a cousin perhaps, maybe a friend, but probably a relative. They will misunderstand entirely because they want to, but if anyone should ask, ask if I’m okay, I’ll tell them. I’ll say, “No, I’m not okay, my lover is dead. His name was Joseph and today would have been our ruby anniversary.”

  Then I’ll go home half cut, ready to play the piano. I’ll play Christmas carols and some Mozart, anything you loved. Then I’ll fall asleep on the sofa and wake to a dog. He’s all I know these days.

  Nelly

  When the music stops, the curtains twitch, the netting pulls and pinches. He’s watching us from his windows, in a cardigan warm and woolen. He waters, clips, and prunes, all the times surveying, but I see him. He doesn’t know that. No one knows that and I’ll catch him. I’ll catch the fellow.

  Lennie

  Made contact with the other side. The youngest mostly. Nelly’s her name. I like her. She’s such a nice girl, beautifully spoken, smells of clean linen and vanilla, unlike the older one, possessing odors not quite belonging to someone so young in my opinion. Marnie’s her name and a very direct young lady she is too. She asked immediately about my past.

  “You a perv?” she asked. “ ’Cause everyone round here says you are.”

  I told her the truth. What else am I going to do? There’s no point lying about it. Everyone knows anyway. Funny how she accepted it. I suppose she occupies a universe where such things are possible. She carries too much behind those green eyes of hers. It makes me sad for the girl, everything fresh and honest savaged from her hand by angry dogs, a childhood devoured. Nelly on the other hand holds tight to her infancy, seems more vulnerable; unfortunately she’s growing into a woman and very rapidly in my opinion, like my cousin Sue, breasts at eleven and menstruating at twelve. Poor Sue. She never married in the end, and no kids of her own. Her mother was so afraid she’d get pregnant and took the life right out of the girl and so she stayed at home looking after her mum till she died. Afraid of her own shadow Sue was.

  Nelly’s a bright girl and plays the violin like a professional. She was a little reluctant to play for me in the beginning, like she didn’t have it in her, but the sister egged her on and told her it was important to play and so she did. Oh, how she shone and yet one can’t ignore the sadness inside and the damage.

  Nelly is an entirely different creature from Marnie. She seems less worldly in comparison. Nelly has a rather peculiar manner about her, like she swallowed a dictionary, not an unfavorable characteristic given the mouth I have to endure round here, but neither does it fit. She’s an attractive girl, she turns heads wherever she goes no doubt, she has a great bone structure, I’m sure she’ll get by. People tend to ignore the idiosyncrasies of the beautiful, but her strangeness, I expect they’ll interpret it as an earned aloofness. Mostly the girl needs a parent. They both do. Poor things.

  Nelly asked if I’d help with the lavender. I was reluctant at first, like I said, it’s not going to take in this weather, but you don’t want to hurt her feelings, also Bobby kept pulling up the earth and wouldn’t come when I called him. The stupid dog, he can be very disobedient. And he keeps pulling up my ivy. I was also worried about their parents making a sudden appearance. The father would kill me. I went over anyway, skipped over as a matter of fact, it’s so nice to talk to people and not many do round here. That’s when the oldest showed up. I thought she might scream and yell for help, but she didn’t. She seemed too tired to care. We had a chat about gardening and their lavender, my roses and the state of the street (it’s such a mess right now). Then I invited them for dinner. They’re obviously on their own and no one should be alone on New Year’s Eve. They were a little reluctant at first and so they should be, but Bobby’s happy tail must have told them it was safe and so they agreed and as things turned out we had a wonderful evening together.

  Oh Joseph, to have someone to talk with and cook for, it was bliss. Marnie helped with the dishes and we talked. Nelly watched the telly and ate half the apple pie for dessert and a whole tin of custard. She must have been starving. That’s when Marnie asked about the conviction and like I said, no point lying, although it still stuns me she was okay with it. She sort of shrugged it off as if it wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever heard in her life and that made me uncomfortable because wherever she comes from she must know I took advantage of a child, of his poverty and his desperation, believing mine was more important. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know his age, it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been twenty-nine. I was wrong. It makes me sick to think of it.

  Marnie says her parents have gone to Turkey. She’s asked me not to say anything and I won’t. Nelly and Marnie are coming back tomorrow. They didn’t ask, I offered. I’m glad of the company. I’ll make a steak pie and some roast potatoes, peas, maybe a bramble and raspberry crumble. How you loved that crumble and I was so mean about it, I wouldn’t give you the recipe in case you left me and made it for someone else. Doesn’t matter now I suppose. The secret, my love, is lemon zest. I’d grate the skin of a lemon as fine as I could get it and I would do it when you weren’t looking and then hide it on the top shelf of the cupboard under the stairs. I’d make crumble every New Year from fruit we’d gathered in the summertime kept frozen in our freezer, it became a tradition of sorts. It’s been a long time since I’ve celebrated any traditions, how lovely to enjoy them again.

  Marnie

  With Gene fertilizing the garden, Nelly and I wait for it to grow, my sister and I aren’t exactly blessed with green fingers, unlike the nosey child molester from next door. Yesterday he actually came over, reached out from behind the nasty gauzing he calls curtains. Lennie’s his name, I got the fright of my life when I saw him at the bottom of the garden, his dog pulling at the lavender, thank God he put a lead on him. I don’t know what Nelly was thinking leading him to the flower beds. She’s such a moron. Anyway turns out he’s not a pervert at all, just an old queer who got his cock pulled by Sandy Lane. Old guy’s full of remorse, full of shame and at one point I thought he was going to cry. I felt a bit bad for him, but only a wee bit, he’s still a perv if he’s paying for sex. When he described the boy who gave him the wank I almost choked. “Young lad with red hair, not even sixteen,” he says. I knew straightaway who it was. Of course Sandy Lane isn’t his real name, his real name is Sandy Simpson, we just call him that because that’s where he lives, in lanes and alleys, at bus stops and train stations.

  We used to play together, me and Sandy. I totally bossed him about, like he was a dog or something, then one day he woul
dn’t play with me anymore, got himself a ball and kicked it around the stairwell. He made a lot of noise and got a lot of slaps.

  His mum hung out with Izzy for a while. They drank wine in the daytime and listened to Britney in the evening. They had these daft bendy straws around their ears and pretended they were microphones, they had their shirts rolled up revealing two fat guts. Anne was her name, Sandy’s mum I mean. She ended up in prison after she glassed some girl for snogging her boyfriend, except Anne’s boyfriend was in the toilet. She took half the girl’s face off. She did at least a year and that’s when she joined the God Squad. She stopped using and woke up to a life she didn’t recognize and Sandy, her only son, she didn’t know him either and not ’cause she forgot.

  Poor Sandy, he used to be so cute, red hair, blue eyes, and wee freckles, skin like a peach. He followed his mother around like a dog. He loved her the way wee boys love their mums, dependent and trusting, wanting and waiting, sitting outside pubs on pavements, rain or shine and for hours sometimes, eating crisps and whatever else was offered to him on the street. And the strangers. Sandy has reasons to hate his mother forever and couldn’t care less about her repentance and likes to show up outside her church wearing a filthy tramp coat. He asks for money and begs at her knees, he calls her “Mummy” and says “please” and “forgive,” he forces her to pull away and recoil. The parishioners know then. Who she is. Where she’s been. What she’s done. They understand why she sits in their pews staring at icons, seeking out judgment, seeking atonement for the boy still waiting for her on pavements.

  Nelly

  I’d hoped he’d be nice. He’s delightful. An amusing type of a fellow and a real sport. He serves crumpets with curd and plays Beethoven and Bach. He is a fine pianist and we are quite the duet.

  I admired his roses first and then his door, painted and glossed and with a brass nameplate. Our own door is bashed and broken, the window smashed and boarded. A dreary state of affairs. He smells of talcum powder, is possessed of china cups and matching saucers. How I love to hold a teacup. He uses side plates for breads and for cakes. It was all rather wonderful. Pristine. Polished. I played the violin later. Something forced upon me in the end. Marnie must always have her way you see and with no regard for one’s temperament. If only she knew of my nightmares and of the dancing violin waking the dead from their slumber. If only she had seen them rise from their graves as I have, waltzing to a melody of my making.