Hour of the Bees

by Lindsay Eagar

  Once again, Sergio remembered that fateful day when he made the first cut into the bark of the tree. How had that one small act led to all of this?

  Years after the tree was gone, the stump had shriveled and hardened, a pockmark on the lake’s shore. Sergio sat on the porch of this house he had built from the tree, in a cream wicker chair Rosa had brought back from one of her travels. One of those horseless carriages Rosa had told him about drove up the long, winding dirt road toward the house, rattling like thunder, snorting out peppery smoke. What an ugly thing, he thought, a rusty black beast with a humpback and a stench like sheep manure on fire.

  The beast pulled right up to the house, its rubber tires flattening the grass, and the driver said to Sergio, “I’m looking for the family of a Carolina de Vaca.”

  Sergio stood, surveying the man suspiciously. “I am her brother-in-law, sí.”

  The driver asked Sergio to come to the back of the beast and opened a door.

  Lying inside was a corpse, marble-eyed, staring at nothing: Carolina, Rosa’s beloved sister, dead.

  Sergio took the body from the hearse and laid her on Father Alejandro’s bed in the mission, flat on her back with her hands folded in prayer.

  Raúl asked, “What do we do now, Papá?” but Sergio had no answers. He didn’t know how to mourn.

  “We stay silent,” he said.

  They didn’t speak until other villagers returned, lighthearted, from their travels, chattering like magpies. They fell, gasping, when they saw the body. Death wasn’t supposed to happen, not to them.

  Rosa was the last to come home, and when she saw her cold, dead sister, she couldn’t speak for three days.

  “But how?” Rosa’s whisper was hoarse, shredded after three days of crying. “We know the gift lives on.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Sergio said bitterly. “Not anymore.” When the tree was chopped, the gift must have flickered, sputtered out its last sparks.

  Died.

  No, not a gift, he decided. The Father had been wrong. Gifts are not taken away. And he let himself use that word, “magic.” The magic had died.

  More bodies came back to the lake. More death, but now there was no lumber to build coffins.

  Once upon a time, there was a tree. But they chopped it down.

  Moving day.

  When I wake, it’s early enough to watch the sunrise. The house is dark. No bees buzzing, no truck engine revving in the yard, no sheep bleating. Just Alta’s breathing, heavy as a scuba diver, from the bed above me. I wait on the floor for Serge’s usual hacking cough from the porch, but the world is silent.

  Are you so excited to come home? Sofie’s message is still unanswered on my phone.

  No, I’m not. I’m not ready to leave yet.

  I pad through the chilly house with the seed in my hand. Inés, dead. Carolina, in the story, dead. More and more villagers, dead, dead, dead.

  I want the seed to live.

  Drought dries everything to dust, as Serge says, so the seed has as much chance of survival as Serge’s mind. But I have to try.

  Dad’s zonked out on the futon. I scoot past him and through the front door. Serge’s asleep in his wicker chair, the oxygen shooshing through the tubes and into his nose. He doesn’t stir when I sneak by.

  The sky is the color of an apricot, and a few weak stars are visible along the horizon. It’s neither hot nor cold. My throat clinches when I see a spot of recently dug-up dirt behind the house: the place where Dad buried Inés.

  I’m no gardener, but I take the little seed to the only logical spot on the ranch, the only place with evidence that a seed once grew there and thrived, once upon a time …

  The scabby old tree stump.

  Three feet away from the dead trunk, I dig. The dirt is rough as a cat’s tongue, impossible to gather into a fistful. With every scoop of dirt, planting a seed feels more and more ridiculous. The land is dying. This is no place for a seed to grow.

  But I have to try.

  The stars fade into morning light by the time I place the little seed in the hole. It looks so helpless in there. “I’m sure you’re thirsty,” I tell it, “but there’s a drought.” Get used to it.

  A bee buzzes to the hole, crawls along the seed, then flies away. Another bee lands on the seed, then takes off; a third bee replaces it.

  What are they doing? The seed is probably dead; drought dries everything to dust, to bones. But even if it’s not, it’s still just a seed. There’s nothing there to attract a bee, let alone a steady stream of them.

  I lean forward to get a closer look, and I can’t believe what I see.

  Each bee carries … water.

  A single drop of water.

  They place the water on the seed, then buzz away. I barely breathe.

  The bees are bringing back the rain. I stay and watch. The bees water the seed, a drop at a time, until the sun brings up a nice peach snow-cone morning. Then, as quickly as they appeared, the bees are gone.

  They watered the seed, I think as I push dirt back over the hole. No rain for a hundred years. No bees in a drought.

  Impossible.

  I brush desert dust from my pajama pants and walk to the house with tingly legs, determined not to think about it.

  “Buenos días.” It doesn’t surprise me to hear Serge ahead of me, awake on the porch. I set my demeanor to normal — rule number one, don’t upset Serge.

  “It is a good morning,” I say.

  “A morning for leaving,” he says, and I hurry inside before my face falls.

  In the bathroom I get ready, every movement robotic. When I tuck my toothbrush in my duffel bag, I’m officially packed.

  Everything at the ranch, except for the few things that Serge is taking to the Seville, is going right to a storage shed in Albuquerque, saved for another day when we’ll have to pull it all out and re-sort it into more piles: keep, toss, or back into storage.

  Mom hands me a wet rag and asks me to wipe down the light switches in the house. I had no idea that moving required so many nitpicky chores.

  The slap of my sandals echoes in the house as I walk into the empty guest room. Wipe light switches, turn off lights. I walk into Dad’s old bedroom. It’s empty — Nintendo consoles and hairy-rock-star posters long gone in the trash bin. Wipe light switches, turn off lights.

  I take a breath and walk into Serge and Rosa’s old bedroom. Empty, even of dust. It could be anyone’s bedroom, anywhere in the world. Wipe light switches, including the one in the empty, hollow closet, turn off lights.

  I leave the door open when I’m done.

  Grandma Rosa’s things — her silk clothes, the emu head, all that jewelry that would make a pirate salivate — are in boxes, packed in the moving van. I picture these treasures in a pitch-black storage shed, alone and neglected for another twelve years.

  In the kitchen Mom’s front end is in the fridge, smell-checking what food is salvageable: a mom job, indeed, since the cheese she just chucked had a patch of fuzzy blue-white mold on it.

  “When do we leave?” Alta’s wiping down the kitchen windows, with sunglasses on so no one can see her glaring. She and Mom must be in the intermission of an argument.

  “Soon.” Mom delivers a typical parent response — one syllable, frustratingly vague.

  The kitchen feels cold without the spicy aromas of her Mexican meals. I doubt she’ll keep cooking like that at home. Back to Hamburger Helper, I’m sure.

  “When’s soon?” Alta says, phone in her hand.

  Mom shuts the fridge, a Tupperware container of noodles and a wrinkly orange in her hands. “If you’re in such a hurry, go take Carol’s things out to the truck.”

  Even through the sunglasses, Alta’s eyes shoot laser beams at me. “I’ve got it,” I say quickly, and carry my duffel bag outside.

  I hear Mom tell Alta to take the stinky fridge rejects to the trash bin, and my sister grumbles down the porch steps behind me.

  “What are you going to do first when we
get home? Take a thirty-minute shower, or hit the pool?” I say.

  “Nap first.” Moody Alta. She bangs the trash-bin lid shut, then tromps back up the porch steps, slamming the door behind her.

  I’m trying to remember the parts of home that I’ve missed all summer, but instead my mind flashes a slide show of the ranch: the way Serge gently held the sheep for dosing, the purple stripe on the ridge, the grainy wood paneling in the living room. Midnight black, just like in Serge’s story.

  I let myself think it: I’m going to miss the ranch.

  The moving van and the pickup truck are parked in the pasture, sheep grazing between the tires. Dad’s talking on his phone. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but two sentences in, I know what’s going on.

  It’s Mr. González, the real estate agent. The ranch sold.

  “Wow,” Dad says. “That soon? No, it’s no problem. I’ll stop by and grab the contract on my way into the city.”

  I’m punched inside out. I realize I was holding on to a secret hope that the ranch wouldn’t sell, and Serge would make a miraculous recovery at the Seville and move back home, and the land would heal. I was hoping this summer wouldn’t end this way.

  When Dad hangs up, he squeezes me to his side. “Good news, niña. That was Mr. González.”

  “The ranch sold.” My voice is flat and dry as the desert.

  “Well, not the ranch. Just the land.” He shrugs. “I guess they’re not interested in buying an ugly old Spanish-style ranch house —”

  “You said you liked the house,” I say.

  “Me?” Dad guffaws. “I mean, I’m sad to let it go …”

  Papá’s not the only one who wants to keep this house standing. That’s what Dad said last night when the barn was burning.

  “What about the sheep?” I demand. “Where are they going?”

  Dad tosses my duffel bag into the back of the truck. He’s going to drive it straight to the Seville, with Serge in the passenger seat. “Are you old enough for the truth, or should I lie?”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “They’re probably going to be dog food.”

  “Dog food!” I cry. “Why?”

  “They’re just too bony,” he says. “Drought’s been awful to them.”

  “We can’t do that!” I say, tears stinging.

  “There’s nothing else to do,” he says. “Papá wanted to stay at the ranch forever, but —”

  “But things change, don’t they?” I finish. Dad looks at me like he just realized I’m twelve years old, not three. I let him take my hand and we hold still, until my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a waffle iron. Dad leaves to finish loading the truck, and I look out at the pasture.

  My phone buzzes with a message.

  GABBY: Guess what??? Manny’s locker partner moved and she’s looking for a new one! I gave her your number. Hope that’s ok.

  ME: Sure, thanks.

  GABBY: You could be Manny’s locker partner! I’m so jealous!

  ME: Yep, haha, lol

  But I’m not really laughing. By the time I put my phone in my pocket, I’ve forgotten what the message even said.

  I stand as tall as I can, like I’m the tallest thing for miles — taller than the house, taller than Alta. Taller than the red mesas — tall enough, almost, to peek into the sky and see if bees are bringing rain.

  Things are only impossible if you stop to think about them.

  But I can’t stop thinking about them. The little seed will probably die. The barn has already been burned. The sheep will be ground up into dog food. The ranch house will be bulldozed to the ground … Rosa in Serge’s story was wrong. There’s nothing good about change.

  “Carol!” Mom calls. “Come eat, then let’s hit the road!”

  Mom has peeled a bunch of oranges and set them on the counter. “Sorry.” She apologizes for the sparse food offering. “Gotta clean out the fridge.”

  “It’s fine,” Dad says, practically swallowing his orange whole.

  “Where’s Serge?” Mom says. “Isn’t he hungry?”

  But Serge has disappeared.

  And in a flash, our easy moving day transforms into a search-and-rescue party.

  “I knew this would happen,” Dad says, after checking the porch for the umpteenth time.

  “He can’t have gone far,” Mom says.

  “Do you think he took off? Called a cab?” Dad runs his hands through his hair.

  Just like it did the day Serge destroyed Dad’s newly poured driveway, my mind runs through all the dangerous places Serge could be.

  What if he’s having a dementia slip right now? He could think he’s petting Inés when he’s really petting a coyote. He could get tired while wandering and decide the ridge looks like a nice place to sit and relax, between the rattlesnake nests.

  Worst of all: what if he walks straight into the desert wilderness and just never comes back? The vultures would get to him before any human did.

  We look everywhere. For the first ten minutes, Mom and Dad are annoyed. After twenty minutes of searching, Mom’s worry lines crease her forehead. When it’s been forty-five minutes and Serge seems to have evaporated into dust, my parents are frantic.

  I am frantic.

  “Any other place you can think of?” Mom asks. “Even places you can’t think of?”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Alta’s stayed in a “just annoyed” phase — she must have a date with Marco planned for when we get home, and Serge’s vanishing act is costing her precious primping minutes.

  A whole summer at the ranch, and for Alta, nothing’s changed.

  “Hush,” Mom snaps. “And put your phone away.”

  “I’m going to drive around one more time.” Dad stalks out to the truck, muttering, “Unbelievable, this is just unbelievable …”

  I check and recheck Serge’s usual haunts: the porch, the tree stump, the pasture. I check the chicken coop for the hundredth time, even though he’s too big to squeeze in there. I squint at the ridge, again and again.

  Bzzz …

  I whip around in a circle, searching for a bee.

  It’s a phone call.

  Manny.

  Manuela Rodriguez, most popular girl in our grade, calling to offer me the equivalent of an Olympic gold medal: the privilege and honor of being her locker partner.

  I hold the phone in my hand.

  “Did you find him, Carol?” Mom’s voice snaps me back to the present, and I decline Manny’s call. My phone goes back in my pocket, and I continue my search for my grandfather.

  “No, not yet,” I call as I race to the porch.

  Mom’s got one hand on the wicker chair, and she’s deep breathing. “What if we find him somewhere and he’s …” My insides coil.

  “Should we call the police?” I ask.

  “What police?” Mom whispers. “There are no police out here.” But she pulls out her phone anyway.

  I hear a creak in the back of the house.

  I run into Serge’s old bedroom, a place I’ve checked six times in the last hour.

  But here he is, in the empty closet, tucked back in the shadows, wilted like a sunflower on a stormy day.

  “It’s gone, all gone,” he says. “It’s like she never traveled at all.” His eyes grow distant. “Like she never lived at all.”

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” I say. “What are you doing in here?” He fiddles with something, and I reach out, like he’s a child, and make him show me.

  He’s holding his rusty whittling knife in his right hand, and the flesh of his left hand is split into a grisly canyon.

  I shake when the blood pools in his palm. “H-hand me the knife.” He passes it to me, and I try to ignore the blood shining on the blade.

  Bzzz, bzzz … A bee flies above me. I barely notice as I scramble for something to stop the bleeding. But there’s literally nothing left in the house. Everything is packed, even the toilet paper. I yank the fabric belt out of my shorts and wrap it arou
nd his wound, my knees turning to jelly.

  “Summer’s turned up its heat, chiquita. Time to slaughter the lamb and make a feast of the blood.” His oxygen tube murmurs with air.

  Stop saying “blood,” I silently command. “That’s only a story,” I remind him. All of it, just a story he cooked up.

  “It is my best story,” he says.

  “We’re supposed to get in the truck. We’re moving, remember?”

  “Moving,” he repeats, staring at the blood seeping through the fabric of my belt.

  I grasp the closet doorknob, suddenly light-headed.

  “I don’t like blood, either, Caro-leeen-a,” Serge says, his voice far away. He’s pale, his bee-sting lumps extra purple. “My knife slipped. Old hands, very old hands.” The red stain blossoms, bigger and bigger. I can see the layers of his skin, like a cake …

  “Grandpa, I can’t …” My world is spinning to a pinhole, the bee buzzing around and around, a shooting star.

  “Mom!” I cry. “He’s here …” But I’m going, going, gone.

  When I open my eyes, Mom’s waving her hands an inch from my nose and I’m flat on my back, Dad elevating my legs.

  “What happened?” I say.

  “You fainted,” Mom says.

  Serge putters into the room and pushes a cool glass of water to me. “Here,” he says. “Drought dries you out. Dries you to the bones.”

  I sip.

  “Must be the heat,” Mom says.

  But that’s not why I passed out. I remember. “Is Serge’s hand okay?” Don’t think of the blood, don’t think of the blood.

  Mom raises her eyebrows. “Did something happen to it?”

  “He cut it.”

  Serge holds out his hand. The palm is whole, not a scratch in sight.

  “But …” I try to speak but my head spins, and I trail off into silence. Did I just imagine the cut? I must have. How else did Serge’s hand go from torn and bleeding to the clean, weathered hands of an old sheep farmer?

  Mom links her arm in mine and walks me to the moving van. “I want you to wait in here with the AC on. We’ll finish loading up.”

  I don’t protest, and moments later I bask in my first air-conditioning of the summer. Alta glares at me while she lugs things to the van.