Autant

by Paulette Dubé

  “Yes.” She paused. “What would you like to play?”

  “War,” he said.

  Bella had a flash of silver before her eyes, much like the bread knife blade glinting in the sun, but bigger, and it burned in her mouth. She quickly shook her head.

  “Cowboys and Indians?” he bent a little closer to her, pretending to check the hem on his sleeve. He watched her die again, a blow to the head.

  Her eyes widened and watered, the headache came roaring back. As she fumbled for the barf bowl, he straightened and sighed. She croaked and a small spool of spittle hung between the side of the bowl and her mouth.

  This was going to be more difficult than he had planned. It would take more time. He propped his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. He smiled and pulled the pouch open. With one hand he rolled the contents around the bottom of the bag.

  “Whatcha got there?” she asked.

  He blinked back at her. He had the eyes of a frog. He blinked again, one eye brown and one eye green.

  “Don’t be scared,” she said. “It sounds like little rocks. Marbles maybe?”

  “Bees,” he said.

  “You have bees in your purse?” asked Bella. She smiled. “My mom sometimes has bees in her pocket. She says they go in there for peace and quiet. She said we talk too much. Do you think I talk too much?”

  Ruel closed his eyes. Her. Her light. The light, such light. “Your mother has bees?”

  “The bees belong to Dad. He built hives for them. Can I see yours?”

  He tipped the open pouch towards her. Bella saw stones, small, lustrous honey-and-blood coloured. Eight glittering beads. She put her hand in and rolled them beneath her fingers, greeting each one in turn. Bella remembered a bee she had found one day helping her dad near the hives. At first she’d thought it was a stone because of its lustre and size, the golden colour closer to mead than your typical bee colour. She slipped off the bed and reached for her special-things box on the shelf, next to the plastic statue of la Vièrge Marie. Placing it on the bed between them, she lifted her eyes to Ruel and said softly, “My bee is like these yellow ones, maybe yours are her sisters?”

  Ruel prised the lid from the Pot of Gold box and Bella pushed aside the white chicken feathers, the magpie feathers, and in the corner was the bee. One of the virgin sisters God had made.

  He began talking to himself, quickly and hushed, as if praying, “God couldn’t be here all the time and he was curious, in a fashion, about the state of earth, so he fashioned ten bees from the warm golden wax of his ear in order to hear the goings on of the world. He sent nine out to gather human memories, promises, works of awe, acts of love, sweet stories: ‘Gather the goodness of these people and bring it all back to me.’ This bee is from that first generation.

  “The second generation became diluted. People spent less and less time loving and feeling simple awe. The land filled with smoke from forests on re and agriculture began. The bees were starved for sweet, for goodness, so they feverishly concocted their own, collecting pollen from flowers and making honey. And once they imbibed honey made from the earth, they became more kindred to earth than to spirit. They were intimate with geography and places and so nested everywhere, mated with all manner of creatures and stayed. The original sisters still report back to God on the sweet places and thoughts. God is aware of the changing earth, her trees, flowers, wind, water, beasts and, of course, her humans.”

  Ruel delicately motioned towards the cover of the box. “The next family of bees is like this Madame here. She holds a box with a picture on it, and the Madame in the picture holds a box with the same picture and so on. The real box is here and the others are reflections of the real one.”

  “Like an echo?” asked Bella. Struggling to concentrate on the Lady on the box because if she thinks of the bee, surely Ruel would insist she give it back. After all, it belongs to a family and families stick together.

  “Yes, but imagine an echo with a sweet smell and a warm taste.”

  “You know,” Bella said, “our bees make honey in the hives. They like it here.” She holds her poupée closer, pressing it against her roiling stomach.

  “Do you know how bees make honey?” Ruel asked.

  “No one knows that. It is too dark to see inside the hive, and the bees are too small.”

  “Not at all, not at all. One has only to be the right size, then . . . ”

  “ . . . pretend?”

  “Pretend,” he said. He scooped the bees from the pouch and, with his fist, slowly wove a figure eight. “One young bee gets the flower water, the nectar from a worker from outside. She finds a quiet part of the hive. Here she sits, as you do now, opening and closing her mouth as you do, exposing the juice to the air. Water evaporates from the juice. The juice thickens into . . . ” He finished, pointing his fist at Bella.

  “Honey!” Bella clapped her hands in delight and tapped his fist.

  “Yes.” Ruel laughed and opened his hand. “Honey.”

  Bella drew closer, stretching a tentative finger over the bees. She felt them shiver. They were alive and warm. “Oh, they are beautiful. Do you think my bee would like to ‘bee’ with her sisters? Or will they fight? My sisters fight all the time. But they would be lonely not together . . . ” she trailed off.

  Yes, please, yes. It has to be offered.

  Ruel cocked his head towards her, their heads nearly touching, before a whisper of something that sounded like tinkling glass chimes breathed, and the bees in the pouch simply rose between them and flew off, out of the open window.

  “Why did you send them away?”

  Ruel sighed. “I did not. They are sometimes called, sometimes merely capricious . . . their job is to find stories, and so . . . ” He lifted his hand to encourage the bee in the chocolate box. He waved towards the window, but the bee remained still.

  Bella carefully replaced the lid and said, “I know where they might go. Come on, I’ll show you.” She propped her doll back up against the pillow, got up off the bed and reached for Ruel’s hand.

  Ruel stood and brushed the back of his hand against hers. He smiled at the fizzing sound between them and then slowly, luxuriously, stretched. His wings fanned out. They were magnificent, bright as a full moon and rising slightly higher than his head.

  Downstairs, Edgar welcomed the Toupins and started pouring drinks for the men. They groused about the dismal crops. They complained about the dry spell they were having. All that thunder and no rain, it wasn’t natural. A neighbour’s cows were sick, drinking from the same slough they had drunk from for years. Two wells had gone dry and even Léo Charrois, the diviner, could not find water. The people were confused. They felt betrayed and angry, like they had fallen from grace.

  L’abbé Breault and the town council had decided to organize a party, la Fête au Village, to help shake off the bad things. A pit was dug for a pig roast; corn was to be trucked in from Falher and trestle tables put together. A baseball game would be organised in the school field for the young men. The older guys would have a horseshoe competition in the churchyard, with the priest’s blessing, of course. First prize would be a new blue fuzzy car blanket. It had a picture of Marilyn Monroe on it.

  Trouble was, some of the older women wanted to play as well, there was talk of a round robin, but a girls-only tournament was voted in. Lucille had donated beeswax candles and a sly jar of honey mead under Léah’s tablecloth and four napkins. An offering. The gift basket was packed and ready in the cool house.

  “Oh ma chère, I love how you roast a chicken, for me it isn’t too spicy at all. To go through the trouble of having a hot oven on today and what with yesterday . . . Well, that makes you une véritable sainte! Who is the patron saint of cooks? Sainte Anne? It must be. She’s the one to pray to on behalf of the house, at any rate. We should say a prayer of thanks to Sainte Anne and then the blessing for this meal we are about to eat.”

  “Ah Florence, I was taught that Sainte Marthe was the saint for cooks and, besid
es, I am partial to Marie for any intercession. Don’t be too kind in your praise of my wife’s cooking. Too much richness can’t be good for the digestion, einh?” said Edgar. He looked up from the chickens splayed on the cutting board before him and gave his wife a wink.

  Lucille was grateful. Her husband’s easy way with people, his ability to turn even Florence Toupin’s snide remark into a compliment, was a gift. She touched him briefly between the shoulders when she came up beside him with the bowl of potatoes.

  “Where is our Bella?” asked Edgar, taking the bowl and sitting down. “She isn’t one to miss a meal.”

  “She still isn’t feeling well. Her headache is nearly gone but she still seems out of her plate. I gave her some honey on toast and milk with molasses. She is upstairs.”

  Edgar picked up the carving knife and cut into the second chicken. “We had quite a little adventure around here yesterday, Toupin. Bella found out that she couldn’t swim like a fish.” Edgar winked at Alice. “And our Alice here found that she could. Lucky for us one of them can!”

  Alice beamed. Juliette stretched her leg to kick her, but her mother’s hand was on her shoulder. “Yes, Alice is so responsible. She is growing up, that one.” She squeezed Juliette’s shoulder a little harder and walked on. Juliette scowled.

  “Our little Bella,” Edgar continued, “is the roamer in the family. We need to tie her down or put rocks in her pockets. We might lose her yet, some day, einh? But not today I think.” He looked at his wife. He knew he was missing something, felt it in her clipped tones and the sour look blooming in Juliette, but he decided to leave the females to their battles.

  “You are the lucky one. I can’t get any of mine to ever leave the house,” said Hector Toupin. He poured gravy over his entire plate of food.

  “Dad,” said Séraphin, “I asked you today if I could go fishing and you said no. Said I had to work because Corneille wasn’t there to unload the mail.”

  “That’s Monsieur Corneille to you, Boy. And, you need to learn about the hard work of running a store if you’re to take over some day.”

  “What about me, Papa?” asked ten-year-old Estelle. “Will I take over the store?”

  “You? Non, Chérie. You won’t be stuck in this godforsaken place,” said Florence. “You will be a teacher. There will be no village store for you.” She busied herself cutting Estelle’s meat.

  “Now, it isn’t all that bad, is it?” said Lucille. “You own the store out right, don’t you? Run the post office and the lumber mill. Hector is the village constable. And Florence, you have raised fine, decent children.”

  Juliette wondered if her mother’s words were pointed at her. She snuck a look, but Lucille continued, without looking at her. “Estelle could do worse than to marry one of the boys from here and settle down. She could teach here too. Someday, people from all over Alberta will come to get their honey from us. Someday, Autant will be the place everyone talks about.”

  “I am grateful for your generous retelling of my business, Lucille. However . . . ” began Florence.

  Hector recognized his wife’s familiar tune gearing up to explain what was so wrong with Autant. “Listen to her would you, Edgar? ‘Autant will be the place people talk about.’ Like as if we have a gold mine here,” he said, spearing a potato.

  “Well now, Hec, that is something I need to talk to you about. We just might have a gold mine here. More honey-coloured than golden, but still. After supper we’ll take a walk to the west pasture. Show you the new hives. The size of the colony has doubled since last month. A new batch of bees must have hatched. The clover, dandelion, and willow around here did amazing things in the spring and now the fields and gardens are doing the job. We need to talk about shipping some of the honey out. I don’t think we can sell it all in the store.”

  “Do you really think it’s worth putting money in honey?” Hector worked his fork between plate and mouth regular as a clock ticking. “It’s all very good on toast and pancakes, but this wine you make . . . now that is something special.”

  “Honey won’t give you gas like sugar can, and it has uses you never even dreamed of. Now that this batch is doing so well,” said Edgar, “I was hoping you would be able to help me bottle and sell it as medicine.”

  “Medicine? Are you crazy? What can a little sticky stuff do that good old cod liver oil or some liniment can’t?”

  “Lucille and I have been doing some experimenting and you can use honey for all kinds of things. Did you know that it can be used to cure meat? They do that in Germany.

  They use honey to dress a wound there too. Lucille rubbed a bit on chilblains and it healed them right up. And,” he paused dramatically, “a tablespoon of honey will take care of a migraine. You know those blistering bitch headaches you sometimes get? Well, think if honey could be used for such a headache!”

  Hector grunted. “Be easier to swallow that than the tisanes the old lady forces down my throat at any rate, and pills just make me sleep.”

  “Exactly!” Edgar was excited now that he had found a receptive audience. “Straight honey on a boil — which is just pus, like water, anyway — shrinks that ugly blot to nothing in about two days. No messing with raw potatoes or castor oil. Lovely sweet honey alone will do that for you.”

  “Can we please not talk about this at the supper table?” said Florence. “Just thinking about bees makes me shiver. Dirty bugs. And those stingers! I don’t know how you can stand them!”

  “You have to be sweet, not like you, you old dried up old cue de poule!” Juliette whispered to Maurice, tickling him. He twisted in his chair, keeping his head down.

  “What was that, Juliette?” her mother asked. “Keep your elbows off the table. Maurice, you haven’t even touched your supper. Eat up or no dessert.”

  Maurice lifted his shiny brown eyes towards Alice. “Alice, I wish I could be like you. You are so brave.”

  “What?” asked Alice.

  “You. You are so brave. Already a second helping. Poor Roméo.” His eyes filled with tears and his lower lip trembled.

  “Mom, can I go check on Bella?” asked Juliette, lifting her voice over Maurice’s.

  “What in the world is the matter, Maurice? Great big boy like you, blubbering like a baby. Who is Roméo?” asked Florence.

  “Your family goes to pieces at the slightest provocation. Must be all the women in this house,” said Hector. “Not like my boy, einh? Steady as a rock!” He thumped Séraphin playfully on the back.

  Séraphin was following the unwritten law of the table, whoever eats the fastest gets the most. His father’s hearty clap made him choke.

  “Are you trying to kill your own son?” Florence leaned back in her chair and slapped Séraphin hard between the shoulders.

  “Raise your hand to open your air pipe,” said Estelle to Séraphin holding up her own to show him how.

  “Juliette, what is Maurice talking about? Why is he crying about Roméo?” asked Lucille.

  “Dad?” asked Juliette, head below the range of her mother’s piercing look. “Dad, s’il-vous-plaît?” she whispered.

  “Juliette said Roméo was sick, we had to kill him,” blubbered Maurice.

  Alice’s face paled and she dropped her fork on the table. She stared at the chicken heaped there, snuggled under her mom’s good brown gravy. She put a hand over her mouth, shooting daggers at her sister.

  “Are you going to be sick?” asked Estelle. “Here, use this.” She held out her napkin.

  Alice buried her face in her hands.

  Edgar Garance looked at Juliette. “Who should we take care of first?”

  Juliette hung her head. Somehow things were suddenly complicated. Edgar rose from the chair and motioned with his chin for her to follow him.

  She followed her father to the porch, head down. She would pay for killing Roméo. Better sooner than later and better Dad than Mom. Sister Régina was right when she said that God watched everything. Is he watching out for Bella and Alice too? Or
is it only me who gets his eyeful today? She sniffed miserably.

  Edgar sat on the porch step, pulled out his small pipe and the flap of tobacco. He took his time preparing the bowl, tapping down the tobacco, and then handed Juliette the match, wordlessly asking her to light it. She scratched the match along the rock on the top step, put there for this very reason. Sulphur flared and she breathed in the yellow plume, exhaling it like he’d taught her. She smiled up at him, hopeful.

  He didn’t smile back. She handed him the match. He snapped his wrist to extinguish the flame. “Your arm,” he said.

  Juliette pulled up her sleeve and bared the delicate underside of her arm. Her father touched the still hot match to the skin of the wrist. Juliette clamped her mouth shut and didn’t cry out. It was like a bee sting, a sharp, small hot pinch, throbbing like something alive had been jabbed under her skin.

  “It won’t leave a mark, but you will remember it was there. That is what sin is, fille. It leaves no mark, but you know it is there. Between you and your sister, there is a mark now. It won’t go away by itself. You need some help to make this right. Now, what will you do?”

  “I don’t know,” whispered Juliette.

  “Think,” said her father.

  “I could ask for help,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Yes, yes, you could. What would you ask?”

  “For Mom to take away the pain,” she said.

  “She would need to know why you were burned and then what you would you say?”

  “I would tell her and she would laugh, because she hates Alice anyway?”

  Edgar sighed. “Juliette . . . ”

  “She loves Alice, I know. She loves her and she hates me. Mom would say it isn’t right to hurt people.”

  “You are right, it isn’t right to hurt people. But you are wrong to think Mom hates you. She knows you will eventually do the right thing. Which is?” asked Edgar.

  “Put honey on it so it doesn’t scar.”

  He lit another match and lit his pipe.

  “Honey would do the trick. And that’s what you need, a little sweetness in your thoughts, your actions, in how you treat your sister. Brother and sisters. Compris?”