Inside the house, André’s voice fades to nothing. Urbain has already dug out the suitcase. Alice folds a towel on the plaster-strewn floor and kneels beside it, rubbing her hands slowly all over the leather and around the sides.
“Who did this belong to?” asks Urbain, hunkering down beside her.
“It belongs to me, it was my ma tante Léah’s. She gave it to me a long, long time ago, when I was a child. Just because it hit Maurice on the head doesn’t mean it belongs to him. He is here because I asked him to come and fix the roof. My roof. And it is my attic that the moths decided to fly into and die, am I right?” She fixes her nephew with a stern look.
“Yeah, sure, ma tante, sure. Do you remember how this opens?” He leans forward to pull the case upright, but Alice puts a hand on his forearm.
“Maybe underneath?” Urbain offers.
Alice isn’t looking at him, or at the suitcase, not really. She is focused on something, somewhere inside the suitcase.
“Do you want to take it outside first? Is that what you want? Shall I lift it for you? Do you want me to take it outside and show Dad?” Urbain fumbles around with what he believes is the front. “There doesn’t seem to be a handle.”
“No,” says Alice. “No, Urbain, sit down. You are my godchild. I want you to see this. I remember now. Of course I know what this is.”
She places her hands on the sides of the case and the hidden latches spring open. A smoky perfume wafts out. She pulls open the tired elastic pouch from the lid of the suitcase. There is ma tante Léah’s mirror and the beautiful pine lock Adrien gave her, shiny from use and only a little warped. The key is there as well. Alice feels along the silk lining on the bottom. Her father’s bee log of course, and from the side pocket she pulls the handkerchief. She unfolds the yellowed lace and scoops up a handful of dark ruby and amber coloured beads. The beads stir in the crux of her palm.
Urbain’s eyes grow wide and he leans forward. His aunt rolls the beads and drops them from one hand to the other.
Alice hears the sound of a match head being dragged against rough paper and the bees begin to glow and grow warm. The long breath of summer wind comes in through the backdoor left open. The wind walks through the house and gently wakes those bees. Alice lifts her hand up in the air and nine bees take flight. They have left a dusting of flower-coloured pollen on her hands.
Urbain hears the car crunch along the gravel in the driveway and wishes he were with them. Maybe his dad will let him drive home if he does this job properly. He saw a trick of light, his aunt threw a bunch of kidney-coloured beads into the air and they disappeared. He looks up, then checks the floor around him. In his stomach, the illicit mead sings a hello song to the pollen on his aunt’s fingers; they are after all of the same family.
Maurice lets himself in with the wind, the door closing softly behind him. He hears Alice talking to Urbain in the living room. It isn’t so much that he wants to interrupt them as he needs to hear the story again, for himself, to blow his brain clean of the images stuttering and stumbling like nightmares that smell too much like burning hair.
He eases himself onto a kitchen chair and props his bad ankle up on the garbage can beside the stove. From here, he can see out the window and into the yard, in case André comes back before Alice is done.
Alice is fluttering her hands as she tells Urbain about that summer in 1952. As she speaks she draws Marie circles, a figure eight on its side, over and over again. The circles gain pale colour in the telling, pink turning orange turning yellow turning green turning blue until finally a warm yellow light envelopes the two people. Every moth in the living room stained a different colour. Maurice blinks.
“Oh,” Urbain breathes. “Oh.”
“Yes,” says Alice. She looks over at him, still slowly moving her hands through the air. “I had forgotten they were in here, how could I have forgotten? A lady angel gave them to me after the bees swarmed the summer Bella and Juliette died. Later on, I married your mon oncle Adrien, my husband before Roland. Adrien built this house for me. I must have remembered then, because here they are, in my old suitcase, in the attic, under the eaves. And I painted the front door blue. Do you know why?”
Urbain looks at his godmother. There in front of him is an old woman, playing with trick beads and flinging coloured powder about. As long as she is talking, he doesn’t have to shovel moth bodies or move furniture.
He says, “No, why a blue door?”
“My mom always painted the kitchen door blue, so that angels would recognise the house as a safe place. I do it for her and my sisters. In case they ever decide to come back. They will recognize the door as a friendly sign and not haunt us. Not too much anyway.”
Alice closes her eyes a minute and rests her hands on her lap. I remember the colour of the angel’s hair, the same colour as the sky. That’s why I couldn’t see her right away on the roof. She blended in with the sky.
When she looks up, Urbain has lifted the bound papers from the suitcase and is rummaging through the silk pockets of the case. She gives a little grunt. “If you’re looking for more, there are no more. Probably nothing in there but a penny for luck and maybe half a piece of gum. Your mon oncle Roland loved his spearmint gum. That book was your Pépère’s.”
Before Urbain can say anything, there is a cough from the door. Maurice pokes his head through. He limps over to Alice, carrying a large glass of water.
“Here you go, la vieille. After that much talking you’re bound to be thirsty.”
“Merci, Maurice,” says Alice, taking the glass. “Did you bring one for Urbain as well?”
“He’s young. If he’s thirsty, he can go get a glass for himself.”
“That’s okay, ma tante, I know where the glasses are,” says Urbain. “Got to see a man about a horse anyways.” He punches Maurice lightly on the arm as he heads down the hallway to the bathroom.
“Careful in there,” calls Maurice, “the ceiling’s liable to came down on your pecker.”
“Maurice!”
“Well, it could,” says Maurice, pointing up to where the ceiling used to be in the living room.
“Not that. Watch your language, I mean. You sound uneducated when you speak like that. Like a bushman or something.”
“I am a man from the bush, Alice. And there’s not too much smarts in this old head. Just had the brains knocked clear out of me, remember?”
“Yes, well, regardless. Urbain’s young and very susceptible to influence.”
“Whatever you say, whatever you say. Okay, so are you done here or what? We should figure out a way to get this place cleaned up.” He stretches his arms out in front of him and whistles through his teeth. “Jaysus, what a mess. I hate moths even more now.”
“Maurice?” asks Alice. “Are you all right?”
“Peachy. My leg’s f . . . feeling better all the time.” Maurice casts a glance towards the hallway. They both listen to the water running.
“Why do we never speak of it? It’s not a very lovely story, that summer. But it ended well enough,” says Alice.
“We got over it, but we never agree on what happened because I can’t remember so much and you can’t say too much because you weren’t there,” Maurice says slowly.
“Oh, yes. And the bees?” she asks.
“Yeah,” says Urbain from the doorway, “What happened to the family bees, the honey monopoly in Autant?”
“Your mémère and ma tante Léah burned the hives, bees and all. Mom said it wasn’t safe to keep bees anymore with children around.”
“But near everyone around here had hives when I was a little kid,” says Urbain. “Before they started dying off.”
“Not us,” says Maurice flatly.
“No, not us, but in Talon and Falher they all did,” says Urbain. “Hey, ma tante, where are those beads you just had? The trick bees? Can I see them a second? I want to show mon oncle Maurice.”
Alice blinks at her godson. Trick bees? Maurice catches her eye before
she can open her mouth. He answers for her, “They must have flown away.” He gestures to the roof, “through there, I suppose. Good for one trick is all they are.”
Urbain follows his uncle’s gaze and laughs. “Yeah I suppose so. Pretty neat-o trick, though. I wish the others could have seen that. They’ll never believe me when I tell them.”
“No,” says Alice, “they won’t.”
“Come on,” says Maurice helping, Alice to her feet. “Let’s get out of Chateau Death. These moths are giving me the creeps.”
“Chateau Death?” Alice picks up the cahier scrawled with her dad’s handwriting, rolls it up and thumps Maurice on the thigh, and then she allows herself to be taken outside. “Maurice, honestly, you can be so dramatic.” She fingers the small knife in her pocket.
Outside, Urbain relaxes in one wing chair after settling Alice in the other. Maurice takes up the bottle and picks off the plastic Five Star emblem before pouring honey wine into three cups. “Here’s to your last bottle of wine, Alice. The boy is in for a peck of work when the others get back,” he says. “It’s only fair that he have a little refreshment now, einh?”
“Non,” says Alice. She takes the mug from Urbain, defying Maurice to go against her wishes. “My house, my rules. He had some with his coffee already. My godson is no drinker. Are you, Urbain?”
The fourteen-year-old puffs himself up. “Well no, not too much. Dad sometimes lets us have a glass of wine or a sip of beer with supper.”
“Every supper?” asks Alice.
“No, of course not. Just sometimes.”
“You know that, Alice,” interrupts Maurice, “you are at those suppers. We all are.”
Alice softens. She leans over, touches his scarred hand. “I would feel bad for a long time if I led a child to drink. My first husband, Adrien . . . ”
“Oh, for the love of God!” says Maurice. “You sound like Florence Toupin. Mrs. Holier-than-thou, Mrs. Never-touch-a-drop. The one who, it turns out, raised a pack of lushes. Nothing but drinkers in that family. Especially the girl — what was that little one’s name?”
“Estelle,” says Alice, smoothing her dress over her knees. “She married Guillaume Morisette, from Talon.”
“And what about the older boy, Séraphin? Married that Pique what’s-her-name. She left him after they lost the store, right? Burned it down for the insurance money, if I recall.”
“Hmm, yes, now wait a minute, it was . . . Josée Pique!” Alice is proud of her ability to pull thoughts and names from thin air today. “Beautiful Josée Pique, she had the loveliest hair, always in a long braid over her shoulder, the colour of a crow wing. We are all quite different now, of course. We are memory-handsome.”
“Hey hoo, you there!” calls André. He steps from the cab of the truck, waving. The boys begin unloading garbage barrels and a rototiller.
Urbain quickly drains his uncle’s mug and sets it down near Alice’s chair. He smiles at Maurice, who winks back.
“Get a move on there. Your dad needs all the help he can get.”
Urbain wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and touches Alice’s hand. “Coming, ma tante?”
“Yes, yes, I’m right behind you. Go on now, go.”
Alice wrinkles her nose.
“Maurice?”
“Hmmm?”
“Did you smell that?”
“Smell what?”
“Urbain smells like wine,” she says.
“He smells like all fourteen-year-old boys smell, Bella, like skunky creek water. And he smells like us, like good stuff that keeps us together, einh? Strong and sweet as honey.”
Brother and sister help each other rise from the chairs. Arm in arm, they cross the lawn. A warm, smoke-scented wind hisses over the furniture, the glasses, and the bottle. It flutters the pages of the cahier left there.
BEE LOGS II & III EDGAR JOSEPH GARANCE 1950 – 1952
janvier (1950) windy, cold, dark
Ordered more bees: 2 lbs. Asking about the queen — can she manage 2 colonies/hives? Can a colony survive without a queen?
mai — warm, windy cloudy near end of month
Total: 4 hives, how many bees? Who can tell?
août — hot and dry
30 lbs. of honey this time round. Lucille made honey wine. Pretty good. Even neighbours want some. This isn’t Edmonton, there is no hotel here so buying alcohol is a solitary business. We aren’t selling it high price as whiskey, maybe $4 a quart or so. That Liquor Board they set up is making millions for the government. Doubt a few hundred bucks here and there will be missed.
Bella wants bees, for a pet she said. Likes the sound she said. Handles them like a handful of raisins sometimes, pats them on the back for Pete’s sake!
Lucille’s other recipe for wine
1 gallon of water, 3 lbs. of honey, 1 lb. rhubarb.
Boil combined ingredients slowly for 30 minutes. Strain into earthenware crock, leave room for expansion. After mixture cools, add a tsp. of yeast for each gallon of water. Store in a cool place for 1 month. Cover crock with towel.
mai (1952) — warm, no wind
Total: 6 hives, there could be 10 to 30,000 bees per hive. I am not counting them one by one mind you, they make a ruckus. Already there are capped queen cells. New hives ready for when they split.
juillet — hot, some wind, dry as a bone
100 lbs. of honey. Moths a nuisance but bees keep them under control.
Lucille tried honey on Bella when she had a bleeding nose that wouldn’t quit. She thinks probably the sweetness keeps the girl from going into shock. It’s not right for someone to bleed like that, it’s just not.
août — hot, dry, no rain, little or no wind most days
Bees swarmed.
Lucille and Léah burned the hives, unborn queens and all.
Bees have not returned.
GOD AND RUEL ARE SITTING at their usual table in the bar. It is late, later than either is used to. They are heavy into their conversation, heads nearly touching, shoulders hunched. Coyote shuffles over holding three tankards of beer. They slosh a bit when he sets them down. God looks up, absently dabs at the puddle with his sleeve. He looks back at Ruel and says, “Forgiveness is never a solitary act. You need to invite that person back into the room. It wasn’t pretty the first time and is less pretty the second time. But necessity drives the car more often than pretty in my books, and it’s time to motor.”
Coyote laughs a sharp bark.
Ruel looks at him. “What are you laughing at?”
Coyote jerks his head towards the door. “Look who just walked in.”
Ruel cranes his neck to see past Coyote to the door. God leans back a little and slips Coyote a folded ten-dollar bill. Coyote palms the bill and winks.
TRANSLATIONS
Ah bien — oh well
Ainsi soit-il — so be it
Autant — as far as, as much; also the name of this village
(ma) (la) belle — my pretty/dear one
bête — beast
bonhomme — (old) man
boudin — spicy sausage made primarily from pork blood
C’est assez — that is enough
(ma) chère — my precious one
(une) chouette — a baby owl, term of endearment
compris — understand, as in “Do you understand?”
cue de poule — the butt of a chicken
décembre — December
Dépêche-toi — hurry up
depuis quand — since when
l’eau bénite — “holy water”, home-brewed alcohol
l’eau forte — hard liquor
(les) enfants — children
Enfant de la Terre — Child of Earth
Enfant de Christ du tabernacle — Christ Child in the tabernacle
(la) Fête — literally “the celebration” a village tradition in July to bless and keep the people and the village safe; begins with a mass, breakfast, parade, and so on
(les) fille(s) — the gir
l(s)
Hostied pique — “host and pyx”, pyx is the object used to carry the consecrated host or Eucharist, derived from the Latin, pyxis meaning box
janvier — January
Je vous salue Marie — Hail Mary, full of grace
Mademoiselle — Miss
(ma) tante or Ma Tante — my aunt, or Aunty
maudite bête d’enfer désespéré — goddamned beast from a most desperate hell
Mémère — grandmother
merci — thank you
Miel d’Autant — honey from Autant
(mon) oncle or Mon oncle — (my) uncle, or Uncle
Monsieur du Ciel — Sky Sir
non — no
Non, ma petite — No, my little one
pauvre — poor
Pépère — grandfather
Proche comme ca einh? C’est un beau marriage. — Close like that eh? Makes a good marriage.
(une) puce — term of endearment, literal meaning — lice
ragotte — alcohol made from soaking the insides of whiskey barrels
ramencheur — a healer, a fixer of broken bones (faith healer)
Sapristie ‘pi tout les saints — literally “Saints preserve us”
(la) senteur humaine — human semen
swish barrels — refers to the alcohol made from soaking the insides of whiskey barrels
Tabernacle — tabernacle, box in Catholic Church to hold the holy Eucharist
tisanes — herbal tea used for medicinal purposes
(ma) (la) vieille — my/the old woman
viens — come
viens donc ici une minute — come here for a minute
(les) vièrges — virgins
(mon) vieux — old man
SOURCES & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Alberta Department of Agriculture, pamphlet, “Bee Keeping”, 1973.
Detweiler, Tim, Making Working Wooden Locks, Linden Publishing Inc., The Wood Worker’s Library, Fresno, CA, 2000.
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