The Music of Bees by Eileen Garvin (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

deemed staples: Jif, macaroni and cheese, Spam, potatoes, light beer, toilet paper, and Cheez-Its. After that, Harry did the shopping every three or four days.

The two fell into an amicable routine. Uncle H enjoyed a captive audience for his stories and endless games of cribbage. Harry, stuck as he was between the recent debacle of his past and the uncertainty of his future, was happy to pause there, suspended between what he had done and what he might make of himself. As the spring rains swept through the great woods, the two of them sat at the dinette in the mildewed trailer playing cards or reading from Uncle H’s library, which consisted of wildlife guides, Pacific Northwest history books, and a few ragged mysteries. Uncle H yanked gleefully on his shock of white hair whenever he beat his great-nephew at cards, which was often. In the afternoon, Uncle H curled up and napped. When the rain lightened, Harry poked around in the woods above the river. Once he had tried to tidy up around the trailer, sorting through the trash to see what might be salvageable or recyclable, but his uncle yelled at him to mind his own goddamn business and get his hands off his things. He stomped up the ladder with a ferocity that alarmed Harry, given his age and the integrity of the ladder, and slammed the flimsy door. Harry had spent the rest of that day down by the river. By the time he came back, Uncle H was frying up Spam and potatoes for dinner. He waxed Harry at cribbage for the hundredth time and didn’t mention the incident.

After that, Harry stuck to sanctioned chores, like repairing the exterior of the trailer and reinforcing the ladder. Harry was handy with that sort of thing, and his uncle seemed to appreciate it. He’d also walk or hitchhike to the small grocery store. He stood with his thumb out, willing himself to look safe and friendly in his greasy pants and knit cap. People probably stopped faster for the old man tottering down the shoulder of Highway 141, he thought. The sight of Uncle H in his long johns worn under shorts and tube socks might have been the reason social services had shown up two days ago. Or, rather, the not-sight of him, after Harry took over the shopping.

BZ was a small community. Someone must have noticed that Uncle H hadn’t made the trip for a while. Nobody would have recognized that his great-nephew was shopping for him. Harry never spoke to anyone at the grocery store. Uncle H had no phone, so nobody could call to check on him. Harry had heard him grumble that his doctor nagged him to get a phone. So, although Uncle H might not have been surprised to see the county folks, Harry had been.

When the white sedan and ambulance rolled slowly up the driveway two days ago, the old man was sleeping, as he had been doing more and more, and not just on rainy days. Harry was outside taking a leak, standing on the edge of the clearing where the woods began. A car emblazoned with a “Hood River County Official Use” seal led the way. Two women climbed out—a passenger in pink hospital scrubs and the driver in khaki pants and a navy cardigan. Harry saw a guy about his age climb out of the ambulance. The sedan driver said something to him and he nodded, leaned against the door of the ambulance, and began thumbing through his phone. The two women walked toward the trailer.

“Hello! Mr. Goodwin?”

The driver pulled off her glasses as she approached the door.

“Mr. Goodwin? Are you home?”

Harry felt an urge toward hospitality mixed with a sense of protectiveness. He moved to step into the sunlight and introduce himself as the great-nephew to and namesake of Harold Goodwin. He would ask these people who they were and what they needed. He would climb inside and help his uncle down the ladder, even though Uncle H got mad when Harry offered help.

But Harry didn’t do any of that. Instead, he turned around and ran. He couldn’t say how long he sprinted the narrow game trail above the river, but when he finally stopped, sweating and panting, he found himself deeper in the woods than he’d gone before. He collapsed on the loamy dirt and tried to slow his hammering heart. He thought of his mother. “Exasperating!” she would say. Like when, in first grade and unable to work the stiff button on his new jeans, Harry had wet himself at school. When she picked him up, she asked, “Harry, why didn’t you ask a teacher for help?” Harry just shrugged and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Exasperating,” she had muttered for the first of a thousand times.

Sitting with his back against a log, Harry would not have argued. He had no reasonable explanation for running. He could not put this childlike panic into words befitting adult behavior. Surely, he could do better than this. At least no one had seen him. He stood up and started back to the trailer. He breathed deeply and rehearsed the words in his head.

“Hello. My name is Harry Stokes. I’m Mr. Goodwin’s great-nephew, visiting from Long Island. How can I help?”

That was what he would say. When he got back to the trailer, however, the driveway was empty. Harry sighed with relief. He wouldn’t have to say anything after all, but he would be ready next time. He climbed into the trailer, buoyed by the luck of the near miss.

“Hey, Uncle H,” he called. “You awake in here?” His uncle didn’t answer because his uncle wasn’t there. Harry climbed outside and checked the outhouse to confirm the sinking truth. Those people had taken him away.

That was two days ago. Harry figured they had taken Uncle H to the hospital in that ambulance, and part of him was relieved. Uncle H had been sleeping a lot and acting