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

dying. The bodies of workers were piled up on top of each other, a still mass of once-golden creatures desiccating and turning brown. In one hive, bees were in the final throes of dying. They spun in circles and buzzed on and off like they were short-circuiting as they crawled over the bodies of their dead sisters.

“No!” Alice said. “No, no, no, no!”

She grew more frantic the deeper she moved into the hives, swearing under her breath. No. 6 was still healthy, still queen right. She put the top back on and sat, staring at the dead hives. Jake didn’t say anything. He gripped the notebook and waited for her to explain how an entire hive could die at once—or five, for that matter.

“. . . Doesn’t make sense . . . never even read about that in the normal spring cycle . . . ,” she was saying to herself. Her eyes ran along the western border of the bee yard, across her field, and into the neighbor’s orchard. The west wind had picked up as it did on these warming spring days, and the apple trees in the neighbor’s orchard tossed their blossomed branches. Alice took a deep breath, smelling the air.

“Drift,” she said. “Shit.”

She paced the field to the far western edge, and Jake followed. She inhaled, and Jake did too, recognizing the acrid tang of pesticide. He remembered seeing workers out there just days before but assumed they were pruning the trees.

Alice dug out her phone and called her neighbor, Doug Ransom. She put her phone on speaker. Jake listened to her patiently wading through neighborly pleasantries until she could ask her question. Why yes, Doug had recently finished his spring spraying and he hoped the smell wasn’t bothering her. He had changed products this year. He got a free sample from his farm rep, and everyone seemed to think it was a superior product. Alice should come by and see him. He sure missed seeing her and Buddy. Come by any time, Doug said.

Alice hung up, shoved her phone in her pocket, and put her hands over her face. She walked away from Jake and toward the row of devastated hives, which were closest to Doug’s orchard. She turned back toward him, and he saw the naked grief on her face. A knot of empathy rose in his throat. He heard an engine, and they both looked up to see a sheriff’s department Jeep rumbling down the driveway.

“Jesus Christ. What now?” Alice muttered, and they moved together to meet it.

17 Glory Bee

Although bees will fly, in search of food, over three miles, still, if it is not within a circle of about two miles in every direction from the Apiary, they will be able to store but little surplus honey.

—L. L. LANGSTROTH

For all the solace provided by his notebook—lists of pros and cons, goals and aspirations, to-do lists and checklists and thoughtful word choices—Harry knew it was of no real use to him in moments like this, moments that really counted. Life was rushing at him, and no end of careful journaling could help him figure out what to do. The only words he could conjure to describe this present moment were “uncomfortable,” “unavoidable,” and “inevitable.” Only now did he recognize the main drawback of asking Ronnie for a ride. Namely, that he had to explain to his new boss why a sheriff’s deputy was dropping him off for his first day of work.

“Tell the truth, kid! It’s easier to remember,” Sal’s voice echoed in his head.

Nothing about that truth seemed worth sharing with Alice Holtzman. The truth was he was a homeless convicted felon. Even so, as he climbed out of the Jeep, Harry prepared to give it his best shot. This was a fresh start, after all.

As Alice crossed the yard to meet him, Harry noticed the boy coming along with her. The sight of the chair and the hair, still surprising, distracted him. He dropped his bulging backpack at his feet and wiped his sweating palms on his pants and tried to rally. Surely, there was a shred of confidence in him somewhere. He lifted his chin and tried to feel brave.

“Hello, Mrs. Holtzman,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.”

Alice nodded at him, frowning.

“So, this funny thing happened,” Harry began. “It’s kind of a long story. I was in Seattle in February, and it started to rain, and I went to Pike Place Market—”

He stopped, kicking himself. Get to the point, Harry, he thought. Don’t tell her your life’s story. He started again.

“And, so, my uncle lives in BZ Corner. You know, up north on 141?”

No, he couldn’t start there, with the trailer and Uncle H’s death. Flummoxed, he lost his momentum and didn’t know what to say. Alice Holtzman had shifted her withering gaze to the cop.

“Hello, Ronnie. I heard you joined the team,” she said.

The deputy took off his hat, ducked his head like he was in trouble, and said, “Hello, Auntie Alice.”

Alice frowned at him and looked back at Harry, who wanted to get back in the Jeep and go far, far away. Any scrap of bravery drained out of him under Alice’s gaze. He was a disappointment, plain and simple. There was nothing he could say to explain himself. He wanted to grab his bag and disappear up the road.

Alice glanced down at his backpack like she’d read his mind.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Stokes?” she asked.

He heard his mother’s voice in his head.

“Where you off to, Harry Stokes?”

He shook his head and looked down at the gravel in the driveway, feeling vertiginous. The ground tilted, and each blue-gray pebble seemed to magnify and shrink away again. He dragged his eyes back up to Alice’s frowning face and opened his mouth.

“It’s just . . . the place I was staying . . . the county condemned it. And then Ronnie came . . . and they are tearing it down, so I need to . . .”

Harry ran out of words