The History of Bees

Chapter 18 GEORGE

I sent Rick and Jimmy home around five o’clock. Just one-third of the hives were left. I could manage the rest by myself. Couldn’t afford to pay them for hours that weren’t necessary.

Around sunset I’d almost finished. At about the same time, the field was attacked by some extremely tenacious flies. Where they went during the daytime, I had no idea. But at dusk they appeared, huge clouds of them, impossible to get rid of. It seemed as if they liked people, because they were all over me, following my every step.

There was nothing to do but go home. I was on my way to the car when Tom called. I hadn’t saved his number, honestly didn’t know how, but I recognized it.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi.”

“Where are you?”

“Why do you ask?” I said and chuckled.

“I don’t know.”

“Used to be people started conversations with how are you. Now, since cell phones, people ask where you are,” I tried to explain.

“Yes.”

“I’m out in the fields. Doing quality control.”

“Oh. Does it look good?”

“Terrific.”

“Good. Good to hear. That makes me happy.”

That makes me happy? The words sounded awkward in his mouth. Was that how he’d started talking?

“What do you think that means, by the way?” I asked.

“Means?”

“About society? That we ask each other where we are, instead of how it’s going?”

“Dad.”

“I’m kidding, Tom.” I tried to laugh. As usual, he didn’t laugh back. We were silent for a couple of seconds. I laughed louder, hoping it would help, but just when I was standing there with my mouth open like the church doors on Sunday, a fly flew right into my trap, all the way in. I could swear that it hit my uvula. It tickled something fierce. I didn’t know what I should do, whether I should try to cough it up or swallow, so I tried doing both at the same time. It didn’t work.

“Dad,” Tom said suddenly. “You know that thing we talked about the last time I was home?”

The fly wriggled and tickled in the back of my throat.

“Are you there?”

I coughed again. “Yes, last time I checked.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I got a scholarship.”

I could hear him inhale. The line between us crackled, as if the phone signals were objecting to the entire conversation.

“It won’t cost you a cent, Dad. John has taken care of everything.”

“John?” My voice was husky, the fly was good and stuck in my throat.

“Yes. Professor Smith.”

I cleared my throat, coughed violently, but neither the fly nor words came out.

“Are you crying, Dad?”

“I’m sure as hell not crying!”

I coughed again. Finally the fly came loose, sliding across my tongue, but it was still in my mouth.

“No,” he said.

Another silence.

“I just wanted to tell you.”

“Now you’ve told me.”

I couldn’t spit now. He would hear it.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“So long, then.”

“So long.”

One solid spit gob and the fly vanished, didn’t see where, I wasn’t very interested in studying it anymore, either. I stood there with the telephone in my hand. Had a strong hankering to chuck it right down onto the ground, see the cheap, trashy electronics that made it possible to receive such bad news even way out here in the fields shatter in all directions. But I knew that getting a new one would be one hell of a headache. And it would cost money. Besides, it wasn’t for sure that the cell phone would even be damaged; the grass was already tall, as soft as a quilt. So I just stood there, with my hand clutching the phone and a pitchfork in my heart.