The History of Bees

Chapter 53 GEORGE

We kept building hives for the rest of the day. Until it got dark. He worked hard. But not with the same reluctance as before. He wanted to work now. He asked questions, probing away, learned quickly, was accurate and quick.

The sound of the hammer against nails, rhythmic. The whining saw, music. And at times, silence. The wind, the birds out there.

The sun beat down on the barn roof, the sweat poured off us. He held his head under the faucet to cool off, shook it like a dog and laughed. Thousands of cold drops of water hit me, cooled me off, and I was somehow unable to keep from laughing back at him.

Sunday went the same way. We worked, talked about little but beehives. It seemed as if he was enjoying himself. I hadn’t seen him like this since he was a little boy. He ate well, too. Even had a piece of ham for lunch.

I looked at my watch. We were sitting outdoors, having a cup of coffee. It was almost two. The bus would be leaving soon. I didn’t say anything. Maybe he’d forgotten about it. Maybe he’d changed his mind.

He looked at his watch as well.

Then he took it off. And put it in his pocket.

“Dad. What was it like, the first time?”

He looked at me; suddenly that profound gravity of his was back.

“What do you mean?”

“The first hive you opened?”

“What do you think? Completely awful.”

“But what was different? How is this different?”

I took a sip of my coffee, and sloshed it around in my mouth, found it difficult to swallow.

“Oh, I don’t know. They were just gone. Only a handful left at the very bottom. Just the queen and larvae. All alone.”

I turned away, didn’t want him to see my eyes tearing up. “And it happens so quickly, one day they’re healthy, the next they’re just gone.”

“Not like winter death,” he said.

I nodded. “Nothing like it. Winter death is the weather, it’s food shortage, or both.”

He remained silent, held the cup with both hands, thinking.

“But you’re going to experience winter death again,” he said finally.

I nodded. “Of course. There are hard winters from time to time.”

“And they’ll get even harder,” he continued. “There will be storms, bad weather.”

I should say something, contribute, but didn’t know what.

“And summer death,” he continued. “You’ll have more summer death, too. Because the summers are getting more rainy, more unstable.”

“Sure,” I said. “But we don’t really know.”

He didn’t look at me, just continued, his voice growing louder. “You’ll have collapse again, too. It’ll happen again.” He was speaking loudly now. “The bees are dying, Dad. We’re the only ones who can do anything about it.”

I turned to face him. I’d never heard him talk like this before, and tried to smile, but it just turned into a lopsided grimace.

“We? You and I.”

He didn’t smile, but didn’t seem angry, either. Just dead serious.

“Human beings. We have to implement changes. That’s what I was talking about when we were in Maine, right? We mustn’t be part of the system. We have to change operations before it’s too late.”

I swallowed. Where was this coming from? His enthusiasm? He’d never been like this before. I was suddenly so proud, just had to look at him. But he was suddenly preoccupied with his coffee cup.

“Want to get back to work?” he asked softly.

I nodded.

Evening came. Night fell.

We sat on the porch, all three of us. The sky was clear.

“Do you remember the snake?” I asked.

“And the bees,” Tom said.

“The snake?” Emma asked.

Tom and I looked at each other and smiled.

I slept in the next day. And I woke up with a grin on my face. Ready for new hives. Emma was sitting at the table when I came into the kitchen. She had started reading that thick book.

There was a single plate in front of her. I looked around.

“Where is he?”

She put the book down. Turned down the corners of her mouth in a pout.

“Oh, George.”

“Yes?”

“Tom left early. Before breakfast.”

“Without saying good-bye?”

“He didn’t want to wake you, he said.”

“But I thought…”

“Yes. I know.” She picked up the book again, sort of clung to it, but didn’t say anything more.

I didn’t have the strength to say anything, either. I had to turn away.

It felt as if God had been teasing me. Hung a ladder down from the sky and let me climb up to take a peek, let me see angels on candy floss wings before He suddenly pushed me off a cloud and let me fall back to earth. The earth on a rainy day. Gray. Slushy. Horrible.

Except the sun was shining just as doggedly. Scorching the planet to death.

I had lost the bees.

And I’d apparently lost Tom, too. A long time ago. I’d just been too thick in the head to realize it.