Authors: Lindsay Eagar
Hour of the Bees (10 page)
No reaction from Serge, but I continue.
“When all the changes start piling on top of each other, stacking up, then I know time is flying.”
My grandpa’s eyes gawk at the desert. No clue if he heard me, or if he even knows where he is. All I hear is his oxygen tube as he breathes, in and out.
“Will you tell me the end of the story?” I say. “The story about the tree?”
He says nothing.
“Look.” I sigh, and sit cross-legged in the dirt. “Maybe if the girl — if Rosa, in the story — if she leaves the lake and is okay . . . maybe it means that when you leave the ranch, you’ll be okay, too.”
This is what I’ve been thinking all day, but it wouldn’t fit into sentences. I stroke Inés’s downy neck, and the lump of frustration in my throat dissolves.
Serge cracks free from the ice that held him, and his blue eyes find me, like I’m the only thing visible in a blurry world. “Once upon a time,” he starts.
“No, not the beginning,” I say. “I want to hear the ending.”
“Stories don’t end,” he says. “They just turn into new beginnings.”
I think for a moment. Beginnings, endings, beginnings . . . Like a circle.
Rings in a tree trunk.
“Once upon a time,” he says, “there was a tree.”
“You already told me about the tree,” I cut in again, impatient.
“We always start with the tree,” Serge says. “Now, listen,
chiquita
. Once upon a time . . .”
And I button my lips, scoot closer to the scabby tree stump, and let my grandpa tell me a story.
O
nce upon a time, there was a tree, with green leaves fat enough to block out the pale beams of a midsummer moon. It was early evening, the warm stripes of sunset fading, and the tree stood extra tall, like a boy stretching his spine to impress a
señorita
passing on the street. Copper lanterns dangled from the branches, and the flames bounced their light off the blossoms, making them glow like white stars
.
The bees buzzed and hummed in unison on this night. If they had had human faces, they would have shown faint smiles and dreamy, half-closed eyes as they siphoned pollen from the flowers
.
The villagers hummed the same droning tune as they performed their own dull tasks: rinsing the vinegar from the pinto beans, tending horses in stables, gathering enough water to give the children their weekly baths. Busy as bees, yes, but on this night, happily busy
.
Tonight, there would be a wedding
.
Once upon a time, the groom-to-be tied and retied the strings that laced the neck of his cotton shirt. A simple shepherd’s shirt, but of the two Sergio owned, it was his finest. Tie, untie, retie . . .
To give his shaking hands something else to do while he waited, he dug up weeds from the village’s row of garbanzo plants
.
“Inés!” He whistled at the black dot on the horizon, which became more and more dog-shaped as it ran toward him. “Good girl,” Sergio said, rubbing the dog’s ears. He looked at the tree, lanterns mirrored in the green-glass surface of the lake below . . .
On the other side of the tree, the bride allowed her sister to fuss with the garland of snowberry blooms in her hair. Rosa held as still as the tree trunk — not like her at all, to be holding so still — and watched Sergio
.
He’d grown since that day they made wishes. His baby chub had melted, his limbs lengthened. His arms were strong enough to haul hay bundles, take barrels of water to the troughs, carry the sheep above his head. That boy from a century ago was now chiseled as tree bark, and every girl in the village tracked him like bees tracked flora
.
Sergio had eyes only for Rosa. Always
.
And Sergio was the only thing in the village that didn’t bore Rosa
.
The only one who could make marriage an adventure
.
“Oh, Rosa.” Carolina spoke in a voice thin as lace, and held her sister’s cheeks gently. “You look like a bride.”
“Then it must be time,” Rosa answered. She gripped her sister’s arm, and for a second Carolina thought she saw the impossible: a flicker of fear in Rosa’s eyes
.
“Will this cure me?” Rosa whispered. “Will this make me want to stay?” She thought about this daily, that there was something wrong with her
.
Carolina held her sister still. “He loves you the way you are, Rosa.”
But Rosa still worried. No one else in the village burned and ached to leave like she did. No one else had a wanderlust like a fever
.
Once upon a time, villagers prepared the bonfire for their annual summer fiesta. Their eyes and hands still burned from grinding the chilies for the lamb’s blood, but the tears that flowed were merry ones as Rosa stepped down the aisle, clutching yarrow in her hands, bees flying in and out of her flower garland. Her rose-petal lips calmly gifted a smile to each person watching her, and Sergio, waiting with the Father beside the lucky knothole, felt like his next inhale was different, the most important breath of his life so far. Breathing as a husband
.
Once upon a time, Sergio and Rosa wed beneath the tree, and the village celebrated. Celebrated the new union with crullers and cakes, celebrated summer with the slaughter of a lamb, celebrated life and love with a sleepless night dancing on the lake’s shore
.
The newlyweds sneaked up to their favorite branch and exchanged wedding gifts. For Sergio, Rosa had made a deliciously cozy wool blanket — burgundy, soft as clouds. He threw it around his shoulders at once, delighting in its scent: honey-vanilla, like Rosa
.
For Rosa, Sergio had nothing in his hands. “Your wish,” he simply said. “I want to make your wish come true.”
Rosa gasped. “Leave the village?”
“A honeymoon,” Sergio said, “to see the world.”
“But no one ever leaves.” She repeated his own words back to him, and he shook his head
.
“We leave. After the harvest.”
Rosa kissed him until the yellow morning light came. Then she happily set up home as his wife, cooked for him three times a day, tossed handfuls of dried corn to the chickens every morning, and chased the occasional rebellious sheep that ran from the shearing line
.
Autumn brought the harvest, and when the crops had all been plucked and gathered and divided among the villagers, Rosa asked Sergio, “When do we leave?”
“Soon,” he said. “We must first shear the sheep. Then we leave.”
When a week passed and the sheep were all free from their wool, Rosa asked Sergio, “When do we leave?”
“We must wait until after winter,” Sergio insisted. “Snow can be treacherous for travels.”
Rosa spent an impatient winter feeling like time marched backward. When spring grasses sprung along the lake’s shore, she asked, “When do we leave?”
Inés is missing; not until we find her. A traveler warned of a plague in the North; not until we hear news that it’s safe. A war, more crops, the ewes are pregnant. The trip was postponed, and every day Rosa climbed to the top of the ridge and stared. Every day Rosa felt more and more withered, like a sheep fenced in a too-small pen
.
Sergio made every excuse, except the truth: “I’m too afraid to leave.”
Once upon a time, a husband came into his shepherd shack, expecting a hot lunch to be waiting at the table. Instead, his wife held a packed bag in her arms
.
“Are you coming?” she asked
.
Rosa was jumping first off the branch, Sergio realized, but he was still very much terrified
.
And he said, “No.”
It takes a week to find our rhythm.
A week for my body to stop protesting when the sun spikes past the blinds and wakes me hours earlier than is appropriate for a summer vacation. A week for Mom to stop saying, “Morning’s the coolest time of day in the desert,” like I should be grateful for six
AM
.
A week for Dad and Serge to stop glaring at each other when they’re in the same room. They’re like neighboring cats who are both fiercely territorial, but must live with each other somehow. They circle, they growl in their throats, but the claws stay retracted.
A week for me to get used to the bees. They don’t bother anyone but me.
A week of work, of job lists and chore charts. A week of Dad crunching numbers when Serge is coherent and crunching numbers when Serge is incoherent. A week of Alta wandering, drifting from project to project, “helping” with whatever menial task is available. Holding tools. Shooing sheep. Her hands never take anything sharp, and her clothes never get dirty. We are earning our calluses and splinters, and Alta is earning a suntan.
I’ve been Mom’s shadow this week, working with her to empty odd drawers and shelves, filled with clutter so obscure, we don’t know how to sort it. An old egg beater, one with a crank you turn by hand. Keep it? Serge won’t use it in the Seville. Take it? We certainly don’t need it. Store it? Not the best item to take up valuable space in an already-expensive storage shed. But it seems wasteful to just hurl it in the trash. So a strange “to be sorted” pile stacks up outside, next to the driveway. Five drawers, two closets, and ten shelves sorted, and the pile is as tall as Lu.
Open, sort, repeat.
When I’m not busy cleaning out the house, I chase after Lu when he tires of playing with whatever toy — or piece of junk — I gave him. I don’t mind, though; Lu and I have a similar rhythm, embarrassing as that is: my attention span is not much longer than my one-year-old brother’s.
Serge has his own rhythm, and we try our best not to disrupt it. Those are Dad’s instructions, based on the Seville pamphlet’s suggestions to
help decrease the chance of triggering negative behaviors or outbursts by keeping the environment structured and predictable
.
Serge sleeps very little. He’s already puttering around the ranch by the time I roll out of my sleeping bag. Mom and Dad put a list of jobs on the fridge, things that have to be done to get the ranch up to snuff, as well as the basics required to move a crotchety, demented, thousand-year-old man to a new home. It’s quite a list. Equal parts backbreaking and tedious.
But Serge has his own jobs. He shuffles to the pasture every morning, looking at each sheep’s ears, hooves, and tail, meticulously checking for ranch-rot and ticks.
He pulls weeds, taking an eternity to get into a gardening crouch, and even then he seems precarious, like a dead tree branch that’s one breeze away from snapping. His spine hunches into a perfect letter
C
and doesn’t seem strong enough to hold up his head. It takes him an hour to pull up as many weeds as I could yank in less than ten minutes.
But this is my grandpa’s rhythm. Slow, thumping, the ancient heartbeat of the ranch.
Serge and my family work side by side, two separate units, and we rarely overlap. I steal peeks at my grandpa every chance I get.
“How did he eat before we got here?” I ask Dad one day, and he snorts, as if it’s obvious.
“He grows his food, silly,” he says, and points to the crops.
But I’ve seen those crops. They’re crispy, and so yellowed. Puny potatoes, chalky-red chilies, green beans shriveled like witches’ fingers.
I mention this to Dad, and he rolls his eyes. “Then he must order groceries. I don’t know.” Dad couldn’t be less interested in Serge’s rhythm.
Serge doesn’t have grocery bags. Or groceries. No crinkled bags of Cheetos, or cold cereal, or anything you could buy in a gas station, even. I would know; I’ve cleaned out so many cupboards and drawers, including the pantry — all he has are jars of his withered crops.
Twelve years of being alone on the ranch, with nothing to eat but the occasional lamb chop and mummified vegetables. No wonder Serge is cranky.
Today’s Saturday. Today Mom has to drive back to Albuquerque to work. Part of the reason Mom and Dad were able to drag us to the ranch for two months is because of their jobs. Since Dad’s a contractor, he was able to leave town for the summer; he just has to take a phone call every once in a while from a crew member with a question. At least that’s how it was originally pitched. He’s taken at least five phone calls a day, and trying to coordinate the framers with the electricians with the roofers and the carpet layers, everyone needing confirmation . . . Dad’s on edge every second of every day, the heat draining his patience away.
Mom’s an ER nurse, and she reduced her hours and switched her schedule around so she can still work every Saturday and be at the ranch the rest of the time. Today she makes her first drive back to the city for a double shift. I’m jealous that she gets the AC blowing on her for the three-hour drive. If it were me, I wouldn’t come back.
She emerges from the guest room in a pair of maroon scrubs, checking everything a thousand times — Lu’s snacks, the gas stove, Serge on the porch.
“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” she asks Dad.
Dad gives her a look. For a second I wonder what would happen if I told him how much he resembles Serge: mouth hanging in an almost-frown, lines creasing his forehead.