The Honey Bus. Meredith May

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       3

       The Secret Language of Bees

       1975—Late Spring

      I didn’t limit my snooping to the outdoors. I brazenly opened drawers, rifled through closets, and took a keen interest in what Granny and Grandpa had tucked away inside the house. Because my grandparents were old people, their stuff was old, too, and I enjoyed hunting for rare artifacts forgotten in the far corners of their history. I found arrowheads that Grandpa had unearthed while digging pipelines in Big Sur, and inside the cedar chest I dusted off a stack of LIFE magazines with JFK, Elvis, and the first astronauts on the covers. The kitchen cupboards held a boneyard of cooking gadgets that Granny had tried once and then deemed ridiculous.

      One morning I dug out an Osterizer blender from deep in the back of the cabinet under the sink. I wedged the glass pitcher onto the base, put the lid on, pressed one of the buttons and it whined to life. For a bored girl with few toys, I suddenly possessed this most miraculous machine and a whole kitchen packed with mystifying things pickled in mason jars. I opened the pantry and selected a jar containing a bright green Jell-O-looking substance, unscrewed the lid and sniffed: mint jelly. That could taste good—I liked mint gum, as well as jelly on toast—so I scooped it into the blender and added milk. Figuring I needed more than two things to make a smoothie, I did another quick scan of the kitchen until my eyes rested on the cereal boxes lined up on top of the fridge. I dragged the stool over and pulled down the corn flakes, thinking it would make my drink thicker. I pressed the button for the highest speed and whirred it into a concoction resembling runny, lumpy toothpaste, which I poured into a ceramic mug and brought to Grandpa, who was at the dining room table watching the birds peck at seed he’d sprinkled on the deck railing.

      Grandpa would eat anything. He chewed chicken gizzards, said cow tongue was so delicious it put hair on his chest, and devoured artichoke leaves whole. He’d even developed a technique to pull every kernel clean off an ear of corn, using only his lower teeth and running the cob back and forth before his mouth like the carriage return on a typewriter. I presented him with my milkshake. He took a swig and then needed a few seconds to come up with an adjective.

      “Refreshing!” he said, chasing it down with coffee. “What’s it called?”

      “Mintshake,” I said.

      He nodded thoughtfully and strummed his fingers on the table, like a gourmand considering a tasting note.

      “Let’s share it,” he said, sliding the cup back toward me.

      It was a dare, all right. I could tell Grandpa was trying to keep a straight face as I reached for it, but just as I was about to take a drink, a low hum distracted us from our standoff. Grandpa reflexively turned toward the sound and tracked something flying in the air. I followed his gaze until I saw what he did—a honeybee hovering over the dining room table. It was suspended in the air with its legs dangling beneath its body, keeping itself in place by beating its wings so fast they became invisible. I set the cup down and leaned back in slow motion. The bee, watching my every move, began to slowly come toward me, flying in slow arcs left and right, inching closer with each swing.

      My muscles tensed, and I willed the bee to please, please, go take a hike. But it was attracted to the sugary smell inside my cup, and determined to have a taste. When it was about to land on the rim, I swatted at it.

      The bee emitted a shrill zzztttt! in response, and zoomed in an anxious circle above our heads.

      Grandpa jumped out of his chair and grabbed my forearm so tightly I could feel him pressing bone. I startled, frightened by the sudden aggressiveness of his touch. He’d never gotten mad at me before; he always fake-spanked Matthew and me when Granny forced him to punish us for misbehaving. He leaned toward me until we were nearly touching noses and locked eyes. His words were deliberate and forceful, each one like the clap of a church bell.

      “You. Must. Never. Hurt. Bees.” He didn’t look away until he was certain his words had landed in my brain. I must have done something truly awful for Grandpa to scold me, but I was confused. Bees stung people. They were pests, like mosquitos. Who cares if I smashed one? Wouldn’t I be doing the right thing by protecting myself?

      “It was going to sting me!” I protested.

      Grandpa’s eyebrows sprang up in disbelief. “Why do you say that?”

      The bee was now slamming itself into the window trying to fly away. Its buzz rose to a shriek. I thought perhaps we should be having this conversation in a different room, but Grandpa was unperturbed by the sight of a stinging insect going berserk. I kept one eye on the frenzied bee as I tried to answer Grandpa’s question.

      “Because bees always sting.”

      “Come here,” Grandpa said.

      I followed him into the kitchen, where he searched the cupboards until he found an empty honey jar.

      “Go get a piece of paper,” he said.

      I was eager to do anything to get back on his good side. I raced to Granny’s desk and pulled out a piece of her fancy stationery, and practically bowed as I offered it to him.

      “Listen,” he said, cupping his ear and cocking his head toward the buzz. “It’s high-pitched,” Grandpa said. “It’s in distress. Do you see it?”

      I followed the sound until I saw the bee gliding in a wobbly circle around the room, looking for a way out, until it rested on the dining room window facing the deck.

      “There!” I pointed.

      Grandpa crept softly toward it, hiding the jar behind his back. When he was directly behind the bee, he reached up and imprisoned it in one swift motion. With his free hand, he slipped the paper between the window and the mouth of the jar, forming a temporary lid. He stepped away, holding the trap in his hands, and the bee crawled up the glass, tapping the inside of the jar with its antennae.

      “Okay, come get the door for me,” he said.

      We stepped outside together, and instead of releasing the bee, Grandpa sat on the back step and patted the space next to him, signaling me to sit near.

      “Hold out your arm.”

      He tilted the jar as if he was going to release the bee onto my forearm. I jerked my hand back.

      “It’s going to sting me!” I wailed.

      He sighed like he was summoning all his patience, and then turned to me again.

      “Bees won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.”

      Most of my information about bees came from cartoons in which СКАЧАТЬ