he says. “It’s not safe!” He turns, and his face glistens, soaked, like ten years’ worth of tears just poured out of his eyes.
I’m a few yards away, and I take a step closer. I don’t want to scare him. I don’t want him making any sudden moves.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he says.
“I’m surprised,” I say. “Please, sweetie. Come back to bed.”
“I’m not tired,” he says.
His arms tremble and the rake scrapes the box. From somewhere, a bee rises and swims, lazy, in the air around us.
“Aaron,” I say. “I want you to put the rake down. Now.”
Perhaps they’re sleeping, I think. Perhaps, at night, the bees go to bed and don’t fly and don’t sting. God, I want to believe it.
I take another step forward, and Aaron shrieks.
“Stop!” he says.
I hold up my hands like a bank teller on the wrong end of a gun.
“I just want to help you, Aaron,” I say.
Somewhere in the beekeeper’s house, a light comes on.
“I ate all the honey,” he says, fresh tears fattening his cheeks.
“I don’t care about that.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not fair. You didn’t get any.”
“I did,” I say. “Remember the pear? I had some. I’m fine. The rest was for you.” I take another step. “I don’t even like honey all that much.”
The rake slaps the hive and rattles the lid.
“Don’t lie to me. You love honey. I know it.”
A bee lands on the rake, then lifts back into the sky. Another circles Aaron’s head.
I take another step. I’m close. If I lunged, I could grab the rake, but I don’t know about Aaron. He’s little, and I’m thinking I could take him down, but I worry what it will mean if I’m wrong.
A window opens above us and a head pokes out.
“You kids crazy?” the woman calls. “Get away from there! Get away from there right now!”
A hum has started up in the box, and that can’t be good. It sounds the way a button sounds when it’s come loose from your shirt in the dryer, only multiplied by, like, a thousand.
“Call 911!” I yell, and the window slams shut.
“Aaron,” I say. “Aaron, I want you to put the rake down and come inside.”
He’s looking right at me, but it’s like he can’t hear me, can’t hear past the grim determination to do the thing he set out to do.
He looks at the hive, and a bee lands on his shoulder.
My own tears are coming now. I’m no crier, but I can’t help it. Because it’s my fault. Because I shouldn’t have slept except when he slept. Because, finding him missing, I can’t believe I went back to bed. Those five minutes, I think. In those five minutes, I might have found him, stopped him before he left the garage.
“Once the bombs fall, there won’t be any honey,” Aaron says, his voice garbled and faraway-seeming. There are bees in his hair, bees covering the lid of the box, a patina of bees with fat abdomens and bright wings. Their wings shine like diamonds in the security lights, and I give up the hope that Aaron hasn’t been stung.
When we were kids, our moms took us to play at a park with monkey bars and swings and a slide. On one side of the playground, a red pipe rose like a snorkel from the earth. It connected belowground to another pipe that rose from the other end of the park. Each pipe was fitted with a megaphone the shape and size of a showerhead and perforated by the same tiny, black holes. I’d stand at one end and Aaron would stand at the other, and, across the playground, we would throw our voices at each other. Our words came out cavernous, like shouts from behind closed doors. We giggled. We practiced cursing. We told dirty jokes. And, one day, Aaron said, “I love you.” I laughed, and Aaron said, “I do, Grace. I love you.” We were ten years old, and we’ve said it ever since.
“It’s for you,” he says now, and his voice arrives like an echo, like it used to when he told me he loved me before either of us knew what loving the other meant or what it would mean.
The first
I’m a few yards away, and I take a step closer. I don’t want to scare him. I don’t want him making any sudden moves.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he says.
“I’m surprised,” I say. “Please, sweetie. Come back to bed.”
“I’m not tired,” he says.
His arms tremble and the rake scrapes the box. From somewhere, a bee rises and swims, lazy, in the air around us.
“Aaron,” I say. “I want you to put the rake down. Now.”
Perhaps they’re sleeping, I think. Perhaps, at night, the bees go to bed and don’t fly and don’t sting. God, I want to believe it.
I take another step forward, and Aaron shrieks.
“Stop!” he says.
I hold up my hands like a bank teller on the wrong end of a gun.
“I just want to help you, Aaron,” I say.
Somewhere in the beekeeper’s house, a light comes on.
“I ate all the honey,” he says, fresh tears fattening his cheeks.
“I don’t care about that.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not fair. You didn’t get any.”
“I did,” I say. “Remember the pear? I had some. I’m fine. The rest was for you.” I take another step. “I don’t even like honey all that much.”
The rake slaps the hive and rattles the lid.
“Don’t lie to me. You love honey. I know it.”
A bee lands on the rake, then lifts back into the sky. Another circles Aaron’s head.
I take another step. I’m close. If I lunged, I could grab the rake, but I don’t know about Aaron. He’s little, and I’m thinking I could take him down, but I worry what it will mean if I’m wrong.
A window opens above us and a head pokes out.
“You kids crazy?” the woman calls. “Get away from there! Get away from there right now!”
A hum has started up in the box, and that can’t be good. It sounds the way a button sounds when it’s come loose from your shirt in the dryer, only multiplied by, like, a thousand.
“Call 911!” I yell, and the window slams shut.
“Aaron,” I say. “Aaron, I want you to put the rake down and come inside.”
He’s looking right at me, but it’s like he can’t hear me, can’t hear past the grim determination to do the thing he set out to do.
He looks at the hive, and a bee lands on his shoulder.
My own tears are coming now. I’m no crier, but I can’t help it. Because it’s my fault. Because I shouldn’t have slept except when he slept. Because, finding him missing, I can’t believe I went back to bed. Those five minutes, I think. In those five minutes, I might have found him, stopped him before he left the garage.
“Once the bombs fall, there won’t be any honey,” Aaron says, his voice garbled and faraway-seeming. There are bees in his hair, bees covering the lid of the box, a patina of bees with fat abdomens and bright wings. Their wings shine like diamonds in the security lights, and I give up the hope that Aaron hasn’t been stung.
When we were kids, our moms took us to play at a park with monkey bars and swings and a slide. On one side of the playground, a red pipe rose like a snorkel from the earth. It connected belowground to another pipe that rose from the other end of the park. Each pipe was fitted with a megaphone the shape and size of a showerhead and perforated by the same tiny, black holes. I’d stand at one end and Aaron would stand at the other, and, across the playground, we would throw our voices at each other. Our words came out cavernous, like shouts from behind closed doors. We giggled. We practiced cursing. We told dirty jokes. And, one day, Aaron said, “I love you.” I laughed, and Aaron said, “I do, Grace. I love you.” We were ten years old, and we’ve said it ever since.
“It’s for you,” he says now, and his voice arrives like an echo, like it used to when he told me he loved me before either of us knew what loving the other meant or what it would mean.
The first
Similar Books
