Flight Patterns (15 page)

“But, Birdie.” Marlene shrugged. “I gave up trying to figure her out. Her mama sent her to that performing arts school, so we didn't see much of her except summertime. I remember the first time I saw her and I knew there was something not right about her, like half of her was missing, and the other half was doing something much more interesting. Poor George. He was so smitten you could have punched him in the stomach and he wouldn't have noticed.”

A door slammed somewhere inside the house and I realized it was time for Maisy and Becky to get home from school. Marlene straightened her shoulders just as I was doing the same thing, and I wondered whether Maisy had that effect on everybody. “It's kind of funny,” Marlene said. “This talk about china. It reminds me of something George once told me.”

“Really?” I asked. “What did he say?”

“That when they got married Birdie refused to pick out china—said she hated it and would rather eat off of paper plates. I said it was probably on account of your grandma being such a junker—she was never one to turn away from a garage sale or Dumpster—and her owning about a thousand different plates in all kinds of patterns. When I said that he got a funny look on his face and told me that wasn't it, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. So as a wedding present I bought them some cheap no-brand white china on sale at Penneys and that's what they ate off of their whole married lives.”

I remembered seeing some of it in the china cabinet as Maisy and I sorted through it, easily placing it in the discard pile. I wondered now whether I should pull a piece or two out just to save, or see if Birdie wanted to keep it. I doubted it. As with most of her marriage, there wasn't a lot she'd hung on to.

Before I could ask her more, the back door flew open and Becky ran out onto the porch full of youth and energy and shining blond hair. I didn't look to see whether everybody else was holding their breath, too, watching this magnificent creature.

Her tennis racket clanked to the ground as she reached for my arm. I watched as she focused on getting her breath under control, to school her tongue and command the words to leave her mouth without stuttering. I'd begun to smile to encourage her, but it slipped as I had a premonition of what she was about to ask.

“Come on, Aunt Georgia. Let's go swimming! My friend Brittany has a pool and she said we could go over this afternoon.”

I was shaking my head before I even realized why. “I don't have a bathing suit.”

“I don't remember that ever stopping you before.”

We all turned around to find Maisy in the open doorway, her arms crossed over her chest like an avenging angel. The shrieks of the seagulls and the quiet chirping of crickets were the only sounds for a long, excruciating moment. I tried to remember that I was ten years older now and no longer prone to hurt feelings or direct emotional jabs. But the thing with siblings was that no matter how old we got,
our relationship remained tied to the twin beds of a shared childhood bedroom and the after-dark confidences and morning taunts.

“I guess I could borrow one of your suits, but it would be way too big.” I wanted to call the words back as soon as they were out of my mouth, but, as with most good intentions, it was too late.

Silently Becky dropped my hand and moved to Maisy's side like a pawn on a chessboard protecting her queen.

Maisy put an arm around her daughter and they looked at me with accusing eyes, which only added to my shame and embarrassment.

James stood and stretched, then smiled at the grim faces around him as if he had somehow missed the last exchange. “I was hoping somebody might mention a swim. I didn't bring a swimsuit, either, but there are some great shops downtown where I'm sure I can find something. I'll bring Georgia along with me so she can shop for one, too.”

Becky looked shyly up at him, her cheeks pink. “Y-you can swim? I thought you lived in the city.”

I saw the sadness seep into his eyes again, like moss on a still pond. “I can swim. But I'll wear water wings if that'll make you feel better.”

Becky laughed out loud, and there seemed to be a collective sigh of relief. It was then that I decided to stop regretting my decision to bring James Graf on this trip. I could only hope that he was thinking the same thing.

We heard a car door slam, and after a moment we all turned toward the corner of the house to see Florence Love, the beekeeper, walking toward us. She waved. “I knew I'd find y'all back here on such a pretty day. Why aren't y'all swimming?”

Before we could start that conversation again, I hastily stood and made introductions. James grinned as he took in Florence's swinging silver earrings in the shape of bees and her T-shirt graphic of a bee with “Show me the honey” written on the front. Her shiny dark brown hair, cut short and wavy, poked out from under a wide-brimmed straw hat, and her eyes were the same pale blue as my grandfather's. I knew she was around Marlene's age, but she looked about twenty years
younger, most likely due to the hats she never stepped outside without. She certainly hadn't aged a day since I'd last seen her.

“I brought my screen wire to close up the hives, and also a catch hive for any stragglers who come back after I've sealed their home. But thought I'd like to speak with Ned first, if he's up to it. I know he can't talk, but I'm pretty good at talking for both of us.”

“I just checked on him,” said Maisy. “He's awake and sitting up in the bed watching reruns of
The Andy Griffith Show.
I know he'd love to see you.”

Florence flashed a warm smile with bright white, even teeth, then held up an amber-colored jar. “I brought some of my tupelo honey from last year as a surprise. He said he'd been out of his own for a couple of months, and this should make him feel much better. Just needs a hot biscuit to put it on.”

“I can take care of that,” I said, feeling Maisy's eyes boring into me as if she'd cornered the market on making our grandmother's buttermilk biscuits. I hadn't made them for years, but I was pretty sure the recipe was engraved somewhere in my brain.

We left James, Becky, and Marlene outside chatting about lawn art while Maisy, Florence, and I went inside. We filed into the study, now made much smaller with the hospital bed and nightstand squeezed in between piles of books and the large desk that wouldn't fit anywhere else in the house. My grandmother's watercolors on the wall shimmered in the early-evening light that leaked through the windows, a large honeybee caught in flight circling a sunflower that appeared three-dimensional. I imagined I could almost hear the bee's buzz.

Grandpa was sitting up in bed, Birdie beside him, the TV loud and jarring. Maisy found the remote control and muted it while I turned toward the figure in the bed. He was still gaunt, his face as gray as his hair, his pale eyes holding a new wariness I didn't remember seeing before.

Birdie looked up at us when we entered, her gaze resting on me. She held something in her hands, and when I glanced down I saw it was a broken shard from the teacup that I'd left on the dining room
table along with the Limoges catalogs and duct-taped saucer. I remembered the deep cut and the blood spots on her skirt, and I wanted to take it away from her. But she seemed to be aware of it in her hands, holding it delicately between her forefinger and thumb as if she knew it could hurt her.

I kissed my grandfather on his cheek and sat down gingerly on the side of the bed. “How are you doing? It's good to see you sitting up.”

He smiled, his lips quickly falling, as if the effort had been too much for him. He looked up, his eyes brightening at the sight of Florence. He'd been her mentor when she'd first started keeping bees and they had become good friends. Her children, now all grown, called him Grandpa.

Since Birdie was on the other side of the bed, Florence stayed at the foot, beaming down at him. “Well, you gave us a fright, Ned. If you needed a vacation you could have just said something instead of going through all this trouble.”

A rough chuckle grumbled in his throat as he nodded.

“I've come to seal up your hives tonight—I'm waiting until it's almost dark to make sure all the bees are in there. And I've brought sugar water for your bees, since I'll be taking their honey frames out before I move 'em—don't want anything mixing with our pure tupelo honey, do we?”

Grandpa shook his head slowly.

“I'll leave the party girls in the last two boxes,” she said, referring to the two aggressive hives that sat in the back of the apiary. Grandpa had learned early on that each hive had a different temperament, and it served every beekeeper well to figure that out.

He nodded somberly.

“It's been raining so much, we're thinking we'll have a smaller harvest than usual. I'll probably only take about four of your hives. And we're going to have to drag the rafts to higher ground, too—everything else is flooded. You remember where old Mr. King's still is? Nobody has used that part of the swamp for their hives since the end of Prohibition because it's a little far from the tupelo trees, but I don't think we have much of a choice at this point.”

We were all looking at Florence so that at first we didn't notice that something was wrong. It wasn't until Birdie shouted that we turned around to find Grandpa desperately trying to get out of bed, his face completely bloodless, his mouth open as if he wanted to shout or tell us something.

I reached for the phone to call 911 while Birdie, without being asked, placed both hands on his shoulders and pressed him against his pillow. As the phone rang, I turned to my sister. “Maisy, call Lyle and bring him here. We might need him again.”

She ran from the room to get her phone as I spoke to the operator. It was only after I'd hung up that I noticed Birdie was holding Grandpa's hand, the broken saucer clutched between them, and that she'd begun to hum, calming him down.

Maisy rushed back into the room and our eyes met without acrimony. “He'll be fine,” I said, although I wasn't sure at all. I just wanted her to believe it. “He's calmer now.”

She nodded, then shifted her attention to Birdie and their clasped hands as Birdie continued to hum. Maisy turned to me, her eyes narrowed. “That song. It's that song again. What
is
it?”

It was the same song Birdie had hummed as Maisy and I had put her to bed the previous night, the notes vaguely familiar.

The paramedics and Lyle arrived at the same time. It was agreed that Grandpa should go back to the hospital for observation. We stood by the ambulance while they loaded him in, Maisy and I planning on following in my car. He seemed to be looking for someone, and when he caught sight of Florence he began to thrash his arms.

“It'll be all right, Ned. I promise to take good care of your bees.”

The EMTs slid him inside the ambulance, his expression alarming not because of the bloodless pallor of his skin, but because of the look in his eyes that held not fear or regret, but seemed more like resignation. His gaze met mine right before the paramedics closed the door, his mouth forming a single word. I stood staring at the departing ambulance for a long moment until I realized the word had been “no.”

If the bees catch you while harvesting their honey, your first instinct will be to run. Don't. They can fly much faster than you can run and it will only make them angrier. And then you'll never get what you were after in the first place. Besides, what are a few stings when the prize is so dear?

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Maisy

O
n her short drive home from work across the Gorrie Bridge, which crossed the bay between Apalachicola and Eastpoint, Maisy was reminded once again why she'd never moved away despite all the reasons she should have. Even now, she still loved the water and tin roofs, the sun-faded paint on doors, the wet air and the sweet smell of salt that permeated her car when it was cool enough to lower the windows and switch off the A/C.

She loved the way people in Apalach talked, too, their words as slow and thick as poured honey. Growing up, she hadn't realized that everybody didn't talk that way, but her years at the University of Florida in Gainesville had taught her that the dialect was different along the panhandle. And that she loved it best. It was as if the briny water filled her veins, the white snowlike sand settling in her heart like ballast.

But what she loved most about this place was the light. The way everything glowed white and bright and blue. Apalachicola Bay shimmered with it, blessing everything around it like a benediction.

Even after all that had happened, her little town tucked under the protective arms of the ancient oak trees was still the place she dreamed of at night. Maybe that was what had hurt the most when Georgia left. It had seemed like the worst kind of betrayal, turning her back on all that Maisy cherished the most. She tried not to think how she'd been the one to tell Georgia to leave. Some part of her must have wanted her sister to fight back, to beg for forgiveness and do her penance where Maisy could witness it. She should have known that Georgia, even when beaten, was too strong willed for that. It was what she hated most about her sister. And it was what she loved the most, too.

Because Brittany Banyon's mother was bringing the girls home from school, she found herself driving a different way than usual, and it was only when she'd paused outside the cemetery's gate that she realized where she'd been headed. Pulling up onto the grass, she put the car in park, waiting almost an entire minute before turning off the ignition.

A small white dog without a collar trotted across the street and then headed down alongside the cemetery fence. She'd been stopped many times by visitors asking her whether she knew where a particular stray dog belonged. It took some convincing, but she always managed to reassure them that Apalachicola was a dog-friendly town and didn't worry too much about leashes or collars. It was another thing she liked about her hometown. It was the kind of place where all living creatures always seemed to find their way home.

She opened her door and stepped out of the car, not really sure what she was doing. She stared past the rusted ornamental fencing, beautiful in its ruin. The old cemetery was almost like a synopsis of hundreds of years of the town's history. Nestled under the stately oaks and their floating manes of moss lay the town's founders as well as Confederate soldiers, and victims of yellow fever and shipwrecks. And in a small patch at the rear of the cemetery, beneath a slender cabbage palm, her eighteen-month-old daughter, Lilyanna Joy.

Maisy came to the cemetery on her daughter's birthday and at Christmas, but never any other time. The grief had become like an untreatable infection, festering beneath a bandage. Visiting Lilyanna's grave always teased at the dressing, threatening to lift it and expose the ugly wound beneath.

Letting her feet lead her, she crossed over the sparse grass and dried leaves, feeling cool in the cocoon of the matronly trees, their branches outstretched like angels' wings. The cemetery was empty except for the ancient tombstones of marble and stone, some of the carved words completely faded. She stopped in front of a small granite angel, the only words carved in the base her child's name and birth and death dates. Georgia had thought there should be an inscription, but at the time Maisy had believed there were no words that could adequately express her grief. Her opinion had never changed.

She stared at the dates, mentally calculating how old she'd be—eleven—and what she'd look like. Lilyanna had been dark haired and gray eyed like her mother, a miniature, improved model. Although Maisy loved Becky with all her heart, there was something about a child who looked like you. Like the world had given you another chance to be the best version of yourself.

The crunching of dried leaves startled her, making her turn around. Lyle was walking toward her, his pace tentative. He stopped about five feet in front of her, his eyes avoiding the small angel crouched at their feet.

“I saw your car,” he said.

“I haven't been here since Christmas.” Not that he'd asked for an explanation. Not that she owed him one.

“I have,” he said quietly. “When it's slow and I'm passing by, I like to stop and check in on her. Make sure nobody's left a beer bottle or something.” He paused. “I miss her, too.”

She looked away, remembering them as teenagers and how they'd figured that the cemetery was a good place to go at night, out of sight of prying eyes. He'd never told her that he visited the grave on a regular basis. Or that he missed Lilyanna. Maybe that was one of the
things that had gone wrong in their marriage—their inability to talk about subjects that were so raw. But something warm and sweet coursed through her veins as she thought about him here in the cemetery, watching out for their lost little girl.

“How's your grandpa?” he asked.

She swallowed, glad for the topic shift. “He's better—it wasn't another stroke, thank goodness. They kept him overnight, but he's home now.”

Lyle looked surprised. “You didn't call me to help.”

“We didn't need you. Between Georgia, me, and James, we were able to get him resettled.”

He looked hurt, and she wondered if it was because he'd missed an opportunity to see Georgia. A hot, burning feeling coated her throat and made her feel like a stupid teenager again.

“How's it going? With Georgia home, I mean.”

If he hadn't been blocking her way, she would have walked past him without a word. But she was trapped. “Fine, I guess. Why don't you ask her yourself?”

“Because she doesn't have a cell phone.”

Maisy could tell that he regretted saying it as soon as the words came out of his mouth, realizing he'd just admitted that he'd wanted to call Georgia. “She's staying with Aunt Marlene. You'd have all the privacy in the world if you visited with her there.”

“Can we not have this conversation here, please? Can't we be civil?”

Maisy crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. The weather's nice today, isn't it?”
And I love the way your brown eyes turn hazel in the shade of the oaks.
And the sound of your voice and how you visit our baby here in the cemetery.
She looked away, embarrassed at the direction of her thoughts.

“I stayed for Becky's tennis lesson on Saturday. She's getting pretty good.”

A reluctant smile crept onto her face. “Yeah, she is, isn't she? I love the way it gives her confidence—it's like she forgets that she stutters. I think it's really helped.” She paused. “I was wondering if we should
splurge on private instruction for her. I wouldn't suggest it, except she's really good at it and she loves it, too. Much more than basketball even.”

“I think that's a great idea,” Lyle said. “We should be able to swing it financially.”

She set her mouth, wondering whether he was still considering their financial status to be a mutual one. “Everybody says that Sally Williamson is the best tennis coach. I'll call her to see if she has any openings and how much it will cost. I'll let you know the particulars.”

“Good,” he said, his eyes probing hers and making her shift her feet.

“I need to get back,” Maisy said around a frog in her throat. “I found something yesterday that might be a clue to determining the origins of the china pattern and I need to tell Georgia.”

“Yesterday? And you haven't told her yet?”

Maisy allowed a small smile. “No. It's not often that I'm in a position to know something that Georgia doesn't.” She stepped toward him to leave, expecting him to step back. But he didn't.

“I still love you, Maisy.”

She looked down at the ground, the sandy soil poking up from the grass that managed to grow despite the stingy oak trees above that blocked much of the sunlight. “Please, Lyle. Don't.”

“Why do you find it so hard to believe that you are worthy of being loved? Why do you always search for excuses and reasons to push those of us who love you away?”

She put her hand on his chest, wanting to move him out of her way so she could flee. She shouldn't have. He grasped her hand and held it against him and she could feel the thudding of his heart beneath her palm. “Let me go.”

“You so easily believe the worst of the people who love you best. Because that's what you do in a misguided attempt to prove to the world that you're unlovable. Your childhood is over, Maisy. It's time to grow up.”

She shoved hard, making him stumble backward and giving her enough room to get by. After a few steps she faced him, her hands balled
into fists. “You
always
take her side. Always. I can't fight that anymore. I
won't
.”

His eyes hardened and his lips pressed together in a firm line. But he didn't say anything, which said everything she needed to know. Turning away, she made her way out of the cemetery, carefully stepping over old graves that she could barely see through a haze of tears.

Maisy opened the front door to the scent of baking biscuits. It took her a moment to realize that she should be annoyed that someone else was in her kitchen. Anyone would have bothered her, but to have Georgia in there, messing everything up, was the worst possible scenario.

She dropped her satchel full of papers to be graded along with her purse at the foot of the stairs, then marched into the kitchen to let Georgia know that she shouldn't be there. She paused on the threshold, her words held back. James and Birdie sat at the table in front of china plates Maisy vaguely remembered from their china-cabinet scavenging. Florence's tupelo honey jar sat open near James's plate. A porcelain vase full of fresh foxgloves and yellow dandelions stared at her accusingly, as if wondering why they'd never graced the table before when they'd been waiting right outside the kitchen door.

Becky stood by the sink with a bunch of spider lilies in her hand, cutting the stems with red-handled scissors that had long disappeared into the back of a kitchen drawer, Georgia next to her at the ancient harvest gold–colored oven.

James stood as she entered the room and smiled warmly, but it dialed down her annoyance by only a single degree. Maisy faced Becky. “I don't think Grandma would like you cutting down all of her flowers,” Maisy said, still feeling the tugging emotions from her conversation with Lyle, and hating the resulting petulance in her voice. If Becky had spoken that way to
her
, she would have asked for an apology.

Becky tucked her chin, making Maisy feel even worse. “A-Aunt Georgia asked me to. She t-told me how to do it so that I d-didn't take
too many from the same spot. I arranged the ones on the t-table myself. Aunt Georgia said I have a g-good eye.”

Maisy looked again at the table arrangement, at the perfect symmetry of the flowers and the way the colors played against one another. “They're beautiful,” she said softly, looking at her daughter. Becky's cheeks flushed with pleasure, making Maisy wonder when the last time was that she'd complimented her instead of telling her what to do or scolding her for something she hadn't done.