Flight Patterns (40 page)

When I opened my mother's cedar chest, I saw everything with vivid clarity, in a kaleidoscope of color, flashing like a film reel that had fallen out of its moorings, the same scenes flickering over and over. And there I was, in the kitchen with George and Mama and Daddy and the stranger. Except I knew then that he wasn't really a stranger.

The first thing I noticed was Mama's garden spray bottle on the counter, something I knew was a mistake. She always mixed her chemicals outside, saying they had no place in the kitchen near food. The second thing I saw was that the trapped bee that had been knocking on the small windows in the door was now throwing itself at the light of the ceiling fixture.

Then, like one of her roses after being watered, Mama straightened in her chair, her expression calm, her mouth set in a single, firm line. “You must be hungry,” she said to the back of the stranger's head as she stood and went to the counter, where two dozen biscuits waited under a dishtowel in a basket, then opened a jar of tupelo honey. She filled a glass from the tap and gave it to the man before turning back to the biscuits. Instead of placing the biscuits on the table, she prepared plates for everybody, giving a healthy dollop of tupelo honey on top of each biscuit before putting a plate on the table in front of us.

The stranger—Mr. Mouton, Mama called him—ate three biscuits very fast, as if he hadn't eaten in a long time and was afraid someone would take the food from him if he didn't hurry. I wondered whether it made Daddy angry to see someone eating his precious tupelo honey without savoring it.

Mr. Mouton licked his fingers, an odd look on his face. “This is your tupelo honey?” he asked.

Daddy nodded slowly, like a person left outside too long in the heat.

“Not so sweet as I thought,” he said as he licked his fingers again, then smashed the crumbs on his plate, rolling them in the amber honey before bringing his index finger to his lips. He saw me watching him and the thick pool of honey and slid his plate over to me with a smile. I had the strangest feeling that we'd done this ritual before.

“Are you finished, sir?” Mama asked, snatching the plate away before I could dip my finger in the honey.

“Yes. I thank you. I have not had a meal in a while,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “I would like to go back to France. Maybe I bring some of your bees with me, yes? To start over. It is never too late to start over.”

He clenched his eyes for a moment, as if he were in pain, then rubbed at his throat. “May I have some more water, please?” he asked.

Without a word, Mama refilled his glass from the tap and set it in front of him. He drank it without stopping, gulping loudly. Mr. Mouton looked even more ill and frail than when he'd first arrived.

“You look tired, and we're not done with our conversation. If you don't have a place to stay, you may stay here tonight,” Mama said, her voice not sounding like hers, her eyes hollow. Daddy sent her a funny look, but she pretended not to see. “I'll send you up with more biscuits and honey in case you get hungry. There are already fresh sheets in the guest room.”

He swayed a bit in his seat, one hand clutching his belly. “I think I will do that. I am not so well right now.” He tried to stand but his bones seemed soft, unable to hold him. George quickly moved to his side while Daddy moved to the other. The man began to cough again, his body shaking with each spasm.

“Get the doctor,” Daddy said to Mama as he and George helped the man to the stairs before Daddy lifted him completely and carried him all the way up, Mr. Mouton's weak moans trickling down the stairs.

“Mama?” I asked, watching as she calmly carried dishes from the table to the sink, throwing Mr. Mouton's plate into the trash. I heard it break as it hit something inside, the sound loud in the quiet of the kitchen.

I rushed to the phone, not sure what number to dial but knowing something
had to be done. Mama took the phone from me and quickly replaced it in the receiver. “I'll take care of him, Birdie. You don't need to worry.” She was crying, the heavy tears slipping down her face, and that scared me more than anything.

The bee that had been flitting around the kitchen landed on the counter, and Mama smashed it with her bare hand. She stared at it for a long time, as if wondering how it had died.

“You shouldn't kill a bee in the house, Mama. It means a visitor will come and bring bad news.”

She looked at me with those same hollow eyes. “Maybe he already has.”

Mama hugged me and then kissed me on the forehead, and as she turned around to finish cleaning up the dishes she said something very softly that I couldn't understand. It wasn't until the next morning when I found out that the visitor had left, taking Daddy's truck with him, that I realized what it was. “Forgive me.”

Maisy had moved to sit next to me while Birdie spoke and was sobbing silently. I put down the flashlight and placed my arm around her, my other hand still holding our mother's. My sister and I were children again, waiting out a storm.

Sirens rang in the distance and I pictured James, flagging down the emergency crew to show them where to go. I looked at the teapot, and a cool breath swept up the back of my neck, making me believe in ghosts.

After killing the other queen bee pupae, the new queen bee must eliminate the old queen. Usually the old queen will have already left the hive, but if the old and new queen meet, there will be a fight to the death.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Maisy

G
eorgia and Maisy stayed at the hospital with Birdie until she was stabilized, her leg in a cast, and sleeping deeply, thanks to medication. She had a double fracture in her right leg, but no other serious injury. They were exhausted, not just because they'd both been awake for almost twenty-four hours, but also from Birdie's story.

They stood in the hospital parking lot, swaying on their feet, and watched the sky shift from black to deep violet as a new day began.
“Entre chien et loup,”
Maisy said softly, understanding now how her mother must have known the phrase.

Georgia looked at her in surprise. “Between dog and wolf,” Georgia repeated. “You remember that?”

“Sure. Not everything Birdie taught us was bad.”

Georgia smiled, pinching her lower lip with her teeth just like Becky did. She glanced bleary-eyed out over the parking lot. “You don't have a car, do you?”

Lyle had brought everyone home, then stayed to make sure Becky and Grandpa were all right. She didn't ask what bed he intended to sleep in. Georgia had then driven James and Marlene in her car to Marlene's house despite both their protests that they should wait with them at the hospital, and then Georgia brought Maisy with her to Weems Memorial.

“I can walk,” Maisy said, wondering how she'd manage to get a foot in front of the other enough times to make it home. Despite their time together spent listening to Birdie's story—their story—there was still a distance between them. A distance filled by the presence of a small child who'd died and whose ghost still haunted them despite the space of years and Becky's birth.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Georgia said, pulling on her arm and marching toward her convertible that unabashedly took up two parking spaces. “I need you to make sure I don't fall asleep while I drive.”

“Then you'd better stay at the house. I don't want to be responsible for you hitting a fire hydrant on your way back to Marlene's. You can have Birdie's bed—I'll crawl in with Becky.”

“Deal,” Georgia said, apparently unable to add any more words.

Georgia pulled up in the front drive of the house, the gravel popping beneath the whitewall tires. She put the car in park and turned off the ignition, but continued to stare in front of her, unwilling to interrupt her thoughts by getting out of the car. “I don't know what to do. Who to blame. Who should be punished.” She faced her sister in the dark. “That's what Grandpa meant—about whether it was a sin to love someone too much. Grandma did what she did because of how much she loved Birdie. And Grandpa kept it a secret all these years because of how much he loved both of them. Nothing can be gained.”

Maisy turned to her sister, the dim light casting shadows over her face. “But it was murder, despite the motive. And he's an accessory for hiding it. I imagine Birdie will want justice for her father's death.”

“You've always been so black-and-white, Maisy. But everything isn't always good or bad, and most things in life don't always fit nicely into labeled slots, no matter how much you'd like them to.”

They both stepped out of the car, their gazes meeting over the roof. “You're wrong,” Maisy said. “There is always someone at fault. Someone who deserves to be punished.”

Georgia flinched, and Maisy knew they weren't just talking about Giles Mouton anymore. She slammed her door and began walking toward the house. “I'm going to get a few hours of sleep, and you should, too. Maybe it will help you think more clearly.”

“You do that,” said Georgia. “I'm going to check on Grandpa. And as soon as he awakens, I'm going to tell him what we know.”

“Good. Somebody needs to, and I don't think I can face him right now.”

Maisy slowly climbed the stairs, her relief at having Becky back home warring with her newfound knowledge. She automatically turned left to go to her own room, surprised to find the door shut. She pushed it open, pausing on the threshold at the form of a body lying partially under her sheets, a bare shoulder and broad chest visible. Maisy walked across the room and stood at the side of the bed looking down at Lyle for a long moment, loving the way his hair fell over his forehead, the way he still looked like the boy she'd married a million years ago. Before all the miscarriages. Before Lilyanna. Before her own insecurities made her blind, and stubborn pride made her mute.
Like Birdie.
An inability to speak had its advantages. No apologies were expected. And the horrors of a childhood couldn't be relived.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and listened to the familiar rhythm of Lyle's breathing, smelling the male musk she'd missed. She'd slept with one of his shirts for a long time after she'd asked him to move out, until self-preservation had forced her to wash it.

She could wake him up now and tell him what she knew. But she couldn't, not without Georgia. Like their childhoods, and their mother, the burden was something they shared, something they'd have to handle together. She just couldn't deal with it right now.

Without thinking about what she was doing, she leaned down and pressed her lips against Lyle's. They were warm and soft with
sleep, and she left her mouth there, pretending everything was as it had been when they were happy. And then his arms were around her, pulling her to him, and he was pressing his mouth hard against hers.

She pulled back, met his gaze. “Stay,” he said.

She watched his sleep-heavy eyes, her heart and head battling, needing more time to understand what she was feeling, and to say the right words. “I want to, Lyle—I really do. But I'm so tired right now, and my mind is in such turmoil I feel like I'm drunk. We can't just jump into bed together without working things out between us.”

His eyes were serious. “You know how I feel—that's never changed. And all the talking in the world won't make any difference to me. I want us back together. Just tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it.”

He lifted his head to hers and gave her a soft, lingering kiss. “You know where to find me,” he said.

She nodded, then stood, feeling him watching her while she made her way back to the hallway, hearing a door shut somewhere in the house. The first thing Maisy noticed was the sound of rhythmic thumping and a warm stream of air, as if someone had left a window open. She stuck her head into Becky's room and found her sound asleep under her covers, her bunny stuffed between her arms.

The sound seemed louder now. With faster steps, Maisy made her way to Birdie's room, expecting to find Georgia sound asleep. But the bed wasn't touched, the only sign that anybody had been in there the blowing curtains from the open window, the bottom sash thrown up high enough for a person to lean outside.

The sound was louder here, undiluted by distance, as if the source were right outside the window. Pushing aside the curtain, she watched as the tentative light of dawn spread across the bay and the yard, where Maisy spotted Grandpa in the apiary. He wasn't wearing any protective gear or a netted hat, and carried an empty frame from a hive, struggling to walk with it, the bottom edge cutting into his leg with each step. He was walking slowly around the rear hive, where Maisy had set up the beach umbrella, and while Maisy watched he used his good arm to slam the frame into the hive.

“Grandpa, stop! What are you doing?” Maisy shouted. He didn't look up or stop.

She heard Georgia's voice, knew her sister was nearby but couldn't see her or hear what she was saying. Probably something about how it was too early to be working with the hives, that all the bees would be home, ready to protect it. It was something Grandpa had taught them both, something he would know.

Maisy stuck her head out further, and spotted Georgia near the front row of hives, as if she'd drawn a line in the sand and refused to cross it. Oblivious to his audience, Grandpa continued to bring the frame hard against the top box of the hive, as if he wanted to topple it over. It occurred to Maisy that with just one good arm, he couldn't lift it off the top by himself. He could have asked for help, but instead had resorted to this. He must have been stung, because he stumbled backward, his foot toppling over the can of gas that had been left beside the pile of yard debris.

“Stop!” Maisy screamed.

Georgia turned around to look up at her. “Stay away, Maisy, and close the window. The bees are agitated.”

Maisy watched for a moment longer as Grandpa set down the frame and yanked his smoker off the hanging hook where he kept it, struggling to hold it in his damaged left hand while taking an igniter from his pocket. She looked at the upended gasoline can and thought she could smell the pungent scent of gas, realizing with horror that the lid might not have been tightly screwed on.

She ran downstairs to the foyer, where she'd left her purse, stuck her hand in the outside pocket and pulled out one of the two EpiPens she always carried with her. Dropping her purse on the floor she continued to the kitchen, pausing only when something crunched under her soft-soled shoes. Broken porcelain radiated from what was left of the teapot, the spout on its side, incongruously intact. She remembered Georgia bringing the teapot in from Lyle's patrol car when they were dropped off before leaving for the hospital. It had been left on the kitchen counter.

The toe of her shoe kicked something, and Maisy recognized the curved side of the teapot, saw the honeycomb of cracks that spread over it. The colorful bees winged their way around the base, their flight abruptly ended with a large break in the porcelain. She could picture her grandfather smashing the teapot, trying to hide all the evidence of what had happened in this very kitchen. One last effort to protect the wife and daughter he loved too much.

Maisy raced toward the back door. In that brief moment, she considered waking Lyle, then just as quickly dismissed the idea. Maybe Georgia was right. Maybe there was no right or wrong to this story. Just tragedy. Their grandfather had raised them, loved them, taken care of them as best he could, and they owed him now at least the chance to tell his side of the story. Maybe they had it wrong. Maisy loved Lyle, but she could never forget that he was a policeman.

Maisy burst through the back door, feeling the weight of her EpiPen in her skirt pocket, remembering to walk instead of run when there were bees present. Her grandfather had taught her that, along with the adage that bees sting only to protect their hive and queen. She hesitated briefly, aware that the air in the backyard was alive with the high-pitched bee song of hundreds of pairs of wings rapidly flapping. The backyard reeked with the overwhelming stench of gasoline.

Georgia heard her approach and turned, her face red and tear-streaked. “Go away, Maisy—he's stirring up the bees and you shouldn't be here. I can handle this.”

Maisy threw up her hands. “Oh, yeah—I can see how well you're handling things. What is going on?”

“He was in the kitchen when I went to check on him. I told him what Birdie had told us and he smashed the teapot. He said he needed to talk to his bees, so I let him leave, thinking he needed to be alone, and I went upstairs. I heard the thumping, and that's why I opened the window and discovered what he was doing.” She moved her hand over her face, deflecting a bee. “Now go inside.”

A loud groan forced Maisy and Georgia to turn toward Grandpa, watching as he nearly tripped over the can, saw the contents slowly
creeping toward the rest of the hives. He fell down on one knee, but managed to stagger to standing, slapping at the back of his neck as another bee found its mark.

He dropped the smoker, lifted the lid, and pulled out a strip of half-burned cardboard. His hand shook as he held it near the lighter, his fingers plucking at the ignition switch. He groaned in frustration, now using his body in an attempt to remove the top boxes from the hive. They were full of frames, heavy with honey and bees, his face sweating with the exertion and an unhealthy dark red, his eyes nearly bulging from his face. Still clutching the cardboard and lighter, he picked up the frame again and began to swing it at the boxes in a desperate attempt to dislodge them.

“Go get Lyle!” Georgia screamed.

Maisy's shoes slipped on the damp grass, her body landing hard as her knees and the heels of her hands skidded across the sandy soil. She grasped at grass for a foothold, aware of Georgia bolting down the row of hives. It took Maisy only a split second to realize why. He'd managed to ignite the lighter. Grandpa was attempting to light the cardboard with it when Georgia reached him, knocking the lighter from his hand, his other still clutching the lit cardboard.

“Let me do this,” he shouted, his voice high-pitched and strident, a wounded animal in a trap. “I need to protect my family.”