A Recipe for Bees

Praise for
A Recipe for Bees

A
GREAT MANY
people have participated with me in the writing of this novel, providing details and suggestions. In particular my thanks go to Alberta provincial apiculturist Kenn Tuckey, beekeeper Ted Kay, and my own beekeeper, Floyd Anderson-Dargatz, for their help with the beekeeping passages, and to the staff at the Kamloops Museum and the R.J. Haney Heritage Park in Salmon Arm for helping me place this novel in time. I am also indebted to Diane Martin and Louise Dennys for their loving approach to editing. Bible quotes in this novel were taken from the Jerusalem Bible; the Ryrie Study Bible; the Thompson Chain-Reference Bible; and the New Marked Reference Bible, edited by J. Gilchrist Lawson. Virgil’s recipe for bees is taken from
The Georgics
, translated by L.P. Wilkinson and published by Penguin. Sections of this novel were first published in the story “Turtle Valley” in
Canadian Forum
magazine. Photos in this novel are from my parents’ photo albums. My most heartfelt appreciation goes to Eric and Irene Anderson for the lives they’ve led and the stories they tell.

“H
AVE
I
TOLD
you the drone’s penis snaps off during intercourse with the queen bee?” asked Augusta.

“Yes,” said Rose. “Many times.”

Before Augusta dragged her luggage upstairs to the apartment, before she checked on the welfare of her elderly husband, Karl, even before she hugged and greeted her seven kittens, she had made her way, with the aid of a cane, across the uneven ground to inspect the hive of bees she kept in Rose’s garden.

“They won’t mate at all unless they’re way up in the sky,” said Augusta. “The drones won’t take a second look at a queen coming out of a hive. But when she’s thirty, a hundred, feet up in the air,
then
she gets their interest. They’ll seek her out, flying this way and that to catch her scent until there’s a V of drones—like the V of geese following a leader in the sky—chasing along behind her.”

“You were going to tell me about Joe,” said Rose.

“As soon as the drone mounts and thrusts, he’s paralysed, his genitals snap off, and he falls backwards a hundred feet to his death.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

In late summer, hives full of ripening honey emitted a particular scent, like the whiff of sweetness Augusta used to catch passing by the candy-apple kiosk at the fall fair, but without the tang of apples to it. She should have been smelling this now, but instead the hive gave off the vinegar-and-almond scent of angry bees. They buzzed loudly, boiling in the air in front of the hive like a pot of simmering toffee. There were far more guard bees than usual, standing at attention at the mouth of the hive.

“Something’s been after the bees,” said Augusta. She took a step forward to examine them, but several bees flew straight at her, warning her off. “I’ll have to look at them later,” she said. “When they’ve settled down.”

She turned to the balcony of her apartment, directly above the garden. “Do you think Karl remembers today is our anniversary?”

“He hasn’t said anything to me,” said Rose. Later that evening, though, Augusta would learn that Rose had hidden Karl’s flowers in her fridge. He had walked up and down the roadsides and into the vacant lots, searching for pearly everlastings, sweet tiny yellow flowers with white bracts that bloomed from midsummer right on into winter, and held their shape and colour when dried. They were the flowers Karl had picked for Augusta’s wedding bouquet forty-eight years before. He had brought the flowers to Rose’s apartment in a vase and asked her to hide them in her fridge until later that day.

“You’d think he’d remember, wouldn’t you?” said Augusta. “Especially after everything that’s happened these past three weeks.”

“You’d think.”

“You can hear it, you know.”

“What?”

“The snapping. If you’re listening for it, you can hear a sharp crack when the drone’s penis breaks off.”

“Oh, God.”

Rose followed Augusta as she headed through the sliding glass doors into Rose’s apartment to retrieve her luggage. “Can you carry this one upstairs?” she asked Rose. “And this one? I can only manage the one bag with this cane of mine.”

Rose took the bags, one in each hand. “But you were going to tell me the story, about seeing Joe again.”

“Not now, Rose. I want to see if Joy’s phoned with news about Gabe.”

“But you promised.”

“We’ll have plenty of time later.”

“You’d go and tell something like that to some strange woman on the train, but you won’t tell your best friend.”

“I like Esther. I think we’ll be seeing a lot more of her. I promised to show her my hive.”

“You’ll
be seeing a lot more of her. I don’t care if I ever see her again.”

“Well, since neither Esther nor I can drive, you’ll have to drive me, so yes, you will be seeing her again.”

“Oh, isn’t that just great? Now I’m your personal chauffeur.”

Augusta turned around at the doorway. “Rose, what’s this all about?”

“Just tell the story. About Joe. I thought you never saw him again.”

Augusta shook her head and started up the stairs to her apartment. “I’m sure I told you all that already. I can remember showing you the brooch he gave me. Ages and ages ago.”

“Yes, the day we met. But you never told me the story. Are you really going to give that brooch to Joy?”

Augusta had met Rose five years before, on the ferry, just after she and Karl had sold the farm. Augusta and Karl were moving to the warmer climate of Vancouver Island. Rose turned the corner into the ferry bathroom and there was Augusta, sitting at the mirrored makeup counter they have on those boats, rummaging through her big purse. Augusta had looked up at Rose in the mirror, smiled, and said, “Do you have a comb? I can’t seem to find mine.”

Perhaps it was an inappropriate request to make of a stranger, she thought now, rather like asking to borrow someone’s toothbrush. Rose said no. “They have them at the newsstand.”