Queen Bee Read online

  He snickered.

  “How about you, Archie? What’s new at the College of Charleston?” I said, feeling like I was doing pretty well as a pseudo parent.

  “Oh, interesting and earthshaking things, of course!” he said.

  “Like what?” Tyler asked.

  Archie looked at them as though they couldn’t possibly want to know what was making the earth shake.

  “Yeah, Dad, come on!” Hunter said. “Can I please have more mashed potatoes?”

  With a nod, I got up and spooned out more potatoes for Hunter and then offered some to Tyler, who bobbed his head in assent. Yes, dinner was going really well.

  “Thanks,” they whispered.

  “Okay. So, this week I’ve introduced my World Religion 301 honors students to cargo cults.”

  “What’s a cargo cult?” Tyler asked.

  For whatever reason, I jumped in and said, “Well, break it down, Tyler. A cult refers to a group of people who believe something that’s a nontraditional spiritual set of beliefs.”

  “Very good!” Archie said. “You get an A!”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But what’s the cargo part of it?”

  “In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries there were still many indigenous tribes who lived in remote areas, such as islands in the South Pacific. This phenomenon began around 1885, at the height of the British colonization period, and continued on through World War II. With World War II, the Japanese and then the United States needed airstrips to land cargo planes. So they chose a few islands and sent men there to build runways and towers. When our planes began to land there, well, this was a wondrous thing to the native people who had never left the bush. They had never even dreamed about airplanes, much less the manufactured goods the soldiers gave them. After the war, the planes left and abandoned the air bases and there were no more riches coming from the sky.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad,” Tyler said. “Did these people think the guys from the planes were gods?”

  “Yes! And after the war, the people felt abandoned and they began to perform rituals to bring the men from the sky back to them.”

  “So, while the rest of the world was wearing clothes and driving cars made in factories,” I said, “these people lived so remotely that the planes, the soldiers, with their uniforms and weapons, seemed like aliens from another planet or gods?”

  “Yes!” Archie said.

  “Where exactly did this happen?” Hunter said. “I want to pin it on my map.”

  Hunter and Tyler shared a large wall map of the world in the hallway between their bedrooms.

  “Start with the Fiji islands,” Archie said.

  “We can read more at the library, if you’d like to,” I said. “I know I’d like to learn more about them.”

  By seven fifteen, there wasn’t a teaspoon of dinner left in a pot or pan. Tyler and Hunter ate like starving animals, as young boys do, and even Archie had seconds of everything. They insisted on doing the dishes over my objections and order was quickly restored.

  Archie and I were standing on the front porch saying good night. It was as dark as pitch outside, with only our porch lights and one streetlight to see where you were going. Tyler had challenged Hunter to a race home and they were already on their porch, calling back to us.

  “Is the door open?” Tyler called.

  “Yes,” Archie called out with a thumbs-up. Then he turned to me. “Thanks for a wonderful supper.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re so great with kids. Don’t you have a degree in early education?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why aren’t you using it?”

  “If I went to work full-time, who would tend the queen bee? Even in my hives, the queen can’t feed herself. My momma’s like that.”

  He gave me an inquisitive look, as though I might be too soft to function in the real world or as though Momma was a bona fide crackpot.

  “Besides, I have a dream of teaching at the Sullivan’s Island Elementary School, and so does everyone else. I’m waiting for a slot.”

  “Well, you’re a darned good cook,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Cargo cults, huh?”

  “Yeah, cargo cults. I love all that stuff.”

  “Me, too, I think.”

  “Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

  “I’m self-taught in self-defense.”

  I could see his eyes twinkle even in the low light. He was probably envisioning Momma frying up some Spam and grits for dinner. Or something worse.

  “Once I had a birthday party and the queen baked these casseroles. I remember two things. My sister broke the piñata before anyone else had a chance to give it a whack, and everyone went home with salmonella. She must’ve left them in the sun.”

  He was grinning widely. “That must’ve been some party!”

  “The worst,” I said.

  We just looked at each other for a moment, and then I could see that he was having a carnal moment because he gave me that look. Yes, Archie MacLean, this would be the moment the boy kisses the girl. He cleared his throat instead.

  “Well, good night then,” he said.

  “Good night.” I closed the door, leaned against it, and giggled.

  Did I really want a guy with graying temples and double dimples? Did I really want those forty-year-old hands on my thirty-year-old skin? Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.

  I decided to call Leslie and tell her about Momma. Here’s the thing: If I didn’t call her, she’d be annoyed with me, saying how could I do such a thing? If I called her, she’d be annoyed.

  I poured a large glass of wine to fortify myself, from the box I kept on the pantry floor, and dialed her number. She answered on the third ring. I don’t know why, but she always said I should never pick up the telephone before the third ring. Maybe it was because she was always waiting for a boy to call her and she didn’t want to seem pathetically anxious.

  “Hey, it’s me. There’s news from the island,” I said.

  “Hey, yourself. I didn’t hear jungle drums,” she said, as though she was a comedian.

  “Yeah, well, I had to put Momma in the hospital today.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah. Very dramatic, as usual.”

  “I’m sure. I already know the answer to this, but is she okay?”

  “Of course, she is.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “She fell out of bed again,” I said. “Second time this month.”

  “She’s still there?”

  “Yep, they wanted to rule out brain tumor, broken bones . . . you know, a whole litany of stuff.”

  “Jeez. A zillion dollars in tests for nothing.”

  “That’s what they do these days.”

  “It’s practically criminal. Should I send flowers? I mean, I can do that. No problem. Would it cheer her up?”

  “That’s your call. Would anything cheer her up besides you coming home? I expect I’ll bring her home tomorrow. Maybe send them to the house?”

  “Okay. I’ll send her something fun. What about getting some kind of guardrails? You know, the kind you use for toddlers?”

  I looked at the ceiling. Didn’t my sister know how impossibly juvenile our mother was? “Right! Then she’d crawl over them and fall on her head, and I’d really be in trouble. You know, she breaks a hip, pneumonia sets in, and pffft! She’s a goner!”

  “Well? That’s one answer, isn’t it?”

  “Leslie! You’re terrible.”

  “Gallows humor, sister. Gallows humor.”

  “Funny but not really. So how are you and Charlie doing?”

  “We’re fine. Well, I’m fine. Charlie’s been acting sort of odd.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Just odd. He wants to go to Atlantic City. He hates gambling! But suddenly, he wants to go to Atlantic City and see a bunch of shows.”

  “Sounds like fun to me.”

 
“Sounds like fun because you’re stuck on that miserable island with the Queen of Mean. You know I don’t like all that noise. And all that craziness.”

  Wait. Was my sister no longer Miss Party Hearty?

  “Well, darlin’? Maybe that’s why he’s got a hankering to go to Atlantic City! To inspire you!”

  “To do what? Wear high heels to bed? Get myself a trashy see-through chiffon robe to wear while I fry the chicken?”

  “And here I always thought you were the wild one!”

  “Well, now you know. Anyway, we’re going to Atlantic City next week for four days. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “And I’ll keep you posted on Momma.”

  “Do that. I’ll call 1-800-Flowers in the morning.”

  “So, aren’t you going to ask me how I’m doing?”

  I could hear a deep sigh.

  “How are you doing?” she said. “What’s new? Nothing, right?” Everyone thought I was a pitiful old maid at thirty.

  “Um, actually? I had Archie and his boys over for dinner tonight.” Maybe I said it a little too brightly. The minute she heard a drop of happiness in my voice, I knew I was going to get an earful.

  Dead silence. Followed by a slowly drawn out, “Really? Is there anything to report?”

  “Beyond one marginally awkward moment when he was leaving? Nope.”

  “Hmm. What did you cook?”

  “Chicken. Lemon chicken with mashed potatoes, peas, and hot apple pie.”

  More silence.

  I finally said, “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah. Listen, Holly. You’re my little sister and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Archie has a Ph.D. in world religion from Harvard Divinity School, for God’s sake. You’re a nice girl and all that, but he’s light-years out of your league. Can’t you see that?”

  Two could play this game.

  “Jesus, Leslie! I made chicken and mashed potatoes, not lobster and caviar. And I did it mainly for his boys. They hardly ever get a home-cooked meal. Do you know how many pizza boxes are in their garbage?”

  “So now you’re looking through their garbage cans? Oh, Holly. This is so sad I don’t know what to say!”

  “No. It is not sad. And no, I do not go through their garbage. They’re sticking out of the top of the can, and when I roll ours out to the curb on pickup day, there are the boxes poking out of the cans like a cry for help.”

  “Oh, okay then. Sorry. Charlie says I always jump to judgment. Maybe he’s right. That was nice of you to make them dinner. Did they have a good time?”

  “I think so. There’s not a crumb left. And they did the dishes.”

  “You know, Archie’s hot. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, for an old dude. I’m not blind.”

  “Don’t let him take advantage of you, Holly.”

  I wanted to say, Why not? Everybody else does. But instead I said, “Oh, please. What’s a little chicken between friends?”

  Archie was staring at my apiary. “Ever read David Foster Wallace?”

  “No,” I said. “Should I?”

  “Why not? He said, ‘Everything takes time. Bees have to move very fast to stay still.’ ”

  “He’s right. They flap their little wings two hundred and thirty times a second to hover.”

  Chapter Three

  Buzzing Along

  Our old house was a classic clapboard island cottage, painted white some years ago, with a silver tin roof and porches around the front and the back, their floors slanted for runoff during the horrific rains that regularly saturated all the islands. We had working shutters on every window and slim French doors with their original glass from 1860. There was a Pawleys Island hammock, four rockers, and a glider from the 1950s on the front porch. They had more mileage than my sister. A table and four chairs stood on the back porch that no one ever used, along with garbage cans and an old Weber grill. You would say it was comfortable, and it was.

  I had slept peacefully, not having to listen for Momma calling me in the night. I was feeling pretty good at first when I turned over in bed and woke up. But as I became fully conscious, I remembered I was irked with Leslie. Why did she always want to make me feel so awkward? What was the matter with her? What was the matter with me for listening to her? Probably a lot. But to be honest, I carried around a nagging feeling inside, like I was still waiting for my real life to begin. Meanwhile, here I was, thirty, with no real career or prospects of one, even though I had that sweet degree in elementary education and was on a wait list for the island elementary school. I was living in limbo, not a thoroughly unpleasant state, but not a very satisfying one, either. In the meanwhile, I told myself as I brushed the tangles of night from my hair, I would continue to do the few things that time allowed me to do and that I liked to do. And maybe I should get another kind of job. Something part-time. Anything that would get me out of the house. I could hire someone to sit with Momma or to check on her a few times a day. It would be good for me. I knew she would scream her head off if I went to work anywhere out of earshot. Maybe if I did, she would regroup and stop pretending to be sick all the time. And hellfire, she didn’t own me. The thought of breaking out was so delicious, I could already taste my freedom.

  It was a beautiful morning, not as warm as yesterday had been, and I thought that was good. After my favorite breakfast parfait of yogurt, fruit, granola, and my own honey, I dressed and went outside with a big mug of steaming hot coffee. The yard was saturated with heavy dew that would surely evaporate as the sun began its daily climb. By midday, people would be shedding their light jackets and sweaters, but by five they’d be reaching for them again: classic Lowcountry weather.

  Archie’s car was gone, which meant he had taken the boys to school and then probably gone downtown to the college. I thought about him, wondering what it must have been like to study religion at a place like Harvard, and then to spend your life considering the objects and rituals and beliefs that people held sacred. I had loved our discussion about cargo cults.

  Even though I had lived my whole life on this island, I knew there was life beyond the Vatican. I’d read a little about Tibetan Buddhism and what it meant to be Hindu. And I knew quite a bit about Judaism because Charleston had one of the oldest Reformed temples in the country. Needless to say, because the Holy City’s founding fathers’ principles were grounded in the belief that all people should worship in whatever manner they pleased, we had an unusually wide variety of places to praise the Almighty. I wondered about how Archie prayed. To be honest, that was between him and his Maker. None of my beeswax, so to speak. On a very odd note, I’d never seen him take the boys to church on Sunday. Maybe at some point I’d gently suggest that the boys were welcome to come with me. That would require a high level of diplomacy, because people got all weird when it came to talking about religion in general, even people with Ph.D.s from Harvard Divinity School. I just really thought children needed to believe in something greater than themselves. Everyone did. If they could manage it, that is.

  I took a leisurely stroll through my garden, making a mental list of chores to be done, and, of course, I talked to my bees. They were better company than most humans I knew.

  “Good morning, ladies! Guess what I did last night? I made dinner for our neighbors and they loved it! What do you think about that? I made chicken and mashed potatoes and . . .” I went on describing the meal to them and the conversation with my sister. “And she says Charlie wants to take her to Atlantic City. Wouldn’t it be fun to play slot machines and see some celebrities and entertainers? Anyway, she thinks Archie is way out of my league. Do you think she’s right? I think she’s an a-hole. She and Momma are two rotten peas in a rotten pod.”

  The girls were buzzing all around in the flowers collecting pollen and nectar and I was gently moving among them, pulling some of the weeds that would strangle my flowers if I ignored them. Somewhere over the course of the winter I had decided to get more serious about keeping my garden in flow
ers all year. If it had color? It counted, especially if it was purple. Honey bees loved purple flowers. I’d plant some things like ornamental grasses that had pink plumes or variegated leaves that changed color with the seasons. And I’d beef up the herb garden because honey bees loved basil, lavender, cilantro, rosemary, and thyme.

  “So, yeah, I’m going over to the hospital in a little bit. See how Momma is doing. I’m sure she’s okay, but she’s no rocking babe anymore and that’s when bad stuff starts to happen. She’s just in her sixties, but she’s old for her age. Personally? I think she’s just mad because she’s fat. Fat’s bad. It leads to all kinds of diseases. Maybe I’ll take the nurses a few jars of honey. And by the way, I’m getting a job.”

  I looked up to see Andy our UPS deliveryman’s truck pull over to the curb.

  “Morning, Miss Holly! Got a couple of things for you today.”

  “Well, thanks, Andy. Just toss them on the porch. I’ll see about them in a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine,” he said and took the boxes up the steps to the front porch. “By the way, you were right about my tire. But it didn’t go bad until I ran over a piece of sheet metal on I-526.”

  “Well, then I’m extra glad to see you in one piece.”

  His face got all kind of funny looking. “How’d you know that was gonna happen?”

  “Andy, it’s the most peculiar thing. I looked at your truck and it just popped into my head. Andy’s gonna get a flat in that back tire. Just like someone was whispering to me.”

  “That’s kind of peculiar,” he said and looked at me so strangely.

  “Come on, Andy. You’ve been knowing me for a dozen years. And this is the Lowcountry.”

  “Yeah, I always forget that. You know my people come from Spartanburg.”

  “Different world up there,” I said.

  “I reckon so,” he said and just stood there.

  “Would you like a jar of honey?” I said, thinking it might put him more at ease. “I was just going to get a few from the shed for the nurses at the hospital. I took Momma over there yesterday, and you know . . .”