The Music of Bees by Eileen Garvin (free ereaders txt) 📗

deleting as he went. Spam. Political newsletters he never read. A message from a guy he met in jail who Harry had, regrettably, given his email. Then a message from the gorge.net job board. It was a reply to one of his applications, the bee thing. In his notebook he had listed the pros and cons of each job he’d applied for, and under the bee farm he had written: “Positive: working outside, learning opportunity, farming, carpentry.” The last and most important: “No background check request.” In the negative column he had simply written “bees.” He shuddered. He hated insects, all kinds. But the idea of carpentry work cheered him. He shot a quick message back to the farmer. Yes, he could be there the following afternoon at 1:00 p.m. for an interview. He printed the email, paid the librarian, and left.

Harry wheeled his bike to the gas station and leaned it against the worn fence at the pay phone. Harry hadn’t seen a pay phone since he’d been a kid, but the poverty and poor cell service in BZ meant this one got plenty of use. He called his mother collect, and his heart sank when he heard her agree to receive charges. It reminded him of calling her from jail. Twenty-four years old and he still couldn’t afford to call his mother.

“Son! I’ve been worried sick. Listen, honey, I want to hear all about your new job, but first, how’s he doing? Is he still unconscious? Are they keeping him on oxygen again today?”

Harry felt the weight of shame descend. Of course the hospital would have called her.

“I, um. They wouldn’t release any information to me when I called. So, I’m not sure what the story is right now,” he said.

“What do you mean? Aren’t you at the hospital?”

Harry looked up at the big fir trees leaning over the highway like he might find the answer there.

“I-I’ve just been really busy with work,” he said. “It’s been hard to get the time off during visiting hours.”

Did hospitals even have visiting hours anymore? He hated lying to his mother, but he didn’t want to try to explain why he hadn’t set foot in Skyline Hospital in the four days since his uncle’s capture by social services.

Why his mother always chose to believe him was a mystery, but he was grateful now.

“Listen, son. You tell your boss that this is an important family matter. We are Uncle H’s only people. Well, the only good ones, anyway. I called Jenny. ‘He died years ago as far as I’m concerned,’ she told me. Can you believe that? She’s just mad because he lost all his money in that Ponzi scheme at Powder River. Well, she should have been looking out for him, so she has no one to blame but herself.”

She paused, and Harry heard her light a cigarette and exhale.

“Listen, Harry. I wish I could be there, but I can’t get away right now. Sal isn’t doing great. It’s nothing serious, but he needs eye surgery, and I have to drive him to appointments the next couple of weeks. I’ll get out there as quick as I can. Meantime, I’m counting on you to keep me updated. Call me collect until you get a phone. Now, how are you doing? Are you eating enough? Making friends? How’s your job?”

Harry told his mother some more lies about how great things were and promised to call her the next day. He felt like such a loser.

Down the hill at the small hospital, he forced himself through the doors. He presented himself as Uncle H’s nephew, and the woman at the front desk directed him down the hall. Harry walked slowly, glancing into the rooms. TVs blared, and old people lay flat on their backs, mostly sleeping.

Uncle H was at the end of the hall. Curled up under a blanket, he looked smaller and frailer than Harry remembered. His white hair stood up in its usual bird’s nest. His eyes were closed, and his breath was shallow and ragged. He was attached to a bunch of machines that beeped and flashed. Plastic tubes ran into his nostrils. His lips were sucked in around his gums, as someone had removed his dentures. His face was gray and papery.

“Uncle H?” Harry whispered, hoping the old man would open his eyes and say something feisty. But he didn’t. His breath dragged in and out. The machines beeped; their lights flickered. The room smelled antiseptic and was brightened only by a vase of flowers on the table. Harry knew they were from his mother before he read the card.

“Get well soon, Uncle H! Much love, Lydia and Sal,” it read.

Harry swallowed hard. He sat and looked out the window. He could see the river from up here, but he doubted his uncle had appreciated the view. Harry stared at a calendar on the wall. April. How was it already April? He’d been living with his uncle for two months.

A doctor came through the door, peering down at a tablet in his hands. He was tall and thin and looked irritated until he saw Harry. Then he smiled and held out his hand.

“Hi. I’m Dr. Chimosky.”

Harry stood and shook his hand. “I’m Harry Stokes, sir. His nephew.”

The doctor nodded and looked back down at his tablet. “We’ve been in touch with your mother, I think?”

Harry nodded and hoped the doctor wouldn’t ask where he had been for the past four days.

“Well, your uncle had a rough night. He was recovering well from the initial stroke, but he’s pretty fragile, and his heart went into an arrhythmia for a bit and then bumped itself back out. He’s been on oxygen since he got here. He’s stable now, but there’s not much we can do for him. Legally we have to follow his advanced directive.”

Harry struggled to make sense of the flood of information. “A stroke? What’s an advanced directive?”

The doctor looked impatient. “From what we can tell, your uncle had