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

home. She suggested he stay for a while until he could figure out his next move. That idea seemed to cheer him, and he thanked her. Her heart sank a little as she realized she had backed herself into a corner, but it wouldn’t be forever. Besides, she was surprised by how much she liked this funny, smart kid. She had always liked being alone. She’d preferred it, really. Being around other people made her feel tired, almost lonelier. But then Bud changed things, she thought.

The thought of Buddy blindsided her, and loneliness reached up and grabbed her by the throat. She reached for the sleeve of cookies and ate them one after the other, trying to stuff back the growing ache. It didn’t work. She grabbed her keys, banged out the door, and waved at the kid.

“Errands!” she called.

He waved back.

Alice jumped in the truck and sped up the road into the blinding light of the setting sun. Being in motion helped calm her. Somehow being in the truck with the windows rolled down and the wind in her ears made it easier to hold her grief within the confines of her body. Otherwise she might have split in two. Once she had driven halfway to Seattle with no memory of the long drive. Just mile after mile of telling herself to pull it together now, Alice. You can do this. Shove it back down in there. As long as she made it to the county planning department by 8:30 a.m. five days a week, no one had to know that Alice Holtzman was made of a million tiny broken pieces held together by cookies, solitary driving, and the sheer determination not to go crazy in public.

She felt the warm evening air blow across her face and she focused on her breathing. She named the familiar landmarks as she passed them, only letting her mind settle on the surface of things. McCurdy Farms, Twin Peaks Drive-in, Western Antique Aeroplane and Automobile Museum, Eagle One Thrift, Novedades Ortiz, Bette’s Place, Hood River County Library. Just this building and the next. Concrete and bricks and no need to think of her feelings. She worked her way into town with this strategy and found herself at the waterfront. She decided a walk would clear her head.

The sunset turned the river into a ribbon of gold, easing her clenched heart with its beauty. A handful of kiteboarders were riding the evening wind, early-season keeners who were milking every minute. Up near the park, she could see a small crowd gathered under the picnic shelter. Alice drew closer and moved toward the curb to maintain her solitude. She spotted Stan Hinatsu up on a small rise on the lawn with a sign that read, “Keep SupraGro Out of the Gorge!” Alice recalled how angry he had been at the end of the CP meeting. She drew closer and stood at the back.

“. . . Coal they ship through our communities and along the river. I don’t need to remind you that the Cascadia Pacific train that derailed in Mosier spilled a load of Bakken crude oil less than one hundred yards from the Mosier Community School. Now it’s not just the trains. Cascadia recently bought SupraGro, a pesticide company that’s being sued by community groups in Nebraska and Northern California for devastating local watersheds. And as part of that partnership, Cascadia is offering their products at a deep discount to local farmers and orchardists for use here in the Columbia River Gorge. That will affect every single water source in the valley. I’m talking about communities from Parkdale and Pine Grove to Mosier and the Dalles. And water sources from Dog River and Hood River to the White Salmon and the Klickitat. The runoff will go directly into those watersheds we get our drinking water from, that our kids swim in, and that the salmon spawn in.”

It was absolutely urgent, he said, to take action. Stan asked people to call their county commissioners, attend the city council meeting next week, and volunteer to canvass locally.

Alice listened, nagged by a thought. She pulled out her phone and googled SupraGro. There it was. SupraGro had decimated local honeybee populations in those California and Nebraska towns—commercial outfits and hobby farms like hers. Even a research farm that was associated with the University of Nebraska. Thousands of hives had died. Millions of bees.

Alice had read about it on a bee blog, which linked to an article in the Washington Post. The bee part was buried at the bottom of the story about the lawsuits, which centered on drinking-water safety. The story said that the bees had been devastated either through the water contamination or the spray. Years later they hadn’t recovered, and losses continued year after year in those towns where the pesticide company still had a stronghold.

Alice heard the click of a camera next to her and saw Pete Malone snapping a photo of Stan and the crowd. She liked Pete, who had been in her AP English class senior year. He had been writing for the Hood River News for decades. Pete was always there asking questions and taking photos—the county fair, city council, the annual Wild Weiner Days and Dachshund Dash. Pete caught her eye and nodded.

Stan was wrapping up. He thanked everyone for coming and asked them to like the Facebook page for Hood River Watershed Alliance. As he finished, people turned to each other and started talking, for in Hood River, even environmental activism offered a chance to chat. She saw Stan shouldering his way through the crowd and was startled when he stopped in front of her.

“Hey, Alice,” he said. “Thanks for coming out. It’s nice to know that someone from the county is paying attention.”

“What? I— No, sorry. I was walking by and stopped to hear what you were talking about. I’m not here for the county or—”

Stan smiled at her and rocked back on his heels, his arms crossed over his clipboard.