The Music of Bees Eileen Garvin (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

they were close, Uncle H had helped him. The old guy accepted him as someone to play cards with and share a Spam sandwich with. Harry hadn’t needed much more than that. He’d never had many friends, despite the fact that his mother was always telling him that he needed to meet people.

“You don’t have to like them that much, Harry. You just need to hang out with people. It’s normal, son.”

But he never knew what to say to people. Marty and Sam had been his friends since high school just because they were in the same class, and look how that had turned out. Years ago, there was Shane, who lived with his mother in the same apartment complex as Harry.

Go play with Shane, his mother would say. Harry didn’t like Shane. Then Shane smashed up his Hot Wheels collection—bringing a heavy rock down on the roofs of the little model cars—and wouldn’t stop, so Harry socked him in the nose. Shane ran to his mother, and Harry got a spanking. His track record with friendships hadn’t improved much since then. But he knew his mother was right. He needed to make friends. He just didn’t know how.

Harry rode slowly toward the phone booth in BZ, dreading the conversation with his mother. How to explain why he hadn’t been with Uncle H when he died? What had he told her about his job, the imaginary one he had before the real one? His white lies almost always tripped him up.

“Jesus! Just tell the truth, Harry!” Sal would bellow. “It’s easier to remember, kid!”

But Harry didn’t have to explain anything. He could hear his mother crying as she accepted the charges for the call. She told him she was so glad that he was there. She would have felt terrible if Uncle H had died alone. Family was family, and Harry had done a great thing reminding him that he had people.

It cheered Harry to listen to his mother’s version of things. It was all technically true. After all, he had gone to see his uncle. Even though Uncle H was unconscious by the time he arrived, maybe he knew Harry was there with him. Maybe it helped. Harry told his mother about the morgue. He told her that he would pick up Uncle H’s remains. She blew her nose.

“He was such a kind man. Harry, I wish you’d met him when he was younger. Look, son, I’ll come out there soon, and we can scatter Uncle H’s ashes together. That will be nice, won’t it?”

Harry hung up the phone and stood straighter. He tipped his head back and looked up at the black dome of the sky—star-studded and brilliant. He had been there for his uncle, sort of. He would start his new job, and things would be okay. He would work hard. He would be reliable. Thing were going to be different. He could feel it.

Riding up the highway, he entered the corridor of tall trees, and the dark swallowed him up. Harry forced himself to trust that the road was in front of him as he rode the rickety old bicycle along in the night. He thought of the dead animal he’d seen on the shoulder and shuddered. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. To distract himself, he thought about what he would buy with his first paycheck—pizza, mac and cheese, some of the Spam Uncle H had got him liking. A six-pack of beer, maybe. When he reached the bumpy driveway, he got off his bike and walked to the trailer, trying to ignore the sensation that he was being followed. He stood in the darkness and tried to shake it off, but he imagined someone watching him as he climbed the ladder. From the doorway, he looked into the woods and willed himself to see whatever might be out there. Nothing. Then a twig snapped, and a bird startled into flight in the dark. Harry felt a streak of fear knife down his spine. He closed the thin door and locked it and put a pillow over his head. It took him a long time to fall asleep and he slept badly, waking every hour or so thinking he heard something rustling around outside the trailer. He got up at dawn for a glass of water and finally fell into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, the woods were quiet. The previous day’s events came at him out of order, like cabinet doors popping open—the deli-samples lady frowning, the bees falling out of the air, Yogi with his eyes closed, the kid with the mohawk, the burrito man, his uncle struggling to breathe, the empty hospital bed. He sat up and swung his legs over the bunk. The catfish clock said it was after 1:00 p.m.

He looked at himself in the mirror, his shirtless skinny torso above sagging long johns. He stood up straighter and took a deep breath. This was the first day of a new life, he pledged to himself. He would fix this place up—get the water going again and rewire the electricity. He could start over here. He would save up and get a car. He would meet people. He thought of Yogi and the kite beach. Why not? Maybe it wasn’t so hard to make friends. He opened the door and climbed down the ladder to take a whiz.

Something shifted in the trash pile, and a shape moved toward him with an animal swiftness. Cougar? Coyote? Rabid raccoon? It was large and white and brown. It was that thing lurking in the woods last night. He was sure of it.

Harry yelped, scrambled for the ladder, and lost his footing. He heard a strange whining sound. He turned to see the creature standing stock still. It had a broad brindled body, large paws, and a long, thick tail. Where a head should have been there was a large plastic bucket labeled “Premium Chicken Feed.” The dog’s