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

bark was muffled by the plastic. Harry stood and approached slowly, grasped the container, and pulled. As it came free, Harry saw an enormous pair of ears, wide eyes, and a giant mouth, which the dog opened to reveal a huge set of teeth. Harry stepped back, and the dog exploded at him.

The big snout hit him first and then the paws pummeled his chest before stopping abruptly. When he opened his eyes, he saw the dog cantering away in a wide circle around the clearing. It turned on a dime and galloped back to Harry, threw its paws on his chest, and licked his face before running off again. Harry watched the big animal running in wide, happy circles. It tore into the woods toward the river and then loped back, soaking wet, and dropped at Harry’s feet with a soggy thump.

Harry had never been around dogs much, but this one seemed to be smiling. He reached down, tentative, to pet its head. The animal shoved its snout into Harry’s hand and snorted, then flipped over on its back, exposing matted fur and a pink belly. Harry patted it, and the dog wriggled on its spine. A squirrel scolded, and the dog jumped up and bolted away. Harry laughed, relieved, and realized he still needed to pee. As he reached into the fly of his now muddy long johns, he heard the sound of an engine and turned. A Jeep rumbled up the driveway and stopped. The seal on the door read “Hood River County Sheriff’s Department.”

The short man who stepped out was dark-haired and wore a neatly pressed brown uniform. He glanced at Harry, who still had his hand down his fly. He took it out and then didn’t know where to put it, so he clasped his hands behind his shirtless back. The officer reached into the car and pulled out a hat, which he placed on his head and straightened with both hands. It seemed too big and somehow made him look like a Boy Scout. He shut the Jeep door and marched up the driveway, his shiny shoes kicking up dust. The guy was Latino and about Harry’s age. He was handsome and had a super-clean shave. Harry fingered his upper lip regretfully.

“Good morning, sir,” the man said. “I’m a deputy with the Hood River County Sheriff’s Department.”

With two fingers, he extended a business card, which Harry took, glanced at, and then, having no pocket, closed in his hand. The deputy asked if this was Harold Goodwin’s residence.

“Yes,” Harry said, finding his voice, “he’s my uncle. Was my uncle.”

The man nodded, his face impassive. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir. We understand Mr. Goodwin passed.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “He’d been sick for a while, so . . .”

His voice trailed off as he followed the deputy’s gaze around the mess of the yard, the outhouse, the garbage pile, the crazy ladder.

“We’ve been trying to get in touch with your uncle for some time,” the man said. “I went to see him at Skyline the last time he was admitted. The county condemned this trailer in January, but your uncle refused to talk to me.”

He held up a piece of paper with a formal-looking stamp on it. “I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the premises. There’s a crew coming to pull it out.”

They’d be hauling the trailer to the landfill, he said. Harry should clear out anything he wanted to keep immediately.

His heart sank. So much for his plans to fix up the trailer. So much for a fresh start.

“But I—I don’t have anywhere else to live,” he said. He needed two weeks, he explained. He had just started a new job, and he’d have some money to get a place when he got paid.

The cop was unmoved and said there was nothing he could do about it. He shrugged and tucked the paper inside his jacket.

That shrug. Flickers of memory. Sam sitting in front of him during his one visit to the jail.

“You volunteered to drive, man,” he’d said, and shrugged.

The school principal picking up the phone to call his mother as Harry sat, snot running down his upper lip, insisting he hadn’t been the one stealing money from the little canteen at the junior high.

“Don’t be such a follower, Harry,” the principal had said.

Moira catching his eye at the barbecue and waving but not coming to talk to him.

Harry felt a small flame ignite in his chest. The flame formed a word, and the word was no. He was tired of being the nice guy and not getting a break. He just needed a break. Two weeks was all he needed.

He heard a thumping noise, and the dog thundered out of the woods behind the deputy, his body sleek and wet from the river. He tore between the two men, then back again, grazing their knees. The cop yelped, and Harry started to laugh, but then he saw the gun. A squirrel scolded, the dog disappeared, and the gun flashed in the sunlight. Harry’s eye followed the barrel as it whipped up to the sky and past his face. He closed his eyes.

The sound of the gunshot was deafening, and Harry put his hands over his ears as time slowed. When he opened them, the small guy was on his knees with his hat off and his face the color of paper.

“Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!” he said. “I didn’t hit you, did I? Did I?!”

Harry looked down at his bare arms and chest, which were streaked with mud from the dog, and shook his head.

The deputy stood and paced, swearing and clutching his hat. He said something about getting written up again and how they were going to dock his pay or fucking fire him this time. He was such an idiot, he said, clearly to himself and not to Harry.

“Thought it was a fucking wolf or a coyote or something!” he said, his voice rising. “I mean, they send me up