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

here into the damn woods by myself and this hijo de puta comes flying—!”

Then he lapsed into rapid Spanish that Harry couldn’t understand.

Harry felt bad for the guy and started to reassure him, to tell him it was fine, that nothing had happened. That was what he would normally have done. But then that flame came back, the small coal in his chest. No, it wasn’t fine. He could have been shot! He just needed two lousy weeks. And he still needed to pee. He watched the cop stop pacing to check the safety again on his gun. He felt some kind of resolve settle in him then. Harry squared his shoulders and looked the guy in the eye, stating his case again. Please, he said.

The deputy shook his head. “I’m really sorry, man. I wish I could help you, but the crew is already scheduled. And I’m new. Nobody listens to me. They think I’m a moron. And if anyone finds out about the gun—”

He looked like he might cry and looked away. He really did seem sorry. Harry asked him to wait a minute, saying that he had to take a leak. While he was peeing, he looked around the yard, at the trailer, and at the Schwinn, and he formed a plan. He walked back to the deputy, who was leaning against the Jeep and turning his hat over and over in his hands.

“Can you give me a ride to town?” Harry asked.

The guy sighed and looked out toward Highway 141.

“I can’t take you now. I have a meeting at the Mt. Adams Ranger Station. But I can swing back by here in a couple of hours, on my way down the hill.”

Harry nodded.

“Thanks.”

The deputy left and Harry gathered his stuff, which didn’t take long.

While he waited for the guy to return, he sat on the steps with his notebook and made a list about his goals for the new job. The dog returned from its sprint through the woods and curled up at his feet. They both dozed in the afternoon sunshine.

When the deputy reappeared, Harry climbed into the front seat of the Jeep and slung his backpack at his feet. From Uncle H’s trailer, he took only two of his uncle’s wool shirts, the bird book, and the cribbage board. He cast a final look back at the trailer as they pulled away. It would soon be in the landfill. The garbage pile would be raked clean. The angry raccoons would return in the dark and find nothing.

The dog paced happily in the back seat, thrilled to be on the move. The deputy, who said his name was Ronnie, had agreed to take him to the animal shelter after he dropped Harry off.

Harry looked out the window as the Jeep sped down the highway. He would go to work. Then he would figure out where to stay. He thought of Yogi. He leaned back in the seat and felt the breeze on his face. He asked himself what his place was within this beautiful atmospheric moment—just this one. Right here. Right now. He waited, listening to the universe, listening hard. But there was no answer.

15 Queen Right

There is one trait in the character of bees which is worthy of profound respect. Such is their indomitable energy and perseverance, that under circumstances apparently hopeless, they labor to the utmost to retrieve their losses and sustain the sinking State.

—L. L. LANGSTROTH

Honeybees have been clocked flying as fast as twenty miles per hour—a speedy clip for an insect that weighs about a tenth of a gram. But that is nothing compared to the velocity at which news travels in a small town. Alice found the Hood River News propped on her desk in the morning. Pete’s front-page photo had captured Alice and Stan holding the clipboard between them like a couple cutting a wedding cake. Stan was smiling, and Alice was not. The headline read, “Watershed Alliance Rallies against Cascadia Contract.” Alice was identified as Alice Holtzman, county resident. Someone, probably Nancy, had drawn a smiley face over their heads in ballpoint pen.

Alice scanned the story, which said nothing she didn’t already know. Pete detailed the watershed group’s objections to the county contract with SupraGro and briefly mentioned the lawsuits other communities had filed against the company in the past. There was no quote from her, although the caption said she was among other “concerned citizens” at the rally. Thanks for nothing, Pete. The county had offered no official comment, the story read.

She dropped the paper into the recycling, sat down, and turned on her computer. The door to Bill’s office opened, and Nancy came out, giggling as she closed it. She grinned at Alice. Nancy was forty-six years old but would wear that naughty little girl face to her grave, Alice thought.

“Good morning, Miss Front Page!” she said, wiggling her fingertips at Alice. “It’s all paparazzi and tall dark strangers these days, eh?”

“You’re here early, Nance,” Alice said. Nancy never got to work before Alice.

Nancy pointed over her shoulder at Bill’s door. “He’s in this morning.”

She opened her email and saw the message: all-staff meeting, Wednesday 9:30 a.m. It was dated 7:36 p.m. yesterday. Since when were they supposed to be checking email after hours?

Her stomach dropped as she read the message. All county employees were expected at a mandatory review of compliance agreements with privately held stakeholders. It was about the watershed protest, Alice thought. Alice had been through this before when the Cascadia oil train had derailed in Mosier and threatened the county drinking water, orchard irrigation, and the entire watershed along that stretch of river. The normally polite citizens were angry and had staged a protest downtown. The county lawyers had convened a similar meeting then to remind them that as county employees, they were bound to silence respecting local contracts. Translation: don’t talk