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

screwing around on the roof. I’m responsible, man.”

Jake stared out across the yard, his lips pressed into a thin line. He shook his head and looked back at Harry.

“Look, Harry. I know it sounds fucked up, but I feel like I got another chance here. I mean, look, walking would be way easier than using this chair, right? But the weird thing is, there’s a lot about my life that I like way better than before.”

He paused. “I like myself better,” he said. “I like other people more.”

Harry nodded.

Jake ran his hands across the stubble on his head and looked out the window. Harry followed his eyes to the apiary, the air full of golden bullets.

“It’s like the bees saved me or something. I mean, so much of my life is still a fucking mess, but when I’m out in the apiary . . . Man, I just feel like I belong there, like I am part of it.”

Harry heard the younger boy say this without embarrassment. He was impressed and not a little jealous.

Jake met his eyes. “I want to stay here if I can. I’m going to help Alice. Whatever that means.”

Jake’s courage was contagious. What did he have to lose, anyway?

“Me too,” Harry said.

They were in this together. The thought fired him up, and then his enthusiasm dipped a notch. First things first.

“I’m going to the morgue before Alice gets back. Want to come?”

“Hells yeah! Road trip to the morgue!”

After breakfast they took the little pickup and let Cheney ride in the cab, his big body flopped across Jake’s lap with his nose smearing the window. The little engine puttered up the long driveway, through the orchards, and into town.

As they headed toward the bridge, Harry peered out the window at the sandbar.

“Kites up! I see two, three, maybe four. Oh, man! It wasn’t supposed to blow today. I told Yogi I would be there tomorrow.”

Jake laughed. “You’re obsessed, dude.”

Harry grinned and banged on the steering wheel with his palm. He felt like the new Harry again. “There’s nothing like it, man! I mean, I was a shit-show, flailing around in the water. But when I got up and rode? It was like the sickest longboard ride, but a hundred times better. So smooth. And watching those guys get big air? I can’t wait.”

Traffic slowed to a crawl behind a logging truck, and Harry gawked out at the river below, scanning the water for the big pink kite. The car behind him honked, and he jumped.

The morgue was located in a decrepit building in Bingen, a small town across the bridge from Hood River. One building housed every major civic office—mayor, police, taxes, health department, and the morgue—and was situated right next to the railroad tracks. Harry parked the truck as a train thundered by. Under the noise, Jake gestured that he would wait outside.

The dim hallway was lit by a dirty yellow light and smelled like wet matches. Harry peered at the directory and saw that the morgue was in the basement. He stepped into the narrow elevator, which jumped when the doors closed and creaked downward. Harry said a small prayer that he wouldn’t get trapped. After several long seconds, the elevator paused, bounced, and groaned open.

Harry saw a woman of indeterminate age sitting behind a low counter. The overhead light gave her skin a greenish cast. Her frizzy hair was the color of tuna fish salad. Her broad shoulders filled out a gray medical scrub top.

She glared at a computer screen and banged on a keyboard with her index fingers and didn’t look up as Harry approached. He waited, and the seconds stretched out as she continued to type. Harry leaned forward and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, I—”

Without looking at him, the woman held up one finger and kept typing.

Harry glanced around, looking for something to read, and found nothing. He shifted from foot to foot and listened to the clack of the keys and the hum of the lights. After a long minute, the woman let out a great sigh, pushed her wheeled chair back from the keyboard, and folded her pale arms over her chest. She narrowed her eyes at Harry. “Yes?”

“I— Um. I’m here to pick up my uncle. I mean his re-remains,” he stammered. “The name is Goodwin. Harold Goodwin?”

The woman exhaled through her nose, then looked back to the screen. Without a word, she rolled back to the desk and banged away at the keyboard.

Harry waited.

“ID,” she said tersely.

He jumped. “What?”

“Iden-ti-fi-cation,” she said, drawing the word out like she was speaking to a child. “Do you have your iden-ti-fi-cation?”

Harry struggled to pull out his wallet and dropped it on the floor. He fumbled for his driver’s license. She glanced down at it and pushed it back at him.

“Nope,” she said.

“Sorry?” Harry said. “It’s a New York license, but it’s current. See. The expiration date is right here.”

The woman shook her head. “You are not authorized to pick up Mr. Goodwin’s remains.”

“But, I called and they said I just needed ID and five hundred dollars?”

“Yes, and ‘they’ was me, but you are not authorized to pick up Mr. Goodwin’s remains.”

“Well—I mean. Who authorizes that?”

“Mr. Goodwin does,” she said, barely moving her lips.

“But—he’s dead,” Harry sputtered.

“Yes. I know. This is the morgue,” the woman said. “I’m very sorry that we can’t help you.”

She didn’t sound sorry at all.

“Why?”

“We can only release remains to authorized persons.”

She said “persons” like it had a “z” on the end.

“Who is authorized, then? Can you tell me that?”

The woman exhaled through her nose and glanced at the screen. “Lydia Romano.”

Harry brightened. “Oh, good! That’s my mom. But she lives in Florida. You can call her. Or I can call her.”

He cursed himself for not having a phone but knew he could borrow Jake’s.

“I’ll just grab my phone,” he said.

The woman wagged her head from side to side. “Authorized. Persons. Only.”

Harry felt his courage wilt. He just wanted to take care of this one simple thing for his mom. It