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

and bunched together. Stan stood off to one side, directing people to sit. Alice saw Jake pushing toward the front of the group. Cheney whined and strained against the leash. Jake looked over his shoulder.

“I want to be in front,” he said. “Hang on to Cheney for me, okay?”

He passed the leash to Harry and maneuvered the chair so he was front and center. Alice followed, and so did Harry, dragged along by Cheney, as well as Amri and Yogi the gentle giant. Alice saw Pete Malone snap a photo of them and she thought the five of them looked like the ringleaders of the ragtag band of protesters—beekeepers, orchardists, environmental conservationists, farm workers, and students. They held brightly colored signs that read “Hell no, SupraGro!” and “Protect Our Watershed.” Someone waved a clutch of helium balloons. The drums beat, and people sang “America the Beautiful.” Alice laughed as she looked around. It was like a party. That was probably not how it looked to the driver who crested the hill in a bright orange truck and lumbered toward the turnoff to Osaka’s orchard, where he was scheduled to begin spraying at 9:00 a.m.

Over the singing, Alice heard the truck’s jake-brake chugging as the driver slowed. She saw a look of alarm cross his face as he scanned the scene. He threw the truck into idle, stared down at the crowd, and pulled out his phone. A cheer went up, and Stan yelled at everyone to stay seated.

In the confusion that followed, Alice thought fuzzily that the driver had called Fred Paris. That couldn’t have been true. He had probably called his company to find out what he should do since he couldn’t drive his truck through a crowd of peaceful protestors, some of whom were minors.

Alice heard an engine approaching from behind. She turned and saw a line of trucks coming from the other direction. They drove onto the shoulder of the county road and around the protesters, kicking up dust, and parked between the spray truck and people sitting in the road. Doors slammed as men jumped out and stood in a line across the road. Alice saw Fred Paris climb out of his white Ford and stand with his hands on his hips. He glared at the crowd and then stalked over to the truck, motioning the driver down out of the cab.

Oregon had an open-carry law, and Alice saw more than one holstered gun. Several of the men had baseball bats. Some people who were sitting began to stand, and others pulled them back down. Their voices rose in confusion. Stan hadn’t said what to do in this sort of situation, probably because he hadn’t expected a mob of vigilantes. More trucks appeared and drove around the crowd, which sat in the middle of Fir Mountain Road, gamely trying to keep the sit-in going. Alice sat up taller and squared her shoulders. She could hear Stan’s voice admonishing everyone to remain calm, but she couldn’t see him. Someone started singing “Give Peace a Chance” again but trailed off when nobody joined in.

Fred stalked away from the truck driver and back to the line of men.

“Get the hell out of the road!” Fred yelled. “You’re obstructing private property!”

He signaled the line of men forward. They waded into the sitting crowd and began shoving and kicking everyone around them.

Alice heard someone yell that this was a peaceful protest. She saw Yogi jump up and lunge toward the interlopers. Someone shoved Harry, and Cheney reared up, barking. She watched Yogi reach down from his great height and sock Fred Paris in the face. Then she lost track of everyone. People were pushing and shoving to get out of the way. But more of Fred’s guys were coming in from the back. Time seemed to slow down. She fought to stand up, and someone elbowed her in the eye. She heard sirens, saw flashing lights, and then someone kicked her in the jaw as she struggled to keep her feet. She fell in the crush of bodies, grappling against them, trying to catch her breath. In the scrum, she looked out and saw Amri, the young woman with the green eyes and dark hair, swing her skateboard and bring it down on the shoulders of a man twice her size, and Alice laughed crazily.

•   •   •

Jake was lying on his side and halfway out of his chair. He tried to pull his head up. He’d lost sight of Amri. Where was Cheney? A large pair of hands reached down, pulled him into his chair, and righted it. Yogi, his long hair stringy with sweat, a bloody gash on his eyebrow, grinned at him.

“Dude! You gotta get outta here. These idiots are—”

A fist caught him in the mouth. Yogi’s head bounced, and he growled with joy and clobbered a shorter man. He grabbed Jake’s chair and moved him out of the fray.

“I’ll come back and get you!” he yelled before jumping back into the fight.

Jake looked for Noah, for Alice, for anyone. He couldn’t see them anywhere. People were punching and shoving and yelling. He didn’t recognize anyone he knew.

A hand came down on his shoulder, and he looked up to see a middle-aged man in a sheriff’s uniform scowling down at him.

“Put this guy in the second van!” the sheriff barked before moving on.

Ronnie appeared at the side of his chair, looking embarrassed.

“Sorry, man! I have to. He’s my boss. And my dad,” he said, and pushed Jake in his chair out of the crowd.

•   •   •

Right before the sheriff arrived, Harry realized the nasty men were succeeding in clearing a path to Randy Osaka’s driveway. The unfairness of it burned in his gut. The crowd hadn’t been prepared for a fight, but they were about to lose one. He saw Jake just outside the chaos. He saw Yogi swinging his big arms around with glee. He couldn’t see Alice or the dog. Cheney had yanked loose in the scuffle. Sirens blared,