The Honey Bus - Meredith May

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whispers floated out the gap at the bottom of the closed bedroom door. It wasn’t right that they could talk about him but I couldn’t—he was my father after all. I wasn’t dumb; I’d figured out that Mom and Dad were having a fight and this wasn’t a “visit” to California, but that didn’t make my dad bad and my mom good. He was my dad, and he was coming back. Granny had everything all wrong.

      The sun was low in the sky, and the honey bus looked stage-lit with orange and yellow bulbs. Through the windows I could make out the shapes of three men crowded inside with Grandpa, passing honeycomb frames between them and shouting over the rat-a-tat of the machines inside.

      I crept forward to get a closer look. The men had taken off their shirts in the heat and tied them to the overhead handrail. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but could tell they were swapping jokes, slapping one another on the back and doubling over with laughter. The men had an action-figure quality to them, their barrel chests rippling and shining with sweat as they hefted hive boxes and stacked jars of honey into towering pyramids. I studied their every move, even how their Adam’s apples bobbed with each swig of beer, and I silently willed them to wave me inside with a swing of their Popeye arms. These were the Big Sur friends Grandpa grew up with, the ones who had taught him to rope cattle and dive with a snorkel for the iridescent abalone shells that I had found in the backyard. These were big men with big hands who showed Grandpa how to build log cabins from redwood trees, how to hunt wild boar, or clear landslides off the coast highway with heavy equipment. They were living Paul Bunyans, the Big Sur mountain men who fended for themselves in the wild.

      I patted down the tall weeds and made a little burrow for myself where I could sit and watch them work. They used thick, heavy knives blackened with burnt sugars to gently slice open wax-sealed honeycomb, exposing the orange honey underneath. They lowered honeycomb frames into the massive spinner, and cranked a handle protruding above it from left to right, using two hands and all their body weight to shift its position. I saw one of the men yank on a pull-cord several times and heard the lawn-mower motor sputter to life. The flywheel started to rotate and whine, and as it picked up speed, the bus began to rock slightly from side to side. The pump kicked in and forced the honey from the bottom of the extractor, up through the overhead pipes, and directed it to cascade in two streams into the holding tanks. It was nothing short of miraculous; like striking gold.

      I stayed in my spot until the sun slipped behind the ridgeline and the crickets came out to sing. The men flicked on the construction lights in the bus and hung them from the handrails so they could keep working into the night.

      I was drawn to the bus like a moth to flame, by an irrepressible longing that I felt as a physical ache, a gnawing in my belly to disappear into the secluded protection of an enclosed space like a submarine, or a bus. The honey bus looked like it was warm inside, and safe. I wanted the men to invite me to join their secret club, and to teach me how to make something beautiful with my hands. My pulse sped up when I watched them work together in a harmony of familiar dance movements, passing frames of dripping honeycomb between them and taking turns capturing the honey into glass jars as it flowed out of the spouts. I could tell the bus made them happy, and I believed it could do the same for me.

      I was struck by a certainty, from some deep place inside myself, that something important was waiting for me in the bus, like the answer to a question that I hadn’t yet asked.

      All I had to do was get inside.

       3

       The Secret Language of Bees

       1975—Late Spring

      I didn’t limit my snooping to the outdoors. I brazenly opened drawers, rifled through closets, and took a keen interest in what Granny and Grandpa had tucked away inside the house. Because my grandparents were old people, their stuff was old, too, and I enjoyed hunting for rare artifacts forgotten in the far corners of their history. I found arrowheads that Grandpa had unearthed while digging pipelines in Big Sur, and inside the cedar chest I dusted off a stack of LIFE magazines with JFK, Elvis, and the first astronauts on the covers. The kitchen cupboards held a boneyard of cooking gadgets that Granny had tried once and then deemed ridiculous.

      One morning I dug out an Osterizer blender from deep in the back of the cabinet under the sink. I wedged the glass pitcher onto the base, put the lid on, pressed one of the buttons and it whined to life. For a bored girl with few toys, I suddenly possessed this most miraculous machine and a whole kitchen packed with mystifying things pickled in mason jars. I opened the pantry and selected a jar containing a bright green Jell-O-looking substance, unscrewed the lid and sniffed: mint jelly. That could taste good—I liked mint gum, as well as jelly on toast—so I scooped it into the blender and added milk. Figuring I needed more than two things to make a smoothie, I did another quick scan of the kitchen until my eyes rested on the cereal boxes lined up on top of the fridge. I dragged the stool over and pulled down the corn flakes, thinking it would make my drink thicker. I pressed the button for the highest speed and whirred it into a concoction resembling runny, lumpy toothpaste, which I poured into a ceramic mug and brought to Grandpa, who was at the dining room table watching the birds peck at seed he’d sprinkled on the deck railing.

      Grandpa would eat anything. He chewed chicken gizzards, said cow tongue was so delicious it put hair on his chest, and devoured artichoke leaves whole. He’d even developed a technique to pull every kernel clean off an ear of corn, using only his lower teeth and running the cob back and forth before his mouth like the carriage return on a typewriter. I presented him with my milkshake. He took a swig and then needed a few seconds to come up with an adjective.

      “Refreshing!” he said, chasing it down with coffee. “What’s it called?”

      “Mintshake,” I said.

      He nodded thoughtfully and strummed his fingers on the table, like a gourmand considering a tasting note.

      “Let’s share it,” he said, sliding the cup back toward me.

      It was a dare, all right. I could tell Grandpa was trying to keep a straight face as I reached for it, but just as I was about to take a drink, a low hum distracted us from our standoff. Grandpa reflexively turned toward the sound and tracked something flying in the air. I followed his gaze until I saw what he did—a honeybee hovering over the dining room table. It was suspended in the air with its legs dangling beneath its body, keeping itself in place by beating its wings so fast they became invisible. I set the cup down and leaned back in slow motion. The bee, watching my every move, began to slowly come toward me, flying in slow arcs left and right, inching closer with each swing.

      My muscles tensed, and I willed the bee to please, please, go take a hike. But it was attracted to the sugary smell inside my cup, and determined to have a taste. When it was about to land on the rim, I swatted at it.

      The bee emitted a shrill zzztttt! in response, and zoomed in an anxious circle above our heads.

      Grandpa jumped out of his chair and grabbed my forearm so tightly I could feel him pressing bone. I startled, frightened by the sudden aggressiveness of his touch. He’d never gotten mad at me before; he always fake-spanked Matthew and me when Granny forced him to punish us for misbehaving. He leaned toward me until we were nearly touching noses and locked eyes. His words were deliberate and forceful, each one like the clap of a church bell.

      “You. Must. Never. Hurt. Bees.” He didn’t look away until he was certain his words had landed in my brain. I must have done something truly awful for Grandpa to scold me, but I was confused. Bees stung people. They were pests, like mosquitos. Who cares if I smashed one? Wouldn’t I be doing the right thing by protecting myself?

      “It was going to sting me!” I protested.

      Grandpa’s eyebrows sprang up in disbelief. “Why do you say that?”

      The bee was now slamming itself into the window trying to fly away. Its buzz rose to a shriek. I thought perhaps we should be having this conversation in

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