bee mine:

a divining game for bee-keepers' daughters

The Troublefields’ only neighbors were two natural gas wells named Cowabunga and King Kong. Some days they could light their tapwater on fire.

Behind the house was a hill and on the hill was a barn. The girls’ mother Karina was buried by the barn, her body a layer of earth above the Apache warriors slain by the Spanish avenging the bodies of their settlers killed by the Apache another layer down, and below them, fossils of fish and marine microorganisms from when this used to be a sea, compressed by heat and time into hydrocarbons and now being sucked back up to the surface by Cowabunga and King Kong.

There was no stone marking Karina’s grave, but Dagmar knew where she was.

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Dagmar’s Inkling

Dagmar Troublefield had been keeping bees in his barn for twenty years. His daughters Ida and Renaud collected it in metal pails. They ate honey with their oatmeal, their meat, their bread, and Dagmar put it in his coffee and whisky.

Dagmar sometimes thought he heard his wife Karina’s voice through the vibrating layers of bee drone but didn’t know what she’d be saying. They’d never talked much.

For years, Dagmar had sold honey at the Skelling Coop. When he heard about the world bee population decline, he knew he’d found his fortune. It had something to do with pesticides or cell phones or radio signals. He didn’t remember exactly. All he knew was that when the world ran dry of honey, he would be rich. He became paranoid that someone might steal their bees.

Stealing bees isn’t exactly easy, Ida told him, but he was resolute. Dagmar and the girls had a rotation to guard the barn every night with the rifle.

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Sometimes Dagmar would walk around the southern end of the barn to where Karina was buried. If he was certain the girls couldn’t see him, sometimes he would weep. Nobody knew Karina was allergic to bees until it was too late. Dagmar had found her in the barn, all puffed up.

He tried to be a good father to the girls, stern and immovable like his own daddy had been, but couldn’t help himself from bringing them lemon drops from town every Friday. Neither of the girls had the heart to tell him they hated lemon drops, so they buried them in shallow holes by the chicken coop.

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Bee Mine: A Divining Game for Bee-Keepers’ Daughters

• No hat or gloves allowed.

• Run inside the barn with a net.

• Think hard of your query. Keep eyes shut.

• Take one swoop at the bees with the net. Run out. Put the net to the ground.

• Count the bees. Even numbers mean yes. Odd numbers mean no. The more bees, the more emphatic the answer. (“And how!”)

• Let the bees fly away.

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Ida and Renaud seemed hewn of the same wood, something wiry and finely wrought. Both of them had golden eyes and neither smiled much. They didn’t have friends apart from each other, the bees, and the chickens.

Ida shot a bat once while she was on bee duty. It was on purpose, but she didn’t know why. She was surprised she hit it at all in the hazy early night. On the ground, it gave a final wheeze and died. She picked it up by the wing and buried it on the hill, layered above the old Spanish and Apache corpses and her mother’s body and all the lemon drops.

Ida braided Renaud’s dark walnut hair every morning. She liked the scent of the hair oil in her fingernails afterward. She would smell them all through the day without even realizing.

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Ida’s Scorpion

Ida Troublefield had a scorpion tattooed on the top of her left breast. Renaud did it for her with a safety pin. They broke open six pens to get enough ink. The pincers weren’t quite proportional, but Ida liked the way it looked.

Ida started washing dishes at the The Happy Hen Bar when she was nineteen and started bartending as soon as she was twenty-one. She liked it. Nobody messed with her. The Happy Hen was right off the highway, the western edge of Skelling. It was just a pale shack with ‘AR’ flickering in blue neon.

Renaud Troublefield liked to count. She knew how many dishes were in the cabinets, the number of doors at the school, how many times Dagmar had said Karina’s name. She knew the dimensions of every room in the house, measured in size six Reeboks. She recorded everything with precise drawings and numbers in her notebook.

Renaud Troublefield started sleeping with Joe Amato when she was seventeen. His chest was covered in black curly hair. He ran Amato’s Gas. It had a tackle shop in the back too. Joe was married to Minnie Jackson, the manager of Grand Hazard Saloon. Renaud did their laundry every week for extra money.

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A New Truck

One night a man pulled off the highway and stopped at The Happy Hen.

The air inside the bar was grey and thick. Ida was chewing a toothpick. She alternately stared out the front window or over at Renaud, who sat in a booth drinking root beer and doing her English homework from a textbook.

Ida’s gaze flicked over to the man as the door closed behind him. He was tall and wore a cowboy hat. His black beard was dreadlocked and his clothes were mismatched paisleys and leather. His eyes darted quickly around the room and his jaw clicked back and forth.

Someone steal your ‘B’? he joked as he sat on a barstool, nodding toward the ‘AR’ on the door.

Ida’s was wearing a loose tank top with palm trees on it. When she leaned over the counter, the man could see the edge of the scorpion tattooed at the top of her left breast. He grinned with his yellow teeth.

What do you know about bees? she said narrowly.

The man was confused but kept the coyote smile on his face.

Renaud looked up from her textbook, over at the man and Ida. She was wearing a bright blue hoodie zipped to her chin, the hood pulled around her face, her golden eyes glowing through the shadows.

Don’t worry about it, the man said, his eyes darting. Herradura and a lime.

Ida poured the shot and set it on the counter. Renaud turned the page in her textbook.

I’ve never seen you before, said Ida. What’re you doing in Skelling?

Passing through, sister.

Skelling isn’t through.

I go where the wind blows. Don’t know whether I’m going forward or backwards from here.

Nobody does, it seems.

Out the window was the storm blue of falling night. Renaud slurped her root beer through a straw.

Is that your Bronco out there? the man asked.

She lolled her toothpick across her lip and said nothing.

I’m looking to trade for my Toyota T100. I’m not running from cops or nothing, don’t worry, sister.

She walked to the end of the counter to see the parking lot.

What year?

Ninety-three.

I’ll think about it. Leave your number.

One time offer. Gotta be now. Runs great, sister. Don’t worry about it. Here’s the key. There’s an extra in the glove compartment.

Renaud, said Ida.

Renaud looked up.

Go outside and make sure that T100 starts and the engine’s not blown. Make sure it doesn’t have any flat tires or bodies in it neither.

Renaud nodded and went outside with the man. She kicked all the tires and climbed into the cab and started the engine, on tippy toes to reach the pedals. The man tried to talk to her, but she didn’t respond. When she came inside, Ida sat down at her booth.

Looks fine, said Renaud.

Those are good trucks, T100s. Don’t see them often. Plus the transmission’s going on the Bronco.

I know.

How many miles.

163,560.

Ida whistled through her teeth. Well. That V6 will go for another 120.

Renaud nodded. She opened her textbook.

Ida walked back behind the bar. The man set the key and the title on the counter and gave his coyote smile. Ida pulled the Bronco key from her keychain and the title from her wallet. She was a little drunk, always was at work; free and made the time pass.

Registration’s in the glove compartment. Emergency brake’s out, so park it in gear, she told the man. They each signed a title.

Thanks, sister.

She extended her hand. Ida.

He took it. Ulysses. You got a payphone here?

Around the side.

He let out a long breath, breaking his coyote smile for the first time, and rubbed his eyes.

Bathroom?

Ida pointed.

On the door of the women’s bathroom was a big spraypainted hen and on the men’s bathroom door was a rooster. Above the urinal in the men’s room was an embroidered sign that said, Stand close. It’s shorter than you think.

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Ida shuffled downstairs in a ragged terrycloth robe and her short hair sticking out sideways. Renaud was at the stove, scrambling eggs. On the windowsill were pickle jars full of honey and from the ceiling swayed sacks of garlic.

Good morning Ida, said Renaud.

Ida kissed the side of Renaud’s head, smelling her. Mornin, she said. She rummaged for a jar in the cupboard and took a long drink. She shuffled to the table.

I hope that’s tea, said Dagmar. He was reading the comics and eating toast.

Sure is. Lemme have the funnies.

You can have them when I’m good and done.

Gimme the other page. You don’t care about any of them but Beetle Bailey and Hagar anyway.

Renaud scraped eggs onto their plates and Dagmar handed Ida the comics without looking up. Renaud peered over Ida’s shoulder at the puzzles.

D-E-R-A-H-L, murmured Renaud, frowning.

Renaud, these don’t even taste like eggs, said Ida with her mouth full.

Daddy said I had to put seven cloves in, said Renaud, sitting cross-legged in her chair.

Dagmar and the girls were on a garlic regimen so the bees wouldn’t want to sting them. Ida told him that bees wouldn’t give a damn, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Not after what had happened to their mother.

Eat your eggs, Ida, said Dagmar. Where’d that truck come from anyhow?

I killed a man, said Ida. Renaud flicked a crumb of toast at her. Dagmar salted his eggs and said nothing.

HERALD, said Renaud. Next, please.

Ida glanced down at the paper. Uh, D-R-O-W-T-U-N-E.

Drowtune, hmm.

Dagmar wiped his mustache and stood. He put on his Stetson.

Don’t forget to smoke the bees out today. I’m going to pick up the new batch. See you later, girls.

Bye, Daddy. UNDERTOW, Ida.

The door clattered after Dagmar, the wind snapping it like a belt and blowing through the kitchen, adding another layer of orange dust.

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It’s best not to dress like a skunk or a bear when approaching bees. They’re natural predators. Light colors and soft fabrics are advisable.

Renaud squirmed. I’m stuck, she said.

Ida pulled the dress over Renaud’s head and let it fall, a black crumple on the orange ground. Tiny bumps rose on Renaud’s back where her sister’s fingers grazed her skin. It was only eleven in the morning but already the day was hot. The dry air drank their sweat before it could drip. Renaud took a white t-shirt from between her knees and pulled it over her head. She hopped into a pair of big jeans that used to belong to Dagmar.

Renaud tied her bandana across her mouth and the two of them put on floppy sun hats. Ida picked up the smoker.

Pine needles, she yelled over the high bee hum.

Renaud loaded the needles. Ida lit them and pumped the bellows. The smoke makes the bees gorge themselves on honey; then they’re pacified and won’t sting.

Ida walked to the barn and pointed the smoker inside. She let the smoke pour in, with Renaud reloading needles. Once the bees were full and sleepy and their droning silenced, the girls ran into the barn to scoop the honey with big wooden spoons into pails and gather it dripping from the ceiling.

Outside, the hum slowly resuming, they sat cross-legged sharing a honeycomb. Renaud took off the t-shirt and wiped the honey from her legs and arms. Ida took the t-shirt and handed Renaud the honeycomb. She wiped Renaud’s back and then her own face. Renaud stared up at the cloudshapes.

Do you ever divine like we used to? asked Renaud. You know, Bee Mine?

No.

How come?

Ran out of questions.

Renaud finished the honeycomb. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Joe Amato wants to buy your new truck, she said.

Ida didn’t look up. She stared at the little hairs around Renaud’s ankles.

Yeah?

He’s expanding Amato’s Gas. Farnold Watts is opening that new gas station. Joe wants to make his better than Farnold’s. He wants to start selling snacks and cigarettes at the station. He could use the truck to haul things. He only has that old Gremlin of his. He saw you got that T100 and told me to ask you.

Ida picked up a pebble and flicked it down the hill.

Tell him I’m not selling it.

Renaud was silent.

You see him last night?

Yes.

I hope you’re being careful.

Careful?

You know… said Ida, looking away, flicking another pebble.

The door clattered below and Dagmar’s voice came up from the bottom of the hill.

Girls! You all done up there?’

Yes, Daddy! Renaud called out.

Minnie Jackson. She’s got a wicked bone. You watch out for her.

Minnie’s always nice to me.

It’s not good to go in with married men.

I know, Renaud said quietly, staring at her sneakers.

The sun glazed the honey onto the two girls. They moved in stiff silence down to the house as the bees came to life behind them.

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What Only the Chickens Knew:

Ida didn’t care if she ever left Skelling. In fact, she’d rather not. She’d rather there was no place else and no one else, just her and Renaud in their windy white wooden house and maybe a few chickens for good measure. Ida thought she was being very patient, but sometimes she didn’t know how much longer she could wait for Renaud to grow out of this bullshit with Joe Amato, for Dagmar to grow old and die, for her to save enough money to own The Happy Hen herself and sell all the goddamn bees.

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Ida looked up Joe Amato in the phonebook. She told him she’d trade her truck for his Gremlin. She’d drive it to his house tonight. It was Renaud’s night on bee duty.

Ida and Joe Amato traded keys and titles with minimal words spoken. There’d always been a mutual dislike. She drove his car straight to Farnold Watts’ new gas station. She drove it into all the half-built pumps and then the front window. She wiped her fingerprints off the wheel and left the car there. She took out her lighter and burned the title she’d signed. She walked the two miles back to Joe and Minnie’s house. She’d kept the extra key for the truck. Joe had left the title in the glove compartment, stupid oaf. Ida smiled to herself. She checked that all the lights in the house were off and then drove the truck away.

She was at The Happy Hen in time for her shift and called the cops to report vandalism at Farnold Watts’ new gas station. She said it looked like Joe Amato’s car and hadn’t he seemed a tad ticked at the new gas station moving in, taking business from Amato’s Gas, and didn’t he always drink a bit more than he should? She would know. She worked at the bar.

He was arrested that night.

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Meanwhile, Renaud was running through the barn holding a net and taking a swoop at the bees. She had a query. It was night and she scared the bees since she had no smoke and was dressed in black. They stung her face and she stumbled. She curled up in the sticky darkness, but they kept stinging her legs and back. She screamed but couldn’t hear herself over the high hum of the bees and then the sound seemed to her like singing, a woman’s voice, a lullaby in a strange language.

Dagmar found her at dawn.

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The Bees Never Lie

When Ida got home from the bar, Dr. Apodaca’s station wagon was parked outside their house. Ida paused for a moment and then walked very slowly inside. She wondered if Dagmar had up and died.

The kitchen was empty. She heard voices from Renaud’s room.

Renaud was lying on the bed and Dr. Apodaca was standing beside it. Dagmar was at the window, staring out at the white dawn light streaming in. Renaud was drinking a glass of water.

What happened, asked Ida.

We thought she was dead, said Dagmar.

She just woke up ten minutes ago, said Dr. Apodaca.

Ida, Renaud said, propped up on the bed, her head pink and wobbling. I was doing Bee Mine. I got stung four hundred sixty-four times. It’s an even number, so it’s a ‘Yes.’ And how!

Ida stared at her sister, bloated and blooming, her eyes glowing woozily through the puffed flesh.

Lay back down, Renaud, said Dr. Apodaca.

Renaud did. She reached out her arm toward Dagmar.

Daddy, come here, please. Now that Ida’s here I can tell you.

Dagmar took her hand.

Daddy, I’m pregnant.

No, honey, that was bees that stung you, said Dagmar, half-chuckling.

I know that. But I am pregnant. Tell him, Ida.

I don’t know nothing, said Ida. Her knees went stiff.

Tell him the bees never lie, said Renaud, her eyelids drooping.

What the hell is she talking about? asked Dagmar.

It’ll be a boy, sighed Renaud and fell into a heavy sleep.

Dagmar walked back to the window and frowned at the pale outline of the full moon on the morning sky. Dr. Apodaca nodded to Ida and quietly walked out the door. Ida looked at the room, at Dagmar’s red hand on the lace curtains, at the morning slipping through the window, lingering around his shoulders then rushing to Renaud, the light dancing up and down her body, her pink skin softly illuminated. Ida opened and closed her hands and then put them in her pockets. She leaned against the doorway and stared at her sister’s sleeping smile.

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From Cricket’s Almanac, a novel about the strange little town of Skelling, NM.

If you’d like to spend more time in Skelling, please visit: origin stories, one day the mule died, the rite of possession, season of the whore, scales fell from my eyes, to be a lowlife