The Return(22)

Now, we all have secrets. Despite what I’d told her about my past, I was still a stranger, so there was no reason to expect her to share whatever hers were. But as I continued to reflect on the situation, I couldn’t shake the notion that Natalie was less concerned about what her secrets might reveal than about the guilt her secrets seemed to wield over her.





Chapter 5





Here’s a lesson that was ingrained in me by my mom starting at a very young age: If you’re expecting guests, then you’d better clean the house.

I’ll admit that when I was a kid, it didn’t compute. Why would anyone care whether all my toys had been put away in my bedroom or if I made my bed? It wasn’t as though any politicians or lobbyists made their way up the stairs to my bedroom while my parents were throwing their parties. They were too busy sipping wine and downing martinis and feeling very, very important. I remember vowing that when I was older, I wouldn’t care about such things. But lo and behold, with Natalie’s visit looming as a possibility, my mom’s directive came roaring back.

Long story short, after I finished my run and other exercises, I tidied up the house, ran the vacuum, wiped the counters and sink, cleaned the bathroom, and finally made the bed. Washed myself, too, while singing in the shower, and then spent the rest of the morning catching up on my reading. The section in the book I was perusing dealt with the effectiveness of music as an adjunct to therapy, and as I worked my way through the material, I remembered the years I’d spent playing the piano. In all candor, I’d always had a bit of an on-again, off-again relationship with the instrument; I played throughout my childhood, ignored it completely while at the Naval Academy, picked it up again while I was in medical school, and then didn’t so much as tap a key during my residency. In Pensacola, I played a lot, as I was lucky enough to rent a place with a beautiful 1890 B?sendorfer in the lobby of the building; but Afghanistan was another music-free period, as I doubted whether there was a single piano left in the entire country. Now, with missing fingers, playing like I once did was impossible, which made me suddenly realize how much I missed it.

When I finished studying, I closed the book, got in the car, and made a trip to the grocery store. I stocked up on the essentials and made myself a sandwich when I got home. By the time I rinsed the plate, it was coming up on one o’clock. Still uncertain as to whether Natalie would show up but hoping for the best, I headed out to the honey shed.

Like the house and the barn, it wasn’t much from the outside. The tin roof was rusting, the cedar planking had turned gray over the decades, and hinges supporting the large double doors screeched as I pulled them open. After that, however, the similarities ended; inside, the honey shed was like a museum. There was electricity, plumbing, and bright fluorescent lights; the walls and ceiling were insulated, and the concrete floor had a drain in the center. To the left was a stainless-steel sink with a long hose attached to a faucet, as well as shallow supers and queen excluders for the beehives, stacked neatly atop each other. On the right was a plastic garbage can filled with kindling for the smokers, next to deep shelves crammed with dozens of jars of honey. Directly ahead was all the other equipment and gear necessary for an apiarist: five-gallon plastic buckets with honey gates, a plastic wheelbarrow, crates filled with extra jars, and rolls of self-adhesive labels. On the back wall, supported by hooks, were nylon strainers, honey sieves, uncapping knives, two smokers, lighters, a dozen bee suits, and gloves and hoods in various sizes. There were also two extractors, which were used to spin the honey from the combs. I recognized the manual one I used to crank until I could barely move my arm, as well as the newer electric one my grandfather had purchased after his arthritis set in, and both appeared to be in perfect working order.

As for the suits, I knew I’d find ones that would fit both Natalie and me. He had so many because he was always willing to educate people—often groups—who were interested in learning about the bees. Most people weren’t comfortable visiting the hives without a bee suit; my grandfather, on the other hand, never bothered to put one on.

“They won’t sting me unless I want ’em to,” he would say with a wave. “They know I take care of ’em.”

Whether that was true or not, I don’t remember him ever getting stung while tending the hives. He was, however, a believer in the Southern folklore that bee venom could mitigate the pain of his arthritis, so every day without fail, he’d collect two bees. While holding them by the wings, he’d taunt them into stinging him, once in each knee. The first time I saw him do it, I thought he was crazy; as a physician, I now understand that he was ahead of his time. In controlled clinical studies, bee venom has actually been shown to relieve arthritis pain. If you don’t believe me, look it up.

I’d tended to the hives so many times in the past that the next steps were automatic. I filled the smoker with kindling, collected a lighter and an uncapping knife, as well as a pair of suits, hoods, and gloves. On an impulse, I also took down two jars of honey from the shelves and brought everything to the front porch. I shook the dust from the suits and hoods before draping them over the railing, stacking everything else on the small table near the rockers. By then, it was a quarter past one. Things weren’t looking good on the Natalie front, but even worse was the idea of her discovering me waiting for her on the porch if she did show up. A man has got to have some pride, after all.