GW:?Please don’t ask me to “journal.”
OM:?I think transcribing these sessions will be a good first exercise for you. How was your experience transcribing your last session?
GW:?Hellish. I hate my voice.
OM:?Why?
GW:?It’s my mother’s voice.
OM:?When we have three or four transcripts and you’re ready to go deeper, I’ll give you additional exercises.
GW:?You never told me what you’re writing. Is it a self-help book?
OM:?God, no. It’s a novel.
GW:?About a relationship coach?
OM:?It’s a campus novel set in New England. I tend to think of it as The Secret History meets Animal House.
GW:?Who’s the transcriptionist?
OM:?There isn’t one.
GW:?A Swiss woman?
OM:?Nope.
GW:?Maybe you’re writing the wrong book, Om.
OM:?Maybe you should write your own book, Greta.
GW:?Is that the lesson?
OM:?I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, actually. If you try it, be mindful of our confidentiality agreement. No transcripts. Don’t think for a second I won’t sue you. I have a very good lawyer—
GW:?Settle down.
OM:?You know you’ve been staring at my gong for the past fifteen minutes? Longingly, I might add.
GW:?Your dong?
OM:?[LAUGHS] Shall I give you a sound bath before you go?
GW:?Fine. Make it quick.
[GONG BATH: 10 MINUTES]
[END OF RECORDING]
21
The next morning, Greta woke to the high-pitched whining of insects. Not the scourge of mosquitoes that had visited her room the previous night—something larger, louder. She climbed out of bed and checked the antechamber—nothing. Pi?on growled at the floor. The noise vibrated beneath their feet. It was coming from the kitchen.
“Stay here,” she ordered Pi?on.
Outside her bedroom door, two bees greeted her and slow-danced near her face. They were drunk, bottom-heavy. It was their siblings she was likely hearing downstairs, and it sounded like they had a few, along with their mother, of course. Greta rushed downstairs.
Indeed, the kitchen was filled with bees, more bees than she’d ever seen, a swarm of perhaps a hundred thousand, twice the size of the previous colony. The hatch was hanging open, and so the bees were everywhere she looked. Thousands blanketed the windows from the inside, blocking the weak morning light, making the kitchen darker, but most were in the hive doing major construction of some kind. Others performed separate tasks or rested in various parts of the kitchen. One group seemed to be devouring leftover pork loin on the stove; another lounged on Sabine’s collection of chipped French dinnerware.
Greta stood perfectly still, afraid to draw attention to herself. Had they opened the hatch themselves?
“Mother of god,” Sabine said from the stairs. She was puffy eyed and dressed in men’s pajamas. “They sent scouts the other day, and now it appears the whole clan’s moving in. Hi, guys.”
Sabine looked happy, as if her kids were visiting for the week.
“Can we maybe close the hatch?” Greta asked. “So I can make coffee without getting killed?”
“They won’t attack you,” Sabine said, just as a bee landed on her arm. “Ow. Fuck, I just got stung.”
“Since when do bees eat meat?” Greta asked, pointing at the stove.
Sabine pulled out her phone and took a picture.
“Maybe they’re trying to get the taste of Raid out of their mouths.”
Oh god, the Raid. Greta had forgotten about that. They’d bombed the hive weeks ago, but there was probably still a good amount of residue. Was it only a matter of time before they all dropped dead? Would they be sweeping up dead bees until Christmas?
“Get dressed,” Sabine said. “We’re going to Gideon’s house. He’ll know what to do.”
* * *
GIDEON WAS THE BEEKEEPER who’d built the hatch the previous year. He lived with his enormous family on a farm two miles south, the exact address of which Sabine claimed to know, and yet they kept driving around, peering at houses.
“These people are back-to-the-land Christians,” Sabine said. “They have about seventeen kids, all homeschooled.”
“I can’t imagine beekeeping is that lucrative,” Greta said. “How do they survive?”
“They’re odd-jobber types. They keep bees, they farm, they figure it out. The Lord will provide and so on. Gideon’s the eldest.” She slammed on the brakes. “There it is.”
The property had a postapocalyptic vibe. There were bees everywhere, along with abandoned cars parked in every direction, doors open, flotsam spilling out of the back seats, clothes and shoes scattered all over the brown grass. Littered around the yard, rusted refrigerators and stoves, tractors and lawn mowers.
At the end of the driveway stood a large wooden house. A young man hopped off the sagging porch and approached them shyly. Jesus in a red bathrobe, his dark hair parted down the middle. Trailing behind him were three younger girls wearing prairie dresses. One girl had a squirrel on her shoulder; another petted something in her arms. A tiny kitten, Greta assumed, before noticing the hairless tail.
“Hey, Gideon,” Sabine said casually. “I probably owe you money, right?”
“You might,” Gideon said kindly.
Sabine pressed several twenties into his palm like he was a bookie or a doorman. He mumbled thank you.
“How’s it going with the bees?” he asked.
“Funny you ask,” Sabine said. “They all died. This was months ago. Long story, I won’t go into it. But now there’s a giant swarm at my house. They’re swarming the hive. We can’t even see out the windows, there’s so many.”
Gideon looked dubious. “Little late in the year for a swarm.”
“Problem is, there were maggots in the hive a while back.” Sabine shook her head at the memory. “Big ones. Terrifying.”
“Wax moths,” Gideon said. “I meant to tell you about that.”
Sabine coughed. “But here’s the thing: we wound up killing them with Raid.”
“But they’re harmless.” Gideon frowned. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because we’re assholes,” Sabine said, glancing at Greta.
“We panicked,” Greta said. “We sprayed Raid into the hive.”
“And watched them die,” Sabine said.
Sabine had left town shortly after, as Greta recalled. Greta, unable to get her head out of Big Swiss’s ass, had stayed put.
“It’s probably okay,” Gideon said. “But I’ll come have a look. I’ll swing by on my way to town.”
“Okey doke,” Sabine said. “Hurry, though. They’re taking over the house.”
* * *
GIDEON SHOWED UP practically naked in a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. No ventilated suit, no sir. No hat-and-veil combo, either, and no gloves. He carried a stick in one hand and a bee smoker in the other. The smoker was the size of a soda can and emitted less smoke than a cigarette. The stick looked like something he’d picked up off the ground.
Without hesitation, he walked over to the hive, set the smoker on the floor, and began poking around with the stick. The bees didn’t seem to mind, though what did Greta know? Maybe they were furious. Greta crouched behind an armchair and watched. He continued digging around, completely at ease, searching for god knows what.