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  • Keeping
  • Thomas Dodson (bio)

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Photo by Patrick Gaudin

[End Page 20]

It was a humbling thing, asking for help like this, needing it so badly. But removing his hat, brushing flakes of snow from brim and crown, Guy knew there was no other way. His neighbors' fields, already stripped of corn and soybeans, would soon be a single plain of snow, patches of winter rye the only green for acres. [End Page 21] Cold winds would blow freely across all that flatness, gathering strength until they reached the stand of pines at the edge of his apiary. The trees would provide a break, and he could wrap the hives in tar paper to keep out the frost, but it wouldn't be enough. His bees, what was left of them, they wouldn't survive an Iowa winter. He needed to take them west.

He'd been standing on the porch of Taylor's place, weighed down with what he meant to ask, when he heard the baby crying. It wailed and wailed, a helpless thing, full to the top with need. When it finally hushed, he opened the screen and knocked. Taylor's wife answered. She had the baby with her, his head covered in wisps of fine brown hair, face pressed to her breast, sucking away. Guy coughed and looked down at his shoes.

"Come in," Andrea said, unconcerned. "Taylor's out back, finishing up."

He followed her inside, ducking to avoid the transom. Forty-odd years of lifting supers filled with honey, each box heavy as a newborn calf, had stooped his shoulders. But all told, work in the beeyard had done him good. He hadn't dwindled like other men his age, was still broad-backed and tall. He knew to move carefully in these old farmhouses.

In the dining room, his eyes were drawn to the glass-windowed cabinet. It was built to house pickled beets and bottles of homemade jam, but Taylor's wife had stocked it with books, their spines emblazoned with words like "feminist," "gay and lesbian," "queer." He could remember a time when it would have been dangerous to have such books where people could see them. "Ain't much difference," his father had said, "between a cocksucker and a communist."

"You're in your Sunday best," Andrea said. "Business in town?" She lowered herself into a chair and settled the baby on her lap.

"The bank. Every once in a while, they like to bring you in, turn you upside down, see if anything falls out."

She smiled politely. In truth, it was only for this visit that he'd traded his work boots for Oxfords, set aside his overalls, and retrieved his suit from the back of the closet. He'd worn it last ten years ago, at Alma's funeral.

The back door clattered shut, and Taylor called from the kitchen, "Something got at one of the hives. Scat on the ground and some bees chewed and spat out."

"In here," Andrea said. "Guy stopped by."

"Oh, yeah?" Taylor said cheerfully. She strode into the room, wiping her hands on the front of her jeans, the cuffs still tucked into her socks. [End Page 22] She placed a hand on Andrea's shoulder, bent down and kissed the baby's head. The chair next to Andrea was stacked with papers. Taylor cleared them and sat down.

"Should've phoned first," Guy said, shifting in his seat.

"You're always welcome, you know that." The tips of his ears burning, he looked at his hands. These bouts of bashfulness, they sometimes happened around Taylor. She was just so—he couldn't think of a better word for it—handsome. She reminded him of James Dean in East of Eden and also, vaguely, of Milton Law, a high school classmate and the first boy he'd ever kissed.

"Brought you this." Setting his hat on the table, he retrieved the package from under his arm, a square section of honeycomb in a clear plastic box. He'd selected, for his offering, a product of his strongest hive. Workers had filled each of the cells...

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Additional Information

ISSN
1548-9930
Print ISSN
0191-1961
Pages
pp. 20-40
Launched on MUSE
2021-04-26
Open Access
No
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