Bee Season. Myla Goldberg

with each other by keeping score on scraps of notepaper. Saul excels in the Bible and Mythology categories, Miriam in almost everything else.

      The first years are busy ones. In addition to Saul’s scholarly pursuits, which he takes as seriously as a professor angling for tenure, there is the issue of the synagogue, with its need for an adult education curriculum and a bar mitzvah tutorial program. When Saul isn’t at the synagogue, he is in his study. He is grateful for a wife with enough interests to allow his return to work after dinner. He tells himself there is companionship in their discrete activities, togetherness in their occupation of adjoining rooms. Saul decides that if he only needed three hours of sleep a night he too would resent being asked to come to bed any earlier than necessary. He is often deep asleep by the time his wife slips between their sheets. Occasionally she accompanies him to the bedroom, but once they are done she leaves again. On these nights Saul feels as if he is back at the university, carefully wooing a skittish law school student.

      Aaron’s appearance on the scene is a supernova, illuminating Saul’s life with a degree of clarity generally reserved for hindsight. Saul keeps waiting for the light to reach Miriam as well. We’ve gone too far from each other, they will tell each other. We’ve got to find our way back. But while Miriam appears to take great pride in Aaron’s birth, she relates to it more as a goal attained than as a personal revelation. Birth of Son seems to occupy a similar part of her psyche as Earning Law Degree, another check-off on a lifelong To Do list. Unprepared for the care and maintenance that attend this particular milestone, Miriam delegates late night feedings and sodden diapers to Saul, who revels in the intimacy these duties afford. It becomes clear to Saul that his supernova has occurred in his personal universe rather than the rapidly expanding one of his marriage. He relishes the sense of possession this gives him. This is his son, his baby boy; Aaron fills the very gap his birth reveals.

      It starts feeling natural, even beneficial, for Saul to go to bed alone, allowing him to focus on his goals for the following day. Saul realizes that Miriam’s sexual prowess hasn’t improved markedly since their first time together, when he perceived her as an untried pupil who would grow to mastery under his carnal tutelage. Saul grows less mindful of his wife’s late night arrivals to bed, less often awaits her with eager tongue and upturned palm.

      As it slowly becomes clear that theirs is a marriage of mutual utility, Saul’s feelings of love ebb into gratitude. He realizes, sheepishly, that he likes his low-maintenance marriage, privately admits that he might not be suited to a more conventional situation. After Eliza’s conception, their rare lovemaking tapers off even further. Saul rationalizes that the infrequency of their intimacy prevents him from taking sex for granted, a shortcoming he associates with his ignoble college days. By banishing sex from his mind, he can turn his full attention to his scholarly pursuits, exactly as he had hoped Miriam would inspire him to do. Besides, he can always masturbate to his memories. The attic is uncharred and filled with sunlight, the mattress is a queen-size box spring, and the young coeds know just which buttons to push.

      Saul has noted with approval the time Eliza now spends in her room. He tells her how happy he is to see her taking initiative. Though he offers to help, Eliza feels protective of her practice sessions, takes a certain pride in studying alone.

      This evening, as with every evening, Miriam is ensconced in her brown velour recliner, shoes off, prowling through magazines with diametrically opposed titles like Neo-Proletarian Review and Armed Christian Family. She will stay rooted in her recliner, still except for the movement of her hands, until she finds what she is looking for. When she finds it, she laughs.

      Miriam laughs like a happy chicken. It is a joyful, uninhibited cackle entirely out of place with the rest of her, which is why Eliza loves it so much. As Miriam laughs, she flies up from her recliner to her electric typewriter, turned on in anticipation of just such a moment. She types, “Gray’s quixotic implication that the Moral Majority holds exclusive stock to the country’s future imperative powers.…” or, “I find the whole concept of ‘centralized opposition’ oxymoronic even from a neo-communist perspective.…” Miriam signs each of these gleeful invectives with a pen name composed expressly for the occasion, then stuffs them into linen envelopes addressed to editors in Freedom, North Dakota, or San Francisco, California. Though she doesn’t talk about the letters with her family, she makes no secret of their writing or of the photo album she keeps beside the family encyclopedia set. They have all read the letters Miriam has carefully snipped from the editorial pages of these magazines. The first clipping is dated not long after newlyweds Saul and Miriam moved in together. It never occurs to Saul or to Miriam that the magazines have replaced the lectures they used to attend together, the arguments she once presented to Saul now addressed to others. Miriam’s transition to letter writing is so automatic that she doesn’t notice the substitution, her quick mind filling in the gap before she recognizes its presence. Drifting away from her husband is less a conscious choice than a series of unconscious ones.

      Eliza feels invigorated by her rejection of Saul’s offer of help. Her power to cause her father’s emergence from his study in the name of spelling is made all the sweeter by her decision not to employ it. Rather than block out her father’s and brother’s guitar music she now incorporates it into her own pursuits, her words gliding on the muted chords rising up through the air vents. Even her mother’s solitary habits have lost the feeling of a party to which Eliza is not invited. Miriam’s typing lends Eliza’s studies rhythm and tempo.

      Paging through the dictionary is like looking through a microscope. Every word breaks down into parts with unique properties—prefix, suffix, root. Eliza gleans not only the natural laws that govern the letters but their individual behaviors. R, M, and D are strong, unbending and faithful. The sometimes silent B and G and the slippery K follow strident codes of conduct. Even the redoubtable H, which can make P sound like F and turn ROOM into RHEUM, obeys etymology. Consonants are the camels of language, proudly carrying their lingual loads.

      Vowels, however, are a different species, the fish that flash and glisten in the watery depths. Vowels are elastic and inconstant, fickle and unfaithful. E can sound like I or U. -IBLE and -ABLE are impossible to discern. There is no combination the vowels haven’t tried, exhaustive and incestuous in their couplings. E will just as soon pair with A, I, or O, leading the dance or being led. Eliza prefers the vowels’ unpredictability and, of all vowels, favors Y. Y defies categorization, the only letter that can be two things at once. Before the bee, Eliza had been a consonant, slow and unsurprising. With her bee success, she has entered vowelhood. Eliza begins to look at life in alphabetical terms. School is consonantal in its unchanging schedule. God, full of possibility, is a vowel. Death: the ultimate consonant.

      Toward the end of the silent Amidah, Aaron and Eliza play a game called Sheep that both claim to have invented. At the Amidah’s beginning, Rabbi Mayer tells the entire congregation to rise. The congregants are supposed to remain standing for as long as they wish to pray, sitting down when they have finished. A lot of people actually do begin by praying, but most stop soon after they start. They become distracted by thoughts of the evening’s prime-time television lineup or by how awful the perfume is of the old lady with dyed hair who always sits in the seat under the air duct so that the smell of her goes everywhere.

      Because of this, knowing when to sit down is a problem. People want to appear prayerful, but they also want the service to end in time for “Remington Steele” or “Dallas” or “Falcon Crest.” After a period that is short enough to move things along but long enough to seem respectable, they look for a cue. That is what Sheep is all about.

      The best nights to play Sheep are bar mitzvah Fridays. The synagogue is filled with people whose nephew or cousin or boss’s son is becoming a man the next morning. These people occupy the back half of the synagogue even though there are seats available up front. When they stand for the silent Amidah they never know whether to focus on the prayerbook or upon a distant point, looking thoughtful.

      The key is to make scraping noises. When Eliza or Aaron chooses the moment they feel represents the perfect prayerful/let’s-get-on-with-it ratio, they rattle their chairs and rub one or two of the chair legs against the floor to make it sound as if more than one person is actually descending. Their efforts carry to the