The Honey Bus. Meredith May

bees always sting.”

      “Come here,” Grandpa said.

      I followed him into the kitchen, where he searched the cupboards until he found an empty honey jar.

      “Go get a piece of paper,” he said.

      I was eager to do anything to get back on his good side. I raced to Granny’s desk and pulled out a piece of her fancy stationery, and practically bowed as I offered it to him.

      “Listen,” he said, cupping his ear and cocking his head toward the buzz. “It’s high-pitched,” Grandpa said. “It’s in distress. Do you see it?”

      I followed the sound until I saw the bee gliding in a wobbly circle around the room, looking for a way out, until it rested on the dining room window facing the deck.

      “There!” I pointed.

      Grandpa crept softly toward it, hiding the jar behind his back. When he was directly behind the bee, he reached up and imprisoned it in one swift motion. With his free hand, he slipped the paper between the window and the mouth of the jar, forming a temporary lid. He stepped away, holding the trap in his hands, and the bee crawled up the glass, tapping the inside of the jar with its antennae.

      “Okay, come get the door for me,” he said.

      We stepped outside together, and instead of releasing the bee, Grandpa sat on the back step and patted the space next to him, signaling me to sit near.

      “Hold out your arm.”

      He tilted the jar as if he was going to release the bee onto my forearm. I jerked my hand back.

      “It’s going to sting me!” I wailed.

      He sighed like he was summoning all his patience, and then turned to me again.

      “Bees won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.”

      Most of my information about bees came from cartoons in which bees always traveled in bloodthirsty swarms terrorizing all manner of people, coyotes, pigs and rabbits. I mentioned this to Grandpa.

      “That’s make-believe,” he said. “Honeybees don’t go on the attack. They will only sting to defend their home. They know that if they sting they will die, so they’ll give you plenty of warnings first.”

      Grandpa reached for my arm again, but I tucked it behind my back, still uncertain. The bee was now incensed, banging into the walls of its glass prison. Grandpa set the jar down and spoke to me slowly and carefully.

      “Bees can talk, but not with words. You need to watch how they behave to understand their language. For example,” he said, lifting a finger to numerate his points. “If you open a hive and hear a soft chewing sound, that means the bees are busy and happy. If you hear a roar, that means they are upset about something.”

      I watched the bee get more frantic by the second.

      “Two,” he said, holding up a second finger. “Bees will ask you to back away from the hive by head-butting you. It’s a polite warning to step away so they don’t have to sting you.”

      I was starting to understand that Grandpa might know bees in a different way than everybody else. He spent every day with them, so he probably could tell what they were thinking. But that didn’t mean that I wanted a bee to crawl on me. I trusted Grandpa wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, but I couldn’t say the same for the trapped bee, who by the looks of things was now totally, royally, pissed. He reached for the jar again and brought it over to me. I shook my head no.

      “You mustn’t be afraid around bees,” he said. “They can sense fear, and it will make them scared, too. But if you are calm, they will stay calm.”

      “I’m still scared,” I whispered.

      “The bee is more frightened of you,” he said. “Can you imagine how scary it is to be this small in a world that is so big?”

      He was right, I wouldn’t want to change places with a bee. A little bit of my trepidation melted knowing the bee was also scared. I knew I wouldn’t hurt it, but the bee couldn’t know that for sure. I stretched my arm out again, ever so gently.

      “You ready?”

      I nodded as I watched the bee fall onto its back inside the jar, its six legs scrabbling to find footing.

      “Bees are sensitive, so no sudden movements, and no loud noises, okay? You must always move slowly and quietly around bees to make them feel safe.”

      I promised to hold still, an easy pact because I was too terrified to move. I tried to summon calming thoughts, but it was impossible to do on command. Grandpa tapped the jar on the underside of my wrist, and the bee tumbled out. It stood still as I held my breath, then it took a few tentative steps.

      “Tickles,” I whispered. This close, I could see that a honeybee’s body was a miracle of miniature interlocking parts, like the insides of a watch. Its antennae, two L-shaped sticks that swiveled in sockets on its forehead between its eyes, searched the air and tapped on my skin, reminding me of a person without sight using a cane to get a mental picture of a place.

      “What’s it doing?”

      “Checking you out,” Grandpa said. “A bee’s antennae can smell, feel and taste.”

      Imagine that. Having a body part that is a nose, fingertip and tongue together. As the bee got used to me, I got used to it. Grandpa was right. This small insect was not my enemy. I carefully lifted my arm until I could see into its eyes, shaped like two glossy black commas on the side of its head. Fear gave way to fascination as I studied how it was put together, so small, so perfect.

      Veins crisscrossed its shimmering wings. It was furry, and its abdomen expanded and contracted with each breath. I looked closer at the stripes, and noticed that the orange bands had small hairs and the black ones were slick. The bee’s legs tapered to tiny hooks, and it was now using its front two pair to stroke its antennae. Cleaning or scratching them, I guessed.

      “What do you think?” Grandpa asked.

      “Can I keep it?”

      “’Fraid not. It will die of loneliness if you separate it from its hive.”

      I was beginning to understand that bees have emotions, like people, and like people they live in families where they feel safe and loved. They will lose their spirit if they don’t have the security of their hive mates. I was about to ask if we should return this bee to its hive when it parted its mandibles and unfurled a long red tongue.

      “It’s going to bite me!” I shrieked.

      “Shhhh, hold still,” Grandpa whispered. The bee tasted my arm tentatively, realized that I was not a flower and recoiled its tongue. The bee put its hind end in the air and fanned its wings so rapidly that I could feel a vibration on my skin. Then it lifted off and was gone.

      Grandpa stood, reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet.

      “Meredith, never kill something unless you are going to eat it.”

      I gave him my word.

      That night when I got under the sheets, Mom was already snoring. I cleared my throat hoping that would wake her, and when that didn’t work, I jiggled the bed, just a little bit.

      “Hmmmm?”

      “Hey, Mom.”

      She grunted and turned toward me with eyes closed. “What?”

      “Did you know bees die after they sting?”

      “Shhhh. You’ll wake your brother.”

      I lowered my voice and whispered.

      “Their guts come out with the stinger.”

      “That’s nice.”

      Mom rolled me away from her, then tucked her knees under mine and drew me to her stomach. I was about to brag about picking up