Chapter Nine Bee

Chapter Nine Bee

Tuesday evening, December 12, 2023

If Bee could smash her phone into a thousand tiny, microscopic pieces, she would do it in a heartbeat. In fact, the only thing

stopping her now was the knowledge that somehow, some way, her sister would find a way to reach her, be it through carrier

pigeon, a voodoo doll, or a robot army fixated on her exact coordinates. Beth was relentless, so proven by the thirteen text messages she’d gotten from her until Bee finally called her back.

“You have to tell them,” Beth was saying now. Her tone was characteristically flat, although Bee could feel her ire radiating

like a flame to her skin.

“I will, ” Bee insisted.

“When? You didn’t tell me you were going to be gone, and we work together . I don’t think Mom is going to settle for a text an hour after dessert is served.”

Bee glared at the ceiling, trying not to feel so much like the chastised little sister, even as she wore the bunny slippers

she’d bought as a pick-me-up at the airport. In fact, after having engaged in actual real physical labor with Knox, she’d

showered and then decked herself out in her fluffiest pajamas, prepared for a peaceful, inactive evening of scrolling through

Netflix until she was alerted to the alarming fact that her sister and Clover had met. No one should have to meet Beth on

her bad days. She’d hardly recommend they meet her on a good day. Of course, Bee would be hard-pressed to know what days those were.

She sucked in a deep breath. Her sister wasn’t awful. This was a natural response that Bee had fully been expecting. But God, she was just so —

“I will tell Mom and Dad tomorrow, Beth.”

“Why not just call them now?”

“Because I’m busy. I have... things to do.” Like emotionally prepare myself .

Beth didn’t sound like she believed her. “Sure. Fine. I just need the purple dress for Ayana’s Christmas Eve party.”

“I know what dress you need; I already texted Clover that you’ll stop by in the next day or two.”

“Great, thanks.”

“And it’s Christmas Eve Eve, December twenty-third, so not actually—”

“I know, Beatrice. We’ve been going to this party for four years now.”

“I know, Bethy , I was just making sure—”

“Is that seriously the most important thing we need to discuss right now?”

“What else do we possibly need to discuss?”

There was silence on the other end. Bee held her breath. She pictured Beth rolling her eyes and pursing her lips to the side.

She imagined her sitting prim and proper in a smart black dress at her kitchen island in a high-rise in the Financial District,

holding a cup of black coffee while she scrolled through the Wall Street Journal on her phone.

What was most disturbing about this picture was that Bee couldn’t get complete details—everything was blurry and unfocused.

Beth had moved somewhere new in the last few months, and while Bee had an address, she actually hadn’t visited. She didn’t

know what Beth’s kitchen looked like, let alone what her daily routine was. For all she knew, Beth was wearing footie pajamas

and sipping sugary cereal from a bowl of Froot Loops while sitting in a hovel in the woods.

When they were kids, Bee and Beth used to tell each other everything. They’d do each other’s homework, share in each other’s

chores, and if one of them forgot some task their parents had appointed her, they’d cover for each other. But as soon as high

school hit, things got harder, more competitive. Maybe it was because their talents had become clearer. Beth was on a more

clearly successful path, and Bee... well, Bee just fell behind. Beth became the hardworking, no-nonsense sister, and Bee

was the flighty one. Period, end of story.

It had been their parents who insisted they work together, with their father’s seed money of course, but Bee never felt like she was working with family. She was just a cog in a fucked-up machine.

The distance that grew between the two of them had bothered Bee for a long time, but it seemed like Beth preferred it that

way. So, Bee stuck to the picture she had: Her sister, perfectly poised and utterly frustrating. Her sister, who was so much

like their mother she wondered if they weren’t actually twins.

“Nothing,” Beth said finally. “I’ll let you know if anything comes up with work, but the holidays are approaching, so I guess

we’re not completely fucked if you’re gone for a while.”

“Great,” Bee said. “Thanks.” Then, because there was something in her that wanted to salvage this conversation: “Feel free

to borrow anything else you need for the party.”

Beth let out a breathless laugh. “Bye, Beatrice.”

“Bye, Bethy.”

When they hung up, Bee felt her entire body relax. She slumped onto the bed and let her phone drop beside her. It was a crappy

call, but not one of their worst. All in all, she would call that a win.

Now all she had to do was tell her parents and then cancel her phone plan. Har-har.

She could imagine the conversation with ease: Bee, have you any idea how you’ve utterly disgraced the family? She imagined a snooty British accent to mimic her mother, although her mother was from Chicago. Something that sounded like

a Disney villainess seemed more appropriate.

She’d have to be much more delicate when she spoke to her parents. No shortness, snapping, or talking back. Noth ing that would get her disowned, no matter what they said to provoke her. But of course she wouldn’t do that anyway. She would never. Bee was a good girl, just like she was raised to be, and she was responsible, dammit. She took a vacation without telling anyone; it wasn’t like she’d stolen trade secrets or made the stock market crash.

At most, she was going to miss the family Christmas Eve dinner, God forbid, and Ayana’s networking party.

They would all survive without her.

She sighed. Later. She would worry about it later. She reached over to the nightstand, grabbed a couple bobby pins, and pulled

her hair into a loose bun atop her head. Then she took a deep breath and headed back downstairs, determined to enjoy a night

without the voices of her family in her ears.

The next morning, she got ready without checking her phone even once. She had an entire day ahead of her in a sunny, snowy

town completely absent of everyone she knew, and she was going to enjoy every goddamn minute of it.

Twenty minutes later she found herself walking down the staircase and heading toward the windows, where she pulled opened

the curtains with a flourish that made her feel royal. She began to peruse Clover’s collection of books, thinking that this time she might find the inspiration to read, when she heard someone singing the Temptations’ rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed

Reindeer” just outside the window.

She peered outside and saw Jimmy hunched over in the brisk morning air, attempting to run after another mob of hungry chickens. She knew she should leave it alone—the man knew what he was doing, after all. Still, the idea of her sitting and reading while he worked outside didn’t sit right with her.

Resolutely, she donned her thick red scarf and coat, marched past the kitchen to the foyer, and threw open the door, a blast

of deep chill shuddering through her body. If she was this cold, she couldn’t imagine how freezing Jimmy must be. She rubbed

her gloved fingers together and crunched through the snow toward the chicken coop, where she saw Jimmy attempting to push

Mabel away from a small group of chicks.

“Jimmy!” She didn’t know why she had a scold in her voice. It was his home; he could do as he pleased.

“Well, good morning, Miss Bee,” he said, straightening up stiffly, a deep smile adding to the wrinkles around his eyes. “What

are you doin’ up so early?”

“I could say the same to you,” Bee said teasingly. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“Nah, girl. I got long johns, a thermal shirt, and a vest under this coat. I’m doin’ just dandy.”

Oh. Bee felt a little sheepish. Of course he was better dressed than her for this kind of weather. Even so, she still had at

least forty years on him. “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Jimmy. But listen, as your guest, I would absolutely love to learn

more about the chickens and the coop. Will you show me how to feed them?”

Jimmy gave her a dubious look while Bee offered her most winning smile. Then he let out a heartwarming cackle and held out the green pail of chicken feed. Bee crossed over the little gate and took it from his hand, and the two of them spent the next fifteen minutes tending to the chickens as Jimmy explained who had first dibs, whom she had to keep an eye out for, how often he fed the chickens and around what time.

“It’s really not too hard a job,” he was saying now, after he’d told her where to put things away. They walked arm in arm

back to the house, and Bee waited patiently as he took his time up the steps. Once inside, he led her to the kitchen and made

her sit as he tended to the coffee. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, young miss,” he said, filling the kettle

from the faucet and placing it on the oven burner. “I was an army man, you see. I know schemes and trickery when I see ’em!”

Bee put a delicate hand to her chest. “Schemes and trickery? I would never!”

“Uh-huh.” Jimmy stared her down, but he couldn’t fight the twinkle in his eyes. “You and my daughter, boy. Can’t do nothin’

with you gals around.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a daughter that loves you very much.”

“I sure do. Sure do.” Jimmy nodded to himself. “A little too much, I think, sometimes. Though I guess change can do that to

a person.” He scratched the back of his ear and looked out the window to the front yard. “She used to love Christmas decorations,

boy. Couldn’t get enough of the lights and the music. Speaking of—do you mind?”

She gave her blessing as he wandered out of the kitchen, and a moment later, Bee could hear “The Little Drummer Boy,” by the Jackson 5, start to play. When Jimmy came back in, he was carrying what looked to be a photo album.

“Thought you might be interested in seeing some of the history of the house,” he said.

Bee smiled, scootching over to give him space at the kitchen table. “This is my wife, Mae—short for Mabel,” he said. “We were

married for thirty-eight years. I was twenty-six; she was twenty-three.” He pointed to a faded color photo of a young woman

with short, soft pressed curls. It was clearly a staged photo, one of those glamour shots that used to be popular back in

the day, but she looked stunning nonetheless, with a sweet smile and sparkling eyes.

“She’s beautiful,” Bee said.

“She really was,” Jimmy said, and Bee’s heart ached for him. He pointed to another photo. This time, Mae looked older, a little

more tired—her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she was holding a pale crying baby in her arms. “That’s Clover,”

Jimmy said. “She was white as a ghost when she was born. I looked at Mae so crazy those first few months.” He chuckled to

himself. “But that girl is mine, through and through. Stubborn, prideful, resourceful—sweet like her mama only if you ain’t

lookin’.”

Bee looked at the photos wistfully, listening to Jimmy as he flipped through the photo book, sharing so much of his family with pride and joy. Though she smiled, she could feel the strain of the conversation tugging on the corners of her lips and the tears behind her eyes. If she thought hard, she imagined there might be some photos of her somewhere at her parents’ house that weren’t tied to graduations, to newspaper clippings, to award announcements, to evidence of her productivity or her value. She was sure she’d seen a few photos of her laughing, maybe her and Beth playing tag, at some point, before grades started being issued for their various intellectual performances.

Bee bit back her bitterness. It wasn’t that she wasn’t loved—she had it better than a lot of people, she knew that. She came from a family with a lot of money, and she made a lot of money (and she’d lost a lot of

money, but she wouldn’t think about that for now). At best, she had champagne problems. But it didn’t stop her from thinking

about her family’s constant assessments: inquiring as to whether the dress she’d worn to the bimonthly family dinner was properly

pressed and from an appropriate designer; questioning why she’d want Marley hair or Senegalese twists when she could afford

the upkeep of a customized wig or professional sew-in with long, silky hair imported from Brazil. They inspected the whiteness

of her teeth and the neatness of her manicured nails.

Bee was meant to be perfect, and she wasn’t. She never would be. But that didn’t stop her from trying.

The kettle sounded. Jimmy closed the photo album and stood up. “Milk and sugar?” he asked.

Bee acquiesced, not bothering to ask if he might have oat or soy or whatever. She wasn’t vegan and a hint of lactose wouldn’t kill her, even if she was intolerant. When he finished preparing their pour-over coffee, he handed her a cute little mug shaped like a llama. Then he took a deep whiff of his black coffee. “Nothing like the smell of a good dark roast,” he said with a sigh.

Bee took his cue to inhale. She liked the smell of coffee just fine, but there was something about having it here in this

gorgeous country house with a gentleman who could be her father—well, not her father, given the warmth and gentleness—that made the scent even sweeter. In that moment, she decided to forget about her

family. I’m supposed to be relaxing, she reminded herself. I’m allowed to do that. She accepted Jimmy’s toast as he clinked his mug against hers and then watched as he wandered over to the love seat and sunk

down deep with another satisfied sigh.

“You and my daughter,” he mused to himself. “Can’t do nothin’ with you gals around. But don’t you worry”—he wriggled deeper

into his seat and leaned his head back, his fingers still wrapped around the handle of his mug—“Jimmy’s still got some work

in him yet. Don’t you worry.”

Within moments, Bee heard the unmistakable hum of the old man snoring. Quietly, she made her way to him and gently took the

coffee from his fingers, placing the mug on the table beside him. Satisfied, she returned to her coffee and let herself sink

into the sound of Jimmy’s sleeping as she watched another bout of snow flurry past the kitchen window.