The Hum of Flame, the Murmur of Honey

Every morning, Da carries my sister Cora down to the hives to check on the honey. She screws her eyes shut and leaves marks in his shoulders from her fingers, legs real stiff so her feet don’t dangle. Da carries her like china, walking careful down the hill so he doesn’t jostle her none. Cora sniffs at the air the whole time; she says she wants to know if air smells the same outside as it does through the window.

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The people at church

poor Daniel
how does he cope
that poor crippled girl
and that boy one of the devil’s own

whisper a lot. Da tells me not to listen, but it’s like the bees’ drone. I can’t drown ‘em out, or ignore it, no matter how hard I try. Even when the preacher’s giving the sermon, I notice them elbowing each other and talking behind their hymnals. Instead of “Nearer My God to Thee,” all I hear is

Bill lost three horses in that fire
of course the mother was no better than she should be
the poor man
but i suppose he’s made his bed

and it’s all I can do to keep from making fists. Cora tried coming once but she said the organs made it even worse, that they were too loud, and it felt like she was in a bunch of places at once. Da makes me go by myself. He can’t leave the bees, and he says it would make everybody too happy if our family stopped coming.

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Da bought Cora a new bed last Christmas and I got her a spice rack. She was so happy she jumped up and hugged both of us. All that day, she played guessing games with the spices, trying to identify without looking. For her birthday, I painted her ceiling with bees and flowers, fruits and clouds. She hid under a drop-cloth with just her eyes peeking out, munching her cake and watching. I let her lick the brush when she asked; she said the paint tasted like old eggs. Sometimes she doesn’t have any sense, when it comes to trying new flavors.
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They talk even more

hey freak
queerboy
you like fire
i’ve got something hot for you

at school, shoving me against the lockers and laughing. They brag about stuff they did with my mom, tell me what they’re gonna do with my sister. The guidance counselor ignores my latest black eye and pushes the technical school brochures across her desk, smiling. I stare down her shirt to make the time pass; I’m not stupid enough to talk about art colleges. She gets excited when I tell her about the bees, her hands fluttering

family business, how wonderful
that will be a good opportunity for you
how is your sister, dear
she is so inspiring, how she copes with her disability

as she hurries me out of her office. I let her push me. She’s right, of course. I’ll never go away from home. In math, I don’t bother to pay attention, just fill up my notebook with scribbles. The shrink said that I draw fire when I doodle and that I’m trying to release my anger at mom for leaving, but I just like the way the pen feels, that soft glide of ink over the paper.

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We sell mail-order honey that Da and I bottle ourselves. Cora, tucked into a corner with blankets around her, tells me what to put in each jar. I try to listen, but it’s hard. We melt honeycomb for sealing, and the matches flicker a lot. The fire shines nice against the honey, blue and orange in the pale yellow. Cora yells when I get distracted. She says she can taste the difference. Sometimes she gets so mad that she clambers to her feet and tries to chase after me, but she always falls.

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When I poured

shh
hsh hsh hsh
hissssssss
shh shh

the gasoline onto the hay, I could taste the smoke in the back of my throat, but it was more than that. For just a second, I tasted the fire that would come out of it, and newly sharpened pencils, and the mud Da uses to treat bee stings. As I stumbled away,

ahhhhhh
hush hush hush
mmmm
shh shh

the world spinning, my mouth watering, I wondered if this was how Cora felt all the time.

And for a second, I hated her.