Of Bees and Mist Read Online Free Page B

frustration often harmed herself physically. Alarmed, I persuaded your father to send for a doctor.
    “The doctor said she was suffering from an ancient feminine malady, ‘unpleasant but not at all uncommon.’ For remedy, he prescribed a combination of soft diet and pampering. ‘Horseshit!’ yelled your father before the doctor was out of the house. He stormed into his study, cold and weary, and ignored my petition for a second opinion.
    “In a matter of days, the house bore witness to a series of unprecedented events. A plate traveled at breakneck speed and shattered over your father’s head. Doors slammed. Tables stamped against the floor. Arguments spilled from hot mouths and sullied the air. The dusk was by then a veritable presence, draping over the rooms like a funeral shroud. Your mother lost her gentle voice, your father his cool head. They bumped and pushed against each other, two creatures in splints and stitches. As time passed, they spoke less and less. When their glances crossed, the room thickened with frost. Finding no warmth in the house, your father went wherever he was invited, alone, and stayed out longer and longer.
    “One day, three months after your mother wrestled with the wind, I sensed that things had turned for the worse. Your father did not come home until the cocks crowed. That morning, the mist appeared at the door and has stayed there ever since. That same morning, your mother, who had worn her hair long and unbraided since childhood, twisted it into that implacable knot. To this day she has yet to let it down.
    “After the mist appeared, your father spent all his nights away from the house. While the temperature dropped, the arguments rose to a fever pitch. Your mother wept around the clock. More plates met their demise. More doors were banged and bolted. The staircase began its stretching and condensing, the mirrors their mischief-making. A string of terrified maids came and went, feeding the town with news of downfall. Then one day, your mother dried her tears and ordered dinner from the cook. At eight that night, she camedown the stairs in red heels and a low-cut gown, sat down to a meal of pressed duck, and pleaded with your father to stay the night. Thrown off guard by her downcast eyes, your father agreed. They ate in silence and stole glances at each other.
    “Oh, your mother was a clever one! She had me so convinced that that dinner would be the end of our trials. Once again she was the calm and graceful lady of the house, incapable of a harsh or reckless thought in her head. Looking at the two of them then, I did not doubt for a second that they had found a way to defeat the wind. I remember telling the cook that the townspeople could just kiss their ill wishes good-bye. ‘We’ll show them what we’re made of,’ I crowed before dessert was served. ‘This house will be warm again, and those bastards will fight for a seat at the table.’
    “After dinner, your mother gave your father a meaningful glance before taking you into the bedroom. Your father followed. Armed to the teeth with excuses, I installed myself in the hallway. My conviction that a reconciliation was under way grew stronger when I heard you laughing from behind the door. At ten o’clock, I left my post and retired to bed. For the first time in months, I slept soundly without need for a blanket.
    “A few hours later, I was awakened by a scream. I jumped up, thinking of your safety, and ran out of my room. The house was dark and cold. I rushed up the staircase as fast as I could and made my way to your mother’s door. I hesitated a second, but then you started crying as if you were hurt and I burst in without knocking. Your mother was holding you next to the crib, sobbing without sound. Your father was leaning against the wall, shouting words I couldn’t make out. The window was open, and a powerful gust was blasting about the room. The moon gave the only light, and in the dark I could make out a broken