Whatever Is In Hive Seven

I haven't checked on hive number seven yet. You want to hold the smoker, or are you still afraid of them after what happened at the county fair?

The deep fried honey stick. Right. You know the vendor never came back the following year? I always thought that was because of you.

I knew it. I always knew it, and I never said anything because — well, because Gerald Hutchins deserved to go out of business. That man was cutting his honey with corn syrup, Arthur. I have proof. I've had it for three years and I didn't know what to do with it.

Good. That discomfort is useful. You need to be a little afraid to respect them. My wife never understood that — she said I loved these hives more than I loved her, and honestly, Arthur, I didn't argue hard enough against that.

She's not missing, Arthur. She left me for Gerald Hutchins. That's why I have the proof about the corn syrup. That's why I've been sitting on it for three years. You think I wanted to help that man? I wanted to ruin him. And your hospital bills did it faster than I ever could have.

Your father. Your father said that? Arthur, your father bought forty gallons of Gerald Hutchins' corn syrup honey every single season. I have that in the proof too. Page six. His name is right there in Gerald's ledger, in Gerald's handwriting, next to my wife's initials. So maybe — maybe — your father had his own reasons for keeping you away from me.

Arthur, I was stung at that fair. Fourteen times. Standing right next to you. Nobody drove you to the hospital that day except me, because your father — the man who knows what's best — was in the vendor tent with Gerald Hutchins and my wife, splitting a deep fried honey stick and laughing. Page eleven of the ledger. I didn't want to get to page eleven.

You're right. It's not a ledger. It's a journal. I've been calling it a ledger because "journal" sounds like something a sad man writes in alone at night, which is exactly what I am, and exactly what I've been doing for three years, and the reason I haven't driven you home yet, Arthur, is that Gerald Hutchins lives two streets over from you, and I am not — I am not ready to drive past that house without doing something about it.

Arthur. Arthur, stop. You can't walk home. Not because of me, not because of Gerald — because hive number seven is between you and the gate, and I have not checked it yet, and three days ago it was making a sound I have never heard a hive make in twenty-two years of keeping bees. I don't know what's in there. And after everything — the fair, the honey stick, my wife, your father, page eleven — I am not losing you to whatever is in hive number seven.

ARTHUR — DON'T — okay. Okay. You kicked it. It's... it's quiet. That's worse. That is so much worse than the sound it was making. Get behind me. Get behind me RIGHT now and do not run, because the only thing I know for certain in this world is that bees can smell fear, and right now, Arthur, you smell like the county fair.