Natural Order

By Susan Reetz .

 

It was treacherous work. Each time Sarah put her hand forward she had to pay close attention to the proximity of small fuzzy bodies. But she persisted. She couldn't remember another fall like this, with bees as plentiful as the fat raspberries weighing down the canes. Maybe it was a sign that natural order was righting itself.

 

Sarah shuffled to her left, mindful of the dip in the ground where she had dug earlier this summer. Mary Jo had begged her for some raspberry plants. Said this year Sarah's spring berries tasted better than any others she had ever tasted. It must the fertilizer she put on late last fall. Normally she didn't do anything special with the berries, but she thought it would be a good experiment. It must have worked because her early crop had been amazing, and the fall batch was shaping up to be the best yet.

 

Growing her own food had always been one of her real passions. Salad greens, peas, carrots, potatos, squash, cucumbers, herbs, onions, corn, melons and more. For a while she had even had her own chickens. She missed the eggs, but not the shrieks when the fox got into the henhouse. Or the sound of snapping necks at butchering time. That had always been Bob's job, and once he left, she just didn't have the heart for it. She gave her hens to the family down the road, tore down the coop and closed that chapter of her life.

 

A bumblebee hovered lazily near her ear, its low drone bringing her back to the task at hand. It was somewhat unnerving to be surrounded by so many of the industrious little creatures, but so far they had been able to peacefully coexist. She tipped a cane forward so she could clearly see the fruit she aimed to pick.

 

Bob had liked to examine the fruit he would pick too. There would be times when they'd go for a walk in the park and something of interest would catch his eye. Something wild and weedy, neglected but with an underlying appeal apparent to only his senses. She hadn’t understood his fascination back then.

 

Sarah's bowl was almost full. Succulent drops of fruit still hung from the canes, but she was suddenly tired. As she stood debating whether or not to continue picking, a large bee landed on her hand. The tickle of its feet stayed with her after it realized that she had no pollen and flew away.

 

Bob was the last person to touch her hand.

 

She was in her garden cutting down the last of the corn stalks in the dimming October light when she'd heard it. The shrieking, reverberating with terror and pain. She grabbed her shovel and ran to the coop. This would be the fox's last foray.

 

The chickens scattered before her, a hysterical swirl of feathers and dirt. The light evaporated as she stepped inside the coop. She heard rapid breathing to her right. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw a small figure crouched on the floor. Small, but much too big to be a fox. She stepped forward and it whimpered, weak.

 

Bob stepped out of the shadows buttoning his pants. The child remained unmoving, now making no sound at all.

 

"He followed me home. He wanted to see the chickens."

 

Bob turned to gesture to the child. That's when she swung. She caught him on the side of the head, snapping his neck. He reached for her as he fell, his fingertips just grazing her hand.

 

Sarah went to the child. He couldn’t have been on more than four and looked so peaceful. She closed the lids over his empty brown eyes and he looked like he was sleeping. Just sleeping.

 

That night Sarah tilled her garden under with only the moon as her witness. In the spring she’d let the raspberry canes spread and cover a larger portion of the garden. Their thorns would keep the local dogs away.

 

The next day Sarah drove her chickens down the road. No, she wouldn't take any money for them. She was just glad someone could take them.

 

No one came looking for the lost child who she secretly talked to and nicknamed Buzz. Maybe that's why the bees were so plentiful. Maybe they talked to him too.