Carmiel Banasky - The Suicide of Claire Bishop

Jill grinned sheepishly.

Claire tried to laugh. “I’m sorry. It’s what happens when you get old.”

“Is it?”

“To some of us.”

They stood there, pressed close together on the threshold, and she tried to hurry her shock along to catch up to his. But she was too late. The look on his face was no longer surprise. It was pity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “So what if I can’t recognize my neighbors half the time? They’re dimwits anyway. But I recognize you. Only a few minutes off.”

He reached his hand toward her face, but seemed to change his mind. He looked down at the keys on the ground.

“Look at me making you stand here like a dummy,” Claire said. “Come inside.” He bent down and picked up her keys without a word. “Would you like some tea? Or? I don’t know what I have, but you can look. I’m going to sit down for a minute. I just need a minute.”

He helped her to her chair and she didn’t grumble about it. His hand on her arm felt comforting. A thief’s hands touching her skin. How could she forget that part?

Jill sat in the old wicker chair across from her and set his gas mask on the coffee table, beside the newspaper and the letter to the editor she’d been composing all week about how lately the weather hadn’t seemed to change as it should and the bees were getting confused. The daybed, unmade, was behind him in the corner. None of her furniture matched, most of it she’d found on the sidewalk — people were always leaving perfectly good couches and bureaus right in her way so she paid the gutter boys a few dollars to carry them upstairs. It was all very embarrassing, but only until she forgot that it was embarrassing. And Jill didn’t seem to notice anyway; he was only looking at her.

He clapped his hands on his knees. She glanced at his fingers — no ring. “Thirty years,” he said. “Christ. Thirty-three? Thirty-five. I’m not a math guy.”

“You’re asking me?” she said. “Go get yourself some tea.”

“Do you want some?”

“Not now.”

“I don’t want any, either.” He kept staring at her so severely the wrinkles around his eyes seemed to vanish. His expression was no longer pity. It had moved into some other place and it was making her blush.

“What’s that sound?” he asked, glancing toward the window; he must have known she needed a respite from that look.

“I hardly hear it anymore.” She opened her ears and listened to the buzzing. The sound came and went to her like the ticking of a clock; a sound that vanishes when not thought of. “I’ll show you.”

“You don’t have to get up.”

“I want to.” She was steadier on her feet now, but even so, he kept his hand on her lower back as they walked to the window. She felt his warmth through her cardigan — because it was covered in little moth holes. How embarrassing. Why couldn’t she throw something away when it was worn out? Did she think she would never again run into someone whose opinion mattered to her? They hadn’t all died off like her bees.

Claire loosed the window screen and tapped gently on the hive that lived on her fire escape. “These are my honeybees. It’s a top-bar hive. Only the best.”

Jill took a step back and grinned. “You? A beekeeper?”

“Why not? No reason to be scared. They won’t sting you. And if they do, you’ll live. You just need a little baking soda and water.”

“I’m not scared,” Jill said. He sounded as young as when she’d seen him last.

“Thirty-five years,” Claire whispered.

“You’ve had them thirty-five years?”

She closed the screen. “No, two. But I had the first hive for four years before I lost them. A young man was moving out and couldn’t keep them anymore so he asked if I wanted them. He was very handsome. I couldn’t say no. It’s not difficult to harvest the honey. One of the kids from the green market comes by and helps me once a month. They all know me as the old bee lady. And you should see me in my beekeeper’s veil.” She laughed quietly. “I spoil these ones. They don’t need much attention, but I like to give it to them anyway.”

“You sell your honey at the market?” Jill asked, surprised.

“I mostly give it away. I could make a profit, but it’s more fun to see people’s faces when you throw a jar of honey at them. I bet you’ve never had honey thrown at you before. Put it in your tea. Or just have a spoonful. It’s the best you’ve had, I guarantee.”

“Is it legal?”

“No. But it’s organic.”

“I think I will have that tea now.”

Claire let him put the kettle on while she sat in the rocker and rested her eyes, having some fun with the flickering blues and yellows on the insides of her lids. Jill stayed behind her in the kitchen while the water boiled. Perhaps he needed a moment to process. It’s not every day you see an old friend and find out they’ve turned into a disappearing beekeeper.

Claire had fallen. It was a year ago, on Sullivan Street, or so she thought, and when she looked behind her, she saw there was nothing she could have tripped on. At the hospital, she received four stitches on her left knee. She was not afraid, and the young man stitching her up smelled of a sweet, women’s soap. He checked her ears for any infection or swelling that could have impacted her balance. As he scanned her chart, he said, “I see your mother had—”

“Well it’s not that,” Claire interjected. “It certainly is not that. It will happen, you can bet. But not yet.”

“All the same, I think we’ll get you set up with a few appointments. Some basic tests, memory and skill sets,” he said nonchalantly. “Do you live alone, Claire?”

“I do.”

“Do you have someone who might go with you to these tests? This is all a just-in-case.”

“My memory is fine. It must be vertigo. Have you thought of that?”

“Knowing early on — there will be more options for you.”

“Something must be wrong with your ear contraption.”

He tapped his papers straight, scanned her chart. “What street did you say you fell on?”

“Sullivan.”

“I see. But the ambulance picked you up on Mercer.”

“It was Sullivan. I know. I used to live there.”

The doctor shifted but his white coat seemed to stay perfectly still. He smiled pitifully and lit up her ears again with his instrument. “I’ll take another look. Could be an infection, yet.”

When the kettle whistled, Claire called out behind her, “What have you been doing all these years?”

“Stealing art,” Jill called back.

“Very funny.”

He brought their tea on a tray with a jar of the good stuff, and set it on the coffee table beside his gas mask. Quite the still life.

“I like three big spoonfuls,” she said, spilling them into her cup slowly and watching the honey dissolve. “But I’m partial. Plus, I don’t have to watch my figure anymore.” He sat directly facing her and watched her pour the honey into his cup, pity smudging his features. She refused herself permission to ask what was wrong. “Have you kept in touch with your old friends?” she asked. “What happened to Lawrence?”

“How long do you have…?” he said, his voice deeper.

“How long do I have for what?”

“You’re as tough as I remember, Claire. You’re going to make me say it? How long do you have? Until the Alzheimer’s—”

“Could carry on a few years like this. It’s manageable. Or who knows, they might find me in the gutter next week, lost on my way to the hair salon.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, it isn’t. It will only get worse. That’s what they keep repeating at these Monday night groups. In case I dragged in some hope stuck to the bottom of my shoe.”