The Secret Life of Bees Read Online Free PDF
Author: Sue Monk Kidd
another roof, I thought.
‘You understand me?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir, I understand,’ I said, and I did, too. I understood that a new rooftop would do wonders for me. Late that afternoon I caught two more bees. Lying on my stomach across the bed, I watched how they orbited the space in the jar, around and around like they’d missed the exit. Rosaleen poked her head in the door.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘I’m leaving now. You tell your daddy I’m going into town tomorrow instead of coming here.’
‘You’re going to town? Take me,’ I said.
‘Why do you wanna go?’
‘Please, Rosaleen.’
‘You’re gonna have to walk the whole way.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Ain’t nothing much gonna be open but firecracker stands and the grocery store.’
‘I don’t care. I just wanna get out of the house some on my birthday.’
Rosaleen stared at me, sagged low on her big ankles.
‘All right, but you ask your daddy. I’ll be by here first thing in the morning.’
She was out the door. I called after her.
‘How come you’re going to town?’
She stayed with her back to me a moment, unmoving. When she turned, her face looked soft and changed, like a different Rosaleen. Her hand dipped into her pocket, where her fingers crawled around for something. She drew out a folded piece of notebook paper and came to sit beside me on the bed. I rubbed my knees while she smoothed out the paper across her lap. Her name, Rosaleen Daise, was written twenty-five times at least down the page in large, careful cursive, like the first paper you turn in when school starts.
‘This is my practice sheet,’ she said.
‘For the Fourth of July they’re holding a voters’ rally at the colored church. I’m registering myself to vote.’
An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. Last night the television had said a man in Mississippi was killed for registering to vote, and I myself had overheard Mr. Bussey, one of the deacons, say to T. Ray, ‘Don’t you worry, they’re gonna make ‘em write their names in perfect cursive and refuse them a card if they forget so much as to dot an i or make a loop in their you.’
I studied the curves of Rosaleen’s R.
‘Does T. Ray know what you’re doing?’
‘T. Ray,’ she said.
‘T. Ray don’t know nothing.’
At sunset he shuffled up, sweaty from work. I met him at the kitchen door, my arms folded across the front of my blouse.
‘I thought I’d walk to town with Rosaleen tomorrow. I need to buy some sanitary supplies.’
He accepted this without comment. T. Ray hated female puberty worse than anything. That night I looked at the jar of bees on my dresser. The poor creatures perched on the bottom barely moving, obviously pining away for flight. I remembered then the way they’d slipped from the cracks in my walls and flown for the sheer joy of it. I thought about the way my mother had built trails of graham-cracker crumbs and marshmallow to lure roaches from the house rather than step on them. I doubted she would’ve approved of keeping bees in a jar. I unscrewed the lid and set it aside.
‘You can go,’ I said. But the bees remained there, like planes on a runway not knowing they’d been cleared for takeoff. They crawled on their stalk legs around the curved perimeters of the glass as if the world had shrunk to that jar. I tapped the glass, even laid the jar on its side, but those crazy bees stayed put. The bees were still in there the next morning when Rosaleen showed up. She was bearing an angel food cake with fourteen candles.
‘Here you go. Happy birthday,’ she said. We sat down and ate two slices each with glasses of milk. The milk left a moon crescent on the darkness of her upper lip, which she didn’t bother to wipe away. Later I would remember that, how she set out, a marked woman from the beginning. Sylvan was miles away. We walked along the ledge of the highway, Rosaleen moving at the pace of a bank-vault door, her spit jug
‘You understand me?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir, I understand,’ I said, and I did, too. I understood that a new rooftop would do wonders for me. Late that afternoon I caught two more bees. Lying on my stomach across the bed, I watched how they orbited the space in the jar, around and around like they’d missed the exit. Rosaleen poked her head in the door.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘I’m leaving now. You tell your daddy I’m going into town tomorrow instead of coming here.’
‘You’re going to town? Take me,’ I said.
‘Why do you wanna go?’
‘Please, Rosaleen.’
‘You’re gonna have to walk the whole way.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Ain’t nothing much gonna be open but firecracker stands and the grocery store.’
‘I don’t care. I just wanna get out of the house some on my birthday.’
Rosaleen stared at me, sagged low on her big ankles.
‘All right, but you ask your daddy. I’ll be by here first thing in the morning.’
She was out the door. I called after her.
‘How come you’re going to town?’
She stayed with her back to me a moment, unmoving. When she turned, her face looked soft and changed, like a different Rosaleen. Her hand dipped into her pocket, where her fingers crawled around for something. She drew out a folded piece of notebook paper and came to sit beside me on the bed. I rubbed my knees while she smoothed out the paper across her lap. Her name, Rosaleen Daise, was written twenty-five times at least down the page in large, careful cursive, like the first paper you turn in when school starts.
‘This is my practice sheet,’ she said.
‘For the Fourth of July they’re holding a voters’ rally at the colored church. I’m registering myself to vote.’
An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. Last night the television had said a man in Mississippi was killed for registering to vote, and I myself had overheard Mr. Bussey, one of the deacons, say to T. Ray, ‘Don’t you worry, they’re gonna make ‘em write their names in perfect cursive and refuse them a card if they forget so much as to dot an i or make a loop in their you.’
I studied the curves of Rosaleen’s R.
‘Does T. Ray know what you’re doing?’
‘T. Ray,’ she said.
‘T. Ray don’t know nothing.’
At sunset he shuffled up, sweaty from work. I met him at the kitchen door, my arms folded across the front of my blouse.
‘I thought I’d walk to town with Rosaleen tomorrow. I need to buy some sanitary supplies.’
He accepted this without comment. T. Ray hated female puberty worse than anything. That night I looked at the jar of bees on my dresser. The poor creatures perched on the bottom barely moving, obviously pining away for flight. I remembered then the way they’d slipped from the cracks in my walls and flown for the sheer joy of it. I thought about the way my mother had built trails of graham-cracker crumbs and marshmallow to lure roaches from the house rather than step on them. I doubted she would’ve approved of keeping bees in a jar. I unscrewed the lid and set it aside.
‘You can go,’ I said. But the bees remained there, like planes on a runway not knowing they’d been cleared for takeoff. They crawled on their stalk legs around the curved perimeters of the glass as if the world had shrunk to that jar. I tapped the glass, even laid the jar on its side, but those crazy bees stayed put. The bees were still in there the next morning when Rosaleen showed up. She was bearing an angel food cake with fourteen candles.
‘Here you go. Happy birthday,’ she said. We sat down and ate two slices each with glasses of milk. The milk left a moon crescent on the darkness of her upper lip, which she didn’t bother to wipe away. Later I would remember that, how she set out, a marked woman from the beginning. Sylvan was miles away. We walked along the ledge of the highway, Rosaleen moving at the pace of a bank-vault door, her spit jug