The honeybees find him in the night, worming through holes in the window screen, delivering messages through urgent movement atop his bedsheets. This fuzzy variety differs from the resilient pests responsible for chewing his house apart. His evening visitors carry a fragility to them—small in size but remarkable as a crowd. From their persistent actions alone, it seems they want to work with the old man rather than against him, but a language barrier prevents the two parties from making a breakthrough.
This has been a nightly occurrence, keeping the old man tossing in a mattress that isn’t his own. He loves his neighbor like a son of his own, but never did he expect to bum off of the boy’s property like he is now. The kid has a lot on his plate: hushed online disputes with his long-distance girlfriend, poor performance at his nine-to-five, boundaries threatened by his parents living just down the street, and now an unexpected guest occupying the spare bedroom for an indefinite span of time. Introducing the night bees would only add to the stress.
There is a method to their maneuvers, the man observes. One center bee clears the floor, trading figure-eight swoops with straight-lined staggers. Others are quick to pick up distinct characteristics, triggering an echo of mimics through their cluster. When his neighbor goes in for his shift, the old man strolls to the public library to research insect behavior. It’s comforting, sifting through articles, reminding him of his teaching days. His daughter has since followed in his footsteps, working at a private school out in California. Picturing her halfway across the country stings him from the inside out.
The meticulous pattern performed by a forager bee is known as the waggle dance, reporting back coordinates of a destination to fellow worker bees. According to the length and angle of their zigzag strut, the rest are able to calculate distance and direction to their sought-out source.
Where is it that they’re trying to take him? The old man ponders possibilities on his return home, stewing through the newly established evening routine he and his neighbor now share. After dinner on the couch, perched in front of the ballgame, the old man crawls into bed and dozes off. Like clockwork, a buzz tickles his ear. This time around, the man welcomes the disturbance with an open mind.
Stepping into his slippers, he leads his tiny guests through the hallway. Some bees peel away from the group, trickling into the boy’s dark bedroom. Holding his breath, the man prays they won’t rouse the kid awake. He corrals the remaining majority into the living room and clears the floor for them to dance. Hundreds of eyes stare back at him. The clock above the TV ticks the seconds away. The refrigerator hums a low suspenseful note. Faint snores carry from the bedroom down the hall.
Movement catches the old man’s weary attention. Dotting the core of the gathered mass, one honeybee initiates a pattern. The waggle run is long, spanning the entire length of the rug at his feet. Wide infinity loop sweeps must be made in order to complete and repeat the cycle. The old man grabs a pen and notepad, scrawling calculations out of intuitive guesses. Far away? Out of state? California?
Home, the bees confirm with eager prances. Westward, two-thousand miles, give or take.
Yes, of course, the old man murmurs, spinning on his heels.
Careful not to step on his messengers, he rushes through the house to cram what belongings he has lying around into his duffle bag. There isn’t much to pack—just a few outfits, toiletries, and family photographs his neighbor printed for him off Facebook. It’s a dance in itself, dashing around and whirling through the night with giddy anticipation.
Ned? A feeble voice calls through the dark. The kid is half-awake, shuffling down the hall in his boxers. What’s going on?
The old man and his army of dance partners freeze. Words won’t form across his lips. Closing his mouth, he opts for communicating through flaunting gestures. His muscles may lag and his joints may protest, but dance is a universal language. The honeybees mimic his movements for added effect.
I must go, he says with a shimmy. I must move in with my daughter and grandbaby.
The boy scrubs a hand across his drool-crusted face. Once the message registers, his eyes pop open.
Wait. You can’t leave, he says aloud.
I’m sorry, the man grooves. It’s time for me to go.
His neighbor’s hands ball into fists. But what about me? I need you, I…
Their disagreement confuses the bees. Abandoning their elaborate sequence, they huddle atop the boy’s bare feet and tremble as one. Vibrations carry through the floor, up the walls, chattering silverware in the cabinets. Their collective drone takes on a pleading tone, a single unspoken word echoing like a pulse.
Stay. Stay. Stay.
With a sigh, the man drops his bag on the couch and rests a hand on the kid’s shoulder. The honeybees relax, scattering through the open windows. Alone once again, the neighbors face one another eye-to-eye. The kid isn’t really a kid anymore, the old man realizes, though it’s easier to picture this young man as the young boy playing across the street several years ago.
Before exhaustion sweeps them both off their feet, the old man steers the boy back to his bedroom. Let’s discuss this in the morning, alright? I promise I won’t decide anything until we’ve had a good night’s rest.
Hm? the boy yawns. Slumber already whisks him off into a dream before his head hits the pillow. Perhaps by morning, he will believe tonight’s events were a product of sleep.
Goodnight, kid, the old man whispers in the doorway, speaking not with verbal words, but through a rhythmic language adopted by tiny visitors.