Page 32 of Upstate

Billy bid his sister goodbye and took Charlie home for a well-earned supper. I went up to the house to get us all cold bottles of beer. Mr. Green sat himself down on the church pew that had been brought into the barn decades ago for the express purpose, it seemed, of giving the four of us a place to put up our feet.

“Well, Miss Cabot,” he said, the ministerial timbre of his voice resonating among the barn’s old timbers, “you took a wrong step today, and it won’t be your last. Animal husbandry is nothing if not an endless series of problems to solve. For every situation you master, another will arise to challenge you anew. Even the most confident member of the human species is necessarily humbled when tasked with caring for livestock.”

Indeed, the past few weeks have rivaled my training in the women’s marines as Mr. Green tutored me in the essential skills of shepherding. I’ve been taught to trim a sheep’s hoof, to cut a horn before its tip curls into an animal’s eye, to check their ocular membranes for evidence of parasites, to remove built-up wax from a sheep’s woolly ear. I even learned how to bloodlessly castrate an out-of-season week-old lamb with a strong rubber band. Having supervised my training thus far, Mr. Green has decided shearing is best kept to himself. After promising to return with his clippers come spring, he left the animals in my sole care.

Since then, I’ve become fascinated by the creatures. I observe them with the keen eye of Rosa Bonheur. I tamp down my typical enthusiasm so as not to spook them. I sink my fingers into their fleece, massage their lanolin into my hands, listen for the lullaby of their bleats to float up from the barn and through my bedroom window. Wanting the convenience of running water in the barn this winter, I’ve contracted Junior Burgess to install a pipe and spigot. Come spring, I plan to fence in an acre of overgrown pasture where the sheep can summer in splendor. It’ll mean hauling buckets from the pond to keep a trough filled, but what’s one more chore if it contributes to their comfortable retirement?

When my tenant brokered the idea of letting Mr. Green shelter his sheep in my barn, I’d imagined myself the magnanimous leader of a grateful flock. Turns out, these independent animals have no use for a head of household. Being a shepherdess means it’s my job to provide what the creatures need so they can thrive on their own — which seems to me a truer notion of husbandry than the men who turn women into wives have been promoting for centuries.

Chapter 16

“Good omen, absolutely,” Sandra says when she stops by later that afternoon. She’s swapped her overalls for a linen tunic and leggings. Amethysts dangle from hoops in her ears while loose locks of hair seem determined to escape the confines of a claw clip. “The queen bee decided it was time for a new home, a fresh start. Just like you.”

“You really think so?” We’re standing in the barn’s doorway watching the bees across the lawn. The glob of insects writhes and pulses, but the intensity of the swarm has morphed into focused industry. “Is that why you came to Schuywich, for a fresh start?”

“More like a last-ditch effort to save my life,” Sandra says. “I was a legislative aide in Albany for twenty-five years. Started in Mario Cuomo’s administration right after earning my master’s in political science from the Rockefeller College of Public Affairs. I almost quit in protest when a Republican became governor, but the Pataki years turned out to be among the best. I stuck with it through Spitzer and Paterson, too, even though the stress was literally killing me. By the time Andrew got his father’s job, I’d already had one heart attack. It was either quit or die, simple as that.”

I nod. “That’s how I felt about leaving Manhattan.”

“Then you get it,” Sanda says. “I’ve spent the past decade delving into alternative health practices. I’d done a workshop at the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck when I decided to drive up to Vermont to see the leaves change, but I got lost along the way. My car broke down on Main Street right in front of a business with a For Sale sign in the window. I took it as a sign from the universe that I was meant to open a massage practice in Schuywich.”

I’d be tempted to dismiss her story of fate as fiction if that weren’t exactly how I felt when I saw the listing for Red Barn Books. Instead of sharing that with her, though, I turn our attention back to the bees. “I read on the internet the hive will settle into its new home in a day or two. I was thinking about collecting the honey they left behind in the loft.”

Sandra looks at me like I’ve suggested swan diving into a puddle. “A swarm means the old hive was overcrowded, Audrey, not abandoned. That’s just half the bees.”

“You mean they’re still up there?” I feel foolish for knowing so little about the insects that inhabit my barn. Aisha won’t start her internship while the bees are still a menace, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened to Wren. “You don’t know any beekeepers, do you?”

“I have a friend who keeps bees, but that’s just a box in her backyard. You need a professional to remove a hive humanely. My friend gets her supplies from a place called Bees-R-Best, maybe they can help? Once they’re gone, I hope you do harvest the comb. Local honey is wonderful for your immune system. I take a spoonful every morning. You should, too. It might strengthen your aura, which is rather collapsed, I’m afraid.”

Sandra’s speech reminds me of the wacky psychic who reached out to Dad while my mother was missing. That woman’s false hope wreaked havoc on us during a terrible time. Since then, I haven’t put much faith in auras and chakras and messages from the great beyond. To change the subject, I ask, “Which one of those books about plant medicine are you most interested in?”

Sandra shifts the books from one arm to the other. “They’re all terrific, Audrey, but this comes closest to an even trade.” She holds up Ginseng and Other Medicinal Plants. “Maybe we could do another swap?”

“You want to go back to the co-op for me?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not allowed to reopen my massage practice in the village yet, but maybe I could bring my table out here and trade treatments for books? If we were both masked and outside, that would be all right, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s fine by me. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I caught Covid back in March.”

“You’re okay now, though?”

“I’m fine,” I say, glossing over everything the pandemic has cost me.

“Good. I believe natural exposure is the best way for your body to develop immunity. Craniosacral massage can help the lymphatic system drain off residual toxins, though energy medicine offers a more comprehensive approach.”

“Energy medicine?” The image that pops into my mind is of a battery-powered bunny. “What’s that?”

“Energy medicine is the practice of facilitating the flow of energy through the body. There’s some physical manipulation, but it’s not like massage. When I work in the energy field, I often don’t touch the body at all.” Sandra reaches out and pats the air around me, then curls her hand into a ball and brings it back to her side. “I think it could help you process your grief.”

“How do you know—” I stop myself. Sandra met me while I was weeping. It doesn’t take a psychic to know I’m mourning something. Remembering how the warmth of her hand lingered on my back, I say, “I guess we could try that.”

“Great. How about I come back tomorrow evening, after you close the bookshop?”

“Sounds good.” I don’t expect a little hand-waving to cure me of anything, but I can’t see the harm in stretching out on a massage table.

“All right, Audrey, I’ll see you then.” Sandra puts down the books she isn’t taking with her. “Set these aside for me?”

After she walks away, I pile Sandra’s books on the table in the barn, then look up the number for Bees-R-Best and leave them a voicemail. Wanting to be better educated when they call me back, I decide to find some books on beekeeping. The shelf next to botany & plants is labeled animals. Books about genetics and evolution are followed by worms and starfish and snails. Spiders and centipedes lead to grasshoppers, then beetles and butterflies. By the time I find the section dedicated to bees, I’m sensing an old, familiar pattern. Studying the spines on the next shelf, I see snakes, sharks, frogs, and fishes followed by dozens of books about birds and maybe a hundred titles on various mammals.