Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (2 page)

“Mr. Lunceford? He looks about as much like a criminal as I look like Paul Newman. Really, Nona, you've got some kind of imagination.”

“The perfect disguise,” Nona retorted.

Lunceford didn't leave his cabin the whole first day. He opened his door several times to throw balls of bread to the ducks bobbing on the windy waters a few feet away. Nona now knew his type and put him out of mind.

Jerry took him at his word, that he just needed a little peace and quiet, but he also worried about Lunceford's comfort. The cabins were furnished only spartanly, and the nearest store for provisions was six miles away. Mr. Lunceford didn't appear to have brought much with him. Jerry wanted to tell his guest where he could find certain necessities in the area, but at the same time he didn't want to disturb Mr. Lunceford's privacy. It was a small dilemma.

“What's the big deal?” Nona said. “If he came here to starve to death, that's his business, as long as he's paid in full.” Nona liked to exaggerate her callousness at times just to shock her husband who took his guests' happiness to heart. He was personally hurt if their vacation at Lake Umbagog was in any way less than perfect. He even took responsibility for the weather. And if they didn't catch any fish for the first couple of times out on their own, then he would drop what he was doing and go out with them. This annoyed Nona to no end when he was supposed to be helping her, but it is also why she married him. He cared about everybody.

Jerry felt a little ashamed when he caught himself stealing
glances toward Lunceford's cabin windows as he pretended to see to some chore or another. Lunceford had placed a towel over the window that faced the cabin nearest him. Maybe he was a CIA agent, maybe he was a criminal. But, still, he was a human being too. When Lunceford caught Jerry obviously looking toward his undraped kitchen window, he waved him in.

“I didn't want to disturb you, but I was worried . . .”

“Nonsense, come in. I could use a little company.”

Mr. Lunceford put on a pot of coffee and seemed pleased that the owner of the cabin had consented to join him.

“It's a lovely place you have here,” he said to Jerry, “I envy you.”

“I was born just twenty miles from here,” Jerry said. “I never wanted to live anyplace else.”

“I can see why.” Lunceford poured steaming coffee. “And your wife, is she from around here too?”

“Nona? No, she's from Philadelphia, a city girl. She still has family there, I guess they think she's crazy for living like this, you know how in-laws are—nothing's ever good enough for their little girl . . .”

“Have they ever visited you here?”

“Once, the first year. They were lost for three days just trying to find us. It was pretty funny. They had read somewhere that there was a high population density of black bears around here, and they were afraid to walk from the lodge to their cabin after dark. I had to escort them with a flashlight and a rifle. They insisted on the rifle.”

Lunceford appreciated the humor of the situation and smiled.
Jerry felt him loosening up and felt a kinship with the man, though, most likely, they had little or nothing in common. The two men blew on their coffee and took first sips. Jerry wanted to ask Lunceford about himself, but the man looked wholly contained right where he was, without family, without history, without even a fishing pole. Maybe he was CIA. There were missiles buried in the hills and mountains near Lake Umbagog. And, though he had never thought about it before, it occurred to him now that that might attract enemy agents, and therefore . . . All his life he had felt safe in this far northern corner. He didn't even own a television set, and those locals who did only got one channel faintly a few weeks in the fall.

“And I don't suppose you can get away from here to visit them in Philadelphia?”

“What? Oh no. We're open twelve months a year; hunters in the fall, cross-country skiers in the winter. It's pretty much a full-time job.” The water was splashing on the rocks just feet away from the cabin door, and the sound lulled the men into easy silences. Jerry noticed a tape-machine beside the bed in the other room. He also saw what he took to be a large stack of computer print-outs on the little desk in the bedroom. Here, in the north country, they were as common as Dead Sea Scrolls, which is to say, Jerry had never seen computer print-outs before. He just imagined that that was what they must be. He finished his coffee in several gulps and thanked Lunceford for the conversation, “If you change your mind about the fishing, I'd be glad to take you out.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Lunceford replied, walking him to the door.

Nona now saw her chance to play Jerry along. He always wanted everybody to be so nice. “Sure,” she said, “he's probably got ultra-sensitive listening devices planted all over the campground by now.” Then she put her finger to her lips. “Outside,” she whispered, and motioned for Jerry to tiptoe. “Now listen to me,” she said once they were safe under the birches, “There's that Hungarian fellow in cabin 8. Sure, he fishes. Of course he fishes. He's smarter than this Lunceford character. Lunceford's calling attention to himself by
not
fishing. Americans are the stupidest. The Hungarian acts like he's on a holiday, walks around in the open greeting everybody ever so politely. But this Lunceford is an embarrassment to our National Security.”

Jerry looked worried now, Nona was right. If he could tell that Lunceford was an agent, then surely everyone else could tell. He thought it over for a moment.

“Do you think I should say something to Mr. Lunceford? I don't want anybody getting hurt here.”

“Protect yourself, Honey, that's my advice. These guys think nothing of slitting the throats of innocent people. They play for high stakes. They can kill you 97 ways before Sunday and you'll never know what happened. They always make it look like an accident, and the government hushes everybody up. Your name won't even appear in the obituaries.” She had him going now. Jerry looked out on the lake and wondered if even the ducks were bugged or concealing some kind of explosives.

For the first time in years, Jerry slept poorly that night. The pure mountain air and his own hard work usually knocked him out within a matter of minutes of putting his head to the pillow. This night, however, long after he should have been sawing logs, he thought he heard voices. He rolled over to snuggle up to Nona, but she wasn't there. It was very late. Her absence frightened him. He called her name several times and fumbled in the darkness for the lamp-switch. A loon called in the distance, and he wondered if he was dreaming. There hadn't been loons on Lake Umbagog for several years, since the first year. But, then, distinctly, eerily, it called again.

He heard Nona talking softly from the kitchen: “Yes, I think so, I think that might be possible. He's taken the bait, isn't that a scream? I'll work on him. I can't give you a date. It's too early. Perhaps we'll be home before the holidays. I'll see what I can do. I love you, too.” Nona jumped when she saw Jerry standing in the doorway. “What are you doing up?” she asked. “Who was that? Who were you talking to at this hour?” He was almost angry.

“It's only eleven o'clock. That was my mother. She just wanted to know how we were doing. Now go back to bed, nothing's wrong. I'll be in bed in a few minutes.” Instinctively, though half-asleep, Jerry went to the window facing Mr. Lunceford's cabin. All the lights were on. And over by cabin #8 someone was crouched with a tiny flashlight, digging in an over-turned trash barrel.

The next morning, his last in the north country, Mr. Lunceford
looked out his front window and saw Jerry Kuncio working on a motor down on the dock. He had never been much of a fisherman, but had been touched by Jerry's offer to take him out personally. So, he finished dressing and made his way down to the dock.

“Beautiful morning!” he shouted.

Jerry looked at his watch automatically. It was still morning, though he had been up since five. The best fishing was long over. “I slept like a baby,” Mr. Lunceford continued as Jerry finished tightening up a new fuel hose.

“I wish I could say the same,” Jerry replied. “I had the damnedest dreams, couldn't sleep most of the night.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Mr. Lunceford replied, himself a frequent insomniac. Somehow he hadn't thought the working folk of the north country would suffer from what he thought was the urban dweller's disease.

“Does your offer still stand, I mean about the fishing?”

Jerry looked up from the motor and gave Lunceford a long gaze. Maybe Nona's mother had sent him, she was capable of doing something like that. They'd never been happy about her marriage to him. He'd thought that they would finally get off his back when he made a go of the lodge and cabins, but he was wrong, as usual. Now they were afraid she was really entrenched with this hillbilly.

“Mr. Lunceford, I'm afraid it's a bit late today. If you still want to go out this evening after supper, I'd be happy to take you.”

“No, no, I'll be checking out before noon. I'm not really a
fisherman, as I told you. I just thought as long as I was this far north . . .”

Jerry wiped his hands with a rag and tossed it into his tool kit, “Mind if I ask what
did
bring you up here?” It was not the kind of question a seasoned lodge owner did ask, and Jerry regretted it immediately. “Not that it's any of my business.”

“Business,” Mr. Lunceford replied. “Business, business, and more business.”

“Not much business up here, except the timber business.”

“I'm afraid there is more business in these mountains than timber.” He paused and looked out at the lake. Three canvasback ducks paddled around the dock panhandling for yesterday's bread.

“There's more business in these mountains than you want to know.”

Jerry remembered his wife's late night call to her mother in Pennsylvania:
He's taken the bait, isn't that a scream
. And Laszlo Batki in cabin 8 with his little flashlight, sifting other people's coffee grounds.

All his life he had hunted these hills and fished these lakes. He knew them as well as anyone. He had been a guide when he was still in high school.

“I don't exactly know what you're getting at, Mr. Lunceford. And, if it's a government secret, then I don't think I want to know anyway. But let me put it to you this way: Are you suggesting that I change the name Lake Umbagog Lodge & Cabins to Ground Zero Motel?” He smiled at this instance of his own wit.

And Lunceford appreciated his little joke out there in the wilderness. He felt like he was talking to a peer and colleague.

“I like Lake Umbagog Lodge & Cabins better,” and then he added with charm, “for the meantime. Please thank Mrs. Kuncio for me. You've both been extremely kind. Next time I'll remember to bring my fishing gear.”

H
er bottom half had fallen off. She didn't seem to notice and no one wanted to tell her. She was speaking of “men who had lost their lives to tigers.” When she had lived in the Sunderbans she had dated many of them.

“In the long run,” she sighed, “there is nothing more beautiful than a swimming tiger. So I guess you can say it was worth it.” Long pause. “Poor boys. Poor dear, dear boys.”

“Tigers are a serious problem in the Sunderbans,” I said, sympathetically.

“435 deaths in 21 years,” she said, “and that is only the official record and does not include unreported deaths.”

I ordered another round of Mimosas.

“It's risky work with bees as well,” I added, though I could feel the danger of heaping another horror on the pyre. “I mean, principally, nomad bees.” Then, determined to strike an uplifting note, I added, “I as much as the next person relish their honey.”

The upper torso of Valerie seemed to appreciate my effort.

“Recently they have begun to wear masks in the mangroves of the Sunderbans. Tigers apparently are mostly angered by the faces of men.”

I sat there pondering this fascinating new thought and sipping my new drink.

“One man took off his mask to enjoy his lunch and was immediately attacked. So there you go.”

“Yes,” I replied, rather meekly. I desperately needed to get her off this jag of dismemberment, this meditation on violent loss.

I should add here that Valerie is more attractive than a smoke tree, she has the beauty of the revenant, a sepulchral poise, and, at least to me, a deracinating effect that I, by the last vestiges of the most radiant gist, to borrow a phrase, of my most inner soul, to pass on a cliché, could not resist. And, of course, her eyes did resemble those of the sexier, large feline mammals so rare these days in Boston. And her hair was like a storm one had waited for all of one's life. Please, disappear me.

“People shouldn't be something they're not,” she said, and stared into the mirror behind the bar. “I still don't know who I am. I was brought up to be a lady.”

She was two halves of a lady, and a great lady at that. “You are a great lady,” I reassured her, “It's just that you have paid dearly. It is an irony to me that Life seems so much more grueling since the discovery of penicillin.”