Torque (15 page)

HOST: Explain to our Coffee Time listeners,
Walt, exactly what Apithery is—am I pronouncing that right?

GUEST: Just about, Richard. The correct term
is Apitherapy, which is the use of honeybee products, including the
venom, for medicinal purposes.

HOST: Did you say venom? Does this mean that
you sting people with your bees to make them healthier?

GUEST: That's part of it. There have been
over fifteen hundred scientific articles published on the benefits
of Bee Venom Therapy, or BVT, and beekeepers are being called upon
to provide bees for these alternative remedies.

HOST: I can’t imagine anyone actually
volunteering to get stung. Who are these people?

GUEST: Well, BVT is generally used to ease
pain and swelling, so we get those who suffer from arthritis or
have acute injuries like bursitis, tendonitis, and chronic neck or
back pain. Bee stings have also been used to break down scar
tissue.

HOST: Is this an ongoing treatment, or does
one sting do the trick?

GUEST: The treatment varies according to the
complaint. Mild conditions may only require three to five sessions
of a few stings each, while more chronic ailments could call for
several stings—two or three times a week—for several months.

HOST: And people actually let you do this to
them for months at a time?

GUEST: In some cases they do it themselves.
I personally know of one woman who suffers from MS—

HOST: Multiple Sclerosis.

GUEST: Yes—she and her husband first came to
me about a year ago. They now have two hives of their own.

HOST: So Apithery might be a cure for
MS?

GUEST: This particular use of Apitherapy is
a treatment—not a cure—and is still being studied. However,
patients with MS claim it eases spasms and gives increased
stability and stamina. It’s a prolonged process, though, and not
for the faint of heart.

HOST: That's me, all right. Richard The
Faint-Hearted! What about risks or side effects, Walt?

GUEST: There are people so severely allergic
to stings that the result could be fatal. Anyone considering this
form of therapy should certainly be tested by a doctor first and,
even if cleared, should always keep a sting allergy kit close at
hand.

HOST: Good advice. Well, I'd like to thank
our morning guest: Beekeeper Walt Fleming. Walt, it's been very
informative but I think the only thing I'll be wanting from your
bees is this jar of honey you gave me. Thanks again.

GUEST: I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for
inviting me.

== == ==

Propped against the refrigerator, one bare
foot atop the other, Eileen Tillart was delighted to hear her
neighbour on the local talk show. Walt was a kind man who freely
gave advice on ‘the copious healing potential of bees’ as he often
put it. Given a cue he could talk for hours on pollination,
honeycombs, parthenogenesis, or any other aspect of his favourite
topic. Walt’s time had been limited today, and now the interview
was over Eileen reached up and turned the radio off.

There was a false silence until her ears
picked up the other sounds that had been masked by the radio; a
faint rustle of birch leaves both on and off the branch, the sharp
chirrups of small creatures that flitted among them, and the quiet
chortle of the refrigerator as it worked to cool down the groceries
she had recently loaded into it.

There was little warmth from the mid-autumn
sun but the season was still mild enough for a cotton T-shirt and
denim shorts. The open freezer door was a bit much though, and she
let it close right after grabbing a small metal cylinder from
beneath a bag of green beans. Four inches long with a foam grip at
one end and a flat base of bare chrome at the other, the cylinder
was designed to apply the coldness of ice without the watery
mess.

There were enough ledges to lean on that
Eileen could move around her kitchen without a cane. Fridge.
Counter. Sink. Stove. Her soles picked fine bits of grit from the
worn hardwood floor. She chided herself for not having swept before
now yet recognized that being able to feel the sand, and her
mobility such as it was, were testimonials to the effectiveness of
her chosen, if rather painful, treatment.

Two and a half years ago, a few months shy of
her thirty-third birthday, Eileen's symptoms had been diagnosed as
Multiple Sclerosis. Her doctor had expressed concern that the
verdict would also affect his patient’s mental health but Eileen
had a natural fighting spirit. It was not knowing why she
experienced numbness, muscle spasms, and a mild electrical
sensation when she bent her neck that had distressed and frightened
her the most. Once the enemy had been called out, she channeled the
same energy that drove her to an Honours Degree at the University
of Toronto into fighting the debilitating disease.

The tall windowpanes of the farmhouse were
swung open so they could pull the breeze from the yard into the
kitchen. It was a shame to close them on such a nice day, so she
drew them in with a promise to reopen them the moment her session
was over. The sill was wide and deep, and still used occasionally
for cooling pies. At the moment the sole occupant was a potted
cactus. She fingered the soil to test for dampness.

The house had been passed on to her as a
wedding present from her parents when she’d married Larry. Typical
of Victorian farm homes, the kitchen as the main gathering place
was naturally the largest room. The great harvest table across from
the hearth stood as evidence to the size of her grandfather's
clan.

The dark wood had a rich patina that
virtually invited contact. Eileen set the cylinder on a paper towel
next to a pair of tweezers and turned one of the Windsor chairs
sideways. Laying a bare arm on the table she felt the cool wood
absorb the heat from her skin. With her eyes closed and hand flat
she traced an arc across the oak, the pits and pockmarks rippling
beneath wrist, palm, and fingertips like a Braille map to her past.
The journey ended against the side of a tall, equally cool, glass
jar.

This new object held life. Life that hummed
and throbbed and tapped with persistent vigor. Eileen rolled the
back of her hand against it to better feel the pulse emanating
through the smooth transparent walls. She opened her eyes and
refreshed her fascination.

Inside were a dozen or so bees, and they were
all quite large; their head, thorax, and abdomen easily definable.
Their size would make them easier to manage. A few on the bottom of
the jar were eating through a layer of tissue to get at the honey
below. Their more vigorous glassmates clambered over each other to
scale a cardboard tube standing silo-like at center stage. They
looked like stout little men in shiny tuxedos and yellow
cummerbunds though there would be few males in the batch. Only
females have stingers and therefore guard the hive. As the front
line of defense they were always the first out of the hive, and the
first into the jar.

Her husband had collected them this morning
before he went to harvest the apples. Larry used to handle the bees
and administer the stings but Eileen had found the strikes easier
to endure when she could control them. So, unless a target area was
out of reach, she preferred to sting herself. Larry preferred not
to watch, anyway, and if he didn’t have to be there generally found
some chore to do on the farm. A bee sting kit was in the pantry,
just in case, but it had never been used.

“C’mon, Tillart,” she admonished herself.
“Quit stalling.”

She crossed her arms, grasped the hem of her
T-shirt, and pulled it over her head and off. The newly exposed
flesh pebbled as Eileen examined her fading tan. There were no
noticeable sting marks from previous sessions but the sudden
hardening of her nipples was immediately obvious. This was a recent
development, and the involuntary reaction had a masochistic flavour
that unsettled her. Her minor in psychology had rationalized it
nine ways to Sunday but it still felt weird. Rather than mention it
to Larry, she'd logged on to an Internet forum where BVT was
accepted as a viable form of treatment. The clinical online chats
had eased her mind a little, though she wasn’t about to accept
invitations to any stinging parties.

Clad only in shorts she felt the flesh on her
torso becoming cool and focused her attention on the task at hand.
Easing one side of the lid from the mouth of the jar she plucked a
convenient bee off the cardboard tube with the long, curved
tweezers. Held firmly by the thorax, the bee’s head swiveled about
and the abdomen pulsed up and down. Lid back on, she placed the
ice-cold cylinder on her skin just below the ribs. She squirmed a
little herself, then removed it and touched the bee to the numbed
area.

The barbed stinger lanced her flesh like a
red-hot spear and tore away from the insect, as did the venom sac.
The attached muscles pumped and continued to flex until they had
injected the full load of melittin into her. Wincing against the
pain, Eileen dropped both tweezers and bee onto the paper towel and
gripped the solid table for support.

A welt grew from the heat. It flared around
the reddening wound until, gradually, her natural endorphins kicked
in and she breathed easier. The first was always the worst but if
they were all of that magnitude she would have to cut the session
short.

Don't be such a wuss, Tillart. She wiped her
eyes. It’s worse for the bee you know.

Taking up the tweezers again, she picked out
another of the fat hymenoptera, and with grim determination applied
the cold, sobering metal to her other side. She brought the bee
into contact and sucked air through clenched teeth at its response.
The chair creaked as she pushed at the table.

“Owww! Man. You gals are just full of it
today!”

But that was okay. Two down, only eight more
to go.

CHAPTER
23

Kim Klaasen’s home was only six kilometres
from Fenn’s apartment. In fact, from her vantage point on the
escarpment she could probably see the top floors of his building
with a cheap pair of binoculars. Still, with several intersections
to cross, and Burlington being notorious for red lights, it took
Fenn nearly fifteen minutes to negotiate the Saturday evening
traffic.

On the way, he pondered whether dating the
desirable Ms. K. could be construed as gold-digging. Her father,
while not personally responsible for Burlington’s rapid growth, had
certainly managed to cash in on it. Follow any cement truck through
town and they’d likely stop at a job site overshadowed by a
Godzilla-sized picture of Jack Klaasen on a billboard.

The town had a love-hate relationship with
‘Jackhammer Jack’. His work was highly visible and not always
welcomed, particularly by watchdog groups. His latest humble abode
in Burlington’s highlands fell a couple of million short of the
most expensive dwelling in town yet, true to Klassen form, by the
time the last slate tile had hit the roof, and the peat around the
Weeping Nootkas was tamped down, it had become the most
publicized.

A full page spread in the local rag had
revealed the property’s extensive use of Italian marble and ancient
Greek sculptures. It also mentioned City Council’s ‘denial of
access’ that prevented Klaasen from using the aquifer to top up his
Olympic-sized pool.

Even had she bothered to read the piece, Kim
still preferred the tenancy of their old pile which, nestled into a
cul-de-sac of wooded Highview Drive, had a more country-cottage
style than the new place. And it had a nicer view. The clearing
from the back terrace, out to the edge of the escarpment, not only
overlooked Burlington but right across Lake Ontario to Grimsby and
Beamsville on the opposite shore.

The car’s tires crunched on the gravel of the
semi-circular drive. Limestone steps led to a heavy oak door with a
big black knocker. It was partially open and Fenn caught a fleeting
glimpse of blue skirt and white shirt disappearing down the
hall.

He pushed the door to its limit then
announced in a voice loud enough for nosy neighbours, “Ms. Klaasen.
Your Dial-a-Date is here.”

He was answered with a deep woof followed by
a skittering of nails on linoleum. Braced for impact, Fenn was
saved by Kim’s call of “Down, Jess!”

The copper-coloured dog stayed ‘down’ but
still wriggled and bumped and draped long silky hairs on Fenn’s
jeans.

“Okay, Jess, you’ve said hello. Now, back to
the kitchen.”

She waved a hand at the closet behind her as
she pulled the golden retriever away.

“There’s a lint brush in there, if you need
one.”

She went down the hall and Fenn quickly shook
the hair from his pants. He straightened up as Kim returned. She
spun around to flare her knee length skirt.

“Will this do?”

The red and white embroidery on the denim
connected nicely with the stitching of her cotton blouse. Victorian
style ankle-boots added a few inches to her diminutive frame.

Fenn smiled in approval. “You’ll be the Belle
O’ the Bar.”

In return she ran an appraising eye over his
black jeans, black leather vest over a charcoal shirt, and grey
Boulet cowboy boots.

“Hmmm. Would that be a biker bar, or a
saloon?”

“Might be a bit of both. Have you ever been
to Dusty’s, that new Country—Rock joint across the bay? They
apparently make a mean poutine.”

Her laugh went into the closet as she pulled
out a coat but the grin stayed with her as they went to the
car.

“It’s still a bit early for the bar,” said
Fenn, turning out of the driveway. “I have something to drop off in
Kilbride, if you don’t mind a small detour.”

Kim settled back against the headrest, her
denim jacket draped across her lap. “Not at all. Country drives
have always been high on my list. Giddy’up pardner!”