Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee Read Free Page A

could say the same,” Jerry replied. “I had the damnedest dreams, couldn’t sleep most of the night.”
    â€œSorry 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.
    â€œDoes 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.
    â€œMr. 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.”
    â€œNo, no, I’ll be checking out before noon. I’m not really afisherman, 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.”
    â€œBusiness,” Mr. Lunceford replied. “Business, business, and more business.”
    â€œNot much business up here, except the timber business.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.”

AT THE RITZ
    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.
    â€œIn 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.”
    â€œTigers are a serious problem in the Sunderbans,” I said, sympathetically.
    â€œ435 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.
    â€œIt’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