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" I WAS DATING this woman named Sandra who had a crooked, S-shaped spine and practiced a sort of amateur voodoo in her spare time. She was always constructing these little dolls out of cloth and dried-up vegetable matter. She&amp;#039;d stick the dolls with pins or light them on fire in hopes of inflicting special discomfort on the intended victim. Sandra usually came up with some incidental proof that her powers were taking effect, but I, for one, was skeptical.  &amp;quot;Tell me why you don&amp;#039;t believe it works,&amp;quot; said Sandra one night. We were lying in bed, facing each other. She was twelve years older than I was and outweighed me by forty or fifty pounds, but she was not an unattractive woman.  &amp;quot;I think it&amp;#039;s your imagination,&amp;quot; I told her.  &amp;quot;Oh, I see,&amp;quot; said Sandra. She rolled away from me so that I could see her back more clearly. You probably wouldn&amp;#039;t notice the curve in her spine if she were fully clothed and standing before you, but it was fairly pronounced when she lay like that on the bed. I moved a little closer to her and said, &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m probably wrong, though. I&amp;#039;m usually wrong about these things.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Thank you,&amp;quot; said Sandra. &amp;quot;I already know that.&amp;quot; This was around the time that I was having difficulty controlling my anger. Most people who know me now would consider me to be a fairly calm person. But back then I was feeling frustrated. There was a buzzing noise inside my head, like a single bee wishing to get out. As a matter of fact, I believe this all started with the bees, the small swarm of them, which I saw flying in and out of my neighbor&amp;#039;s window. I was walking home from Sandra&amp;#039;s place that morning when I saw them, these little swirling dots buzzing around the open window of Thomas&amp;#039;s second-floor apartment. Thomas was a slender, shy fellow who lived down the hall from me in our run-down apartment complex. I would often see him in the hallway and say, &amp;quot;Hi, Thomas.&amp;quot; He would always look up at the last minute like he was surprised to see me there. Then he would say, &amp;quot;Oh, hi,&amp;quot; and keep on walking. It had been several weeks since I&amp;#039;d seen Thomas in the hall, and when I noticed those bugs flying around his open window, I began to think that maybe he was dead. This was the kind of thing which might happen easily in our building. Someone might disappear for months and no one would really notice. Except for me. I was fairly observant. I figured Thomas had been lying there for several days now. He&amp;#039;d probably slipped and cracked his skull on the edge of his table, and now, finally, the insects had come to help along the cycle of decay. I went inside the building and knocked on his door. I would be the hero who discovered his neglected corpse.  But this was not to be the case. Thomas answered the door shortly after I knocked. As usual, he pretended to be surprised to see me.  &amp;quot;Oh, hi,&amp;quot; he said.  &amp;quot;I thought you were dead,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;Well,&amp;quot; he said, &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m not.&amp;quot; It was then that I figured out where the bees had come from. There was a large wooden hive set up behind him in his small, one-room apartment. It looked like a stack of wooden milk crates, about four feet high. There were holes in each crate, little entrances and exits for the bees to come and go. A beehive! Right inside his apartment! The air was thick with the insects circling about. &amp;quot;I see you got yourself some bees,&amp;quot; I said to Thomas. &amp;quot;Yes, I did,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;They were flying in and out of your window,&amp;quot; I pointed out. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m aware of that,&amp;quot; said Thomas. He casually brushed two bees away from his face.  Just then a bee landed on my lip and stung me. Right on the lip! Without any provocation at all. It was a sharp, pronounced pain, like a hot needle had been stuck there and left inside. &amp;quot;Hey!&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;They sense your aggression,&amp;quot; said Thomas. &amp;quot;I have to go now.&amp;quot; And then he shut the door in my face. The pain in my lip began to grow. I could feel it spreading in my blood. I stood there for a moment, listening to the strange din of the bees buzzing. It was a loud noise, all of them in there together. Bzzzzzzz . . . I walked back to my apartment and made myself a sandwich. It was a chicken sandwich, if you must know. I felt annoyed with Thomas, the way he&amp;#039;d shut the door on me back there. I thought about returning to his apartment and kicking his ass, but really, what would that accomplish? Then, as I bit into my sandwich, I felt something move inside my mouth. Something tickled at my tongue, and then I felt a pinch. Then the pain arrived, sharp and strong, just like before. I was stung again! Right in the mouth!  I spit the sandwich out onto the ground and looked down at the offending creature. &amp;quot;Fucking bee,&amp;quot; I said. There it was, buzzing about in my half-chewed bite of chicken sandwich.  &amp;quot;Tongue biter!&amp;quot; I screamed. &amp;quot;Honeysucker! Goddamn bumble fucking bee!&amp;quot;  I picked up my chair and smashed it down upon the buzzing insect. I smashed it over and over again until both the chair and the bee were broken into pieces. You may recall my earlier mention of difficulties controlling my anger. This particular incident could well serve as an example of that tendency. It was only afterward that I noticed I&amp;#039;d done quite a bit of damage to the table and broken the plate I&amp;#039;d used for that chicken sandwich. I did manage to kill that bee, though, and for a little while the buzzing in my head stopped. Sandra arrived at my apartment later that day. I was sitting on the floor, feeling glum.  &amp;quot;Hi, Thandra,&amp;quot; I said. My tongue was all swollen and tender. My lip was fat, too. &amp;quot;What happened to you?&amp;quot; asked Sandra. &amp;quot;I got thung by a bee. Twithe,&amp;quot; I said. The chair and the table and the plate were still lying on the floor in a broken-up mess. &amp;quot;Looks like you&amp;#039;ve had quite a day,&amp;quot; she said.  I tried to explain to her, as best I could with my mouth all puffed up like that, about Thomas and his bees. I was still mad at him for his cocky remark about my inner aggression setting them off.  &amp;quot;Do I know Thomas?&amp;quot; asked Sandra. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t think tho,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;Perhaps I could help you,&amp;quot; said Sandra, &amp;quot;if you know what I mean. . . .&amp;quot; She smiled a sort of devilish smile, and no, I had no idea what she meant. But then I figured it out. She wanted me to use one of her little dolls. Voodoo revenge. I told Sandra I wasn&amp;#039;t interested, and she seemed disappointed. We cleaned up the broken mess on my floor and then she went home. It was difficult for me to eat after that. My injured tongue felt like it had been pumped full of air. Sandra said she wouldn&amp;#039;t kiss me until it had all healed up. I wondered if maybe Thomas was raising up some strange breed of bee, a special strain which inflicted severe trauma on its victims. I wanted Thomas to feel bad about this. I made frequent trips out to the hallway,  hoping to cross paths with Thomas, so that I could show him what his little creatures had done. But it seemed that he never ventured from his home now. Eventually I just took to sitting out in the hallway, waiting for him to emerge. After a while I fell asleep, and when I woke up, skinny Thomas was standing above me, his wide eyes blinking through a set of thick-lensed glasses. &amp;quot;Oh, hi,&amp;quot; he said to me. I stood up and pointed to my fat lip. &amp;quot;Look at what your bees did,&amp;quot; I said.  &amp;quot;You provoked them,&amp;quot; Thomas said calmly. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s bullthit,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;No, it&amp;#039;s not,&amp;quot; he said. With that, Thomas shuffled past me and into his insect-filled den. That little son of a bitch, I thought. Goddamn beekeeper. I called up Sandra on the phone.  &amp;quot;I need your help, Sandra,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;I thought you might,&amp;quot; she said to me. She arrived at my apartment in the morning. &amp;quot;Keep that mouth away from me,&amp;quot; she said.  Together we went over to Thomas&amp;#039;s apartment and knocked on his door. &amp;quot;Oh, hi,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;Hi, Thomas,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;This is my girlfriend, Sandra. She wanted to see your bees.&amp;quot; Thomas looked Sandra up and down. &amp;quot;Nice to meet you,&amp;quot; he said to her. Sandra nodded and walked inside Thomas&amp;#039;s apartment. The bees circled around her.  &amp;quot;Careful,&amp;quot; said Thomas. &amp;quot;They can sense your fear.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m not afraid of them,&amp;quot; said Sandra. I stood back in the doorway. I wasn&amp;#039;t having any part of those bees today. Sandra examined the hive, running her hands along its wooden sides, occasionally brushing away a bee with her fingertips. She inhaled deeply and then walked back toward us unhampered by the presence of the swarm. Thomas raised an eyebrow. &amp;quot;Are you a fellow apiculturist?&amp;quot; he asked. &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; said Sandra. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m not.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You should consider it,&amp;quot; said Thomas. &amp;quot;You have a way with the hymenopteran.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s nice of you to say,&amp;quot; said Sandra, smiling at him. &amp;quot;I think we need to go now,&amp;quot; I said. Thomas smiled back at Sandra. &amp;quot;You can come by anytime,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;Thank you,&amp;quot; Sandra said. &amp;quot;Maybe I will.&amp;quot; She walked out the door and I followed after her. &amp;quot;What did he say about your hymen?&amp;quot; I asked her once we were outside. &amp;quot;Nothing,&amp;quot; said Sandra. &amp;quot;A hymenopteran is a four-winged insect.&amp;quot; Back at her place Sandra got out one of her voodoo notebooks and began writing in it.  &amp;quot;So are you going to help me?&amp;quot; I asked her. &amp;quot;Yes, I am,&amp;quot; she said. Three days later Sandra gave me the doll. Its skin was pale white, just like Thomas&amp;#039;s. It even had a little set of glasses perched upon its crumpled-up face. &amp;quot;What should I do with it?&amp;quot; I asked her.  &amp;quot;Stick needles into his sides,&amp;quot; she said. &amp;quot;Okay,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;You should be alone,&amp;quot; Sandra added. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t think we should see each other for a little while.&amp;quot; That night, when I saw Thomas walk out of our building and stand at the bus stop, I jabbed a needle into the little doll&amp;#039;s side. He didn&amp;#039;t seem to notice it. I stuck the doll again, this time a little harder, but there was no effect. I poked at it over and over again, each time watching for some type of convulsion from Thomas, but there was nothing. I should have known better.  I called Sandra on the phone and told her that her voodoo plan was useless. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s because you don&amp;#039;t believe,&amp;quot; she said. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s like the bees; the voodoo spirits can sense your cynicism.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;My what?&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;Your doubt,&amp;quot; she said. The honeybee is attracted to all things sweet. Have you ever noticed that when you spill a bit of soda pop on the ground, the bees swarm to it? This is what I saw the next morning: a group of bees, probably Thomas&amp;#039;s, sipping up some sticky soda off the sidewalk. I ran home and found my doll of Thomas. I poured an entire can of orange soda on it and set it on my windowsill. I sat and watched as little Thomas became covered with bees. They crawled upon his crumpled-up body, and I tried to focus my desire, just like Sandra had told me. The next morning, I waited behind my door, hoping to catch a glimpse of Thomas in the hall. What had happened to him, I wondered? Did the swarm devour him whole?  Then his door opened and I watched through my peephole as Thomas shuffled down the hall. To my disappointment, he did not seem injured in any way. I popped open my door as he passed by. &amp;quot;Hi, Thomas,&amp;quot; I said. It was then that I saw it on his neck, a bright red mark, raised up and round, about the size of a silver dollar. A beesting!  Thomas reached up and covered the mark with his hand. Then he looked down at the ground. &amp;quot;Oh, hi,&amp;quot; he said to me, and he kept walking down the hall. Sandra let me come over that night, and once again we lay naked in her bed. She was facing me now, and I wrapped my arms around her. I began to rub her back gently, massaging each bump along her crooked spine.  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m beginning to believe in your dolls,&amp;quot; I told her. &amp;quot;You should have believed all along,&amp;quot; she said. My fingers slid lower, right down to the small of her back, and there they touched upon something, a little raised-up welt. &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s this?&amp;quot; I asked her. &amp;quot;Nothing,&amp;quot; she said. &amp;quot;It feels like a . . .&amp;quot; &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s nothing,&amp;quot; she said again, and then she turned away from me.  It was late the next day, in the evening, when the feeling began. It started out as a slight tingling, but then it grew to a slow burn. Something was biting at me from beneath my skin! I scratched at my arms as red bumps began to form on the surface.  I tried soothing creams, but they had no effect. I was in pain. I looked in the mirror. My face was bright red, puffed out beyond recognition. I was being stung from the inside out! Staring at my face, covered in pink welts, I saw the facts. Sometimes you just know. I limped out to the hallway and knocked on the door of Thomas&amp;#039;s apartment. Thomas answered, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. The bees swirled about behind him. &amp;quot;Oh, hi,&amp;quot; he said to me. I pushed past him and into the apartment. There lay Sandra, naked upon his bed, bees crawling upon her crooked body.  &amp;quot;Hello,&amp;quot; she said to me. &amp;quot;Hello, Cassandra,&amp;quot; I said to her. I understood now. Yes, I could see the writing on the wall, as it were. Yet I had to remain calm. If I panicked now, the bees would get me.  I glanced over at Thomas. I saw now that the red mark on his neck was not a beesting after all. It was just a plain old hickey. I walked slowly toward the hive. The droning buzz grew loud in my ears. My fingers were swollen up like large round sausages. I could hardly bend them. I grabbed hold of the hive and lifted. &amp;quot;Hey,&amp;quot; said Thomas. &amp;quot;No!&amp;quot; I raised that box-shaped hive high above my head. The bees scampered around my arms and fingers. They were stinging me, yes, but I was done with their pain now. I was numb to it. I threw the hive down, cracking it open in a swarming gooey mess onto the floor. Thomas leapt forward, trying to hold the pieces together. &amp;quot;My bees,&amp;quot; he said.  They were everywhere, buzzing angrily and scampering to re-collect their broken hive.  And yes, there in the splintered wreckage of it all, covered in golden honey and bits of honeycomb wax, lay a doll. A little cloth voodoo doll, crafted lovingly in my own image. Sandra had done her work well. And now I really did have to believe. . . . It occurs to me that we humans have a lot to learn from the honeybee. I hate to admit it, but Thomas was right, they can sense our fear. I have heard it said that if one were to gather up all of the insects on this earth and weigh them on one giant scale, their collective weight would be twelve times that of all the humans. So perhaps one day the insects will inherit this planet, and we will have to bow down before them. I believe that in some ways this would be just.  I am better with my anger now, and that buzzing noise no longer occupies my head. Lovely, crooked Sandra is no longer in my life, but I do often see old Thomas walking in and out of his apartment, shuffling this way and that, still watching after that colony of indoor bees. Just before we pass by each other in the hallway, he is always sure to look up.  &amp;quot;Oh, hi,&amp;quot; he says to me.  [ARTHUR BRADFORD&amp;#039;s first story collection, Dogwalker, will be published by Knopf in August.] "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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