Stung

By Anne McPherson Arthurs

On a hot Saturday in mid-September, Roger stood near the only shade tree in the backyard, loosely gripping a beer while meat sizzled on the grill. The sky above was a deep, restless blue, cut with shards of thin grey clouds that lingered but offered no relief from the heat. A breeze ruffled half-heartedly at the corners of the red tablecloth clipped to the picnic table. 

His youngest son, Carson, turned six today, and the party was only a shadow of what it might have been. Lily had wanted something bigger—laser tag, or a pool party with friends from school. Someplace where the screeching of five and six-year-olds would be joyous. But since spring, those plans had all crumbled, one shutdown after another. Meanwhile Roger was determined to take a break from his writing for the weekend. His scientific article about the state of the world could wait while he spent a little time living in it.

While the dog lounged in the shade, Roger stood diligently over the burgers, testing them impatiently every few seconds even though he knew they weren’t ready. From the neighborhood came the high-pitched shrieks of pre-pubescent children in backyards. The dog’s ears twitched in response. A bee buzzed lazily past Roger’s face, and he waved it away. Sweat dotted his forehead and slid down the neck of his T-shirt. Fat dripped though the grill, spitting up jets of blue flame.

The back door creaked open, and Roger’s father-in-law stepped down into the yard, hands tucked into his pockets. He made his way over to stand beside Roger, who felt the older man’s gaze linger on the burgers. A tension filled the space between their two bodies. A man of few words, even fewer when it came to Roger. 

Roger studied the burgers like they demanded all his attention. He flipped a burger again—too soon, he knew, but better than letting the silence win.

“No bratwurst?” Frank asked at last. “Is this what Carson wanted for his birthday or is he just used to…small things now?”

Roger swallowed, tasting the bitter beer foam in his mouth. “The boy asked for a picnic,” he replied tightly.

“Well, I don’t know what things were like where you grew up, but picnics around here should have bratwurst.”

Roger didn’t look up from the grill. 

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he said, keeping his tone in check.

Frank leaned in closer and peered over Roger’s shoulder.

“They’ll be ready soon, I think,” he observed.

“They’re fine.”

But Roger didn’t want to pull them off with his father-in-law watching. The last time he’d rushed, a burger slipped off the spatula and landed squarely on the grass. The dog was remarkably quick at snatching it up, despite her age. So, Roger left them on a little too long while Frank hovered at his side.

“Some of those look a little charred,” he noted.

“I like them that way,” Roger lied. 

Traffic moved thinly beyond the back fence, an occasional impatient horn breaking the silence as cars headed for the curb-side pick-up at the grocery store. Another innovation of this unexpected year. How the world had shrunk.

Finally Roger scraped the overdone patties from the grill, jabbing at them where they’d glued themselves to the metal. The ensuing silence was pierced only by the soft thump of a patty hitting the dirt and the dog yelping as the hot burger burned her mouth. She shook her head in displeasure. Frank shook his sadly. Roger rubbed his forehead, a dull headache forming behind his eyes. Of course.

He ducked his head through the kitchen door and called “Lunch is ready!” without waiting for a response. He retreated to the shade of the maple tree, one hand clenched around his beer as a cloud passed over the sun. The dog, now satisfied with her prize, lounged happily in the shade with her head between her paws.

Frank’s footsteps shuffled closer as he took a seat at the table. Roger relaxed his fingers around the beer bottle and took a slow sip. No matter what he did, no matter how well the day went, Frank would find fault. Roger would just have to accept that. Frank had never quite seen his job as legitimate—writing about science rather than actual participation in research. Frank had always let himself believe his internet research meant he knew just as much scientifically as Roger.

Lily and the kids tumbled out the back door, their arms filled with plates and cups, catsup, mustard and pickles. They moved in a flurried chaos, their voices overlapping. Pitchers of lemonade and soda sloshed in his daughter’s hands. Sophie set hers down and licked her sticky fingers clean. Lily carried a plate of perfectly sliced tomatoes from her garden, alongside onions and lettuce and slices of cheddar cheese. Dexter, his oldest, carried crinkling bags of potato chips and Elinore carried potato salad and cucumber salad—Roger knew no one would touch the latter but his father-in-law. 

Everyone dug in, passing plates and trays and bowls back and forth. Roger hadn’t eaten all day, saving room for cake. He was starving, but he knew too many burgers would bring comments disguised as jokes of “looking soft,” from Frank. 

Lily smiled at Roger and handed him a beer as she sat down, something with a foreign label he didn’t recognize. She handed the same to her father, who grunted his approval.

A bee—The same one?  Another?—landed on the lip of Roger’s beer bottle. Its tiny legs gripped the surface, wings quivering. He waved at it dismissively, but it refused to go, fluttering lazily and resettling close to his hand. He blew on it and it lifted off, hovering for a moment before drifting away. Danger averted.

Carson sat at the head of the table near the tree, a place of honor today, flanked by Sophie and Dexter. He smiled happily at his Lego Star Wars plate, at the Lego Star Wars tablecloth, and at his Lego Star Wars cup. Lily had really done her best today, despite everything. 

“Happy birthday, Carson!” Roger said, raising his beer to toast him. The others followed suit and hoisted whatever they were drinking into the air.

Carson smiled with a kind of simple joy that made Roger’s chest ache, as though the world beyond their yard didn’t exist—no pandemic, no shutdown, no isolation.

Carson stuck out his tongue mischievously at them, stained blue from the frosting he’d licked off the butter knife his mother used to frost his cake. Elinore and Sophie laughed. Carson turned towards Lily, threatening to kiss her with his blue lips, and she shrieked and batted him away.

The breeze had picked up, rustling leaves above them. Clouds skittered past.

Frank drained his first beer and handed the bottle silently to Lily, who disappeared inside to fetch him another.

Roger’s father-in-law turned to face him.

“So, Roger,” he said, and Roger set down his empty bottle to study the man squarely.

Frank’s hair had gone white and fine over the decades. Years ago, the man had cut an imposing figure—broad-shouldered and towering over everyone when Roger had first met him. He’d exuded an instant authority, the kind that made Roger feel small. He hadn’t liked Roger from the beginning, this nobody from humble beginnings. And he’d liked Roger even less when Dexter came along six months after the wedding.

Now he was diminished, his back slightly hunched, his skin darkened from the sun, and run through with fine lines and wrinkles, like paper crushed into a ball and laid flat. He still carried himself like he was in charge—like he owned the ground he walked on. He dressed neatly, most days wearing T-shirts and black jeans. Today he wore a Kelly-green polo shirt and chinos, dressed up for Carson’s special day in Carson’s favorite color. Carson adored his grandfather, and Frank reciprocated his affection tenfold. His daughter and grandchildren all loved him, and Frank loved them. All of them. Everyone but Roger.

“Roger,” he said, drawing out the word, like there was pleasure to come. His lips twitched in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. “It looks like you were wrong.”

“That’s entirely possible,” Roger agreed, keeping his tone light, and providing no friction. The best way, he’d learned, to get under Frank’s skin instead of the other way around.

The kids were chattering, talking over each other. The dog wandered over to the table, sniffing at their feet, inspecting the grass for stray food. Carson had catsup smeared across his lips and Dexter was laughing at something, making Carson laugh, too, his mouth wide open. Sophie handed Carson a napkin and pointed to his lips. Elinore laughed her honking laugh, the one she used when she was trying too hard. 

Finally, Roger looked back at Frank, who was waiting. “What was I wrong about?”

Frank didn’t miss a beat.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s listening to the news anymore. Science can’t tell them anything they want to hear. Everyone’s already made up their minds about what’s happening.”

His white hair ruffled gently in the breeze, lifting like goose down.

“I disagree,” Roger said evenly. “I think this year has proved just how much people crave information and how upset they are when they think they’re being lied to.”

Lily reappeared, sliding a second beer in front of her father, and handing another to Roger. She sat back down without comment.

“They think they’re being lied to when they hear the truth,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Each side’s using their own science.”

Roger forced a smile.

“The science is sound,” he declared. “It’s the messengers who get it wrong. If they’d just get out of the way and let the scientists do their job there’d be a lot less politicizing of all this. Maybe we could have ended this shut down already.”

Frank shook his head, a familiar condescension in his voice. “I highly doubt that. Everyone’s doing something different and none of it’s working. I don’t know why you’re wasting your time trying to write about all this. No one can hear you over the sound of their own screaming.”

“People are listening,” Roger insisted. The bottle felt solid and cool in his hand where he gripped it, his knuckles white. “People who want to understand are looking for people like me to explain things.”

Frank shook his head.

“No one’s listening,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, like he was stating an undeniable fact: The world was spinning off into chaos and Roger was powerless to stop it. “No one cares what you or anyone else has to say. They’ve already decided how this story ends. Some things you just can’t take back.”

His words stung more than Roger let on. He knew Frank didn’t think much of his writing, didn’t think much of him. He’d spent years building a reputation, but none of that mattered to Frank. He was still the upstart sitting at Frank’s dining room table, daring to be worthy of his daughter. He was the biggest mistake Lily had ever made, knocking her life off the path Frank had set for her.

The bee—or one just like it—was back, buzzing around his head, and Roger waved at it impatiently. He felt one finger connect with its tiny body and he had a brief moment of satisfaction as it sped off towards the tree, like a small flying acorn. The thing slowed suddenly as it reached the other end of the table and came to rest on the soft curve of his youngest son’s cheek, just below his eye. Carson froze in mid-laugh, catsup still caught in the corners of his pink mouth. The children all fell silent, their horrified faces pointed at Carson. He reached up suddenly and closed his fingers over the bee, then screamed as it stung him.

In the moment it took Roger to rise from his chair, Lily covered the length of the table and had Carson in her arms. She carried him, shrieking, into the house.

“Stay here!” Roger ordered his open-mouthed children. Elinore began to cry as he and Frank followed Lily inside.

Carson sobbed in short, gasping gulps of air as Lily held an ice cube to his cheek with her bare fingers. Bur Carson turned his head and pushed her hand away.

“No!” he cried, his voice cracking. “It’s cold!”

Lily looked desperately at Roger, pearls of sweat on her forehead.  

“Baking soda!” Frank insisted loudly from the kitchen. “That’s the thing!”

“No,” Roger said firmly. “I know something better.”

As Carson’s sobs faded to whimpers, Roger pulled a pot from the dishrack and filled it with milk. He could feel Frank’s eyes on him, shaking his head while he continued searching for baking soda. Roger ignored him. Standing at the stove while the milk heated, Roger was blocking the way, and he didn’t bother moving. He tore the ends off a bread loaf and pushed it down into the hot milk. He pulled plastic wrap from a drawer and tore off a sheet. Frank gave up and stood watching him. 

“Milk? Come on, Roger,” Frank huffed. “That’s not going to do anything.”

“It’ll work,” Roger said, not taking his eyes off the stove. “Trust me.”

Roger spooned the hot soggy bread onto the plastic wrap, making a makeshift poultice, and wrapped it with a paper towel. The boy’s cheek had gone red and begun to swell. He cried softly, a kind of high-pitched keen. Roger led Carson over to a couch in the den and told him to lay on his side.

“Here,” he said, kneeling and bringing the poultice gently to Carson’s cheek. “It’s hot but it will help.”

Carson shifted away from the heat, but his hand came up to hold it in place. He sniffed and his tears stopped after a while. Roger knelt awkwardly next to him, stroking his leg.

“Is that better?”

The boy nodded.

“You shouldn’t grab them. You frightened him, you see? You’re so big and scary, stinging you was his only defense. He didn’t know not to be scared.” Roger tried to smile.

Carson nodded again, sniffing once.

“What is that?” Lily asked, not taking her eyes away from Carson.

“A bread and milk poultice,” Roger said.

Frank stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, but his expression had shifted just a little. “How does that work?” he asked skeptically.

Roger briefly meet Frank’s eyes. “It’s the milk. Milk shuts down the chemical reaction that causes hot chilis to make your tongue feel like it’s on fire. The same process seems to work on bee stings.”

“And you learned this through research?”

“My mother, actually,” Rogers said, smiling faintly. “She used to make them for me when I got stung. There were bees all over the farm. Once I sat on a rotten fence and didn’t know a wasp nest was right under me. I got stung all over and my mother covered me with those. I figured it out later when I studied chemistry.”

Frank cleared his throat.

“Well,” he acknowledged, his tone softer. “Looks like it works. Surprising.”

Lily kissed Carson and stroked his hair. Then she kissed Roger.

 “People want to understand the science when things happen to them. It helps to know the reason for things. It helps, so you’re not so scared.” Roger realized he was shaking slightly. He took a breath and looked steadily at Lily’s father. “Don’t you agree?”

Frank didn’t answer. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching.

Roger turned to his son, who was whimpering but no longer panicked.

 “Do you want to go back to your party?” Roger asked. “You’re not going to let one little bee ruin your birthday, are you?”

In a small voice Carson asked, “Can I have cake now? And open presents?”

At the table outside, Carson’s angry cheek was forgotten. Clouds covered the sun and a cooler breeze ruffled the tablecloth. Carson ripped open his presents, beginning with the inexpertly wrapped gift Roger and Dexter had picked out—Luke Skywalker’s X-wing fighter—and he squealed with delight. “I want to build it now!” he cried, his hands already working at the plastic seal. Lily gently reminded him he had his grandfather’s present yet to open—perfectly wrapped with neat edges and corners, curled ribbons, and a bow, the kind of precision Roger could never manage—and he reluctantly set his father’s aside.

His grandfather had bought him The Death Star. Carson was speechless. He held the box in his hands, his mouth open, the bee sting a flaming red circle on his cheek.

“I want to start right now!” Carson demanded.

“Dad, isn’t that a little hard for a six-year-old?” Lily asked, eyeing the box critically.  

Frank shrugged. “Roger can help him with it. A little father-son time together.” He turned to face Roger, a familiar challenge in his casual tone.

“Sure,” Roger said steadily. “Sure, we can.”

Frank turned to Carson. “It turned out to be a great birthday party, didn’t it?”

Carson nodded, a huge grin in his face.

Roger smiled tensely, waiting for a jab from Frank to follow, but none came. Frank glanced at him and gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. An acknowledgment.

The adults fell silent and listened while the children chatted among themselves. Dexter recited the instructions for building the Death Star. Sophie said something silly to make Carson laugh. Elinore was silent, eyeing Carson’s wounded cheek sympathetically. Roger watched them with a sudden swell of pride, these children of his; coping, adapting, and navigating this new reality with a grace and patience he’d never mastered himself. Sometimes he felt how little they really needed him. You’d almost think they had no scars.

As they took their last bites of cake, the clouds that had been blowing in all day suddenly turned the sky dark, and a huge gust of wind rushed across the table. The children shrieked and everyone grabbed for their paper plates as the wind rattled them like fallen leaves. Lily leapt to her feet just as the rain started to fall, barking orders for everyone to grab food and get inside now. Dexter snatched up the Lego boxes and the paper instructions, crushing them to his chest. Heavy drops pelted the table, the chairs thrown back carelessly in the rush to get to safety. Within moments, a sudden sheet of rain fell from the sky like a curtain, and the world turned bleary and uncertain.

But by then they were all safely inside, droplets of rain darkening their heads. The dog shook her entire body to rid herself of water and the children all shook in return, laughing at the game. Carson grinned happily and carried his new Lego sets into the living room, the rest of his day to be spent happily constructing them with Dexter’s help. None of it—the shutdown, the bee sting, the rainstorm—had ruined his birthday.

“Grandpa! Help me!” Carson insisted, pulling on his grandfather’s hand. Frank met Roger’s eye. 

“How about it? We need all the help we can get.” He gave a nod, and his mouth flickered, an attempt at an honest smile.

“Sure,” Roger agreed casually, like such an invitation happened every day. “I’ll be there in a minute.

At the kitchen window, Roger let out a slow breath, watching the storm unfold. His eyes lingered on the table outside where his abandoned beer bottle stood tall and solid against the rain. Soon the worst would pass. The rain would slow, the clouds would clear, but things wouldn’t go back to the way they were. Maybe that was the point. Maybe, after all this, they’d come through with something stronger than before.

Anne McPherson Arthurs grew up in Carbondale, Illinois, and earned a BA from Southern Illinois University and an MFA from Western Michigan University. After a hiatus spanning two decades, she began writing again during COVID. Her fiction has appeared in Ariel Chart, The Whitefish Review, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Embark Journal, October Hill Magazine and The Westchester Review. Her short story, Piano Lessons, was nominated for the 2024 Best of the Net award. She lives with her husband and two children outside Chicago, where she reads and writes daily, usually with a dog at her feet.