The Bee Emissary Chapter 12

I had been reading for about an hour when an alert from Wisconsin Emergency Management appeared on my phone.

Chapter 12:

I had been reading for about an hour when an alert from Wisconsin Emergency Management appeared on my phone. It stated that people could return to the fire-damaged areas of Door County during the second or third week of November. I immediately filled out an online form to verify that I had a legitimate reason to return.

A response came in two days, clearing me to go on Tuesday in three weeks. I needed to report to the emergency center in Sturgeon Bay at 1 PM. The email stated that the initial inspection of my grandpa’s property yielded no evidence that he had survived the fire. In the absence of skeletal remains on the property or shoreline, the report concluded that the resident may have tried to swim or float to safety but perished in the attempt.

I sat at my lab desk reading and re-reading the email, regretting that I had not convinced Grandpa to move to Madison.

Later that day, I got an unexpected phone call.

“Robbie?”

It was a welcome surprise to hear from my grandpa’s friend. “Ned, yeah, of course, Hi. It’s good to hear your voice.”

Ned laughed, a laugh containing equal parts of irony and relief. “Yeah, it’s good to be heard. I got out by the skin of my teeth by taking my fishing boat out into Lake Michigan till I ran out of gas. With only the clothes on my back, I sat alone, shivering for at least 24 hours on the open water. I figured I was a goner, but the Coast Guard found me and brought me back.”

“That sounds terrible. I’m glad you’re safe.” I breathed deeply, expecting Ned’s next question.

Ned said he saw Grandpa just before escaping the fire; he described how Grandpa was opening all the beehives, hoping the bees would sense the danger and flee. Grandpa yelled that he’d leave in his canoe, and for Ned to go ahead.

I gulped and started to tear up. I could barely say the words, but I had to tell Ned. “Grandpa is missing and presumed dead.”

Ned went quiet, the only sound white noise. I heard Ned breathe, and then he spoke with a voice laden with loss and regret. “Oh, gosh, Rob. Oh, geez. Lois and now Bob. Christ, why didn’t I make him leave with me? I’m so sorry. Bob was a good man and a darn good friend.” Ned choked up and paused for a minute. He cleared his throat; then he asked an unexpected question. “Robbie, did your grandpa mention the box?”

“No — a box?” I racked my brain but couldn’t remember my grandpa saying anything about a box.

“He said you’d know where to find it if anything happened to him.”

“When did he tell you about a box, Ned?”

“I guess Bob brought it up a year or two ago. Yeah, definitely before the end of last year. I don’t rightly remember the exact date.”

“Ned, did Grandpa say what kind of box or how big?” I felt a flicker of hope that I might find something of Grandpa’s that would become a treasured memory.

“No, he just said you would know what to do.” I felt despair at adding one more mystery to the events in Door County.

“Huh, I saw him all last summer before—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I let out a sigh. “I’ll look around when I go back.”

“Yeah, yeah, Robbie, you do that.”

“Ned, are you going back anytime soon?”

“Naw, I’m stayin’ with my son and his family in Crivitz.” Ned paused. “I’ll go back in time, but not right away.”

I wished Ned the best, thanked him for the call, and asked him to stay in touch. I doubted anything remained of this mysterious box, but Ned’s words made me even more determined to visit the place where my grandpa was last seen alive.

Things were chaotic when I arrived in Sturgeon Bay at the appointed day and time. A November chill filled the air, but the snow and strong winds held off. Emergency services had several tents, offering food and a registration desk. I grabbed a sandwich and a water bottle and went to the registration desk. They asked for my driver’s license and requested that I provide the make, year, and license plate number of my car. They asked that I only go to the area corresponding to Grandpa’s address and nowhere else. The National Guard patrolled the area and might check on me. I had to report back before 5 PM to confirm that I had left. They needed to account for every visitor by the end of the day. I signed a waiver stating that I understood my instructions and would not hold the state or any of its affiliates liable in the event of an accident.

It was slow going outside Sturgeon Bay, heading north on a mostly melted State Highway 57, which had been the primary route for traffic on the eastern side of the Door peninsula. The amount of destruction witnessed immediately north of Sturgeon Bay was sporadic. As I drove through Sevastopol, a few fire-damaged houses were visible.

Continuing north, I passed through Valmy, which sustained heavy damage. The BP Station had burned to the ground. It appeared that the underground gas tanks had exploded, leveling the surrounding buildings. The asphalt road from Valmy onward had melted, cracked, or buckled. Tall, charred toothpicks, remnants of telephone poles and trees, lined the road north.

The once verdant fields from Valmy to Jacksonport were ash and burned remnants of forms. The fire devastated Jacksonport. Aside from a few melted metal structures that marked the former playground, only the brick bathhouse next to the beach still stood.

I almost passed what was once Red Cherry Lane. I would have missed the turn without Google Maps prompting me to turn right. There were no recognizable landmarks as I made my way down the road. I stopped the car when I could look east. The stone birdcage lighthouse still stood on a nearby island in Lake Michigan, except the metal top had melted — the house where lighthouse keepers once lived was gone, as were all the trees that once obscured the stone lighthouse.

I arrived only a couple of hours before needing to return for my scheduled check-in. I wore an N95 mask to prevent breathing in any particulates. However, I could still smell the sickening odor of charred, damp wood. Nothing remained of the wooden structures on Grandpa’s property; the cabin, garage, and attached workshop were all gone. There was no sign of the wooden swing that Grandpa had built for Grandma. The fire heavily charred the cabin’s stone fireplace, but it still stood. The shell of Grandpa’s truck and metal tools melted into barely recognizable forms, and no evidence of Grandpa’s six beehives. There was no way of knowing if Grandpa had saved them. There was no evidence that he or the beehives had ever existed.

I had little time and searched for the box that Ned had mentioned. There was debris, which I looked under. I tried to imagine: If I were Grandpa, where would I hide a box for safekeeping? It occurred to me he might have buried the box. There was too much land to cover and too little time for me to search.

I walked to the desolate shoreline, filled once with tall green grasses, Queen Anne’s lace, and blue spires. The cedars, once tall and lush, are now ash. For a moment, I imagined I heard a crow’s faint, harsh cawing, only to have it vanish. The only sound now was my sighs, no birds, no buzzing of bees or hum of dragonflies, no waves rushing the shore, no wind, no leaves rustling. The cherished lake view spread before me as an image rendered in charcoal with scars of dark gray and black instead of fall colors.

Did the world fall silent and mourn along with me? If my grief had a voice, would it break this silence with a scream? The sun, low in the sky and obscured by clouds and haze, cast its light in a reddish hue. Not even my shadow was there to console me. I sat alone and lonely on a large, gray, solitary rock, surveying what no longer was.

Time had run out; there was no past, present, or future. There was just smoke and ash.

I returned to Sturgeon Bay and checked in at 4:49 PM. I filled out some paperwork and received an envelope in return. Inside was an announcement for a memorial service for the victims of the Great Door County Fire of 2028 to be held in the Resch Center on the first Sunday in December. The President, the Wisconsin Governor, Senators, and Congressional representatives were to attend. The President of the United States, who lost the election weeks before, would speak, followed by a service for those who lost their lives or livelihoods.

I experienced a new emotion: anger. I chose not to go. More talk, no action. Big business blocked legislation addressing climate change while the world burned. The politicians kept their hands in their pockets and the pockets of Big Business.

I found out that Grandpa did not have insurance or a will. Given that it would take up to 7 years before the State would consider him legally dead, I filled out the paperwork showing my mother as next of kin.

Ultimately, I expected the government to take possession of the property likely.

Sitting for a moment, once inside the car, I looked around as if for the last time, because part of me never wanted to return to Door County.