Free A Recipe for Bees by Gail Anderson-Dargatz

he saw what he thought was an unnecessary item—like Kotex—in her grocery bag. Augusta had to tear up one of the old flannel sheets she had brought with her and use those scraps for sanitary napkins.
    Olaf whittled away at Augusta as he must have cut down his wife. It started right off, as soon as she took over the household chores. He took one sip of her coffee and made a face. “This ain’t coffee,” he said. “This is Englishman’s coffee. Brown water.” He dumped the pot outside and made his Swedish coffee, so thick and bitter that even he needed to keep a sugar cube in his mouth when he drank it. He complained about her dishwashing habits. “Why aren’t there any cups clean? Why do you use so many cups in a day? Use the same one all day; rinse it out after you use it.” He complained about her cooking. When she first cooked lamb chops he threw one to Bitch. She sniffed it. “Look,”he said. “They’re so dry even the dog won’t eat it.” When she left the old porridge pot soaking overnight in the wash-basin, he gave her hell for that too. “I couldn’t make my porridge this morning ’cause I didn’t have a pot. You want me to starve?”
    Augusta didn’t defend herself against his complaints—not at first, in any case. She learned to make thick coffee, and stayed downstairs after Karl and Olaf were in bed to clean the pots that needed soaking. She tried to please Olaf, but it was an impossible task.
    On top of that Olaf was never without Bitch, and the dog barked and snarled and nipped at her skirts every time she came near the old man. “Does he have to keep that dog inside?” she asked Karl. They were taking their morning coffee together outside under the big maple, to eke out a bit of time alone. They hadn’t been married a month.
    “She’s the only pet I’ve ever known him to have,” said Karl. “He brought her inside as a pup after my mother died.”
    “She stinks. And she’s always at me, barking and pulling on my skirt. I’m sweeping up hair every day. She’s brought fleas into the house. Fleas!”
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “You can ask him to keep the dog outside.”
    “I couldn’t do that.”
    “Yes you could.”
    “It’s his house. I can’t be telling him how to run it.”
    “I’m running the house now, aren’t I? I’m the one cleaning up after that mutt! I should have some say!” Karl examined his feet. “Well, I’m going to say something.” Augusta marched into the house, into the kitchen, whereOlaf sat drinking coffee and smoking his first pipe of the day. His wool pants were slung over the back of his chair where he habitually left them before retiring to bed. He was wearing the long underwear that he slept in and hadn’t yet put his socks on. His toe-nails were overgrown and one big toe was red, infected from an ingrown toe-nail. The bitch was lying behind his chair, nose on paws. The dog and Olaf looked up in unison when Augusta marched into the room. “I’d like to talk to you about that dog,” she said, blunt as a rock.
    “What about the dog?”
    “I want it kept outside. The house is no place for it.”
    “It’s my house. My dog. I’ll keep her inside if I want.”
    “But I’m the one cleaning up after her.” Augusta took a step forward with her hands out, to further emphasize her position, and Bitch was suddenly there, between them, barking and nipping at her skirts. Olaf didn’t call her off. He sucked his pipe. Augusta took a step back and the dog followed, barking, snarling, baring its teeth. Augusta turned and fled, and the dog chased her as far as the front door. Karl was still under the maple, cradling his empty cup. “Did you see that?” she yelled at him. “You see what kind of welcome I’ve got here?”
    Karl mumbled some endearment in apology and reached out a hand to cup her cheek, but she shook her head away. His bashfulness, so sweet in the beginning, was now the mark of a weakling. Well, she supposed at the