October 2002

"Did your grandfather ever tell you the story about the hornets that swarmed in his classroom, nearly killing three students?"

The boy regarded me with a puzzled look.

Dustin and my son, Tyler sat on the couch in the family room playing video games. They had become best friends while attending Lincoln Savage Junior High School. Charles Peil, the finest science teacher to ever walk the halls of that exemplary institution, was also, I had learned to my dismay—Dustin's grandfather.

He doesn't know, I thought to myself. But I had to be sure. Too much hinged on what his grandfather might have told him. An event I had hidden for decades

was on the line. The thought of Dustin telling the story to my son shot terror through my soul. No, the story could not resurface, not here, not now, not ever. Thus, I could not take the risk; I had to know what the boy knew, so I probed him more.

"Large hornets swarmed the science room where your grandfather housed a gallery of wildlife artifacts. Dozens of students were stung, three were rushed to the hospital. The Math and Science wing of the school was evacuated." I paused and waited; he said nothing. "You never heard about this incident?"

Dustin shook his head slowly; his soft brown eyes studied the ceiling as if searching his brain for a memory that did not exist. "Grandpa hasn't said anything about hornets swarming his classroom, not that I recall, but I can ask him about it if you like?"

"No!" I said abruptly, then realized I had shouted at the boy. I took a breath, calmed myself, and exhaled slowly.

"No," I repeated softly. "That won't be necessary."

I turned to leave the boys to their game, satisfied Dustin knew nothing of the incident. Still, I felt uneasy. It occurred to me, now that I had so foolishly broached the subject, I had likely sparked curiosity in the boy's mind. He will surely ask his grandfather about the event now, I reasoned. 

"Dang," I cursed under my breath.

I spun on my heel and faced the boys once again. They watched me tentatively, both eager to return to their video game. The possibility of Mr. Peil explaining to this young man what I had done all those years ago; threatened to expose my lie. A lie I had hidden for decades. The thought frightened me. If my son, if my family were to learn of the lie now, I'd be ruined. My stomach churned like the percolating cow manure pit I once fell into behind the milk barn at Robinson's Dairy—but that's a story for another time.

For today it became painfully obvious I had to tell a different story. A story about hummingbird-sized hornets that ravished a classroom full of frightened students and how I had unwittingly caused the whole ordeal. A lie I now realized I could no longer hide. The truth, no matter the consequences, must be told. 

I sat down in a chair adjacent to the couch and asked the boys to set the game controls aside. Reluctantly they obeyed and I began the story.