Burning Questions of Bingo Brown (11 page)

A voice said, “It’s me—Harriet.”

Bingo fumbled the phone as if it had suddenly gotten too hot to handle.

“Oh?”

“I want you to do something for me.”

“I’m not very good at doing things for people,” he reminded her.

“You’re the only person that can do this.”

“What is it?”

“Go over to Billy Wentworth’s and tell him I don’t like him.”

“I can’t do that. I—”

“You’ve got to!”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the one that told him I did like him.” She lowered her voice but unfortunately he could still hear her. “See, Bingo, I really do like him and the only way I can get him to like me is to make him think I don’t like him.”

“Harriet, I’m sorry. My mom’s calling me to supper.”

“It’s only four o’clock.”

“We eat early.”

Bingo hung up the phone and went into the living room. “If I get any more phone calls, I’m not here.”

His mom said, “Oh?”

“If I tried to tell you what had happened to my life, you would say it was my fault.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you say I create crisis, and, Mom, I don’t create crisis, but I’m always standing right next to it. It’s like I’m living my life in the middle of all these little tornadoes and I get swept into them and it’s not my fault. I’m helpless.”

“What’s happened now?”

“Yesterday this girl—Harriet—was spying on the Wentworths’ house and I was passing by—totally innocent—and Harriet leaped out and demanded that I talk to her, and I said a few words, and then she demanded that I walk with her, and I took four steps, five at the most. This morning Wentworth asked me about it and I thought he thought this girl and I were—” He broke off. “Oh, it’s too complicated. Just go ahead and say, ‘Bingo, it’s your fault.’ It will save a lot of trouble.”

The phone rang then and Bingo pulled a sofa pillow in front of his heart for protection. “Remember, I’m not here,” he said.

Bingo lay in bed in his Superman pajamas. His mom knocked at the door. “Bingo, are you asleep?”

“Of course not.”

“The phone’s for you.”

“I told you I wasn’t here.”

“She said to tell you it was about Mr. Mark and it was real important.”

Bingo threw back his Superman cape. “Did she tell you her name?”

“Melissa.”

“Oh, that’s different.” Bingo was at the phone in two strides. “Hell-o.”

“I know it’s too late to be calling,” Melissa said, “but I had to tell you about something awful that happened at the Nautilus.”

“The Nautilus?”

“Where Dawn, works. Remember I told you that my sister’s boyfriend goes there?”

“Yes.”

“So anyway, late this afternoon Mr. Mark came to the Nautilus. He wasn’t supposed to come anymore, because Dawn doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. Anyway, he tried to make her get on the motorcycle and the man—Stevie—who’s the manager came out and he and Mr. Mark had a fight—well, it wasn’t really a fight because Stevie is into body-building and Mr. Mark hardly has any muscles at all. Stevie punched him out—that’s what my sister’s boyfriend said, and Mr. Mark rode off so fast he almost hit a lady with a grocery cart.”

Bingo didn’t say anything.

“I just feel so sorry for Mr. Mark, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t mad that I called you, are you?”

“No, I’m not mad.”

“Oh, good, I couldn’t stand it if you were mad at me, Bingo.”

Bingo hung up the phone and stood for a moment in his sagging Superman pajamas. His mom was watching him from the doorway. “Another tornado?” she asked.

He nodded. He pulled his Superman cape around him as if he were shielding himself from the world.

“Good night,” he said.

B
INGO CAME UP THE
school steps slowly. He was deliberately late because there were so many people he did not want to see—Harriet, Billy Wentworth, the punched-out Mr. Markham. He didn’t even want to see Melissa. Lately Melissa seemed to think he wanted to know more than he really did about things.

He stepped inside the front doors. He had thought the hall would be deserted, that he would walk unobserved to class, taking his time, preparing himself to open the door. But his entire class was in the hall, clustered at the door of the classroom.

Melissa ran toward him. “Bingo, Boehmer’s in our room! Boehmer!”

“What’s he doing in there?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Is Mr. Mark there?”

“No, just Boehmer. Everybody thinks we must have done something!”

“What?”

“That’s just it. We don’t know. But if one of us had done something, we’d be called to his office, wouldn’t we, so it must have been all of us.”

Bingo and Melissa walked slowly to the classroom door. They joined the back of the group. There was an air of apprehension. The whispered questions, the lack of answers—Bingo could not remember a moment so filled with dread.

He peered around heads. Boehmer was there all right, reading some papers on Mr. Markham’s desk. It looked like it might be their letters.

The late-bell rang, causing the apprehension to grow.

“Should we go in or what?” Mamie Lou asked.

Tara said, “We have to go in, don’t we?”

“Yes,” said Harriet, “we can’t be late in front of Boehmer.”

“Then go in,” someone said from the safety of the back of the crowd.

There was a push, and three students—Harriet Tara, and George Roges—popped unwillingly into the room. The rest followed, and silently they went to their seats.

Bingo’s heart had started pounding. He positioned himself directly behind Billy Wentworth, grateful for once for Billy’s size. Bingo did not want to be noticed.

Mr. Boehmer was still engrossed in the papers. Finally he looked up and took off his glasses.

“Boys and girls,” he said, “I’ve had some very bad news this morning about Mr. Markham. He was in a motorcycle accident last night. We just found out about it.”

Everyone inhaled the news. It was an audible sound, and then there was silence.

The furnace had been turned on for the first time that morning, and the only sounds in the room were the crack of unused pipes, the faint hiss of steam.

Despite the heat from the radiators, Bingo was cold. The chill started in his feet, moved up his legs, and now flooded his stomach.

He had expected the worst, but he had thought the worst would be that he himself was in trouble. Under his desk, his knees began to tremble. He pressed them together.

He knew accidents happened. He had read about them in the newspaper and seen them on TV. But up until this moment, the only accidents he had really worried about were those that could happen to him.

Bingo’s reaction was all physical. First the coldness, then the trembling, and now his throat began to tighten. He felt as if he had been the victim of an accident himself.

“Yes, Melissa?”

“I don’t believe it.”

Even in his state of shock, Bingo was aware that Melissa would be the one to speak for all of them.

“I’m afraid it’s true. I felt the same way when I heard it. Yes, Mamie Lou?”

“Is he hurt bad?”

“He’s in intensive care. He has some broken bones and a head injury. He was not, as I understand it, wearing his helmet.”

“He always wore his helmet,” Billy Wentworth said. “I never saw him without his helmet.”

Bingo tried to say, “Me neither,” but no sound came out.

“That may be, but it’s my understanding that this time he was not wearing it. He was apparently traveling at a high rate of speed. He was alone. No other traffic appears to have been involved.”

Mr. Boehmer glanced down at the papers on Mr. Markham’s desk. Then he looked up and said, “Yes, Billy?”

“Where did it happen?”

“It was on Highway 64. He ran off the road on a curve and apparently struck a tree. The accident happened about eleven o’clock but he was not found for several hours. A passing motorist noticed his headlight in the weeds. Yes, Melissa?”

“Will he be all right?”

“I don’t know. Even the doctors don’t know at this point. He doesn’t have any family in town, so I’m going over as soon as your substitute teacher arrives, to see if there’s anything I can do. When I get back, I’ll stop by and let you know what I’ve found out. Yes, Harriet?”

“If we wrote Mr. Mark some letters, could you take them to him?”

“I’d be glad to. That’s a good idea. He may not be able to read them right away, but I know he would appreciate your writing them.”

Bingo tore a sheet of paper from his new journal, the one dedicated to the new, improved Bingo. He got a pencil.

He wrote
Dear Mr. Mark.

He looked around the room. Once again they were all in trouble together. Nobody was writing.

“Take your time,” Mr. Boehmer said.

They bent over their papers. For once, Bingo didn’t have to go to the pencil sharpener to see what they were writing. They all had the same sad message.

Please get well.

Miss Brownley was reading aloud. She had said, “I know you’re too upset to concentrate—I am too. So why don’t we just read this morning.”

Bingo was slumped at his desk. He was not listening to the words. He had no idea what the story was about. Like everyone else, he was waiting for Mr. Boehmer. From time to time his knees trembled, like the aftershock of an earthquake.

Halfway through chapter eleven, there were footsteps in the hall, a knock at the door.

“It’s Boehmer,” someone said.

“Come in,” Miss Brownley called.

Mr. Boehmer opened the door. For the first time in Bingo’s life, he was glad to see him. “Am I interrupting?” Mr. Boehmer asked.

“No, come in, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Mr. Boehmer stepped inside the room. “Well,” he said, “I can’t tell you much more than I told you this morning. Mr. Markham has not regained consciousness. He’s still in intensive care. His condition is listed as critical. I spoke to one of the doctors and he said all they can do right now is wait.”

There was a pause. Tara put up her hand. “Did you see him?”

“Just for a minute.”

“Can we see him?”

“No, he’s not allowed any visitors. Maybe at a later time. I’ll let you know.”

“I want to take up a collection and send flowers,” Melissa said.

“I’d hold off on that, Melissa, until he can appreciate them. I did leave your letters with the nurse, and she’ll see that he gets them as soon as he feels like reading.”

Mr. Boehmer looked around the room. “Any other questions?”

Bingo shook his head in silent dismay. He who had had hundreds of questions in his life, now found that at this crucial moment, he didn’t have a one.

He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands.

“M
R. MARKHAM?” BINGO’S MOM
asked. She sat down as hard as if she’d been pushed. “Not Mr. Markham.”

Bingo nodded.

“I can’t believe it. Mr. Markham?”

“Yes.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“Oh, not Mr. Markham. I hate that. How can we find out how—” Her head snapped up. “I heard the paper a minute ago. Maybe there’ll be something about the accident in it.”

She got up and pushed open the front door.

The afternoon paper was there, and she sat on the steps and began to flip through the pages. Bingo stood stiffly behind her.

“Here it is.” She folded the paper back so she could concentrate on the article. She read it aloud.

“LOCAL TEACHER IN MOTORCYCLE ACCIDENT

A twenty-four-year-old Marshville man, John P. Markham—

“I didn’t know he was only twenty-four, did you, Bingo?” Bingo shook his head.

“A twenty-four-year-old Marshville man, John P. Markham of Monroe Street, was the Victim of a motorcycle accident Sunday night, according to Marsh County Sheriff Dwane Johnson.

“Dwane Johnson was kicked out of Catawba College, Bingo, I learned that at homecoming. He set off some sort of explosion during a rock concert. Let’s see. Where was I?”

“—according to Marsh County Sheriff Dwane Johnson.

Markham was traveling north on State Road 64, when his motorcycle went off the road, jumped a ditch and struck a tree.

“That’s a terrible road. I don’t even drive on it anymore unless I have to.

“Johnson said Markham was not wearing a helmet at the time of the accident.

“I’m surprised at that.

“Markham, who is a sixth-grade teacher at Roosevelt Middle School, is listed in critical condition at General Hospital.

“That’s all it says,” his mom said. “It doesn’t mention what his injuries are. It doesn’t mention his family. It hardly says anything.”

“Mom, he has a head injury and some broken bones. I told you that. He’s unconscious. What more is there to know?”

Bingo held out his hand for the paper and read the article for himself. “I wish I could go to the hospital and see him.”

“Well, you can’t. When someone’s in intensive care they can only have one visitor an hour and it’s got to be family.”

“Mr. Boehmer says he doesn’t have any family here.”

“Oh, I hate that. Well, Marshville’s not very far.” She got to her feet abruptly. “Listen, I know Millie Hines who works in admittance. I’ll give her a call. She might be able to find out some details.”

She went inside and Bingo continued to stand on the steps, holding the newspaper. He couldn’t remember feeling worse than this. It was as if Mr. Markham had taken Bingo off the road with him. Some of his body had gotten back to normal—his legs and stomach, but he still had to pull on his throat every time he wanted to swallow.

“Hey, Bingo!”

Bingo looked up. Billy Wentworth was at the edge of the drive on his bicycle. Bingo waved one hand without enthusiasm.

“You want to go see where it happened?” Billy shouted.

“What?”

“I found out where the accident happened, and I’m going to ride out there and see it. You want to come?”

“Yes.” Bingo got his bike from the garage. He paused briefly to yell, “Mom, I’ll be back later,” and joined Billy Wentworth.