Burning Questions of Bingo Brown (13 page)

Ever since Mr. Boehmer had come in and announced that after lunch they could ask answers, Bingo had been blank. It was as if he didn’t know what questions were.

He, the master of the question, had gone dry. He was an empty well. He had known all week that he would never again open his journal and have his pencil race across the page, writing questions one after another, so fast sometimes it skipped a
the
or
an.

But it was even worse than that. He couldn’t think of one single question. Not one. He would never use the question mark again.

The bell rang, interrupting his miserable thoughts. Bingo got up. He took his tray with the untouched pizza to the counter. Then he walked back to his room.

Dr. Gaston had arrived and was at the desk, talking to Miss Brownley. He looked too young to be a doctor.

“Class,” Miss Brownley said when they were seated, “this is Dr. Gaston, who’s going to talk to you. Dr. Gaston, I’ll let you take over.”

Dr. Gaston said, “Boys and girls, first let me tell the good news. Your teacher has had no brain damage whatsoever—and that is very unusual considering the speed at which he was traveling and the fact that he was not wearing a helmet.

“So. That’s the good news. The bad news is that he has a separated shoulder, a broken collarbone, a crushed upper arm. The left leg is broken in several places, as is the right ankle. There is a crack in the seventh vertebrae. All in all, your teacher is very lucky to be alive and he knows this. Questions?”

There was such a long pause that Bingo was afraid the whole class was in the same fix he was—no questions. The doctor was going to have to go back to the hospital and tell Mr. Markham, “They didn’t have a single question.” Mr. Markham would be disappointed in them.

Bingo tried harder than ever to ask something.

Miss Brownley said, “I know some of them do have questions, Dr. Gaston, but it’s like when my mother was sick, I could never think of questions to ask the doctor until I got home, and then it was too late. Oh, there’s a hand.”

It was Melissa, of course.

The doctor said, “Yes?”

“Did you tell Mr. Mark you were coming here?”

“Yes, I did. I told him I was coming to talk to you, that some of you had questions.”

“Did you talk to Mr. Mark about the accident?”

“We’ve discussed the accident, yes.”

“Did he say why it happened?” Melissa asked. “Did he tell you why he went off the road?”

Dr. Gaston shook his head.

“Mr. Markham does not remember the time directly preceding the accident. This is not unusual in accident cases. He remembers starting home on his motorcycle. He was upset. He had been in an argument. He remembers passing the bowling alley. The next thing he remembers is waking up in the hospital twenty-four hours later.”

There was another long pause. Billy Wentworth put up his hand.

“Yes?”

Billy Wentworth said carefully, “Some people went out there and looked at the place where the accident happened. These people said it looked to them like Mr. Mark went off the road on purpose.”

The doctor said, “That is a possibility. It’s also possible that something distracted him. We have no way of knowing, and unless Mr. Markham himself remembers, we never will know.”

Melissa’s hand was in the air again.

“Yes?”

“What do you think?”

“You mean about whether the accident was deliberate or not?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t answer that because I don’t know. I wasn’t there.” The doctor paused. “I can tell you that Mr. Markham is very glad to be alive. He is in quite a bit of discomfort, and he is going to have a long recovery, but he is very glad to be alive. There’s no question about that.”

Melissa’s hand was still in the air. “Did he tell you that in his own words?”

“Yes. He has said it several times and there is no doubt in my mind that he means it.”

Suddenly Bingo felt the first sense of relief he had known in days. At the same time, he leaned out of the protection of Billy Wentworth’s back. With the tentativeness of a child taking a first step, Bingo raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Did he say for you to tell us anything? Did he send us a message?” Not just one question, two!

“Oh, yes, I’m glad you reminded me.” Dr. Gaston felt his pockets until he heard the rustle of paper. He took out a sheet of paper and unfolded it.

He read:

“Gang. Assignment. Imagine that your favorite teacher is in the hospital. He is lucky to be alive and he knows it. You don’t have to convince him of anything. Just write and let him know how you are.

“Mr. Mark”

M
ISS BROWNLEY STOOD IN
front of the room with a shoe box. In the box were thirty-three slips of paper with names on them. After Miss Brownley shook the box, she was going to draw out two names. Those two people would get to go with her to the hospital on Saturday to visit Mr. Mark.

There was an air of excitement and hope at every desk except Bingo’s. Bingo knew his name would not be picked. He had never been chosen for anything in his life.

Miss Brownley put the top on the shoe box and shook it. She lifted the lid and, without looking, reached inside.

Bingo leaned around Billy Wentworth to watch the proceedings.

Miss Brownley pulled one slip out. “The first name is—” She read it to herself and smiled.

“Melissa.”

Over the groans of disappointment was Melissa’s gasp of delight. “I didn’t think I’d get picked. I really didn’t,” she said. “I just can’t believe I got it.” She collapsed in her seat with pleasure.

“Lucky!” Harriet said.

Miss Brownley shook the box again. Then she reached in and pulled out a second slip. “The second name is—” She unfolded it, turned it around, read it and smiled.

That smile told Bingo it wasn’t his name. He got ready to groan with the rest of them.

“Bingo.”

She said the word the way it’s said at bingo parlors when someone’s a winner. She sounded as if she was genuinely glad he was going.

He said, “Me?”

“Yes, Bingo, you and Melissa will be going with me on Saturday. I’ll get in touch with your moms.”

When the buzz of disappointment had died, Bingo glanced across the room at Melissa. She was looking at him, smiling so brightly it was dazzling.

Billy Wentworth turned around in his seat. “Come over Saturday when you get back and tell me about it.”

“I will.”

“Next week we’ll draw two more names,” Miss Brownley said, “and we’ll keep on doing this until everybody has had a chance to go to the hospital to see Mr. Markham, or until Mr. Markham is well enough to come see you.”

Bingo was sitting on the front steps, waiting, when Miss Brownley pulled into his driveway that Saturday in her Toyota. Melissa was beside her on the front seat.

“They’re here, Mom,” he called quickly. “I’m going. Bye.”

Bingo ran across the lawn so he could get away before his mom came out—that was why he was on the steps in the first place—but she was too fast for him. She passed him at the azalea bushes.

“This is a very nice thing for you to do,” she told Miss Brownley. Bingo got in the back seat.

“Oh, I wanted to do it,” Miss Brownley said. “This has been hard for the kids, and I think it will help them to have Bingo and Melissa tell about seeing Mr. Markham. I was glad they were chosen, because they are good communicators.”

To hide his pleasure and embarrassment, Bingo glanced out the car window. He saw Billy Wentworth standing at his living room window. Bingo waved but Billy stepped quickly out of sight, the way he himself had done when he was—might as well be truthful—spying.

Miss Brownley started the car and Bingo’s mother called, “Behave yourself, Bingo.”

Bingo knew his mom was going to say something like that. What did she think he was going to do—run up and down the hall, disturbing sick people? Turn over wheelchairs? Couldn’t she just once—

Melissa turned around and smiled. “My mom said the same thing.” She had on a blue dress Bingo had never seen before. There were ribbons in her hair. She smelled strongly of gingersnaps.

Bingo leaned back. Ever since his name had been drawn in what he now thought of as The Lottery, he had felt like a VIP. He could not have felt more important if his prize had been a million dollars.

He had seen lottery winners on the evening news occasionally, saying stupidly that they were going to keep on with their same old jobs, same old lives. Bingo couldn’t understand that. He would buy race cars and airplanes and dash around the world.

Well, now he had won The Lottery, and he was keeping on with his same old life—going to school, coming home. He was even beginning to make up a few questions.

Melissa said, “Oh, I forgot my flowers!” She turned around. “Bingo, I forgot my flowers!”

Miss Brownley said, “It doesn’t matter.”

“But they were beautiful. I made a hole in a paper doily and stuck them inside. It was just beautiful.”

“Mr. Markham wants to see you, not some flowers. Here we are.”

They drove into the hospital parking lot and got out of the car. In silence they went in the hospital and got in the elevator. Miss Brownley punched Four.

Melissa glanced at Bingo. “I’m nervous, are you?”

Bingo nodded.

“I hope he looks like himself, don’t you? I came to see my great-grandmother one time and I didn’t hardly know her. She had always been real fat and nobody had told me she had gotten thin and—”

“This is our floor,” Miss Brownley said.

Melissa couldn’t finish about her great-grandmother.

Miss Brownley smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”

Mr. Markham was lying in the first hospital bed in room 419. His shoulder was in a cast. The rest of his body was hidden under the covers.

Bingo and Melissa paused in the doorway. Bingo wasn’t sure he was going to be able to go any further. Something in his own shoulder had started to feel funny.

“Gang! Welcome!”

Bingo had to go in then, because Melissa grabbed his hand and pulled him. They walked to the side of the bed and stood there, holding hands.

This was the first time Bingo had ever held hands with a girl, but it was not romantic. Melissa was holding too tight. It was more a mutual-strength kind of thing.

“Bingo, Melissa, how are you?” Mr. Markham looked thinner, paler, but his voice was the same.

Melissa said, “We’re fine, Mr. Mark. We want to know how
you
are.”

“How do I look? No lying now. You know I value honesty.”

“Well, Mr. Mark, you don’t look so bad as I was afraid you would.”

“That is a great comfort to me. So what’s going on at school?”

There was a pause and Miss Brownley filled it. “The class is doing real well, Mr. Markham, you’d be proud of them. I’m a poor substitute for you, I’m afraid.”

“No, you’re a good substitute,” Melissa said loyally, “but we want Mr. Mark back.”

Bingo cleared his throat. He knew it was his turn. He blurted out, “The pencil sharpener’s broken.”

“Oh, too bad, Bingo. I know what a hardship that must be for you.”

“Yes, I hardly know what anybody’s doing these days.”

“Bingo.” Mr. Markham looked disappointed. “I was counting on you to fill me in.”

“Well, I did have to walk over to the trash can on Wednesday when we were all writing why we wanted to go on a field trip to the newspaper. See, only twenty people out of the whole school got to go.”

“So why did they want to go, Bingo?”

“Well, Billy Wentworth wanted to go so he could get out of cleaning his room. Mamie Lou wanted to go because she may be an editor, if she doesn’t get to be President. Freddie wanted to go because—maybe I shouldn’t tell you. I don’t want to disillusion you about Freddie.”

“You couldn’t, Bingo, believe me,” Mr. Markham said with a faint smile.

“Freddie wanted to go to the newspaper because he thought he would see Snoopy there posing for Charles Schultz.”

Mr. Markham bit his bottom lip. “Don’t make me laugh. Whatever you do, Bingo, don’t amuse me.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“There, that’s better. And why did you want to go, Bingo?”

“I didn’t. I wrote the truth. I wrote that I had something better to do—come here and see you.”

“That’s what I wrote,” Melissa said, beaming at Bingo. “That’s exactly what I wrote.”

The nurse came in. “That’s it. Sorry.”

Melissa said, “We just got here.”

“Next time you can stay longer.”

“But next time it won’t be us. It’ll be two different people.”

“I’m sorry. Five minutes was the agreement.”

“I’ve got to tell him one more thing.” Melissa leaned over the bed. “My dad got a job.”

“Oh, I knew seeing you two would make me feel better. Tell the gang I’ll see them soon.”

“We will.” Bingo and Melissa backed out into the hall, waved with their free hands and started for the elevator.

Bingo was a little worried about the fact that he and Melissa were still holding hands. And he had no idea how to stop holding a girl’s hand. Were you allowed to just let go? Would he and Melissa still be holding hands when they got to the car? How could they get in the car holding hands, with her in the front seat and him in the back? Would they have to hold hands out the window? Would Billy Wentworth see their hands and—

“Excuse me,” Melissa said. “My hand’s getting sweaty.”

“Oh.” So that was how it worked. “Mine too.”

They wiped their hands—Melissa on the skirt of her dress, Bingo on his pants—and stepped onto the elevator together.

As they rode to the lobby, Bingo had a mature feeling. At last he was asking questions that had answers. You stopped holding hands with a girl when your hands got sweaty. It was simple, really.

Maybe he could have a section in his journal.
Questions with Answers.
He stepped off the elevator with new purpose in his stride.

Bingo lay in his bed. He was surprised to find that he still had that VIP feeling. It was not just because he’d been chosen to go to the hospital and see Mr. Mark, it wasn’t because he’d held Melissa’s hand or seen Billy Wentworth’s envious face peering out the window.