The Bumblebee Flies Anyway (23 page)

“You goddamn fake,” Mazzo said.

“I’m not a fake.”

“We were dying and you said you weren’t. The great Barney Snow. The fixer. Faking it all the time.”

A terrible smell now filled the air as Mazzo stiffened in the bed, farting, maybe soiling himself. Barney didn’t care, he cared only about making Mazzo see that he wasn’t a fake.

“Mazzo, Mazzo. For crying out loud, listen to me. I’m really dying. I didn’t fake it. The Handyman did. I came here not knowing I was going to die.” He didn’t want to go into all the details of the memory experiments, not now, not at this time of night. “It’s a long story, Mazzo. But believe me. I didn’t know about it. I am not a fake.”

“You poor bastard,” Mazzo said, smiling. But a mirthless, joyless smile, as he let himself settle back carefully on the bed.

Barney remained there, the stench in his nostrils, mind empty, heart empty, everything empty, his entire being vacant, like an unoccupied building. He had no desires at this moment, to either stay or go, laugh or cry, sleep or remain awake. He was nothing, a shell, an empty vessel.
Waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting to be filled. Filled with what? A small fear awakened in him, like something evil hatching out of an egg.

Mazzo stirred, murmured something Barney couldn’t understand, his hand reaching out, clutching at the air, clutching at nothing. Barney took his hand. So wet with perspiration, it seemed like he’d just immersed it in hot water. Mazzo’s fingers closed on Barney’s hand with surprising strength.

“I’m here,” Barney said. Didn’t know why he said it. Didn’t know why he stayed here.

“I know,” Mazzo said. Without inflection, so that Barney didn’t know whether he was being sarcastic and hostile or merely acknowledging Barney’s presence.

After a while Mazzo loosened his grasp and his breathing became regular, no rasping or rattling in his chest. Barney’s back hurt from standing all that time in an awkward position, his hand and Mazzo’s locked together in midair. He gently placed Mazzo’s hand on the sheet over his chest, shivering slightly because it seemed the kind of thing you do to a dead person. Depressed, still vacant and empty, he made his way out of the room and encountered Bascam in the corridor.

“Don’t you ever go home?” he asked out of his weariness and depression.

Her countenance did not change. Still without expression, her face one-dimensional, unreadable.

“This is my home,” she said. Now the slight blush again, like on the day she had suggested that he smell the lilacs.

“You live here?” Barney asked.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t nod her head or acknowledge his question. Merely looked at him.

And Barney knew. Instantly.

“Are you in remission, too?” he asked.

She nodded her head, so slightly that it seemed she barely moved. But he saw the answer in her eyes. He wondered if the tight hair pulled into the severe bun at the nape of her neck was a wig. From chemotherapy. Everything in the Complex not what it seemed.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Want to go with us? In the Bumblebee? The crazy thoughts emerging from his utter exhaustion.

“Did you know about me?” he asked.

“Not at first,” she said. “No one knew. Only Dr. Lakendorp.”

“I’m not giving in,” he said stubbornly.

“I’m not either,” she said.

And slipped past him, padding down the corridor on rubber-soled shoes.

Blotches.

Like small explosions beneath the surface of his flesh, evil stains seeping through his skin.

Standing before the mirror, stripped to the waist, he observed pink smudges on his chest and arms, deeper than pink, angrier, reddening in spots. He touched the blotches, feeling for pain, but his flesh didn’t seem to have changed. He touched a spot where a small blister had formed, near the nipple on the left side of his chest. The blister was moist, but then so was his entire body.

He had awakened strangely light-headed but pleasantly rested after the deep sleep following his encounter with Bascam. The room had tilted slightly as he moved, and he had welcomed the half-tipsy feeling of the wooziness. He
had gone to the mirror on light and airy steps and pulled off his T-shirt.

That was when he saw the first blotches.

The invader was here, slinking through his body, slithering through his bloodstream.

I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, he said, but knew that was crazy. Remission was over. Time to put the show on the road. Which sounded brave with bugles blowing but he wasn’t brave. He was waiting for the reaction, waiting for panic to come.

It wasn’t until he saw the angry red smudge on his forehead, as if someone had smeared him with paint, that he uttered a cry, a wordless sound a small animal might make, trapped and injured and enemies closing in.

He could hide the blotches on his arms and legs with clothing but not his forehead. Everybody would see it, like a badge announcing his identity. If this was the last day here—and he knew it was as soon as he saw the first blotches—he had a lot to do. Had to get ready for the last ride. Say good-bye to Billy the Kidney and Allie Roon without having them know he was saying good-bye. Spend those last few minutes with Cassie.

The stains on his face meant that he had to keep away from people. Everybody in this place would recognize immediately what the blotches meant. And he didn’t want Billy to know. Or Allie.

He dressed quickly, needing to hide the blotches. Then he stared at those telltale smears on his forehead.

Tears sprang to his eyes and he turned from the mirror in anger, the room whirling slightly. Not tears. He didn’t want tears. He didn’t want to cry, he never cried. He was angry because of the threat the blotches presented to all
his plans. He had an entire day to get through, meaning an entire day to be faked. How do you fake a whole day? Where do you hide? How do you make yourself invisible?

He walked tentatively back to the bed, testing his legs, the room settling down with him as he sat. Checked his pulse: heart beating a bit faster than usual but that could be expected along with the anger and the disappointment and dismay. He was in control again, wiped the moisture from the corners of his eyes—he had been successful in holding back tears—and knew he had to gather his resources now. Had to use his wits, the old Barney Snow in operation. Felt warm all over, a moist suffocating kind of warmth. Eyes hot, too, now.

Better lie down, Barney, take it easy, conserve your strength. The invader’s here, all right, but nobody knows how fast it will move. Got to play a waiting game now. Tempo, rhythm. Said the words aloud: “Tempo, rhythm.” Felt better saying them, for some reason. Like a prayer. “Tempo, rhythm.”

Billy sailed into the room, maneuvering his wheelchair directly to Barney.

“Listen, Barney, when am I going to ride in that car?”

“The Bumblebee,” Barney said automatically, waiting for Billy to raise his eyes and see his forehead.

“Whatever you call it,” Billy said. “I acted as a lookout. I helped steal that car. And now you’ve got it up there in the attic like it’s your exclusive property.”

“Give me a little time,” Barney said, stalling. Look at me, he thought, look at what’s happening to me.

“Hey, Barney, nobody’s got much time here, you know that.” The flashing in Billy’s eyes, the old flashing of pain blinking off and on, like neon lights.

“Okay, Billy, let me think about it. Conditions have to be just right.” Look at me, will you?

And Barney realized that Billy
had
been looking at him all along.

“Okay,” Billy said, mollified, blowing air out of the corner of his mouth, the docile child again.

As they sat talking, Barney saw that the dying really didn’t look at other people. Maybe they were too busy enduring their own agonies to attend to anybody else’s. It was as if a kind of blindness overcame them, mental more than physical, allowing them to blot out what they didn’t wish to see, focusing attention on themselves, ignoring the rest of the world. That was the blindness that affected Billy, that made him see Barney and yet not see him. When Billy finally left, Barney relaxed. His eyes still felt raw and fevered and his body moist with peculiar warmth, as if he were lying in a steaming bath. But he knew now he could fake his way through the day, hiding, drifting from room to room, avoiding Bascam and the others, keeping out of the Handyman’s way—this all depended on not getting a summons from the Handyman, of course—until his meeting with Cassie late this afternoon. And, somehow, he would have to fake her out.

He felt faint late in midmorning, splashed water on his face in the bathroom, stood uncertainly at the door of his bedroom, wanting to rest but fearful of discovery if he got into bed.

Damn it. Always something threatening his plans, his grand design. The flight of the Bumblebee so near and yet so far away.

The Bumblebee. That was the ideal place to hide. In the
attic. In the front seat of the Bumblebee. Behind the wheel.

A perfect place to hide until his meeting with Cassie. Her face blossomed in his mind and then wavered and dissolved, fading into a mist. The way he felt his own face dissolving as the fever did its work.

The attic was hot, but a dry heat that was a pleasant contrast to the warm moisture he carried with him wherever he went.

He climbed into the car, clutching the wheel, rested his head on it. Dust motes exploded in the slant of sunshine.

He dozed now and then, waking fitfully sometimes. He forced himself to stay there. Mouth dry and parched, wanting a drink of water to soothe his throat. But staying there. Hanging on.

He was grateful that he did not plunge into the nightmare of the car and the street and the faceless girl. He was also grateful that there was no mirror in the attic, so that he could not look into it and see the new ravages of the invader on his face.

Y
OU
look awful,” she said, hurrying through the door, letting it close behind her with a slam.

But she looked awful, too. Eyes bloodshot, face flushed as if from fever, huddled in her blue blazer, shivering a bit, arms folding across her chest.

“How are you?” he asked warily, disheartened by her appearance. He wanted everything to go well during this last meeting with her, had it all rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say, but she looked so sick and wretched that he was thrown off-balance.

“I’ve caught a miserable cold,” she said, sniffling, grimacing, rubbing her forehead. “But what about you? You don’t look so great.”

“A virus of some kind,” he said, prepared for her question, following the script he had outlined for himself. “Even the nurses are getting it.”

“Looks more like leprosy than anything else,” she said half humorously in that husky wise-guy voice. She squinted at him. “Or maybe measles.” Leading him toward the reception room, she said: “I shouldn’t have come today. I’m probably spreading germs all over the place.”

He sensed that she was making deliberate small talk,
feinting with words, her mind elsewhere, not on what she was saying. And he did the same thing, sitting across from her, giving her his report about Mazzo. Told her that Mazzo was the same, no change at all, seemed to be drifting even while lying in bed, no apparent pain; but all the time drinking her in with his eyes, thinking how beautiful she was even with the cold, the fever in her eyes—if it was fever—making them more blazingly radiant. His own eyes were burning, as if small fires had been lit in them. And his body was still warm, oozy with perspiration, more than perspiration, as if the juices of his body were bubbling forth through his pores.

At last he ran out of words, nothing more to say, and sat there looking at her. She seemed forlorn, as if she had been abandoned. He hated to see her looking that way, wished he could do something to take away her sadness but couldn’t, could only sit here, waiting for time to run out, knowing he’d never see her again after today.

Reluctantly, he went into the talk he had prepared.

“They’re sending me away,” he said.

“Where to?” she asked, responding immediately, making him soar the way she always did when she focused her attention on him.

“A place north of Boston.”

“When are you going?”

“Tomorrow.” Keeping his voice steady.

“Is it going to be a nicer place than this?” she asked. “You’ve got to admit that this isn’t the most luxurious spot in the world.”

He shrugged, had to be careful, had to stick with his outline. “Any place is better than here, I guess,” he said lamely. Groped for the next words, found them. “This new place has all the comforts.”

She squinted at him again. “Are you sure you’re okay, Barney? Did something go wrong with those tests of yours?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine.” Making his voice light and bright. He had to make her believe he was fine. Had to appear strong and healthy to her. “It’s just this virus.” Continuing with his scenario, he said: “I’m finished with the tests, and the doctor has arranged for a transfer to a place where I can recuperate faster.”

“That’s great,” she said. “Listen, maybe I can stop by and visit you there sometime.”

“Why not?” Barney said, enjoying this game of pretending, seizing the moment and holding it. “The doctor can give you the address.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts for the big finale he had planned.

“Cassie, I want you to know how much I enjoyed meeting you and talking to you.”

“I enjoyed it too.”

He plunged:

“I think meeting you is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

There. He’d said it. Didn’t dare say more. Didn’t want to blurt out how he really felt and how helpless he knew his love was. Because then she’d feel bad for him. And her pity would be worse than anything else.

“Why, thank you, Barney,” she said, smiling, pleased, holding him in her gaze. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” Her words singing in him. “Without your reports about Alberto, my mother and I would have been lost. You don’t know how much they meant to us. To me. And I’m sure your friendship has helped Alberto through some bad times.”