Bingo Brown and the Language of Love (14 page)

She reached out, took Bingo’s hand, and laid it on her stomach. Something small and round pushed against his hand. A fist? A foot? He drew in his breath.

“Did you feel it?”

“Oh, yes.”

He withdrew his hand and put it in his pocket as if he were depositing something he wanted to save. His mother’s smile softened.

“When the baby moves like that—a strong move—it makes me happy. I relax. Sometimes a whole day goes by and the baby doesn’t move and I worry.”

“Why? Is that something to worry about?”

“Not really, but—Oh, maybe it’s because I wasn’t happy about the baby at first. Now I want it too much.”

“I want it now too.”

She said, “Will you forgive me about the letter if I tell you what the baby’s going to be?”

“What letter?” he said. It was surprising how the small touch of a baby’s hand could push away something like his mother snooping in his mail.

“Melissa’s.”

“Oh, I forgive you, I guess,” he went on with unusual grace. “I have to admit that I do occasionally read secret things myself. Perhaps it’s an inherited quality.”

“So, do you want to know about the baby?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I mean, if you want the baby to be a surprise, I’ll understand.”

“I want to tell you.”

“And there’s one other thing. Dad and I have a pact—we shook hands on it—that if he found out he would tell me, and if I found out I would tell him.”

“It’s a little boy, Bingo. His name’s going to be Jamie.”

“Jamie.”

Bingo’s heart closed on the word like a fist.

“Yes, James Samuel Brown, for both of your grandfathers. We’re going to call him Jamie.”

Bingo had a moment of such terrible jealousy that he would not have been surprised to look into a mirror and discover he had turned green, like in cartoons.

He himself had been named by the doctor who had cried capriciously, “Bingo!” as he popped into the world. It was as if his mother had now decided to undo all the mistakes she had made with him. She would name the baby the way babies are supposed to be named—for beloved and dignified relatives.

She would probably then continue and do all the wonderful, loving things that she had not done with him. He would be the imperfect, clumsy older brother, with gorilla arms, while Jamie—

He bet when Jamie came in and said, “Mom, my arms are growing,” she wouldn’t say, “Oh, they are not.” She would leap into action. “I’m getting you to a doctor. We’re shortening those arms.”

His dark thoughts continued.

And when Jamie fell in love with a girl in Bixby, Oklahoma, she wouldn’t say, “Absolutely no more long-distance calls!” She would say, “You can call, but don’t talk any longer than two hours.”

And when Jamie—

“Oh, here comes your father,” his mother said. “Now, don’t tell him, Bingo. I want to do it myself.”

“No, I won’t tell.”

“But I want to wait till after supper, all right?”

Bingo said, “Whenever …”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1989 by Betsy Byars

Drawings by Cathy Bobak

cover design by Elizabeth Connor

978-1-4532-9421-5

This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media

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