Bingo Brown and the Language of Love (5 page)

An expression of sorrow came over Bingo’s face. He returned the box gently to the shelf.

“Yes,” he told Misty, “it’s over.”

As Bingo got his groceries and headed for the check-out counter, he thought how life had a way of U-turning.

At one time in his life he had wanted desperately to fall out of love with Melissa. He had been in love with Melissa and Harriet and Mamie Lou at the time, and he would have given anything, anything to fall out of love with any of them; he didn’t even care which.

Without thinking about it twice, he would have put under

“Triumphs of Today”:

1. Falling out of love with Melissa.

But times had changed; life had made one of its cruel U-turns. Now he would put it firmly under “Trials.”

“T
HE WONDERFUL SMELL YOU
smell,” Bingo called, “is tuna lasagna.”

Bingo opened the oven door so his mom could get the full effect.

He waited with his hands in his apron pockets, smiling, for his mom to put her head in the door and compliment him. Actually his mom seemed to like the smell of his food better than the food itself, but tonight would be different. Tonight he had followed the recipe exactly.

At last he had something solid to put in his summer journal. Indeed, he was so sure of himself he had already envisioned it in his notebook. “Triumphs of Today”:

1. Tuna lasagna!!!!!

Later he might add his parents’ admiring comments: “Delicious, Bingo. … Outstanding, Son.” At one time he might have considered tuna lasagna too insignificant to list, but with the way his life was going, any and all triumphs, including just getting through the day, counted.

Bingo continued to wait.

Instead of poking her head in the kitchen, his mother went through the living room, directly to her bedroom.

Bingo heard the door shut.

“Mom?”

He went out into the hall.

“Mom?” There was a long silence, so Bingo filled it with another, “Mom?”

“Bingo, I’m lying down.”

“Is it something I’ve done?”

“No.”

“Is it something I haven’t done?”

“No.”

“Is it—

“Bingo, let me alone.”

Bingo went slowly back to the kitchen. He was standing by the stove, idly tapping the front burner, wondering what to do next, when the phone rang.

“Get that, Bingo,” his mother called.

“All right.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody unless it’s Mom.”

“How about Dad?”

“No!”

Bingo hesitated. Then he picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Bingo, hi. It’s Cici. I’m sooo glad you answered, because I know your mom doesn’t like me. I can always tell when people don’t like me, because their eyes seem to shoot little darts, you know? Even your mom’s voice shoots—”

“Why are you calling?” Bingo interrupted formally.

“Oh, I got the pictures back. Bingo, they are so good. They look professional. I’m even thinking about becoming a professional photographer. And they all three came out, even the one when my thumb was over the lens!”

“That’s nice.”

“I’m going to send one to Melissa and one to you, and I’m going to keep one for myself—the one of you with the poodle. That’s my favorite. But, Bingo, I want you to see them all before I—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I want you to. I could come over right now. I never have enough to do in the summer, Bingo. That’s why I was sooo glad when Melissa asked me to take your picture.”

“Don’t come over!”

“Bingo, are you mad at me?”

“No. I just don’t want you to come over.”

“I knew it! You
are
mad!”

“No, no, I’m not mad. I can’t have girls over anymore. It’s a rule.”

“Is your mom there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we could meet somewhere—the park. Oh, I know! The miniature golf course! We could, like, play golf! Your mom couldn’t get mad if we played miniature golf, could she?”

At that unfortunate moment, Bingo’s mom picked up the phone in her bedroom.

She said coldly, “Bingo, I want to use the phone now.”

“I was just hanging up.”

Bingo put the phone down without saying good-bye. Then he walked softly through the house. He stopped at the door of his mother’s room.

Bingo didn’t intend to listen, but the scent of something wrong drew him as surely as the scent of gingersnaps had once drawn him to the phone. He stood with his apron anxiously bunched up at his waist.

His mom had finished dialing. She waited silently. Bingo did, too.

At last she spoke. “Mom, hi. It’s me.… Yes, I just got back. … Yes … Yes … Mom, I don’t know what I’m going to do. …”

Bingo’s mom’s voice seemed to break on the words, as if she were crying. Bingo had never seen either one of his parents cry. In his alarm, he stepped closer to the door and pressed his ear against it.

His mom said, “You wouldn’t mind? You aren’t busy? I thought this was your evening for CUT! I don’t want you to miss—”

This really alarmed Bingo. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally.

Bingo’s grandmother was a charter member of CUT!—Clean Up Townsville! And this weekend she was leading a protest at a convenience store where
Penthouse
and
Playboy
were being sold.

If the protest was Saturday, then tonight would be the rally! Only the most serious situation would cause his grandmother to miss the rally!

His mother said gratefully, “Oh, Mom, thank you. I’ll be right over.”

There was a pause. Bingo stepped back from the door, but his mom did not come out. She crossed the room and whipped paper from the typewriter. The paper tore.

Bingo drew in a breath of deep alarm.

His father’s story! His mom had torn the short story his father was writing out of the typewriter. Only the bitterest hatred could cause her to destroy his manuscript. She knew how hard he—

But, no, now she was putting paper back into the typewriter, rolling it into place. She began to type.

There was, of course, no way to tell what she was typing by eavesdropping, but Bingo bent closer to the door anyway.

Then his mother came out of the door so fast she almost knocked Bingo down. “Are you going to Grammy’s?” Bingo gasped.

“Yes.”

“Can I come?”

“No.” The sheet of paper was in her hand. Bingo caught the first three words as she folded it. “I have gone …”

“Why?”

“Not this time.”

“But why?”

Bingo followed his mom into the living room. She paused to stick the note under the edge of the VCR. This was where they left messages for each other. Then she went onto the porch. Bingo went down the steps behind her.

“Why can’t I come?”

His mom got to the curb before him. She had parked her car with the wheels turned into the curb, so when she started off, she drove up on the curb as if she were aiming directly at Bingo.

He jumped back. “Mom!”

She was busy bumping the car back onto the street. This increased Bingo’s alarm. Usually his mom was a careful driver.

“Mom?” He ran after her. “Mom!”

“What?”

She braked then and looked at him out of the back window. Her face was as puzzled as if she was trying to figure out who he was.

“Will you be back for supper?”

“No.”

“Mom, it’s tuna lasagna.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Then, with Bingo staring after her, she drove away. Bingo watched until she drove around the corner, tires squealing, and disappeared from sight.

Bingo went quickly back into the house. He stopped at the VCR and stood looking at the folded sheet of paper under it.

B
INGO LIFTED THE EDGE
of the paper and read.

“I have gone to Mom’s! Do not follow me. Do not call. I mean it, Sam. I need time. I need space. I do not need you badgering me. Keep away!”

Bingo drew in a deep breath. The short, hurtful sentences hit his heart like a hammer.

And if these eight sentences hurt him, what would they do to his father? They were
to
his father. He could not bear for his father to stand here and—

Perhaps if he added something … “With love.” Yes, a “With Love” would definitely take away some of the sting.

Bingo took the note into his parents’ room and rolled it into the typewriter. At the bottom of his mother’s short sentences he typed, “Your loving wife.” That was even better than “With love.” He pulled out the sheet. He gasped. He had typed, “Your loving wofe.”

He was reaching for the eraser when he heard his father coming up the front steps.

He raced into the living room, stuck the note back under the VCR, and ran for the kitchen. He turned on the water and stood with his eyes closed, heart thumping, lungs struggling. He imagined his father coming into the living room, checking under the VCR, reading the note.

He groaned, remembering the
wofe.
Perhaps he could say, “Mom must have been terribly upset. Look at the way she spelled wife.” Or, “What’s a wofe, Dad? I don’t believe I ever heard of a—”

His dad came into the kitchen. “Where’s your mom?” he asked.

Bingo’s eyes snapped open. “I don’t know. She went out.” It was a childish recitation. “She might have left a note. Did you check under the VCR?”

“No.”

“There’s a piece of paper there. It could be a note.”

“What does the note say, Bingo?”

“How should I—”

“You’re the resident specialist on notes,” his father said with unusual tenseness. “What does it say?”

“I don’t remember the exact words.”

Bingo knew the eight sentences by heart, but it would be painful enough to read them in private. To hear one’s son recite them would be unbearable.

Bingo’s father went into the living room. Bingo waited in the kitchen.

His father came back, note in hand.

“What time did your mom leave?”

“About a half hour ago.”

“What did she say?”

“Not much. Just that she was going to Grammy’s and I couldn’t go with her. Then I asked if she would be home for supper, and she said she wasn’t hungry. Then she drove off, and, Dad, she came up onto the curb. Right at me! Dad, I had to jump out of the way to keep from getting hit. What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

His dad ran his hands through his hair. “Let me try calling her.”

“Dad, she said not to call. The note said, ‘Do not follow me. Do not call.’”

His father went to the phone, and Bingo followed like a toy on a string. Bingo waited in silence while his father dialed. The phone rang four times, and then his grandmother’s recorded message came on. “This is Rosemary Harrison. I can’t receive your call, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you. And remember, support CUT! Let’s clean up Townsville!”

At the beep, Bingo’s dad said, “Nance, I know you’re there. I know you can hear me. Pick up the phone. Now!”

In a small voice, Bingo said, “The note also said, ‘Do not badger me.’”

“They are the only two women in the world who can sit there while someone is begging to talk to them.” His father said tensely into the receiver, “Nance, answer the phone.”

Bingo cleared his throat. “Maybe they went out.”

His dad shook his head. “They’re there. I know they are. They’re sitting side by side on the sofa. Either one of them could reach the phone if they wanted to.”

“They could have gone—” Bingo began, but a look from his father caused him to trail off.

“Every time something happens, Nance runs to her mother. Other women turn to their husbands. She turns to her mother.”

He hung up the phone so hard it gave a ring of its own in protest.

“Well, I’m not going to sit around here, waiting,” his dad said. “I’m going over there. Maybe they’ll answer the door. If not, I’ll break the damn thing down.”

Bingo said quickly, “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you stay here. If she does come home, somebody ought to be here.”

“Dad, you’ll need help with the door. I can—”

“Please, Bingo.”

Bingo trailed his father onto the porch. “But what did you mean when you said ‘every time something happens.’ What has happened? I don’t know what’s going on!”

Shaking his head as if it was too much for him, Bingo’s dad got in the car. Bingo stood for a moment, watching him drive away. Then he went back and sat down on the steps.

There was a whine at the door. Bingo glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, sorry, Misty. I didn’t mean to leave you. I know how it feels to be left, believe me.”

He opened the screen door, and Misty came out. Her toenails clicked softly against the floorboards.

Bingo patted the board beside him, and Misty sat. Bingo stared at the late afternoon sun. Misty stared at Bingo. Idly, Bingo rubbed the dog’s head.

“Misty, I now have the most important question that I’ve ever had in my whole life—and I have had a lot of questions. I once filled an entire notebook full,
full
of questions, Misty. I didn’t skip a single line.”

Perhaps it was Bingo’s urgent need to have someone to communicate with, but it did seem to him that Misty actually nodded her head. At any rate, her eyes were watering sympathetically. Misty listened almost as tenderly as Melissa.

“But, Misty, this is the kind of question that I know, I
know
I don’t want the answer to. Because whatever is happening with my parents is something that I don’t want to hear. When you have a question and it’s the kind of question that you know you won’t be able to bear the answer, well, that is the worst kind of question there is. It’s like a terrible burden. Your body feels like it’s actually being weighted down by—”

“Hi.”

Bingo gasped.

“Did I scare you?”

A big blond was the last person a man wanted to see in moments of anxiety, and that’s what this was—Cici.

Bingo followed his gasp with a silence.

“I saw that you were talking to Misty, and I didn’t want to interrupt, but I had to because, Bingo, I had to! Bingo, I may have done a really, truly terrible thing.”

Tears filled Cici’s eyes. Bingo’s hands began to twitch with unrealized gestures. Why did his hands do this every time he talked to a girl? He wished he had normal, controllable hands like everybody else.