Bingo Brown and the Language of Love (7 page)

“Me too.”

“We’ll work it out, but right now she’s over at your grandmother’s—”

“You saw her?”

“Oh, yes. They were sitting on the sofa, right where I knew they’d be, and your grandmother’d been saying all the right things—”

Bingo interrupted. “Like what? What would be the right things?”

“Like, ‘I know you’re upset; you have every right to be. It will work out. I’ll help you. You’re a strong person, you always have been.’ Things like that, things I should have said. …”

“Oh.”

At any other time, Bingo might have sympathized with his dad because he himself frequently said the wrong thing. Like right now. If it wasn’t for
oh,
Bingo would not have been able to say anything at all. But his sympathies were all for himself.

He remembered a book his dad had had last November during election. His dad had worked at the polls, and they had given him a book titled
What to Do If.
And in this book were listed all the things that could possibly go wrong and what to do about them.

Bingo needed a book like that. And he needed it now. It would give him comfort to turn to the index.

“What to Do If: Your parents let you down by belatedly conceiving a sibling, pp. 41-45.”

What relief to turn to page forty-one and—

His dad blew out all the air in his lungs as he got to his feet. He was like a whale coming up after a particularly deep dive.

“Bingo, I’ve got to go to bed. I’ve had it.”

“I’m tired, too.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“It’s going to work out somehow, Bingo.”

Bingo nodded, watching the shriveled pieces of popcorn floating on the milk in his bowl.

His dad paused in the doorway. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

“I’ll just clean up. …” Bingo made a magicianlike gesture over the table, as if to wave away the hard ball of lasagna, the wet popcorn.

“Well, don’t be too late.”

“No.”

Bingo kept sitting there until he heard the sound of running water in the bathroom. Then he got slowly to his feet.

“Actually, it’s already too late,” he said.

He was sorry Misty was not there to look at him with her sympathetic, tearful eyes. He wondered if it was too late to go over and borrow Misty. He knew if he told the Wentworths why he needed her, they would hand her over with sympathetic, tearful eyes of their own.

With leaden arms, Bingo began to clear the table.

B
INGO WAS HAVING AN
imaginary phone call with Melissa, since that was the only kind he was allowed to have these days.

“Melissa, hi. It’s me, Bingo.”

Of course he could not speak the language of love. He was no longer eligible. He would have to get right to the point, before her voice had a chance to deepen with pleasure.

“Melissa, I have terrible news. I am going to become a brother.”

“Bingo!” she would cry with instant sympathy. Then her voice would lower. “Oh, Bingo.”

Bingo broke off the imaginary phone call. He remembered with a leap of heart their first real phone call. Now
that
had been a phone call!

“Melissa, hi. It’s Bingo. M-member me?” His hands, his knees, his very soul had been trembling. Also his voice.

“Bingo, is it really you?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t someone playing a joke?”

“No.”

“Oh, I was hoping it would be you. When I heard the phone ring, I started hoping. Bingo, guess what?”

“What?”

“This is the first phone call I’ve gotten since we moved to Bixby.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and you know something else?”

“What?”

“If I could only have one phone call, this is the phone call I would want to have.”

A rush of burning questions brought Bingo back to the present. Will Melissa still love me when she knows I’m a brother? Can anyone love a person who may be dealing in dirty diapers? Will I be able to deal with diapers without collapsing? Does—

There was a knock at Bingo’s window.

Bingo closed his eyes, ignoring it.

“Hey, Worm Brain, it’s me.”

Bingo did not get up. “What do you want, Wentworth?”

“It’s personal.”

Still Bingo did not move.

“It’s about you-know-who.” A pause. “And you better get up off your you-know-what.”

Could the news about the baby be out already? Had Billy Wentworth rushed over to be the first to taunt him? Was Wentworth too embarrassed to taunt him? Had he come to terrorize him? To say, “I don’t want to live next to no big brother?”

Bingo pulled himself slowly up from his Smurf sheets and crossed the room.

“Get it over with, Wentworth,” he said, leaning tiredly against the window.

Wentworth said, “Listen, you know that girl who was taking your picture?”

Bingo said, “What?”

“The blond girl. Remember I asked you to tell her that I was on vacation when she asked where I was?”

“Yes.”

“So did you tell her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She didn’t ask.”

“Come on. Quit lying. I know she asked.”

“No.”

Wentworth hesitated. Bingo glanced over his shoulder at his bed. He noticed that his mom had not changed his sheets in so long the Smurfs had turned an ugly purplish gray. Very few people, Bingo thought, could rest on Smurfs that unfortunate color, even if their world had not come crumbling down around them. Still, he wanted to sink down among them and lay his tired head.

“Let’s go over there,” Billy Wentworth went on in a rush.

“Where?”

“To her house, Worm Brain.”

“Whose house?”

“Her
house.”

“What for?”

“To tell her I’m back.”

“You go. I’m not feeling so hot, Wentworth.”

“Look, just ride over there with me. That’s all I’m asking. Go up to the door with me. We’re pals, aren’t we? Just stand there. I’ll do all the talking. You won’t have to say a word.”

“So why do I have to be there?”

“I’ll look stupid if I’m by myself. What do you think? You think I want to go around looking stupid, Worm Brain? You can stand there looking stupid for both of us. You got a natural talent for that.”

Bingo said, “I’m really not feeling all that good.”

“You don’t want to feel worse, do you?”

“I’ll get my bike.”

Bingo and Billy Wentworth pedaled slowly toward Cici’s house. Bingo knew the way because Cici lived next door to Melissa’s old house. This, Bingo knew, was bound to bring more pain—seeing the very door that she had walked out of, seeing the very front porch where he had kissed her.

It seemed to Bingo, as he pedaled, that the entire eleven and eleven-twelfths years of his life had been one long struggle to get into the mainstream of life. Other people, he knew, were content with little pools on the sidelines, but he, he had always craved the thrill of the current.

But he hadn’t wanted it yet! Not before he learned how to swim! He hadn’t wanted to be pushed!

He began to question.

Once a person gets into the mainstream of life, can he ever get out? If he does get out, can he get back in? Or is it like an exclusive club: Once out, he must spend his remaining years on shore, watching the rest of the members swim by, thumbing their noses at—

“This is it, Worm Brain.”

“Oh, sure.”

Bingo braked and got off his bike. Together he and Wentworth walked toward the front door. Bingo said, “Er, Wentworth?”

“What?”

“Have you ever heard of something called the language of love?”

“No, what is it? A TV show?”

“No, it’s like, well, it’s a way you talk to girls.”

“I got my own way.”

“Yes, but mixed-sex conversations are different from regular conversations. I’m not saying I’m an expert, but I have had some successful ones.”

“Listen, I could give
you
some advice on talking to girls. Now, get this. You stay behind me and don’t say anything. We were just riding bikes down this street, see, and we pass her house, see, and naturally we think, Hey, maybe Cici don’t know I’m back from vacation. We walk up the walk, see, like we’re doing, and I ring the bell, like this. All you got to do is keep your mouth shut.”

The door opened at once, and Cici peered around it. “Oh, hi, Bingo.”

“I’m back from vacation,” Wentworth said.

“Bingo, did it come? The letter?”

Bingo shook his head.

“Oh, when I saw you, I thought it had come and you were, like, bringing it back to me. I worry about that letter. When the mail comes, it’s like panic time, you getting Melissa’s letter, her getting yours. You promise it hasn’t come?”

Bingo nodded.

Wentworth said again, “I’m back from vacation.”

Now Cici looked at him. “So?”

“So if you’ve been wondering where I am, you don’t have to wonder anymore.”

“Bingo, let me know about the letter. Promise?”

Bingo nodded.

“Well, I’ve got to go. My mom and I are going to the Nautilus to pump iron. That’s why I’ve got this on.”

She stepped out like a model and showed them her pink stretch-knit exercise suit. “Taaa-daaaaaa!” Wentworth gasped and would have fallen over backward if Bingo had not grabbed him.

“Bye!”

And she was gone.

As they walked to their bikes, Wentworth said, “Now what was this language thing you were talking about?”

“H
ELP!”

The call came again!

“Help!”

Then the scarlet water closed over the boy’s head, and he found himself twisting downward in a tightening spiral toward the bowels of the earth.

Bingo was not starting a new science-fiction novel. Bingo was having a bad dream.

A faraway voice said, “Bingo.” A hand shook him. “Wake up, Son.”

Bingo opened his eyes. He was twisted into his sheet so tightly he could not move. The top sheet was damp with well-earned sweat.

“You must have been having a bad dream.”

“A terrible undertow …” Bingo gasped. “… drowning …” He tried to twist free, but the Smurfs seemed to be clinging like leeches.

“Let me help you,” his father said kindly.

“Thanks.”

“Do you have drowning dreams often?” His dad continued to unwrap him as if he were unwrapping a mummy.

Bingo shook his head. “Just since I got in the mainstream of life.”

“Yes, it’s tough out here.” His father smiled wryly. “Listen, Bingo, your mom wants to talk to you.”

“Mom’s home?”

“No, she’s still at your grandmother’s. She wants to talk to you on the phone.”

Finally Bingo was free from his sheet. He got up. His notebook and pencil fell to the floor. The notebook fell open to a picture he had drawn weeks ago when, in his new maturity, he actually believed he had given up burning questions for all time and would never need the question mark again.

Bingo walked to the phone, bent forward, and took a deep breath. “Mom?”

“Bingo,” his mother said in a rush, “listen, I’m sorry about the other night. That was a terrible thing to do, run out on your supper.”

Bingo said, “Oh, well, it was just tuna lasagna.”

“Now you’ll never want to cook for me again.”

“I’ll cook again, but probably not lasagna.”

“Are you all right? You aren’t getting sick, are you, Bingo? You sound funny, as if you’re far away.”

“That’s the way I feel.”

“Did you just wake up?”

“Yes. I was having a terrible dream about the mainstream of life, which, incidentally, it appears I am now in.”

“Well, go back to bed, Bingo. I’ll talk to you later. I just wanted to apologize. I haven’t been able to sleep for worrying about you.”

“I’m worried about you, too.” Bingo’s father was in the doorway, listening. This reminded Bingo of why they were here in this awkward position. “Dad told me about your, er, problem. Maybe problem’s not the right word. Maybe I should have said your difficulty, your”—he swallowed manfully—“pregnancy.”

He went on in a rush. “Mom, if you’ll come home tonight, I’ll fix you the best supper you have ever had in your life. You name the recipe and I’ll make it. I don’t care what it is. I don’t care how much the ingredients cost. Mom, I’ll make it if you just tell me what it is and come on home.”

“Bingo, I’m going to have to call you back. I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Mom—” Now his brain started working. “Mom, listen, I do feel funny. Maybe I am getting sick.”

But she was gone.

He sat for a moment, holding the phone, and then he put it in its cradle. The mail was beside the phone, as if whoever had brought it in had abandoned it.

The top letter was to him. … Melissa.

He opened the flap without much enthusiasm and began to read.

Dear Bingo,

I’m definitely worried now. I haven’t heard from you in ages, and I can’t help but wonder why.

I should not have asked Cici to go to your house and take your picture—I know that now—because I remembered that one time I was talking about you to Cici. I was telling her about the time you and I went to the hospital to see Mr. Mark. I was saying you made Mr. Mark laugh even though he begged you not to. Anyway, that was when she said that you sounded cute and she wished she knew some cute boys.

Then, later, when I pointed you out to her in the hall, she said you were cute and that she wished she knew you. Now I guess she does!

Please write me, Bingo, because I don’t know whether you want me to send my picture or not, so I won’t put it in, but I’ll keep it in my stationery box.

Love (???)

Melissa

Bingo’s dad came out of the bathroom then. “Bingo, I’m not going to take time for breakfast. I want to stop by your grandmother’s on my way to work.”

“I’ll go with you.” Bingo spun around. “It won’t take me a minute to get dressed.” He had his pajamas almost over his head before his father answered.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Dad, wait! I have to tell Mom something. I just thought of something to—”

“Call her back.”

“Dad!

But his dad was gone.

“This is wrong!” Bingo picked up the telephone and slammed it down on the table. It gave its usual short ring of protest. “This is terribly wrong!”