The Bumblebee Flies Anyway (24 page)

He said nothing, didn’t need to say more, proud that he had convinced her he was leaving the Complex, afraid that he might spoil it all if he said more. But aching to say more. To tell her how much she meant to him, how he’d had nothing to cling to but her presence in his life.

Not trusting himself, he felt a need to move and he stood up. She stood up, too. And he realized that this was hurrying her departure. Yet he wanted her to go, to get out of here before he did something crazy, like confessing his love for her and trying to kiss her or telling her the truth: that he was dying and she could never visit him in that place north of Boston because he wouldn’t be there.

In a desperate move to detain her, he said: “How about you, Cassie?”

“How about me?” she said, tilting her head, like a little girl again.

“That Thing you spoke about. Is it still bothering you?”

“Oh that,” she said. “It was my imagination, I guess. Everything’s fine, Barney.”

“Are you going back to the Hacienda?”

“I don’t know. I always felt safe there. But I have to wait.”

He knew what she had to wait for. For Mazzo to die.

“Listen,” she said. “How’s the car coming along? You know, the one in the attic.”

They both laughed. As if there were other cars in the Complex.

“The Bumblebee,” he said.

“Yes, the Bumblebee,” she said, smiling at him like a conspirator.

“Well, it’s finished. Finished it last night.”

“Does it work? Did you take a ride in it yet?”

“Maybe tonight,” he said. “Or tomorrow.” Then remembered his story. “Before I leave.”

“Tell me, Barney. Who did you steal it for? Who did you build it for? Who’s going to ride in it?”

He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. He was afraid that if he started talking about the ride, he would tell her everything. He couldn’t take a chance on that. All of him ached to tell her about the ride, but he had to remain silent.

“Alberto,” she said, husky voice a whisper. “You built it for him, didn’t you? You’re still doing things for other people, aren’t you, Barney? And you’re going to give Alberto a ride in your Bumblebee.”

Suddenly, surprisingly, she kissed him. Her lips on his lips for a brief moment, her body pressed against him, immersed in the clean soap smell of her. Him, Barney Snow, big ears, scruffy hair, bowlegged. And dying. Kissed by this girl, Cassie Mazzofono, whom he loved, who was looking at him now with such tenderness and affection and maybe even a flash of love, gone as quickly as it came but shining out of her for a sweet instant here in this twilight room. He stood before her in the faded hospital clothes, burning with fever, duped and deceived by the Handyman, certain to die. Yet this was the one great moment of his life.

“Oh, Barney,” she said, voice tremulous, eyes a bit moist. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. Kicking himself.
You’re welcome.
Why couldn’t he have come up with something memorable, a phrase she’d remember forever, like the last words in a movie when the lovers had to part? But they weren’t lovers, were they? “Hope your cold gets better.”
Hope your cold gets better.
That was even worse.

And then she was gone. A quick smile and out of the
room, around the corner and into the hallway. He heard her heels clicking on the floor, like that first day. Then the outer door opening and closing. He wanted to rush after her, risk everything, tell her everything, call out to her: Come back, I love you. But only stood there.

That was the moment the first shaft of pain entered him, a fire in his groin, like a hot knife melting into his flesh. He clutched at his stomach and it lurched sickeningly. He was afraid he would vomit and soil himself at the same time. Telling himself, tempo, rhythm, he closed his eyes, held himself stiff, hoping that this stillness would keep the pain and the nausea from getting worse.

Yet, as he stood there in the agony of this thing that was killing him, he had the taste of Cassie Mazzofono on his lips and the knowledge that he had pulled it off, sent her out of here without telling her what was happening to him, his condition, the screens, and the pathetic thing his life had become. Because of that, his life, whatever was left of it, wasn’t pathetic after all. But kind of noble, somehow.

O
UT
of the room and down the corridor, eleven o’clock at night, he knew he cut a ridiculous figure, walking crablike, half bent over, one shoulder higher than the other, like some grotesque hunchback on the prowl. He’d learned very quickly that pain can be accommodated by the body if the body adjusts to meet it. Little tricks. He had found ways to stand or sit or walk that reduced the degree of pain, his bones and tissues shifting and arranging themselves so that he could navigate with a minimum of pain. Didn’t know how he had learned so quickly but he had, as if some previous experience was helping him now. Who knows? In the part of his memory he could not recall, maybe certain information lurked and was being fed to him subconsciously. Maybe he had learned to combat pain in that other place before he came here and was an old veteran now.

He paused, crouching, before Allie’s room. Pushed the door open. Allie was asleep, old man’s face in repose, all twitchings gone. Barney stood by the bed, watching, listening. Poor kid. Would never get to ride in the Bumblebee. Allie’s breathing was so shallow that his chest did not seem to be rising and falling. Barney bent close, adjusting
his body to do so, placed his ear near Allie’s mouth and felt the hot breath in his nostrils.

“Good-bye, Allie Roon,” he whispered.

He felt silly talking to somebody fast asleep like that. At the doorway, feeling silly again but somehow good about what he was doing, he saluted the still small figure on the bed.

Still hunched over, he made his way to Billy’s room, moving sideways sometimes to lessen the pain, as if he could shift the pain here and there inside him to less vulnerable areas. Outside Billy’s room he straightened up as much as possible, adjusting his body to a more normal posture. There was a chance that Billy was awake, and he wanted to appear normal to him.

“Barney, what are you doing here?” Billy the Kidney asked as he approached the bed.

“Making the rounds.”

Saying good-bye.

“What time is it, anyway?”

Time for the Bumblebee.

“Eleven or so. I don’t know.”

Billy pulled the sheet up snugly to his chin. “It’s chilly in here. You chilly, Barney?”

“A little,” Barney said. Actually he was hot, a heat that radiated throughout his body, fed by something inside him. But he didn’t want to alarm Billy. If Billy thought he was the only chilly person in the room, he’d start worrying.

“Can’t sleep, Barney?” Billy yawned.

“Right.”

No time for sleeping.

“I’m tired, but I can’t sleep either.”

“Know something, Billy?” Careful now. Had to say it right. Didn’t want to spoil anything.

“What?” Voice drowsy.

“I admire you very much, Billy. For being here, in this place, when you could be somewhere else. And for not talking about the pain. I see the pain in your eyes all the time, sometimes worse than others, but you never say anything. You complain about other things, you’re a pain in the neck at times, but you never kick about your pain. Just take it.”

“I’m just dumb, I guess,” Billy said. “Too dumb to complain about it.”

“You’re not dumb, Billy. You’re brave.”

Billy’s voice became sharp again. “Hey, Barney. You okay? You look kind of funny the way you’re standing there. And I didn’t see you all day long. Did you get some new merchandise or something?”

“Yeah, and it’s got a strange effect, it makes it hard for me to walk.” Amazed, as always, at how easily he lied. “I’ve got to be going, Billy.”

Good-bye, Billy the Kidney.

“See you later, Barney.” Closing his eyes, snuggling deeper into the bed.

Barney stole through the doorway, glad to be out of Billy’s sight so that he could let down a little, allow his body to change and shift to accommodate the pain. He found to his relief that the pain had subsided somewhat. Instead of singing through his body like a high-pitched sound that could shatter glassware, the pain was more like a quiet hum now, murmuring through his bones and muscles and tissues, a dull ache, better than the thousand knives.

He found Mazzo a lump in his bed, sleeping quietly, small snores making his nostrils quiver, mouth half open. He looked so peaceful that Barney hated to disturb him, bring him back to the world, bring him to the Bumblebee.

He touched Mazzo’s shoulder and Mazzo was instantly awake, alert, on guard.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Mazzo asked, annoyed.

Good. Mazzo was his usual unpleasant self.

Barney bent close to his face.

“It’s time to go, Mazzo. Time to go.”

“Go where?” Mazzo asked. “You crazy or something?” Irritated, patient, turning away.

“Out. Going out of here in a blaze of glory.”

Looking at Barney over his shoulder, he asked, “What the hell are you talking about? We’re not going anywhere.”

“Remember when you asked me to pull the plug?”

Mazzo moved his body to face him, up on one elbow now, still sullen and suspicious but a spark of watchfulness in those fevered eyes.

“Did you ask me to pull the plug?”

Mazzo nodded.

“We’re going to do more than pull the plug, Mazzo. We’re going for one last wild ride.”

Mazzo groaned and sank down in the bed, like a ship settling into deep waters.

“Go to bed, Barney. Stop telling fairy tales.”

Barney grabbed his arm, careful not to disturb the tube connected with a doodad above Mazzo’s wrist, but grabbing all the same.

“Listen to me, Mazzo,” Barney said, his own voice hoarse and raspy now. “I’m calling your bluff. You’re the guy who said you wanted to end it all. You also said you wanted to go out in a flash. Well okay. We’re going to do it together.”

“You look like hell, you know that?” Mazzo said, pulling loose from Barney’s grip but raising himself on one elbow again. “Okay, tell me about it, what you’re talking about.”

“You’re going to have to see it to believe it, but trust me, Mazzo. We’re flying out of here tonight, flying high.” Barney indicated the machine humming in the corner. “After you get disconnected from this thing, you have about two or three hours, right?”

Mazzo nodded, watching Barney closely as if he had to read his lips to understand what he was saying.

“Isn’t it connected to a monitor in Observation, too? I mean, if you get disconnected from it, somebody will notice, won’t they?”

“I don’t think any alarm bells go off or anything. But I don’t know.”

“It’s a chance we have to take,” Barney said. In command now, brain working sharp and true, no wooziness. Maybe the pain helped, helped clear the fuzziness, the way iodine burns away infection. “All we need is ten, fifteen minutes.” He looked down at Mazzo. “Will you trust me, Mazzo? Will you do what I say?”

“What have I got to lose?” Mazzo asked, sighing, resigned. “Can you get this thing off me?”

Barney’s fingers trembled as he removed the needle, closing his eyes at the final loosening, a coward about stuff like that. Feeling faint, he gripped the bed, watching the machine and watching Mazzo, wondering if his separation from the life-giving unit would kill him here and now. Nothing happened. The machine continued to hum.

“Let’s make it fast if we’re going to do it,” Mazzo said, impatient. He looked feeble, however, as he threw off the sheet and turned his body. Slowly, he raised himself up, letting his legs dangle off the bed. His feet looked dainty, like small white fish.

“Can you walk?” Barney asked. “Want me to find a wheelchair?”

“I can walk,” Mazzo said, shrugging away from Barney’s
touch. “Just give me a minute.” Scowling, breathing heavily. “How far do we have to go?”

“To the elevator. The freight elevator down the hall, about fifty feet and around the corner.”

“The elevator? Christ, Barney, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I hope so, too, Barney thought, getting Mazzo’s slippers and robe from the closet.

When Mazzo launched himself from the bed and stood on those delicate, fragile feet, Barney held his breath. He feared Mazzo’s body might crumple, unsupported by his legs and feet. Mazzo swayed a bit for a moment or two, standing unsteadily, like a drunk leaving a bar.

“Let me get a wheelchair,” Barney urged.

“Screw you, Barney Snow. I can walk.”

And he took small tentative steps toward the door, wobbly, delicately, but going forward bit by bit.

“Well, then, let me help you at least,” Barney said, putting his arm around Mazzo’s waist. “You don’t have to prove how tough you are.” Barney’s own movement brought a spasm of pain in his groin, and he almost leaned against Mazzo for support.

“This better be good,” Mazzo said, eyes blazing. “Your breath smells terrible.”

“You don’t smell like sweet violets yourself,” Barney said.

And Mazzo laughed. Not the usual harsh bark of derision but a real laugh with merriment in it. “Look, ma, I’m walking,” he said, but straining a bit, legs still uncertain.

Stepping into the corridor, Barney peered down its length. No one in sight.

Mazzo followed his gaze. “Looks like a long way to that corner,” he said.

Barney tightened his grip around Mazzo, and Mazzo
leaned a bit against him, allowing Barney to support him.

They made a strange caravan as they inched along the hallway, hugging the wall, turning the wall into support for Mazzo on his other side, Barney on the outside. Mazzo’s feet got tangled in each other on occasion, as if they had to learn how to walk all over again.

The nature of Barney’s pain changed as they walked along. Tiny bolts of pain shot through his body now, small lightning streaks, causing him to catch his breath, weakening his knees. He felt like a lightning rod in a wild thunderstorm, his heart leaping inside him, his body twitching sometimes like Allie Roon’s. Tempo, rhythm, Barney told himself.