by Betsy Byars
“I guess.”
“Now I’ve got to convince your dad to go out—and that’s not going to be easy. Where can we go? Bingo, I can’t even think of anywhere we can go!”
“I can’t help you there.”
“It’s got to be somewhere vital. I can’t just say the store or the movies or the laundromat. Well, I’ll think of something.”
El Bingo, the Gringo
BINGO WAS WALKING SLOWLY down the hall toward English class when he heard someone call his name.
“Bingo, wait up!”
Bingo glanced over his shoulder.
“Wait!”
It was Mamie Lou, and Bingo did not like to talk to Mamie Lou even when he was feeling his best—which he definitely was not.
He tried to slip into class, but in one quick move she was in front of him, blocking the way. Since Mamie Lou had him by twenty pounds, he had no choice but to stop.
“Yes, Mamie Lou?”
“Did you see Melissa?” she asked excitedly.
“Yes, I saw her Saturday—and briefly Sunday, but I didn’t get to really talk to her.”
“No, I mean now,” Mamie Lou said. She pointed down the hall as if she were thumbing a ride. “Did you just see her in the hall?”
“No, no, I didn’t. She’s here? At school?”
“Yes, but there were about two hundred people around her. You’d think she’d been to the moon instead of Bixby, Oklahoma. I barely got to say hi.”
“I didn’t get much past that myself.” Bingo turned. “Where exactly was she? Maybe if I—”
“Mamie Lou, you and—who’s that behind you?” Mr. Rodrigo called from his desk.
Bingo peered around her.
“Ah, El Bingo, the Gringo,” Mr. Rodrigo said. “You two come on in, we’d like to get started.”
“Mr. Rodrigo.” Bingo paused in the doorway. “I have a compelling errand. I wouldn’t use the word compelling, which means to drive or urge irresistibly, if I weren’t being driven and urged irresistibly.”
“No comprendo, Bingo.”
When Mr. Rodrigo switched to what he called his “native tongue,” even the correct use of a word wouldn’t divert him.
Bingo proceeded reluctantly into the room. He sat at his desk. He wanted to put his head on his desk, because the wood would be cooler than his flushed face, but Mr. Rodrigo didn’t allow siestas.
Bingo was ashamed of himself. Only yesterday he had sworn that he would never, ever care about Melissa again, that he would not so much as go to the door if she rang the doorbell, and here he was with his heart leaping out of his chest because she was in the same building with him.
This decision that he would never care again had come yesterday. He and Wentworth had returned to Weezie’s only to find the house locked.
“Maybe Weezie and Melissa are hiding inside,” Bingo had said.
“Maybe Melissa’s hiding from you. She did that yesterday. But there’s no way the Weez would hide from me.”
Wentworth had continued to punch the doorbell for some time, even after Bingo had begged him to stop. Finally Wentworth had said, “Okay, okay, I give up.”
They had turned and started down the steps. At that moment a car had pulled into the driveway. Bingo and Wentworth stopped to watch.
The backseat of the car had been so filled with girls of assorted ages and sizes that Bingo couldn’t be sure Melissa was one of them. She was. She was the third girl out of the car. Weezie was the fourth. The rest of the girls kept coming, like clowns piling out of a circus car.
Weezie had seen them and at once threw up her hands for protection. “Don’t look at my hair. It looks awful. Melissa, don’t let them look at my hair. Don’t look!”
Melissa had gotten between Weezie and the boys on the steps, and they ran into the house.
It had been so sudden that Bingo and Wentworth continued to stand there, stunned, while the rest of the girls passed by.
Finally, Bingo had called, “Melissa!”
And Wentworth had helped with, “Come on out, Melissa, or Bingo’s going to leave.”
Silence.
“And he’s not coming back either.”
Silence.
“And bring the Weez with you, or I’m leaving with him.”
In a lower voice, Wentworth had said, “Do you think they’re coming out?”
“I don’t know, what do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve got a sister,” Bingo said finally. “Would she come out?”
“My sister would never have gone in. Her hair looks like that all the time.”
Still they had waited. And as Bingo stood there, trapped by desire and confusion, he had made a firm, mature decision. He would never attempt to see Melissa again—ever!
“I’m leaving,” Bingo had said then.
“I’m right behind you.”
And now, twenty-four hours later, he was ready to skip class and rush through the empty halls in the hope of catching a glimpse of her.
The class had begun to discuss The Red Badge of Courage. Bingo got out his book.
Mamie Lou was saying, “You know what I don’t understand, Mr. Rodrigo? You know how everyone is always telling us to write about what we know? Well, Stephen Crane wasn’t writing about what he knew. He never even went to war!”
Usually Bingo liked to jump in with an opinion, but he had only read chapter one, and it had taken him all evening to read that.
The trouble was that Bingo had kept coming to sentences so full of meaning that they would send him off on a personal detour. He would read, “The youth was in a little trance of astonishment.” And he would be taken back to Health Supplies, where he, himself, had suffered a little trance of astonishment. And he would relive the little trance in detail.
He would force himself to read on, but he would come to something like, “He departed feeling vague relief,” and he would be leaving Weezie’s yesterday with his own vague relief.
He would read about the youth feeling gratitude for the words of his comrade, and he would again hear Wentworth saying, “I’m right behind you.”
He would read of the youth staring steadfastly at the dark girl while she stared up through the high tree branches at the sky, and he would be staring steadfastly at Melissa, who was staring steadfastly at her shoes.
“Well, El Bingo, the Gringo, is strangely silent today,” Mr. Rodrigo said.
Bingo glanced up from his book. “I haven’t gotten as far in the book as the rest of the class,” he explained.
“You’re my fastest reader, Bingo. You’re always leading the pack.”
“I know.”
“So what? It didn’t grab you?”
“It wasn’t that. I kept … stopping to think.”
An amused murmur came from some of the gifted and talented who rarely did that themselves.
Mr. Rodrigo ignored them. “So you were simpático with the main character?”
Bingo thought about it. “I guess. I kept coming to these sentences that seemed to fit … me.”
“So, class—no, put your hand down, Mamie Lou, it’s my turn. So while Stephen Crane had not been to war, he did know—and quite well—what it was like to be a young man facing a turning point in his life. He knew what it was like to have a mother who loved him but didn’t understand him enough to say what he really needed to hear her say.
“He knew what it was to yearn for a girl he couldn’t have. He knew what it was to worry about his abilities. That’s what Bingo, in his own inimitable fashion, was trying to tell us. Eh, Gringo?”
Bingo was grateful to Mr. Rodrigo for turning him from the class idiot into the class intelligensio. A kind teacher could work miracles.
“Si,” he said.
The Red Badge of Spaghetti
THE BROWN FAMILY WAS having spaghetti for supper, and supper had been served. But the only sounds in the kitchen were the slaps of Jamie’s hands against his high-chair tray.
Jamie did not
know spaghetti was to be eaten. He thought you slapped at it in a violent way and, later, when tired of the violence, swept it off the tray onto the floor.
“Many writers,” Bingo said finally, “go unappreciated in their lifetimes.”
Bingo was not displeased with this opening statement. He felt it was rare that anyone under stress, as he himself was, could break a painful silence with a remark of intelligence and depth.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bingo’s father asked, looking up sharply. His long days in the house had given him a pallor that made his freckles seem darker than usual.
“Nothing. Nothing!” Bingo said, at once aware his remark had gone unappreciated.
He had spoken only as a favor—to break the terrible silence that hovered over the table. He still wasn’t supposed to know that his father’s manuscript had been rejected, but his father took any literary comment as a personal insult.
Bingo’s mother gave him a warning look.
Bingo cleared his throat. “We’re reading The Red Badge of Courage, that’s all, and Stephen Crane died real young.”
The conversation also died young, and once again the only sounds were Jamie slapping his spaghetti. Bingo had with great patience taught Jamie to say bye-bye, but like a parrot, Jamie said it inappropriately. Now, as he karate-chopped the spaghetti, which refused to be chopped, he cried, “Bye-bye-bye-bye.”
“But I despair of finishing the book,” Bingo continued.
No one asked the reason for this despair.
Bingo had begun chapter two when he got home from school and had almost immediately come across the paragraph, “For days he made ceaseless calculations, but they were all wondrously unsatisfactory. He found that he could establish nothing.”
As soon as he had read that he realized that he, himself, had also established exactly nothing.
Problem #7, Establishing Exactly Nothing.
Suppose you have seen a person you love and no matter how hard you try, you have found no answers and established nothing. Should you then continue to pursue this person until your questions are answered?
Bingo’s Answer: Yes! Or until she is no longer in the area.
“Stephen Crane died young, but not unappreciated,” his father said.
Bingo said, “Oh?”
“At least he got published.”
“Ah,” Bingo said.
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, except for the sounds of Jamie attacking spaghetti.
Sometimes when Bingo watched his brother he wished he were little again and could find simple pleasure in slapping spaghetti or comfort in holding the end of a frayed blanket. Once he had even put Jamie’s pacifier in his mouth, but he had taken it out as soon as he saw his reflection in the mirror.
In these moments, he tried to remind himself of the long and difficult road from where Jamie sat in his high chair to where he himself sat in a straight chair.
At last Bingo’s father got up from the table. “That was good.”
“You hardly ate anything, Sam.”
“I’m just not that hungry.”
“You have to eat.”
“I’ll put my plate in the fridge and heat it up later.”
When his father was gone, Bingo’s mother hissed, “Why did you do that?” It was a hard sentence to hiss because it didn’t have any s’s in it, but she managed.
“Do what? What did I do?”
“Bring up writing.”
“I was lucky to think of it. Maybe you two can sit in silence for the rest of your lives, but I need sounds.”
“Your father was just beginning to come out of his depression. Now I have to start cheering him up all over again. Clean the kitchen.”
“Mom, I have got to read my book.”
“Do that after you clean the kitchen.”
“Bye-bye,” Jamie said.
“I wish,” Bingo answered.
He got up slowly. He glanced down at his shirt, at the red spaghetti sauce over his heart, and he began to clear the table.
When he finished the kitchen he took Jamie, wiped his hands, and went back to his book. He did something he rarely did—turned to the end.
There he read a wonderful sentence. “Listen to this,” he told his brother. “ ‘He felt a quiet manhood, not assertive but of sturdy and strong blood.’ ”
He looked at the back of his brother’s neck, a sight that always made him feel protective of his brother. “That’s what I want to feel.”
Jamie yawned. Bingo felt a flow of affection as pure and uncomplicated as affection is supposed to be.
“And here’s something else. ‘Scars faded as flowers.’ Ah. ‘Scars faded as flowers.’ Just between you and me, I have some scars that I wouldn’t mind seeing fade as flowers.”
Jamie lay back against him. He put one hand on his head and began to rub his hair.
“Oh, and listen to this. ‘He turned with a lover’s thirst to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks—an existence of soft and eternal peace.’ ”
Bingo was prepared to take that sentence phrase by phrase, starting with a lover’s thirst, about which he was something of an expert, but Jamie had already gone to sleep.
Quietly, Bingo took him to his room and laid him on his stomach in his crib.
“If I come to any other good parts that I think you’ll enjoy, I’ll read them to you tomorrow,” he said.
The Unfortunate Facts
BINGO WAS USED TO facing unfortunate facts about himself. Only last week, before Melissa came, he had willingly, even good-naturedly, accepted that:
1. He was penniless.
2. He had only half a sentence on his essay for civics. “The study of civics is important because …”
3. He continued to gag every time he had to change a diaper.
4. Dark hair was growing on his toes. (And while he had used his dad’s razor without permission a time or two, he was aware his dad would not want him to use it on his toes. He would not want to use his own razor, if he had one, on his toes.)
Now he was forced to add two new, even more unfortunate facts to the list, and he was not accepting them good-naturedly or willingly.
5. He was womanless.
6. He had a depressed father.
Bingo was aware he couldn’t do much about number five. He felt Melissa was lost to him forever.
Yet he still longed for her and thought of her. She was the only perfect girl he had ever known.
Problem #8. Following a Perfect Love.
SUPPOSE THAT YOU HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH A GIRL WHO IS PERFECT, AND BECAUSE OF THIS, THE LOVE YOU SHARED WAS PERFECT. THAT LOVE IS NOW ENDED. WOULD IT BE CRUEL TO ALLOW ANOTHER GIRL TO FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU, WHEN YOU KNOW IT CAN BE ONLY AN IMPERFECT LOVE?
Bingo’s Answer: I AM NOT QUALIFIED AT PRESENT TO ANSWER THIS, HAVING NOT EXPERIENCED IMPERFECT LOVE PERSONALLY, BUT I WILL GET BACK TO THIS, FOR, LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE, IT WILL PROBABLY BEFALL ME.
Bingo couldn’t do much to hurry the imperfect love along, but there was something he could do about his father.
His mother had left for the afternoon. She had to be at the opening of some new town houses. But she had left specific instructions. “Listen for Jamie, and don’t do anything to upset your father.”
As soon as her car was out of sight, however, Bingo went to his parents’ room. His father lay on the bed in his usual position, with his freckled hands folded on his chest.
“Dad, are you asleep?” Bingo asked from the doorway.
“Not quite.”
“You want some company?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Like who?”
“Me. Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Bingo came in and stood awkwardly beside the bed. He recalled that often his father had come into Bingo’s room and stood this way as Bingo lay on his Smurf sheets. His father usually said, “Is there something troubling you, son? Is everything all right?”
But that wasn’t Bingo’s wa
y. Bingo blurted out, “I know your manuscript got rejected.”
There was a silence. Only the refolding of his father’s long, freckled fingers showed that he had heard the statement.
Finally his father said, “I was going to get around to telling you.”
“I just wanted to let you know that I know how it feels.”
“Oh?”
“I sent one of my manuscripts off.”
“I didn’t know you’d ever finished one.”
“Well, it wasn’t finished. It was only one paragraph. It was the one that started out, ‘At eight-thirty the earth beneath the city began to move. The tremor measured nine on the Richter scale. People thought it was an earthquake. The animals knew better. The animals knew that what had moved beneath the city was alive, alive after four thousand years of sleep! It was alive and it was coming up!’ ”
“You sent that off?”
“Yes, and I asked if they wanted to see the rest of the manuscript—I didn’t mention the fact that I hadn’t finished writing it, of course.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing. They just sent a printed slip of paper thanking me for sending it but saying they couldn’t publish it. Later I discovered I had misspelled Richter, and of course that might have had something to do with their reluctance to publish.”
“Perhaps. Have you sent off other things, Bingo?”
“No, that’s the only one. I felt like my science-fiction story that takes place in Mau Mau really wasn’t long enough.”
“I’ve forgotten that one. Refresh my memory.”
“ ‘Something was stirring deep within the volcano on the island of Mau Mau, and it was not lava.’ ”
His father seemed to control a smile. “It is sort of short.”
“But I make every word count.”
“I’ll grant you that.”
“If I can get a couple more paragraphs, I’ll probably go ahead and put it in the mail. You need to send yours off again, Dad,” Bingo said.
“I guess.”
“You have to! I would send mine off a hundred times if I believed in it.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s probably not so much that I wanted this manuscript to be published—although I did want that. I wanted a new way of life, Bingo. I wanted to stay home and write, but I can’t do that if I can’t justify it. If I can’t sell something—if I can’t make a living—then I can’t sit around all day at the word processor.”
