The Bumblebee Flies Anyway (2 page)

The air outside was beautiful. Barney lifted his face to the sky, letting the spring breeze freshen his cheeks, twitching his nostrils, seeking aroma. Billy the Kidney did not respond to the outdoors. He sat slumped in the wheelchair, studying his feet. Allie Roon danced ahead, doing
something that was a cross between disco and a rhumba and was neither.

The grounds surrounding the Complex were shabby and wore an air of neglect. The lawn had not been mowed since last fall and still contained winter’s leftovers: twigs and branches, scraps of old newspapers, debris blown from the street, probably tossed from passing automobiles. He looked at the building itself, six stories high, faded red brick, sagging black shutters, the exterior giving no hint of the efficiency within. Billy the Kidney, who always knew everything about the Complex, said it was the original Monument Hospital, which was abandoned when a new structure was built on the other side of town. It was rescued from neglect when the Handyman and his associates moved in and began to operate the former hospital as a facility for experimental medicine. The Complex wore an air of mystery, like an old convent. The roof slanted toward the front of the building in a steep pitch at the astonishingly sharp angle of a ski jump. Unlike most buildings, which had either flat roofs or two-gabled roofs, this one resembled a lean-to, giving the Complex an alien, angular look. Across the street two huge tanks rose against the sky, dwarfing the abandoned building between them. The building had once been a chemical plant. Fire had ravaged the structure, and it stood in disgrace now, charred and blackened, the windows and doors bandaged with wooden boards.

“I like this neighborhood,” Billy the Kidney said, coming alive again.

“This isn’t a neighborhood,” Barney scoffed. “A neighborhood has houses and people.”

“Maybe that’s what I like about it,” Billy said. “I saw too many neighborhoods and too many people all my life.
All those foster homes and strangers who were supposed to be my brothers and sisters but weren’t. And no privacy at all. The Complex may be like a hospital, but at least I got my own room and privacy.”

“You’re making a speech,” Barney said, fidgety suddenly. Tempo, rhythm, he told himself. “You’re also coming out of the compartment.”

“Know what’s the matter with you, Barney Snow?” Billy asked. “You’re cold. Your heart is as cold as your name.”

“I just think we ought to stay in our own compartments,” Barney said. “Like the Handyman says.”

“He’s not the Handyman,” Billy said, anger making his voice tight, lips pressed against his teeth. “Why do you always call him that? His name is Doctor Edward Lakendorp. Why do you always call things by what they’re not? Like the merchandise. It’s not merchandise, for Christ’s sake. It’s medicine.”

“Chemicals,” Barney said. “Drugs.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A lot of difference,” Barney said.

“Look, Barney, I don’t want to go poking around in anybody’s private life. But isn’t it natural to be a little curious, a little human, especially in this place? I think this is exactly the time to invade each other’s privacy, no matter what the doctor says. We hardly know a damn thing about each other.”

Barney was watching Allie Roon. The kid danced near the fence, arms and legs moving vigorously, as if he were being buffeted by the wind. The fence was high, ten or twelve feet in height, wooden slats solidly fitted together, fortlike, impregnable. Allie Roon looked up at the fence as he danced, measuring the height with his eyes as if he intended to climb it.

“Hey, Allie,” Barney called. The wind took Barney’s voice and magnified it, booming it through the air.

“What do you say, Barney?” Billy asked, squirming in the wheelchair, shivering a bit.

“About what?” Barney asked, still looking at Allie Roon. Allie had stopped the dance, although his arms still twitched. He continued to gaze up at the fence.

“About the compartments. Getting to know each other. Like Allie Roon. Who is he? Where does he come from?”

“This isn’t a Lonely Hearts Club,” Barney said, watching Allie Roon, who had started to climb the fence. Not climbing, of course, but trying to gain purchase on the wood. His legs began to work like pistons, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Barney walked toward him. “Hey, Allie, I got a better idea,” he called. Allie stopped his efforts and turned toward Barney, waiting for him to get there. He was a light-haired boy with freckles. The freckles moved when he twitched. They moved now as Barney approached.

“If you want to see what’s on the other side, let’s walk down to the end of the fence,” Barney said. “It’s easier that way.” He pointed toward the sidewalk about fifty feet away. He looked back at Billy the Kidney. “Want to see what’s on the other side of the fence?” Barney called.

“It’s a junkyard,” Billy yelled. “You see one junkyard, you’ve seen them all.” He brooded now, slumped in his chair.

“Come on,” Barney said to Allie Roon. Allie nodded. Or at least Barney thought he nodded: It was hard to tell with all that twitching. Anyway, Allie dutifully followed Barney toward the sidewalk, still dancing as he went, an improbable figure, the old man’s wizened face and the boyish freckles. A lilac bush grew against the fence, the purple
clusters so heavy they made the branches droop. Barney hurried past the bush. He saw a trailer truck lumber by on the street, belching blue exhaust. Justice, kind of. He couldn’t smell the lilac, but he couldn’t smell the exhaust, either. And these days he couldn’t smell the odors in the Complex, which got so bad sometimes they took away your appetite.

Allie tripped and Barney helped him regain his balance. They reached the sidewalk, arm in arm, Allie’s bones moving beneath Barney’s fingers. Barney was disappointed to find that the fence continued along the street, unbroken by any entrance.

“Wait here,” Barney said, loosening himself from Allie’s grip. He began to climb the fence, his feet finding support somehow in the small spaces between the slats. The exertion cost him a lot, but he thought, What the hell. The Handyman would be furious if he saw Barney climbing the fence so soon after the last merchandise, but Barney kept climbing, developing a rhythm now, matching his beating heart to the rhythm of his breathing and the movement of his body. He reached the top, straddling the fence, his heart accelerating dangerously and his breath coming fast, but he felt triumphant as he clung there, gathering his strength. Looking down, he saw Allie Roon gazing up at him, a smile on his face, all twitchings gone. The first time he’d seen Allie Roon smile: His face lit up the way a streak of lightning brightens the sky. He realized that Allie Roon hadn’t really wanted to see what was on the other side of the fence. He’d wanted to climb it. Barney felt noble, as if he had completed a mission for Allie.

Barney surveyed the scene before him: the junkyard in all its desperate glory. Acres of junk, a wasteland of abandoned cars and trucks and vans and buses, a metal graveyard.
The vehicles were rusted and busted, sagging, some without wheels, as if sunken into the earth, or maybe sprouting from the earth like evil growths. Barney sniffed the air and, despite his inability to smell, could swear the smell of decay and desolation filled his nostrils. He realized this was the rear of the junkyard. No trees grew in the junkyard, no bushes, no shrubs. No one in sight. No living thing anywhere. Barney swiveled his body and looked over his shoulder at the Complex. Despite its shabbiness, it looked respectable compared with the junkyard. But the junkyard had spare parts and the Complex didn’t.

Turning again, Barney spotted the red sports car. The small car drew his attention because it stood upright and complete, its color vivid in contrast to the mottled and ruined cars surrounding it. Yet there was something strange and off-key about it. He squinted against the sun, studying the car—it looked like an MG he had seen once—holding on to the fence as the wind rose again, and the image of the car grew in his mind, not this car down below but the other one: What other one?
The one with him inside, out of control on the slanted street, going down down down and fast faster faster, his hands gripping the wheel, knuckles white, foot pumping the brake pedal but nothing happening and the speed gathering, accelerating, the hill slanting steep, steeper, car careening crazily, rampaging now, streetlights flashing on the pavement, pavement wet, engine roaring, whining. The car was filled with his screaming, a scream of horror, loud and high and terrible. His cheeks were taut, stretched, drawn back like the astronauts’ during blastoff. When he spotted the girl at the curb, ready to step into the street, in the path of the car, his scream rose an octave and his eyes leaped in their sockets, threatening crazily to spill out onto his lap. The girl stepped
off the curb, not fifty feet ahead, the car hurtling toward her, impossible to stop the car, Jesus, the horn howling now although he wasn’t conscious of blowing it and the girl looking up as the car hurled toward her, her mouth an oval of astonishment, her
 …

Barney found himself clutching the fence, his legs scissored against the rough wood. His fingers trembled as he loosened his hold. His breath came in terrifying gasps and his heart threatened to explode from his body. He tore his eyes away from the MG in the junkyard. A voice reached him dimly, Billy the Kidney’s voice: “Get down from there, Barney. Barney, get down.” He looked down to see Allie Roon still grinning at the bottom of the fence. Gaining confidence, he swiveled to search for Billy the Kidney, saw him in the wheelchair, his mouth open and his voice reaching Barney like an echo in mountain passes. “Come on, Barney. You’ll catch holy hell.…”

Barney needed no further urging, because he wanted to get down from there and feel the earth beneath his feet, feel his heart getting back to normal, feel his breathing becoming regular. Slowly, methodically, moving one hand and one foot at a time as if he were descending a precipice, he managed to reach the bottom without emergency. His heart was still beating very hard, though, dancing in his body the way Allie Roon danced as they made their way to Billy the Kidney in his wheelchair.

“Jesus,” Billy said. “You looked like you were frozen to the spot up there. What were you doing, anyway?”

“I spotted a car in the yard. An MG. It looked almost like new. I was studying it,” Barney said, grateful that his breath was coming regularly now and his heart was slowing down.

“It’s getting cold,” Billy said. “Let’s get inside.”

Barney looked back at the fence and shivered, a chill rippling across his flesh. He had had the nightmare before, the car and him in it and the car slanting down the hill headed for the girl, but it had never happened in the daytime, not while he was awake. Was it possible to have a nightmare while you were awake?

Allie Roon danced ahead, but slowly now, in a sad parody of a waltz. Billy the Kidney brooded in the wheelchair as Barney pushed him along.

“You sure nothing happened to you up on that fence?” Billy asked.

“Nothing,” Barney said, making his voice flat, final, so that Billy would stop asking questions.

But he knew he had seen something.

What he didn’t find out until later was that he had seen the Bumblebee for the first time.

M
AZZO
would probably die first, but there were no guarantees. Actually, it was a toss-up among all of them—Mazzo and Ronson, then Billy the Kidney and Allie Roon. Surprisingly enough, Ronson was responding to the merchandise while the others remained unchanged. There wasn’t supposed to be any response, of course, in the sense that improvement could be expected. And a cure was out of the question. Looking at Billy the Kidney, Barney often winced at the fact of Billy’s imminent death, the certainty of it, the complete absence of hope.

Observing Ronson now in Isolation, still in the Ice Age, silent and unmoving, all the wires and doodads intact, Barney was depressed. He pictured in his mind Ronson in the ring, sleek and slender and swift, jabbing away at an opponent, connecting with a right and then a left as the crowd cheered, and later standing with his hands over his head, the winner.

Turning away, he encountered Bascam, who had padded through the doorway, a computer printout in her hand. She ignored Barney as she studied Ronson on the table and then looked at her watch and checked something on the printout, making a mark with her pen. Ronson was
also being watched in Observation in another part of the Complex, all of his reactions and movements recorded on a panel of monitors, under constant surveillance.

Bascam was tall and thin and as impersonal as a thermometer. Her body revealed no contours beneath the green uniform. Her graying hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. He had never seen her register an emotion: She never smiled or frowned or laughed or displayed happiness or sadness. Maybe you needed to deaden your emotions in a place like this. Yet she had blushed with embarrassment this morning when she’d suggested that Barney smell the lilacs. It was good to know that Bascam was human after all. He wasn’t always sure about the Handyman.

Downstairs now, Barney spotted Billy the Kidney in his wheelchair near Mazzo’s room. Barney was held by the expression on Billy’s face. Sad. No, not sad. What then? He groped for the word and found it: wistful. Billy was looking toward Mazzo’s doorway with a wistful woebegone expression on his face. Like there was something in Mazzo’s room that he wanted more than anything else in the world and couldn’t have.

Sensing Barney’s presence, Billy turned around, spotted Barney, and instantly blushed, the glow a vivid contrast to his usual yellow pallor. Now Barney saw something else on Billy’s face: guilt.

“What’s going on?” Barney asked.

“Nothing, nothing’s going on,” Billy said, swiveling his wheelchair around so that Barney couldn’t look into his eyes.

“What are you hanging around Mazzo’s room for?” Barney asked, lowering his voice so that Mazzo couldn’t hear.

Billy shrugged, still turned away, his face still scarlet.

Everybody hung around Mazzo’s room. Doctors and nurses and the aides. They couldn’t do enough for Mazzo, even though his disposition was rotten and he was always moaning and groaning and bitching. And belching and farting.