said. “I never saw him without his helmet.”
Bingo tried to say, “Me neither,” but no sound came out.
“That may be, but it’s my understanding that this time he was not wearing it. He was apparently traveling at a high rate of speed. He was alone. No other traffic appears to have been involved.”
Mr. Boehmer glanced down at the papers on Mr. Markham’s desk. Then he looked up and said, “Yes, Billy?”
“Where did it happen?”
“It was on Highway 64. He ran off the road on a curve and apparently struck a tree. The accident happened about eleven o’clock but he was not found for several hours. A passing motorist noticed his headlight in the weeds. Yes, Melissa?”
“Will he be all right?”
“I don’t know. Even the doctors don’t know at this point. He doesn’t have any family in town, so I’m going over as soon as your substitute teacher arrives, to see if there’s anything I can do. When I get back, I’ll stop by and let you know what I’ve found out. Yes, Harriet?”
“If we wrote Mr. Mark some letters, could you take them to him?”
“I’d be glad to. That’s a good idea. He may not be able to read them right away, but I know he would appreciate your writing them.”
Bingo tore a sheet of paper from his new journal, the one dedicated to the new, improved Bingo. He got a pencil.
He wrote Dear Mr. Mark.
He looked around the room. Once again they were all in trouble together. Nobody was writing.
“Take your time,” Mr. Boehmer said.
They bent over their papers. For once, Bingo didn’t have to go to the pencil sharpener to see what they were writing. They all had the same sad message.
Please get well.
Miss Brownley was reading aloud. She had said, “I know you’re too upset to concentrate—I am too. So why don’t we just read this morning.”
Bingo was slumped at his desk. He was not listening to the words. He had no idea what the story was about. Like everyone else, he was waiting for Mr. Boehmer. From time to time his knees trembled, like the aftershock of an earthquake.
Halfway through chapter eleven, there were footsteps in the hall, a knock at the door.
“It’s Boehmer,” someone said.
“Come in,” Miss Brownley called.
Mr. Boehmer opened the door. For the first time in Bingo’s life, he was glad to see him. “Am I interrupting?” Mr. Boehmer asked.
“No, come in, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Mr. Boehmer stepped inside the room. “Well,” he said, “I can’t tell you much more than I told you this morning. Mr. Markham has not regained consciousness. He’s still in intensive care. His condition is listed as critical. I spoke to one of the doctors and he said all they can do right now is wait.”
There was a pause. Tara put up her hand. “Did you see him?”
“Just for a minute.”
“Can we see him?”
“No, he’s not allowed any visitors. Maybe at a later time. I’ll let you know.”
“I want to take up a collection and send flowers,” Melissa said.
“I’d hold off on that, Melissa, until he can appreciate them. I did leave your letters with the nurse, and she’ll see that he gets them as soon as he feels like reading.”
Mr. Boehmer looked around the room. “Any other questions?”
Bingo shook his head in silent dismay. He who had had hundreds of questions in his life, now found that at this crucial moment, he didn’t have a one.
He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands.
Route 64
“M R. MARKHAM?” BINGO’S MOM asked. She sat down as hard as if she’d been pushed. “Not Mr. Markham.”
Bingo nodded.
“I can’t believe it. Mr. Markham?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“Oh, not Mr. Markham. I hate that. How can we find out how—” Her head snapped up. “I heard the paper a minute ago. Maybe there’ll be something about the accident in it.”
She got up and pushed open the front door.
The afternoon paper was there, and she sat on the
Bingo tried to say, “Me neither,” but no sound came out.
“That may be, but it’s my understanding that this time he was not wearing it. He was apparently traveling at a high rate of speed. He was alone. No other traffic appears to have been involved.”
Mr. Boehmer glanced down at the papers on Mr. Markham’s desk. Then he looked up and said, “Yes, Billy?”
“Where did it happen?”
“It was on Highway 64. He ran off the road on a curve and apparently struck a tree. The accident happened about eleven o’clock but he was not found for several hours. A passing motorist noticed his headlight in the weeds. Yes, Melissa?”
“Will he be all right?”
“I don’t know. Even the doctors don’t know at this point. He doesn’t have any family in town, so I’m going over as soon as your substitute teacher arrives, to see if there’s anything I can do. When I get back, I’ll stop by and let you know what I’ve found out. Yes, Harriet?”
“If we wrote Mr. Mark some letters, could you take them to him?”
“I’d be glad to. That’s a good idea. He may not be able to read them right away, but I know he would appreciate your writing them.”
Bingo tore a sheet of paper from his new journal, the one dedicated to the new, improved Bingo. He got a pencil.
He wrote Dear Mr. Mark.
He looked around the room. Once again they were all in trouble together. Nobody was writing.
“Take your time,” Mr. Boehmer said.
They bent over their papers. For once, Bingo didn’t have to go to the pencil sharpener to see what they were writing. They all had the same sad message.
Please get well.
Miss Brownley was reading aloud. She had said, “I know you’re too upset to concentrate—I am too. So why don’t we just read this morning.”
Bingo was slumped at his desk. He was not listening to the words. He had no idea what the story was about. Like everyone else, he was waiting for Mr. Boehmer. From time to time his knees trembled, like the aftershock of an earthquake.
Halfway through chapter eleven, there were footsteps in the hall, a knock at the door.
“It’s Boehmer,” someone said.
“Come in,” Miss Brownley called.
Mr. Boehmer opened the door. For the first time in Bingo’s life, he was glad to see him. “Am I interrupting?” Mr. Boehmer asked.
“No, come in, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Mr. Boehmer stepped inside the room. “Well,” he said, “I can’t tell you much more than I told you this morning. Mr. Markham has not regained consciousness. He’s still in intensive care. His condition is listed as critical. I spoke to one of the doctors and he said all they can do right now is wait.”
There was a pause. Tara put up her hand. “Did you see him?”
“Just for a minute.”
“Can we see him?”
“No, he’s not allowed any visitors. Maybe at a later time. I’ll let you know.”
“I want to take up a collection and send flowers,” Melissa said.
“I’d hold off on that, Melissa, until he can appreciate them. I did leave your letters with the nurse, and she’ll see that he gets them as soon as he feels like reading.”
Mr. Boehmer looked around the room. “Any other questions?”
Bingo shook his head in silent dismay. He who had had hundreds of questions in his life, now found that at this crucial moment, he didn’t have a one.
He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands.
Route 64
“M R. MARKHAM?” BINGO’S MOM asked. She sat down as hard as if she’d been pushed. “Not Mr. Markham.”
Bingo nodded.
“I can’t believe it. Mr. Markham?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“Oh, not Mr. Markham. I hate that. How can we find out how—” Her head snapped up. “I heard the paper a minute ago. Maybe there’ll be something about the accident in it.”
She got up and pushed open the front door.
The afternoon paper was there, and she sat on the
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