and then looked at her watch and checked something on the printout, making a mark with her pen. Ronson wasalso 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.
“That telephone,” Billy said, sad and wistful.
“Jeez,” Barney said. “Who would you call if you had a phone? You said yourself there’s nobody out there to even write a letter to.”
“I got a lot of calls I can make,” Billy said. “A lot of people I can call. There’s a whole bunch of people to talk to.
Barney didn’t reply. He didn’t want to find out anything personal about Billy. And vice versa.
“I had a phone at my disposal last year at this other place I was before coming here,” Billy said, still not looking at Barney and his voice whispered and confidential. “The phone was in a small office that nobody ever used and I discovered it by accident. I’d sneak in there and make my calls.
“I’d call, oh, the local radio station and make a request for a song, although I didn’t have a radio—the station had a request number in the phone book. Or I’d call the police station downtown and tell them I was new in town and ask the location of a street, like I wanted to visit there. Then there were the Dial numbers.”
Billy’s voice grew dreamy now. “The Dial numbers were nice. I found them in the phone book. Dial-A-Prayer and you’d hear a pretty good sermon. Or at least a voice, even if it was recorded. Then there was Dial-A-Diet. That was operated by the board of health, I think, and they gave you menus for certain kinds of diets if you had a disease or a special physical condition or something. The dietssounded terrible, but it was nice hearing a girl or a woman talk. They always picked people with beautiful voices. Then there were the wrong numbers.”
Billy shook his head in fond remembrance. “Those wrong numbers. See, I’d pick any old number from the phone book and dial it and somebody would answer and I’d try to fake them out, you know. Pretending I was trying to find my Uncle Louis, say, who used to live at that address, and I’d sometimes get a conversation going. I was
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.
“That telephone,” Billy said, sad and wistful.
“Jeez,” Barney said. “Who would you call if you had a phone? You said yourself there’s nobody out there to even write a letter to.”
“I got a lot of calls I can make,” Billy said. “A lot of people I can call. There’s a whole bunch of people to talk to.
Barney didn’t reply. He didn’t want to find out anything personal about Billy. And vice versa.
“I had a phone at my disposal last year at this other place I was before coming here,” Billy said, still not looking at Barney and his voice whispered and confidential. “The phone was in a small office that nobody ever used and I discovered it by accident. I’d sneak in there and make my calls.
“I’d call, oh, the local radio station and make a request for a song, although I didn’t have a radio—the station had a request number in the phone book. Or I’d call the police station downtown and tell them I was new in town and ask the location of a street, like I wanted to visit there. Then there were the Dial numbers.”
Billy’s voice grew dreamy now. “The Dial numbers were nice. I found them in the phone book. Dial-A-Prayer and you’d hear a pretty good sermon. Or at least a voice, even if it was recorded. Then there was Dial-A-Diet. That was operated by the board of health, I think, and they gave you menus for certain kinds of diets if you had a disease or a special physical condition or something. The dietssounded terrible, but it was nice hearing a girl or a woman talk. They always picked people with beautiful voices. Then there were the wrong numbers.”
Billy shook his head in fond remembrance. “Those wrong numbers. See, I’d pick any old number from the phone book and dial it and somebody would answer and I’d try to fake them out, you know. Pretending I was trying to find my Uncle Louis, say, who used to live at that address, and I’d sometimes get a conversation going. I was
Similar Books
Fortunes & Failures - 03
T. W. Brown
The Temple of Indra’s Jewel:
Rachael Stapleton
Communion Town
Sam Thompson
Flesh Cartel, #8: Loyalties
Rachel Haimowitz, Heidi Belleau
Star Wars: Scoundrels
Timothy Zahn
The Jade Boy
Cate Cain
The Truant Officer
Derek Ciccone
And Then There Were None
Agatha Christie
The Mortal Bone
Marjorie M. Liu
