Clyde gets his mule going and thankfully ours follow. I close my eyes, not wanting to know where this rodeo is headed, this situation too ridiculous for the pages of any of my beloved books.
“He ain’t following us,” Raymond says.
“Can’t in his car,” Clyde’s voice chimes in. “We’ll ride ’til we find us another car.”
I open my eyes, seething. “So you can steal something else?”
“What’d you rather I do, Bonnie?” Clyde says.
“Not steal!” I risk letting go of the mule’s mane to wipe wet hair from my face. “Why couldn’t you pay for those guns like a normal human being?”
Clyde waits one, two, three beats before he says, “I’m sorry, Bonnie, but I can’t take ya seriously when you’re bouncing on the back of a mule, both of ya dripping wet.”
Raymond laughs behind me, and I elbow him in the gut, right into a wad of thick bills. He laughs harder. Clyde, too.
From the pocket of my dress, I free a box of cigarettes. Naturally, they’re soaked through from all the rain. I toss the soggy pack at Clyde, but hit the mule instead.
* * *
I’ve had just enough of riding a fake horse ’cross a field in the rain, without the comfort of a smoke, when Clyde spots a house, its lights blazing. The sun’s nearly gone.
Under the cover of a tree, we all dismount. My rear end aches. My thighs are chafed raw. My dress is plenty wet.
“I reckoned this will be a story for the grandkids one day,” Raymond whispers. “That’s an hour more than I ever wanted to spend on the back of a mule.”
“You and me both,” Clyde says.
Blanche would’ve named our mule, cooing at him the whole ride. Me, I can’t get away from him fast enough. Clyde kisses my wet cheek. “Sorry ’bout all of this, Bonnie.”
“It’s fine,” I say. But is it? I shake my head. “It ain’t fine. Why’d you have to steal?”
Clyde sweeps his arm, pointing out where we are, as if saying, You want to discuss this now, while we’re on the run?
I cross my arms.
He throws up that arm, says, “Folks are beginning to take a look at who they’re selling guns to.” He motions between him and Ray. “And here we are, two cons asking for a whole lot of ’em. That reason enough for you?”
I don’t like it, but I get it. So I take a deep breath and say, “No more surprises. You hear?”
Raymond steps in. “If you two are done discussing right and wrong, I’d like to get out of here.”
I flippantly point to the car. “Best go steal it.”
Clyde opens his mouth, must think wiser of it, and runs at a crouch past a two-story house, pillars out front of it, and toward a black car.
Soon, we’re backing out of a long driveway and onto a main road. Thankfully, the rain is nothin’ more than drizzle now.
I wring out my dress, not caring an ounce that a puddle of muddy water is going to ruin this fancy car.
Clyde bobs his knee. “This here road is too long, been on it too long. Keep your eyes peeled for a new one.”
It’s nearly dark, but I don’t point out that small detail.
We find a road branching off to the right, and I let out a sigh of relief we’re moving in a new direction.
“Clyde,” Raymond says, his back to us, looking out the back windshield.
Then we hear it, the sirens. Lights beam behind us.
“How’d they find us?” I ask.
Clyde raises a brow. “My guess is someone saw us bickering from inside that house and called it in. Po-lice put two and two together.”
I ain’t going to apologize for questioning him. I’m out here risking my future. Better believe I want to know what’s going on. Besides, we don’t know that’s for sure why the law caught our scent. What I do know is, Clyde is pressing down on the gas pedal, hard, but we ain’t going any faster. In fact, we’re doing the opposite. “Why are we slowing down?”
Clyde slams his hand against the steering wheel. “She’s out of gas.”
Raymond spits profanities, then says, “Ain’t that rich. You two are cursed.”
“What now?” I ask. My heart’s back to pounding.
“We run,” Clyde says. “Into the trees.”
My car door slams the same time as the police car’s door.
Clyde pushes me toward an embankment. He tries to lead me, yanking me up the small hill, but I slip once, twice. I need both my hands and shake him free. On all fours, I crawl, tears already falling, blinding me.
I follow Clyde’s voice.
Next to me, a bang rings in the air. I slip again. “Holy hell,” I breathe, and realize that shot came from Raymond. He fires again at the police. The sound vibrates in my ears, through my body, holding me in place with my face against the mud.
“Stop!” the police yell. “Or we’ll shoot!”
I ain’t moving, I want to scream. I’m still laying, hands over my head, wondering how the hell I got here.
“Bonnie.” Clyde’s muddy hands turn me over, frame my face. “Bonnie, we need to move. Now.”
His eyes broadcast one thing and one thing only: We can’t get caught.
Move. Yes. I crawl feverishly, my fingernails digging into the mud ’til I’m at the top of the hill. Raymond is behind me, literally pushing my behind. His breathing is shallow, sounding almost unnatural compared with how hard I’m huffing. I fall forward.
I hear another gunshot. This time it wasn’t from Raymond. He clutches his arm and screams, “I’ve been shot!”
Clyde yanks the gun from his pants and fires. With his eyes focused on the cops, he says to me, “Go, Bonnie, run!”
I do. Raymond, too.
The boys alternate taking shots at the police to hold them off.
We run as fast as our legs will carry us.
My breath is coming ragged now. Raymond’s breath rushes out of him as he hits the ground, tripping. Instinctually, I stop to help him. I ain’t sure where to grab. When I try, I get a fistful of dough beneath his shirt instead of his body to pull. Clyde keeps running, one arm ’cross his stomach to hold our money in place. He keeps telling me to hurry, as if I’m right behind him. But I’m not.
“Raymond, get up!” I scream.
His eyes are unfocused, blood dripping between his fingers, off his fingertips. But he starts moving, and I exhale.
I don’t make it more than two steps before unfamiliar arms are ’round me, pulling me to the slick grass.
Raymond’s running.
Clyde’s running.
A second officer goes running after them.
“Honey!” I yell, not wanting to use Clyde’s real name.
He stops so quick he rolls. He aims his gun, but doesn’t fire. How can he when I’m standing between him and the police? The copper chasing him drops to his stomach, not knowing Clyde ain’t going to shoot.
Tears sting my eyes as my heels drag against the ground back toward the hill, as I keep my eyes trained on Clyde.
Raymond grabs him. He’s bigger than Clyde, stronger than him. Clyde’s got no choice but to be pulled into the trees, leaving me in another man’s arms.
7
The law and I don’t drive far, and then an officer escorts me, in a matter of forced steps, through a miniscule town. It’s dark, but I feel eyes on me. Judging me. Curious ’bout me, the gal coated in mud, her shoulders shaking from tears. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I’d be that girl.
In a small clearing, the outline of an even smaller building sits smack dab in the middle of the grass. A skeletal branch of a tree extends over the building, like it’s grasping at it, ready to snatch it. Ready to snatch me.
My feet are heavy—from my rain-soaked shoes, from the mud, from my nerves. But my hands aren’t confined behind my back. The officer’s hold on my arm is tight but not overbearing, and the second officer’s gun isn’t aimed at me. In fact, he’s whistling a jovial tune. I’ll count those as wins, ’cept for the whistling. That’s onl
y putting more attention on me.
The building’s brick, I realize, and, oddly, there’s no pitch to the roof. It’s just as flat as the four walls keeping it up. The second officer pulls a key ring from his belt, and I realize something else: They mean to put me inside that thing, nothin’ more than a box. I stiffen and crane my neck to the side, looking through my blurry eyes for Clyde.
But I didn’t see him as the coppers drove me to town or as we paraded down this so-called main street. A row of trees is nestled behind the clearing. Could Clyde be hiding in that tree line? Surely he hasn’t put miles between us.
Surely his ‘heat rule’ didn’t apply to me. Years ago, he once told me it never would. But had he run without me? No, he thought I was right behind him. But where is he now?
“Miss,” the officer says. I startle. “In you go.”
My lips part.
“Just for tonight,” he says.
A night? I shake my head vehemently.
“Tomorrow”—he yawns—“you’ll be taken to the county jail. We’ll figure out what to do with ya then.”
I clutch myself, feeling as if there’s cow dung no matter which way I turn. ’Specially straight ahead, straight into this brick box.
The officer shoves me, his hand damn near my rear end, and I shuffle forward. The box is dark, even darker when the door slams closed, sounding as if it’s made of metal. Or iron. Or something equally heavy.
I don’t bother pounding on the door. I don’t bother screaming bloody murder.
It’s not as if I don’t want to. My hands and throat itch to react, but I know it won’t do me any good.
Two small windows, three bars running ’cross each of ’em, are my only sources of light. And even that’s barely more than a glow. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to balance to see out. I tip forward, my hands almost touching the wall, but I throw my weight back.
The walls are brick, but they look slick, and I can only imagine the many hands and bodies that have rubbed against them, smoothing the surface.
I want no part of that. Instead, I take special care in finding the exact middle of the room. I slowly stretch out my arms, careful of my progress so as not to touch the walls. My fingertips stop with mere inches to go.
I sigh, then sit on the dirt ground. Standing all night would be ridiculous, though it does cross my mind. Horses sleep standing. Most likely mules, too. I read ’bout it once. They’re prey animals, and if they lie down to sleep and a predator comes ’round, their chances of getting away aren’t in their favor; it takes ’em too long to get up. So they stay on their feet, ready to open their eyes and run at a moment’s notice.
But I don’t have it in me. This morning, we successfully robbed a bank. We were one step closer to getting the farm. But at the moment, there’s no we, it’s only me, alone in here. I can’t help wondering, is Clyde coming for me? Surely he won’t let me rot in here all night.
* * *
Clyde never came. I listened. I waited for his familiar voice. The branch scratched at the roof, sending shivers down my spine. Unknown voices floated through the two small windows, replacing my nerves with irritation. The townsfolk hazarded guesses ’bout what I’d done. The guards don’t know. A Mr. Fred Adams, the sheriff, doesn’t know. I haven’t said a thing ’bout how I ended up covered in mud, caught in the crossfire.
But the town’s speculation was all a bunch of malarkey, as if Blanche temporarily possessed their brains, putting hooey into their heads. Somehow, after all their blubbering, there was no mention of mules, which I personally find the most ridiculous portion of my day prior to coming to this godforsaken place. The townsfolk surmised I was arrested ’cause of vagrancy.
“Has to be why,” someone said. “Get a look at her? I reckon she hasn’t seen hot water in weeks.”
I twist my mud-crusted hair, the strands stuck together in clumps. My dress is stiff and heavy. But homeless? Ain’t that rich.
“Does she have a name?” a different voice asked.
“Betty Thornton,” the officer told them, ’cause that was what I told him last night on my way here.
Bonnie had begun to leave my lips, but I changed direction after the B. And as far as my last name … what do I care if spending a night in this box tarnishes Roy’s last name of Thornton? It’s better than those pigs knowing I go by Parker, my maiden name.
No one knew the name Betty Thornton—no surprise there—’cept one fella who proclaimed his friend had a cousin by that name. He wanted a look at me to see. “A quick peek,” he said. “I’ll recognize that vixen. Spent a few hours with her one time, if ya know what I mean.”
The officer laughed, so I reckon he did.
But the officer said no, a sliver of decency left in his body.
“Betty Thornton,” I hear now. There’re three taps, as if he’s knocking on my bedroom door, then the jingle of keys. Morning fills the tiny room.
“Rise ’n’ shine!”
I get to my feet and tug at my dress, having to break a crust of dirt to get a crease out of the fabric.
Outside, another guard waits. I scan the trees, the buildings, the other faces, but none of ’em belong to Clyde. It’s only a few lingering people biting at the bit to get a glimpse of the vagrant who spent the night in their tiny town.
“Get a job,” I snap at a man. Then he’d be off somewhere else, not eyeing me like he’s above me. “I ain’t homeless,” I add. But my foot misses a step, like my head was too consumed with my next thought: Or am I? It’s not as if Clyde and I have a place to call our own yet. It’s not as if either of us has a job.
I left a home and a job behind.
Those thoughts stay with me as I’m taken to Kaufman County Jail, as I’m questioned again, as I take a shower, as I’m given clean clothes.
The shirt is baggy, swimming on my hundred-pound frame. The black-and-white stripes go ’cross my chest horizontally. The pleats of my black skirt cut vertically, stopping a few inches above my ankles. The bars of my cell are both horizontal and vertical.
Inside my cage, I rotate my ankle in a circle, listening each time for the cracking noise the movement makes. My foot always creaks at the same place. I never noticed it before. However, I’ve never turned my ankle an indeterminable amount of times before, either.
But I’ve nothin’ else to do right now.
A pack of cigarettes lands at my feet.
“Keep yourself busy, will ya?”
I almost laugh, pleased with myself for annoying the guard stationed outside my cell.
“Got anyone you need to telegram?” he asks.
“No,” I say. Telling my ma I’m in here is out of the question. It’ll break her heart. I snatch the cigarettes. The pack is half empty but, stretched out on a hard bed in the corner, I help myself to a ciggy, then another, and another. Each drag on the cigarettes pulls a thought with it—’bout trust, ’bout unknowns, ’bout where I want my life to go, ’bout Clyde.
“Hey!” I shout. “Can I get some paper and a pen?”
Feet up on his desk, the guard doesn’t do much more than shrug. But when my lunch shows up through the slot, there’s a pen and paper on the tray.
I sip a spoonful of chicken stew. Veal stew, I correct myself, after swallowing the cheaper meat. And I get to thinking.
No one’s mentioned Clyde yet. Or Raymond. They ain’t in a cell beside me, so I got to imagine they got away. And that begs the question: Is Clyde still carrying on, off planting guns at the prison? Is he doing that instead of coming for me?
I can’t help the doubt that wiggles its way into my thoughts. All ’cause of Roy. Childhood friends. High school sweethearts. Husband and wife. Then, nothin’ more than the man who abandoned me when the going got rough, who got caught with another woman on his arm. He was a man I thought I knew.
Just like I thought I knew Clyde, thorns and all. Then he goes and tells me he killed a man. Clyde’s capable of such a thing. A murderer … the first time I’ve attached that description to h
im. Clyde’s confession is still fresh; it was barely spoken before the robbery went wrong and I landed in here. Now I can think ’bout it, really let it sink in. It scares me. What else is Clyde capable of when desperation stares him in the face?
Desertion? Allowing me to rot in here to save himself? Clyde won’t go back to prison. No, he can’t go back to prison. He won’t give himself up—I begin turning my ankle again, it creaking each time—even for me.
I’ll get out, eventually—even Buck only got a year and a half—but what will come of Clyde and me after I’m back on the outside? I could leave him and his demons behind. I could be with a man whose soul hasn’t been marred by murder. I could live out in the open, not hiding on three hundred acres of land.
I could be onstage.
I could go home. Makes me wonder, does anyone even know I’m stuck behind these bars?
I bite into an Irish potato, the thing half cooked.
Days pass—twenty-three more than I thought possible—and, while they figure out what to do with me, I’m moved to a more permanent location with the other gals. They’re in for theft, bootlegging, soliciting, but mostly theft. I don’t see them as dangerous but desperate. One girl, Annie, broke into a department store late at night with her eye on a fur coat. When the police came looking, she posed as one of the mannequins, wearing the fur coat. She even wore the thing while they took her mug shot.
They never took mine, nor my fingerprints. As far as I know, they’re still looking into what exactly I’d done wrong—what happened that night, who I was with, and how I was involved, something made harder to determine by the fact my lips stay sealed.
Progress is slow. Real slow. Each interrogation ends the same way, with me not saying a thing and my cell door slamming closed.
Another month passes. My visitor log stays empty. So do the sheets of paper one of the guards gave me. I’m unsure how to put my feelings into words, besides the fact I feel hot. It’s stifling in here. Instead, I ask the guards if there was anything to read, and I busy myself with other people’s prose. Agatha Christie, William Faulkner, Virginia Woolf.
What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come.
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