Side by Side

by Jenni L. Walsh

  Before I can question what he means by all of that, Clyde kisses me hard, then slips from the car. I’m left touching my lips and bouncing my knee from the passenger seat, staring through the large storefront window.

  Inside, Clyde puts a thing or two on the counter and presents the proprietor with the ten-dollar bill. Clyde’s reaction is agreeable when the owner points to a safe. And I get what Clyde’s up to: The owner will need smaller bills to break such a large one.

  I cringe; the boy’s ingenious.

  The man turns his back. Clyde pulls a gun. The pistol is pressed between the man’s shoulder blades a moment later, and the man’s quick to empty the contents of the safe into a bag.

  I read Clyde’s lips, and if I got it right, that boy wishes the man a good day. I can’t help myself, I laugh at how cavalier he is. I’m still laughing when Clyde’s back beside me.

  He removes the parking brake. “What?”

  “I shouldn’t praise you.”

  “You should. Go on.”

  Fine, I will, but only ’cause I want more of the carefree Clyde. “I made myself a mental note to tell your ma what nice manners you have.”

  Clyde grins. “I’d be obliged. Say, I just doubled our money.”

  I’ll be damned, but excitement laces the air as we pull away and as Clyde gets to driving, getting the car moving good, ’round fifty miles per hour.

  Ain’t long before a single, fat raindrop lands on our windshield.

  The wind pushes the raindrop up and up ’til it streaks off the glass. Then, Mother Nature tilts her wrist and dumps a whole bucket on us. Clyde flicks on the single wiper. It struggles to keep up.

  The rainfall is invigorating, the sheer power of it. Clyde feels it, too, leaning closer to the windshield to get a better vantage point of the sky.

  “Where’d that come from?” he asks. The barrage of rain nearly drowns out his voice.

  I shrug, not minding. The road is straight, lined with trees, leading toward a covered bridge. And I haven’t seen such awe on Clyde’s face since before he was locked away. He adjusts his leg, pressing harder on the accelerator. I let out a gleeful noise, exaggerating the force of the movement pushing me against my seat.

  The rain pounds. The rain roars.

  We drive into the covered bridge, and it’s quiet. Just like that. Abrupt. Sudden. Powerful.

  Freeze.

  It’s a moment I commit to memory, feeling as if, right now, Clyde and I already live in our own little world, where nothin’ can touch us, not even Mother Nature. His body faces straight ahead. Both of his hands grip the wheel. But his head turns toward me. His dimples appear.

  We pass by one, two, three openings in the bridge’s walls; each time light blinks onto Clyde’s face, illuminating his cheekbones and eyes.

  Then we pop through the other side of the bridge.

  The rain assaults us once more.

  It only took one breath—held in my lungs—and a few beats of our hearts, but it was magical, a moment made for us, after months of being ripped apart. Now we’re together again, nothin’ but opportunity ahead of us. Which, Clyde says, begins with us getting those new clothes.

  We stop at a boutique to get another suit and shirts for Clyde and a few dresses, blouses, and skirts for me. Red lipstick, too. I twirl and curtsy and swish my hemline in front of the mirror. Then Clyde goes and pays for ’em. No stealing this time, even if the money is dirty. But it won’t always be, not after we get our farm and start working our land. Makes me wonder, does Clyde still want to raid the first farm?

  That night, I check into a hotel under my given name, being no one’s looking for Bonnie Parker. The storm washed a layer of jail off me. A warm bath melts off even more. I slip in bed behind Clyde and drape my arms over his bare skin. He’s quick to pin my arm to him. Nothin’ more. It hurts, ’specially after seeing him lighter today, and I bite my lip to feel pain other than Clyde not wanting to be intimate with me, even after I know his truth.

  “Say, you still thinkin’ ’bout the other farm. Eastham?” I ask him.

  He stays on his side, his back to me, my arm tucked under his. “Aye. Got an idea to send a telegram to a lad tomorrow who could help with that.”

  “Who?”

  “Pretty Boy Floyd.”

  I repeat the name. Then others pop into my head. Bugs Moran, Legs Diamond, Lucky Luciano. “Pretty Boy’s a gangster, ain’t he?”

  Clyde snorts.

  I sigh and say, “I’m already uncomfortable with robbing and now you want to be in cahoots with a gangster?”

  “He can help, always has a finger on the pulse. Has to, since he’s been running for over two years.”

  I say, “Sounds dreadful.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s resourceful, and I need some information.”

  I wait, expecting Clyde to go on. “You going to make me drag it out of ya?”

  Clyde rolls a little toward me, but not quite seeing me. I spy his smile, though. “You and Pretty Boy may get along better than you think.”

  I push him back to his side. “How do ya expect him to help us?”

  “Want to see if he knows of anyone who can help me with the raid. Problem is,” he says, “I ain’t sure there are too many I’m willing to trust.” After what happened with Raymond, I finish in my head. “I want Buck.”

  “Buck?”

  “My brother. I believe you’ve met him a time or two.”

  “Clyde,” I say. “Doesn’t he have…” I think the timing through. Buck’s been in prison since ’round Christmas of last year. “Are you telling me you ain’t going to do the first farm for another year?” I drop my forehead into his back.

  “He could get out sooner, Bonnie. Buck’s well behaved.”

  I’m itchy again. I start with my collarbone.

  Somewhere Blanche is saying, Leave my man alone.

  Sorry, Blanche, I’d say back. It’s selfish of me, but I won’t lie: If Clyde wants Buck to help him with Farm Number One, then I hope Buck gets out early. Tomorrow, even. I rub my hand over Clyde’s chest, wishing he’d react. But he doesn’t, and if raiding Eastham is going to help Clyde move on from what happened there, then …

  “Clyde, working with Pretty Boy sounds like a grand idea.”

  * * *

  In the morning, we stop at a Western Union, then, telegram sent, go to a café for a bite to eat. While the waitress puts in two orders of cheese grits—something Blanche would surely approve of, as they’re her favorite—I eye the public phone by the counter. It’s been months since I’ve spoken to my ma. She’s crossed my mind plenty, but I surely wasn’t going to write her from jail.

  With his back to the phone, Clyde twists, following my gaze.

  “I need to call my ma,” I say. “She’ll be worrying that she hasn’t heard from me.”

  Clyde answers by pushing a bill ’cross the enamel tabletop. “Let me know if this ain’t enough.”

  To use the phone, I prepay at the counter, giving the woman my five dollars. I’m expecting change, but the woman only says, “You’ve got three minutes once it connects. You want longer, go fetch some more from your fella.”

  I glance at Clyde, feeling guilty a phone call is costing us so much. We could get ourselves sixteen bowls of cheese grits for that price. Exhaling, I settle myself in front of the phone. Before I pick it up, I slide some red lipstick over my lips, as if my ma will even be able to see it.

  The operator asks who I’m after, and I give her my ma’s party line. I imagine the phone ringing in my ma’s house, along with the houses of three of our neighbors that all share the number, and I pray it’s my ma’s voice I hear on the other end.

  Thank the Lord, I do. Tears spring to my eyes.

  “Ma, it’s me,” I say.

  I got to pull the phone from my ear as my ma replies, shouting my name like a question. I smile so hard, so happy to finally be talking to her.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  Being the operator knows where t
he call originates, there’s no point lying. Takes me a moment, though, to remember where we are. “Oklahoma.”

  “That where you’re settling?” she asks.

  I bite my lip. “No, ma, not yet. But I wanted to let you know I’m doing well. Safe and sound.” I force a smile and finger-comb my hair.

  “They’re after him, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Ma.” I stiffen. A neighbor—or even the law—could be listening in on the line. “Let’s not talk ’bout that. How’s Billie?”

  “Your sister’s good. You eating enough?”

  “Yeah, just waiting for a waitress to bring us some food. Funny to have someone waiting on me for a change.” I try to infuse happiness into my voice, but hearing hers is making me nothin’ but homesick. And that ain’t good, not with us staring down another year, at least, without a home. Of course, I can’t tell my ma that. Or how we’ve got less than ten dollars to our name, nowhere close to what we’d need to buy a farm. None of my news would make my ma—or my daddy—proud.

  Time goes too fast, and my three minutes slip by in the blink of an eye.

  We both cry.

  Back at the table, our food arrives, and Clyde and I continue to play the part of a young couple, well to do, off exploring the country. I force a smile and eat my food, but each bite tastes bland.

  On our way out, Clyde gives me a nod and says, “Go on, Bonnie, wait in the car,” and he heads into a small general store.

  I’m too down to put up a fuss ’bout him robbing again. Next time, I’ll feel bad.

  Clyde comes out in a hurry. “Couldn’t steal.” He starts the car, peering over his shoulder as we pull away, wheels squealing.

  I look ’round, but I ain’t following what’s got him spooked.

  “Walked in,” he says, “and saw my face on the wall.”

  “No,” I say, and rub my forehead. Only yesterday, I worried ’bout us lasting more than two weeks and we’re already feeling the heat. I wish I could make all the posters go away.

  Being I can’t, we got to stay out of sight for a while. After talking to my ma, I’ve got family on my mind, and I’ve an idea where we can go. My daddy has a sister over in New Mexico. I haven’t seen my aunt in a long while, which makes visiting her perfect. Anyone looking for Clyde—or us, if they’ve put two and two together I’ve run off with him—wouldn’t think to look there.

  I have to shake the memories loose to remember how to find Aunt Nellie’s. Couple hundred miles later, we drive through a whole lot of dirt to a stucco house with a row of cacti out front. My aunt walks out through an arched opening, her brows raised. Clyde makes a noise, like the world now makes sense. “You look a bit like your daddy, do ya?” he says. “’Cept you’ve got your mama’s light hair.”

  I grin at that, seeing myself in Aunt Nellie’s sharp cheekbones and thin nose. She doesn’t share the warm personality my daddy had, though. I get a rigid hug, Clyde gets a firm handshake, and with a stiff voice, she ushers us inside.

  My aunt’s eyes jump from me to Clyde, back to me. “Will you be staying for supper?”

  I nod and smile meekly.

  She asks, “Longer?”

  “Few days?”

  “All right.” With a surprisingly soft touch of her hand, she leads us into her family room. Where, she adds sternly, “Your fella will stay on that there couch. Your daddy, God rest his soul, would never forgive me if I let you share a room.”

  Her nod is curt, then that’s that. My aunt’s never been one for chitchat, and she’s quick to excuse herself to make coffee.

  Clyde leans into the aging furniture, crosses his legs at the ankles. It’s early afternoon, yet the white blinds are drawn shut and a single lamp lights the room.

  Aunt Nellie doesn’t have much, but everything has its place, right on down to the antique plates aligned on the wall. I reckon it all resembles a museum more than a homey place to be. But at the moment, I’m relieved to have any place to be, ’specially with family. “Comfortable?” I ask Clyde.

  “I wouldn’t say no to another pillow.”

  There’s a knock at the door, and while Clyde retains his position, his head ticks to the side to listen, being we can’t see what’s going on from here.

  Aunt Nellie’s feet click against the tile. She mumbles ’bout more unexpected visitors before opening the door. “Gladys?” we hear.

  Clyde lips to me, Know her?

  I shake my head.

  “Where’s my brother?” The sternness of the woman’s voice is a match for my aunt’s, who says, “Frank’s in town.”

  I lip to Clyde, My aunt’s sister-in-law, then whisper, “I can’t hear Gladys without thinkin’ ’bout Blanche. She did this thing with the name. Gladys sounds like glad ass, yeah?”

  “I suppose,” he says; his eyes flick to the wall as if he can see through it.

  “Blanche says that glad ass may as well be happy heinie. That’s how she refers to a poor gal back home.” I shrug.

  “Ya tell me all that, then shrug? Sometimes I wonder what Buck sees in the lass.”

  I chuckle, then startle at the voices, growing louder.

  “Quiet, now,” my aunt snaps.

  “I will not. Guns,” Gladys growls, not a stich of her sounding happy. “I see ’em all over their rear seat. Who you got in there, Nellie? Frank wouldn’t stand for no ruffians in his home.”

  I gasp, insulted by the term. Clyde leans forward, his hand on my knee, fingers splayed.

  Aunt Nellie says, “I won’t have you speaking ’bout my niece that way. I think it’s best if you’re on your way.”

  “Oh, I’m leaving,” Gladys proclaims. “But I’ll be back with Frank.”

  The door slams and a few footsteps later Aunt Nellie comes into the room.

  Clyde gets to his feet. “We don’t mean you any trouble, ma’am. We’ll be on our way.”

  My heart’s heavy, but as I turn to leave, my aunt grabs my wrist. “Try back tomorrow.”

  We spend the night off in the woods, sleeping stomach-to-back on our rear seat, guns now on the floor beneath a blanket. It was careless of us to leave ’em out, a mistake we won’t make again.

  In the morning, we debate what to do. Clyde says, “If ya can’t trust family, who can ya trust?”

  Dirt kicks up ’round us as we approach the house again. My uncle’s old beater is parked out front next to a big ol’ water tank. Besides that, it ain’t nothin’ but cacti and barren trees.

  “I don’t see any sign of her,” I say of my aunt’s hoity-toity sister-in-law.

  My aunt doesn’t come out to greet us this time, maybe expecting us to come straight in. We park behind my uncle’s car. Clyde’s door and my door slam one after another. I’m two steps toward the house when I hear, “Stop right there.”

  A man in blue steps out from behind the water tank. He ain’t more than an arm away from Clyde, a gun at the end of that there arm. My chest seizes. Panicked, I look left and right, but there isn’t anyone else in sight. Just the officer and Clyde, staring eye-to-eye, both faces shadowed from their hats. Clyde’s got both hands up. With a flick of his wrist, his hat flies off to the right, along with the copper’s attention.

  That’s all it takes for Clyde to swipe the officer’s gun. The man’s in the back of our car after that.

  “We’re taking him?” I ask. “Whatever for?”

  Clyde drives. He taps his temple. “Lad can’t tell anyone ’bout us if he’s here with us. Now, keep his gun on him.”

  “On him?” I ask.

  Clyde raises my arm, gun in hand. “On him.” I readjust, facing backward in my seat, pistol on the man, doing my best to keep my hand from shaking. Over his head, I watch as a curtain is pulled aside within my aunt’s house.

  Now I’m really shaking, and the flames of Hades may as well be coursing through my veins. My daddy would be livid with his sister for sitting by as the police came for Clyde, and maybe even me. It all makes my stomach pang for real family, the ones who’d
never put us in harm’s way for the bounty of the equivalent of half a new car.

  “Focus, darling,” Clyde says, as if he feels my anger ’cross the bench seat. Then he brings his finger to his lips, indicating, Now no more talking out of us.

  We drive ’round for a bit. A while, actually. Maybe seven hours or so, in complete silence. My hand tires from gripping the gun. I switch hands, the pistol feeling foreign in my left hand, and I wonder where we’re going or when we’re going to stop. Then, after we do, what’s to come of this fella.

  I still don’t say a word. Clyde doesn’t either, not to me, not to the fella. It’s probably making the copper’s mind turn even faster than our wheels.

  In San Antonio, a town we end up in just ’cause, Clyde pulls off the road. He looks over at me, his voice a bit rough since he hasn’t used it in so long, and says, “Well, what should we do with the lad?”

  The lad, who is no doubt older than us, goes white as a sheet. But we’ve got no reason to hurt him. He ain’t the one who double-crossed us.

  He gets left on the side of the road, nearly five hundred miles from his home.

  I sigh and ask Clyde, “What now?”

  10

  The days go by, running together ’til we’re beyond two weeks. I relax a hair, as if that number’s magic. But it ain’t, not with Clyde’s face showing up in Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Lord knows where else.

  After slinking from one hotel or tourist camp to the next, our money’s wearing thin. So are our clothes, worn multiple times over. We drop everything at a dry cleaner, save what’s on us.

  “We’ll swing back in a few weeks for ’em,” Clyde says. “Now, darling, you ain’t going to glare at me if I say I need to hold up a store, will ya?”

  Glare? No. “I’ve progressed to a stiff-lipped frown.”

  “That’ll do.”

  He robs. By now, we’ve exchanged cars so often I’ve lost count, only keeping each one for a handful of days. Our travels—’cause it sounds better saying it that way—bring us to Oklahoma, and we stop into the Western Union there. Clyde retrieves a private message from Pretty Boy Floyd.