I match it. “So you’ve said.”
Last I checked, she was lying on her back, arms behind her head, her cheeks rosy, Buck’s trench coat draped over her, the flash of each bolt illuminating her scowl.
Thunder cracks, and I press my hands over my ears as hard as I can, counting to ten before I release them.
“Just go to sleep,” Blanche says. “I’m tired. I’m always tired, and dusty and hungry and cold and scared, and if Clyde picks one more fight with Buck…”
I sit up, the second coat I wear draped over my chest slipping off of me. “Clyde?”
“Yes, Clyde. I don’t know who died and put him in charge, but last time I checked, Buck’s the older of the two.”
The rain turns to hail, how nice, and I shout over the pinging noise, “Age don’t make you more mature.”
“Sure it does,” Blanche yells back.
“Fine, then. I’m older than you, Blanche. Guess you better do as I say.”
“By three months. Spare me, Bonnie.”
The storm screams at us, probably to stop bickering. Holy hell, I wouldn’t be shocked if the wind tilted us onto two tires. I crawl to the driver side of the car, as if my weight will help keep the car down. The sky cracks again, and I let out a small yelp before I can stop myself.
“How is it that you’ve got the nerve to shoot at a real-life, living and breathing human being, but you’re scared of a li’l rain?”
This ain’t a little rain, but that’s beside the point. God’s work isn’t something to mess with, and He is the one behind this storm. Not like I expect Blanche to understand that. Or really, anything ’bout who I’ve become or what I believe. When I pull a gun’s trigger, I do so without thinking, because if I stop to think, it may be too late for Clyde or me.
Blanche won’t touch a gun. She’d never pull a trigger. Lord help her, I hope a bullet—that she could’ve stopped from being fired—never takes out Buck.
I could say as much to her, but it won’t get us anywhere besides into another disagreement. So we’re quiet, the storm raging ’round us, ’til it grows tired and gives up. I fall asleep and wake to a new day, as if the sun chased away any signs of a storm. Apparently, it has chased away Blanche as well.
I take my time finding her. The grass slushes under my feet as I approach the lake’s bank. She’s crouched, her hands bright red. Blanche splashes water on her face and lets out a whooping sound.
“This water’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” she says without turning ’round.
She splashes herself again.
“Maybe stop doing that, then.”
“I may fall in face-first, otherwise. I’m so tired from that storm and worrying something went wrong at the bank.”
At least we’ve got solidarity on both those points, along with how cold it is this far north. Going nine hundred miles straight down to Dallas would mean ’bout thirty degrees warmer this time of year. I miss it there, and for more than just its warmth. For my ma, and sister and brother—and ’cause Dallas is where Blanche and I grew up together. Sure, we bickered, like sisters do, but we always reconciled.
“Blanche,” I say. “I’m sorry ’bout all of this. I really am.”
She throws a twig into the water. It ripples. “This has been hard on me.”
“I know. This ain’t exactly how I planned things to go.”
“I’d hope not.” She shakes her head. “I ain’t mad at you, ya know. Not you directly, at least. I should be, but I ain’t.”
“You should be,” I agree.
“Anger’s like burning the roof of your mouth. It hurts and hurts, then ya forget ’bout the pain and the next time ya think about it, the pain’s gone. At that point, why worry ’bout it anymore?”
“This’ll all be behind us soon, you’ll see.”
I say it for her as much as for me.
Tires crunch, and Blanche is on her feet, our conversation forgotten. But not our friendship. She pulls me by the hand as we run to meet Clyde and Buck. It doesn’t take long before I notice the fact all the windows have been blown out of the car, and the temperature feels like it’s dropped to below freezing.
Blanche veers to the right, me to the left, crossing paths, each of us trying to get to our man. Clyde steps out and my eyes move so fast over his body I nearly make myself dizzy. But I don’t see any red, and I fling my arms ’round his neck.
“You scared me,” I whisper into his ear.
“I’m all here,” he whispers back.
On the other side of the car I hear Buck say, “Ow, baby, why you hitting me?”
I ignore Blanche’s antics. “So,” I say to Clyde. “How much ya get before they chased ya?”
Clyde sucks a tooth. “My guess is ’round twenty-five hundred.”
I rest my head against his chest, so he can’t see my disappointment. It’s a lump sum, that’s for sure. Equal, I’d say, to two years’ worth of an average salary. Yet, it’s not enough to get the kind of land we want so we can truly hide away. It’s not the “one and done” Blanche—and I—hoped for.
“What now?” I ask. It all seems a mess. Farm Number One looms over us and Farm Number Two ain’t within our reach. Not yet.
Clyde curses. “Reckon there’s bigger out there, Bonnie.”
I look up. “Banks, you mean?”
“Yeah, but”—he motions to the shot-out windows—“I ain’t eager to do that again so soon. We should’ve stuck to our original plan and done the armory.”
“But I thought you said you needed—”
“Jones. Aye, I want him for it. That’s why I want to see if he’s turned up in Dallas.”
“But Clyde.” I bite my lip. “He left us for a reason, just like Buck said.”
“Fine,” he said. “But I want to hear him say it with my own two ears.”
* * *
My stomach flips and flops being back in Dallas; I want to be here, but I know it’s not safe to be here. We drive in, just Clyde and I, under the cover of night and avoid the main streets with the flashing lights and billboards.
That ain’t where Jones would be anyhow. He can’t be living a flashy life out in the open. For all we know—and for all Jones knows—the law may be keeping an eye out for him. He’s got us to blame for that.
I say, “Maybe we should let him go.”
“Maybe.” But Clyde doesn’t stop driving. We go to West Dallas, driving down the same street where we first picked up Jones. He ain’t on that one. Part of me hopes he won’t be on the next one either. Not ’cause I don’t miss the boy, but he can do better than us. Unless we pull off the farms. I hate my doubt, but here we are, back where we started. That land’s never felt farther away.
“He’ll be here,” Clyde says to himself. “Old habits die hard. He worked these streets ever since he was a pup. Had to after his old man died from the flu. Younger sister and older brother, too.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I can give the lad more than this. I got to.”
Sure enough, Jones is ’round the next block. He huddles with another fella, exchanging something between the two of ’em. Clyde, with a hat on and his collar up despite the humidity, gets out to talk to him. The other fella scurries away as Clyde moseys up. Clyde and Jones exchange words, words I can’t hear. Clyde leaves Jones standing there. He hasn’t gone more than four steps before Jones is on his heels.
I smile.
With the three of us together again, Clyde hightails it out of Dallas, straight toward the state line. We hug the border between Texas and Oklahoma, Clyde ready to yank the steering wheel to the left or to the right, depending which side of the line we’re on and which side danger is coming from.
The poor boy is taut as a bowstring in the back. When Clyde stops to do his business by a tree, Jones whispers to me, “Mrs. Barrow said Clyde and Buck are living on borrowed time.” He swallows. “Clyde just used that phrase on me. Said the law was likely to pin me for murder, and if they did, I’d be a goner in Dal
las. Said I’d be safer with you folks.”
My heart goes out to him, ’specially with that being true. And also ’cause a slice of wanting Jones back was so I could get what I wanted. I sigh and give Jones what I think he needs: assurance. “All mamas lose sleep over their kids. But not all mamas have two schemers like Buck and Clyde. We’ll keep ya safe.” Sure, they fumble, and luck’s been on their side a time or two, but those Barrow brothers are crafty. I can be, too. “I’ve an idea,” I say.
That night, in a rented cabin, I convince the boys we all need darker hair. Fresh starts. And, maybe even a bit of relief for Jones that he won’t be running ’round with Clyde’s blonde-haired moll. So on goes the product and on go the towels, on all of our heads. We sleep that way, and boy do we sleep, probably the latest in a long while, straight into the afternoon.
Clyde and Jones already had brown hair, so theirs comes out dark as coal. Mine wasn’t as dark, but it’s still a shock to see a brunette staring back at me in the mirror. Bet Blanche will have a thing or two to say about that when we meet up with them again, starting with how she can’t believe she wasn’t the one to dye it, her spending all that time in a beauty shop and all.
But as we return to the car and return to the road, putting miles and hours behind us, I’ve got other things on my mind. Bigger things. Happier things. Like how I haven’t bought napkins since before Oak Ridge. And I did the math. It’s been two months, nine days since Clyde and I splashed ’round in that tub.
It dawned on me last night.
I was running my fingers through Clyde’s hair, stroking the hair color through each strand. We were close, me standing, him in a chair, my body rubbing here and there against Clyde’s as I circled him. At one moment, when I was crossing in front of him, he nuzzled his face into my chest, and his hands gave the backs of my thighs a squeeze. It sent a spark of heat right up my legs and into my belly, igniting all the areas in between.
I smirked, leaning closer. I felt his nose press between my breasts and his teeth snap at the fabric of my blouse. My goodness, I wish Jones wasn’t there, done up in a towel ’cross the room, cleaning his gun. But it was like something clicked, remembering one of the last times we were alone—and how we made the most of it. How we made a baby.
We made a baby.
I still find it unreal. Just the other day I was wishing I had more to give Clyde, wishing I had more to give myself. And for the past two months, my body’s been hard at work, making it possible. God’s work, is more like it. No wonder I’ve been tired and my stomach’s been upside down, besides on account of all our criminal activities.
I glance over at my baby’s daddy. I got to tell Clyde. I haven’t yet. I want to tell him when it’s just the two of us, alone with our little bean. He’ll be excited. I think he’ll be excited. He wants a family, too. This here timeline just wasn’t one we discussed. But that doesn’t matter, our baby will surely put more wind behind our sails to put acres of land ’round us.
I sigh, a happy sigh. My mind’s been replaying it for hours.
Clyde’s one eye is narrowed. Maybe it’s the setting sun hitting his face, causing him to squint. “Jones,” he says. The boy yawns, all the time in the car already wearing on him, I’d guess. “I do believe Bonnie’s got something she ain’t telling us.”
Nope, that ain’t a squint, Clyde’s narrowing his eye at me in the playful way he does.
Jones laughs. And, I wonder, Are we going to add another boy to our brood? Or will it be a li’l lady? Throughout the years, I’ve had so much practice caring for Little Billie that it’d be like hopping back onto a bike.
Of course, Little Billie ain’t so young now. She’d snap at me for still using that nickname. Last I heard, from one of our phone calls on the party line, she’s been volunteering at a hospital. It’s good for her. I’m glad she’s got goals for herself that don’t involve a life resembling my own.
Now we’ve got Jones back, we’ll rejoin with Buck and Blanche, and Clyde’ll hightail it to that armory. By the time the baby comes, we’ll be on the straight and narrow, and folks will forget all the bad stuff we’ve done. Or at least they won’t be able to find us to lead us to the ‘chair.’ My sins will be between God and me.
We’re on our way, fast as our newest Ford can take us. A bridge is up ahead, one I believe will take us from Texas into Oklahoma, where Buck and Blanche are waiting for us.
I do a double take, my eyes skimming over the sign by the bridge. CLOSED, it says, and we’re still moving like a bat out of hell.
“Clyde.” He senses the urgency in my voice, his head jumping ’round like he missed something vital. He did.
I point at the bridge, at the sign, and scream, “Stop!”
Clyde yanks the wheel, not far before the mouth of the bridge. Just beyond, I catch a glimpse of missing planks. Then we’re rumbling off the road. Down. Down a steep embankment, toward a dry riverbed below. I scream.
The world flashes ’round me, and next thing I know, I’m staring back up the bank where we came from, the car facing the wrong way, while we continue to fall.
20
We crashed. We must have. But there’s only static ’round me, like a radio stuck between stations. And pain, like I’ve stepped into hell, escorted by the devil himself. I flutter open my eyes. I glimpse a face, all eyebrows and beard. A face I don’t recognize. Not Clyde’s. My eyes flutter some more. The bearded man is still there.
“Miss?” he says. He pulls on my arm, and I swat at him. He’s not Clyde. But I ain’t anything more than a rag doll. The devil steals me away.
I wake, and instantly wish I hadn’t. I can barely breathe, my chest feeling half its size. My body’s on fire, the worst of it in my right leg. Am I burning from the inside out?
I try to sit up, needing to touch the pain, to see it with my own two eyes, but my body won’t let me. A hand also pushes me down, gently.
“Shh, child,” a woman says.
But I wasn’t talking. Was I?
Her face, tan and worn, replaces my view of a cracked white ceiling. A soft glow, emphasizing the sharp planes of her face, flickers from a lamplight on the bedside table. I’m in a house, wood slotting on the walls. A baby wails. Other voices slip through the walls, too far away for my mind to fully grasp.
“Honey?” I whisper, finishing in my head, Where’s Clyde?
“The battery, from the car”—the woman shakes her head, her face radiating sympathy with the creases between her eyes—“it exploded and got you good. I only got this to put on the burns.” She holds up a tube. I struggle to focus on it; instead I hear myself repeating random words I’ve just heard.
“This is going to hurt. Is that okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble, the motion hurting my jaw. “Honey?”
She says, “The other two fellas you were with are just fine.”
Then there’s the devil again, beckoning me with a curl of his bony finger.
* * *
I’m in and out of sleep, that much I know. Days pass, they must, from how it turns light to dark, with how the scenario changes from house to car, car to house, and back again. Faces hover over me, with some I recognize—Clyde, Blanche, Buck, Jones—and with some faces I’ve never seen before.
I hear singing, offbeat but soothing nevertheless. I have moments of clarity, at least I think I do, but they feel more like dreams, almost too flimsy for my mind to hold on to for long.
Like leaving the farmhouse. There was a ruckus, the law showing up. Clyde and Jones got the better of the two men, who ended up in the rear of our car. Then the woman, the one who put the salve on my burns, stood by the farmhouse’s door, watching us leave. She reached for the top of the doorframe—for what I don’t know—but Jones shouted ’bout her going after a gun. He shot at her. Instinctively. I know it was only his instinct to survive that made him do such a thing. His shot went wide into the doorjamb, but he crumbled in on himself; the woman held a baby in her arms.
A baby.
/> I push it away, that thought, that word: baby.
There are other moments that linger off to the side, a dark cloud that’ll smother me if it gets too close.
“Bonn,” I hear, from my darkness.
I open my eyes and an angel stares down at me, in the form of my sister. Dark hair, with soft waves. Pale skin. Thin lips.
“Billie?” I whisper. I have to swallow. It feels like my mouth is full of cotton, picked straight from Pistol Pete’s land. I wonder how that fool is doing and if he has any new jokes.
“I’m here.” Tears fill her eyes, stream down her cheeks.
“You’re here?”
Her eyes drift to my legs, to my midsection, to my chest, back to my face. Everywhere she looks throbs and aches, as if an elephant is stretched ’cross me. She nods. “Clyde got me.”
I was wondering. I look beyond her, then to either side of my sister, only moving my eyes. “Where is he?”
She sighs and picks up a bowl. “He’s close by. He is.”
And Little Billie’s here. My eyes swell with a new ’round of tears. “You can’t be here.”
“Of course I—”
“No, I don’t want you mixed up in this life.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she insists. Billie dips a spoon into the bowl. Her hand shakes as she brings it to me. “Drink it.”
I do, the liquid’s hot, spicy. Then I roll my head to the right, needing to see something other than my sister’s innocent face. I breathe sharply from the pain of moving my stiff neck. The room’s nicer than a cabin, but less homey than the farmhouse from before. “We in a motel?”
I turn back, another spoonful of soup waiting for me. I eat, mostly to make my sister happy. She nods ’bout us being in a motel. “In Arkansas.” She shakes her head, as if that was a stupid detail to add, then takes a deep breath and spoons me more soup. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Mama don’t know. Not yet. I’ve been dressing your wounds, keeping you clean. Clyde brought a doctor to you right away because one side of your chest sunk in. But the doctor said you didn’t have any broken ribs that he could tell. He wanted to take you into a hospital but Clyde said no. The doctor wasn’t happy, but he grumbled that it’d take time, but you’d heal. You’ll heal.” She sniffles. The spoon clanks against the bowl. “You’re already looking so much better. This here is the first time you called me by name and it’s been nearly a week since the accident.”
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