The fish is undercooked.
Buck’s the one with brains, not Clyde.
And about me, how she has to pick up my slack.
If Clyde lets Blanche get to him, it doesn’t show. I wish it didn’t get to me. I wish Blanche and I were the same girls we once were, reading Photoplay magazine in my room.
I wish Clyde and me were the way we once were, too. We haven’t had a repeat of Oak Ridge, after everything unraveled. For a while, I thought it was me—my injury and Clyde being careful how he touched me. But no, it must be the prison farm and the memories from there—ones he’s got to put behind him.
On our third day by the lake, Clyde walks up to my blanket, where I’m struggling with writing a new poem, and he asks me, “What do you see?”
I scan the trees—so many trees, trees I’ve grown so sick of hiding behind—and the lake, where Buck, Blanche, and Jones are scrubbing their spare set of clothes.
“Sorry, Clyde, I ain’t in the mood for riddles.”
If Clyde’s deterred by my response, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he stands there in his suit and loosely knotted tie, his hands in his coat pockets, and says, “Boom.” Quick as a rattler, a shotgun appears from under his coat. He’s grinning like a goon. “That was fast, wasn’t it?”
Despite it all, this boy has a way of making me smile. “Built yourself a li’l contraption, did ya now?”
“Sure did, and look here. I sawed off the end to make her shorter.” Clyde flips the gun back under his jacket. “Easier to conceal. Then, you see, I cut a band from a car-tire tube and attached it to the cut-off stock.” Animated as a clown, he shakes off his jacket, slips his arm through the band, then puts his coat back on, hiding the gun. His hand goes in his pocket, where he pats it. “I sliced my pocket open, so I’m touching the gun right now. I can hold it against my hip. Then, you see, when I snatch my arm up, the band releases, and I’m ready to fire.” Clyde’s smile drops a hair. “Bonnie, why you laughing at me?”
“I ain’t,” I say, but I am, inside, and Clyde can tell without me making any noise. I can’t help it, though, Clyde’s so gosh darn proud of his invention.
It dawns on me, it’s a deadly one, but that ain’t something I can get held up on. Not now, not after all we’ve done.
Finally, Clyde’s convinced no one’s looking for us as a result of the armory—only all the other places we’ve robbed—and we leave our makeshift camp behind to drive south.
I never thought I’d be so eager to bust a bunch of fellas I don’t know out of jail. I apply fresh makeup, shake out the wrinkles of my dress, and put a tam hat on my head.
Before leaving, Clyde slapped a new license plate on our stolen car, one he found in a junkyard, and threw the one we’ve been using for the past week or so in the lake. It should keep heads from turning our way, at least for a little while, and Clyde drives us straight down the United States. As night falls, the lights of Kansas City twinkle in the distance.
Clyde blinks, yawns, noticeably so. “How’s everyone feel ’bout sleeping in a real bed tonight?”
I perk up. We all do, ’cept for Buck. Blanche perks the most and says, “I won’t say no to that, long as Buck and I get our own cabin.”
“I don’t like it,” Buck says.
Blanche huffs. “Excuse me?”
“No, baby, not that. Clyde, this ain’t smart. Kansas City is a hotbed for people like us. There’s got to be eyes everywhere.”
“That’s right. There are eyes everywhere, not only in Kansas City.”
“Think ’bout it,” Buck says, “Stop now and you’ll have hours to go tomorrow, ya know. Go hours now, and we’ll be a hop from the farm. I’ll drive if you can’t.”
“Neither of us,” Clyde growls, “are driving anymore tonight.”
Buck throws up a hand. “Clyde, come on, what ya doing?”
I can’t help wondering it, too; Clyde’s normally so careful, but I also don’t like how Buck’s going after him. It’s enough to raise my hackles in Clyde’s defense. “Listen,” I say. “I ain’t in the mood to hear you two bicker. If Clyde’s tired, we’ll stop.”
“What’s going to stop is our luck,” Buck says, his head shaking slowly. “It ain’t going to last forever.”
“It’ll last one more night, all right?” Clyde says. And the way he says it, it’s as if he warns I dare you to keep fighting with me ’bout this.
Of course, Buck, being a stubborn Barrow, does. “Someday, Clyde, you’re going to meet someone who won’t give you a chance to fire a shot, ya know?”
Buck’s remark hangs in the air. It stays there, thick and heavy, as Clyde locates a tourist camp. We pass a place with two cabins, the brick façade darker in the night. Two attached garage doors separate the two cabins, the white doors reflecting the moonlight. And up top, running the length of one cabin, over the garages, and onto the top of the other cabin, is a white decorative fence.
“Look at that,” Clyde whispers to me, leaning past Jones, “I’ve gone and given you a white picket fence.”
I smile, but I’m distracted; behind us, Blanche and Buck are doing their own whispering. I can’t be sure all they’re saying, but I do hear Buck promise they’ll get their own car as soon as possible. I won’t put a stink up over that. Distance would do us some good, beyond tonight’s cabins.
Clyde drives past the cabins, then turns down a side street. “I’m going to need Jones and Blanche to switch places. I want ’em to see Blanche during check-in since she’ll be getting our food in the morning. And brother dear, would you mind covering yourself and Jones with blankets?”
I keep quiet. I don’t even look in the mirror to see Buck’s reaction. I can only imagine he’s seething ’bout lying with another man on top of a pile of guns, suffocating under a layer of wool.
The next few minutes go without a hitch, and after we’ve paid our four dollars and we’re all checked in, Clyde tucks our car into the garage for the night. Once I’m deposited into our cabin, I hop to the bed. I let out a soft moan as I fall onto it. I’m still nuzzling into the mattress as Clyde and Jones bring in armfuls of guns from the car to our bathtub. We nearly fill the thing. And here I was looking forward to soaking in something other than a river or lake or pond.
In the morning, after a night of blissful, sedative-induced sleep, I contemplate knocking on Blanche’s door to use theirs, but she’s knocking on ours first.
“Buck wants to know if you all want any food.”
Clyde uncrosses his legs, sets aside a newspaper. He’s been antsy so far this morning, mumbling and pacing, so I busied him with underlining words he recognized and circling ones he still needs to learn. “My brother couldn’t come over here and ask us that himself?”
“It’s too early for all that,” I say, letting my eyes fall on everyone in the small living room, even Jones at the table with his deck of cards, in case he decides to chime in. Though he doesn’t. Ever since my sister left, he’s been quieter than usual. But now’s not the time to dwell on that. “Chicken,” I say. “You can’t go wrong with chicken. Get us some of that to cook up.”
On the way out of our cabin, Blanche pauses; she notices the newspaper covering our windows, even the small pane on the door. She licks her lips, as if she’s got something to say ’bout it, but only goes on her way.
It ain’t long before she’s back. Blanche gets to cooking, but the chicken’s not the only thing heating up.
“I don’t like being here. Buck is right: too many eyes. And those eyes have tongues and brains. Found out the man who jotted down our license number last night ain’t here anymore. He’s gone into town.”
“For what?” Clyde says, his weight forward.
Blanche uses her fingers to flip the chicken, shaking ’em after to relieve the heat. “Don’t know. But I do know it was extra quiet when I was in that store, like everyone’s words dried up. The girl helping me didn’t talk at first either. She just stared at me like I was a goddamn ghost. Then she turned on the ch
arm. Almost too nice, ya know? She even called me deary. And you three, you ain’t helping matters with all the shades drawn with newspaper on top of that. I think we should go, now. Thought you were hell-bent on getting to that prison anyway.”
I listen for his response, curious myself.
He only says, “Are you done?”
Blanche grinds her teeth. “Chicken is.”
Clyde says, “We ain’t leaving yet. The prison ain’t going anywhere.” His nose twitches at his own mention of the farm, and it shakes loose a thought, one made stronger by the careless way Clyde’s been acting: He’s putting off the farm. It ain’t like I can blame him for dragging his feet. Ya can want something badly but be afraid of the emotions it stirs up, ’specially after working for it for so long.
He says, “Jones and I will go into town and get a feel.”
“And,” I improvise to give him the time he needs, “I’m out of medicine. Could you get me some more?”
Clyde’s eyes flick to me, knowing full well I ain’t out. I keep my face blank.
Blanche huffs and turns on her heel.
“Wait,” Clyde says. His voice softens. “Will you sit out front, Blanche, and keep an eye on things?”
He asks ’cause of me, ’cause I’m stuck inside, unable to walk. And even if Buck ain’t here at the moment, if Blanche hollers ’bout something, Buck will come running—to protect me.
Clyde and Jones head out, and Blanche makes herself comfortable on a swing out front, where she’s got a view of the restaurant ’cross the street and the filling station and café down the road. I peel back a corner of newspaper from the door to catch a glimpse of her. In between bites of chicken, she’s writing, not something she does much of, and I’m more than a little curious to know what’s making its way from her head to that paper. I’d do some writing of my own, but I don’t see another pen lying ’round. I’d do some reading, too, if there was a novel to be found.
Hours later, when I’m bored as sin, the boys return. Clyde insists it’s safe to stay another night before heading to Eastham. Even I got to bite my tongue, but I don’t want to put Clyde on the spot. I can only imagine the reaction that got from both Buck and Blanche next door. Their voices seep through the walls, not intelligible, but they probably don’t mean for us to overhear.
As night falls, I get a feeling deep in my stomach, one that causes me to slip out of bed, crawl past Jones on the couch, turn off the floor lamp we kept on in the living room, as not to illuminate myself, and peel back that newspaper again.
’Cross the street, the light from a restaurant clear-as-day shows people standing by their cars, pointing directly our way.
I half crawl, half jump to the bedroom, fear jabbing at me. “Clyde.”
A knocking noise, over at Blanche and Buck’s cabin, is louder than my whisper.
I hold a finger to my lips as Clyde stirs, and count the beats of my heart. By eight, Blanche’s voice is muffled, but it’s there, responding to that knock.
Then, loud and clear, as if Blanche also wants us to hear, she says, “What do you want?” Few seconds later … “Wait ’til I get my clothes on and I will come out.”
Clyde and I exchange nervous glances as he shoves one leg, then the other through his trousers. His shirt is halfway over his head, an outline of his face against the cotton, when there’s a gunshot. My head whips toward Blanche and Buck’s cabin, the shot sounding as if it came from there. From Buck; Blanche wouldn’t ever touch a gun.
Another shot sounds, this time from outside.
Then there’s a volley. The sounds overlap, and my heart seizes, praying those bullets aren’t anywhere close to finding Blanche or Buck.
Clyde pulls his sawed-off shotgun from under the bed and barrels out of the room, telling me to get dressed. I can’t move. Clyde and Jones thump ’round the living room. Glass breaks. Shots are fired.
It’s all too similar to last time. But we got away. We’ll get away now. The firing stops, but a horn blasts. Nonstop. Last time, I fled in a nightgown. With shaking hands, I change into a dress. I put on shoes, and realize I forgot to put my stockings on first. Suddenly, it feels like the cabin is shaking, and I splay my fingers on the bedspread.
Clyde yells, barely heard over the horn, “They’re driving into the garage door.”
I fist my hands, clenching the sheets, and pray this is all a bad dream. I’m half on, half off the bed, an invalid. A hindrance. That feeling only intensifies as Clyde takes me in his arms and carries me. My stockings dangle from my hand.
“They’re retreating,” Clyde says into my ear. “I got ’em good.”
With both hands on me, he doesn’t have any left for a gun, and even though he got ’em good, I’m still worried he’ll be exposed. Then I feel the gun shaft pressing against my ribs, and I know Clyde’s wearing it, hiding it beneath his coat. That gives me an ounce of relief. He could drop me and have it out in a heartbeat, if he needs to.
I dare ask, “Buck? Blanche?”
“We’ll all be fine,” he insists.
Clyde kicks open the front door. I wait for gunfire, wracking our bodies, but it doesn’t come. Arms tight ’round me, Clyde hobbles to the now-broken-down garage door and inside. Blanche and Buck’s cabin is on the other side, but there’s no sign of ’em. After another few rapid breaths, I’m in the passenger seat, Clyde’s lips on my forehead.
He straightens and screams, “Buck! Let’s go!”
But it’s not as if he’ll hear him. I barely can over the horn. Earlier, Clyde’s bullet must’ve hit it ’cause it’s stuck, blaring. I cover my ears and watch as Clyde whips free his gun. His posture is fierce, one foot in front of the other, and he scans the night for any movement.
He hollers, “Buck! I’ve got you covered!”
Jones scurries into the backseat, then reaches forward to start our car—something I should’ve thought to do. There’s a spark of light from a gun, then another. Clyde’s return fire drowns out the horn. Then his head ticks to the left, toward where I pray Blanche and Buck will appear any second. Clyde’s mouth opens, as if he’s screaming. His gun drops, and my heart drops along with it.
Clyde wouldn’t ever put down his gun unless it’s for something more important than him dying. He disappears off to the left. He returns, dragging Buck’s body.
Buck ain’t moving. My stomach rolls at the blood pouring from his head, half his face dark and shiny.
Blanche is beside herself, pulling her hair, wailing, the noise drowned out by that damn horn, by the gunshots still firing at the people I love most in this world. It makes looking at Blanche even more heartbreaking as she reacts to the sight of the man she loves with blood pouring from his head.
Right when I expect her to crumple to the ground, she hurries to the rear door, rips it open, and climbs inside. Blanche pats her lap insistently, ’til Clyde gives her an unconscious Buck.
Next thing I know, Clyde’s behind the wheel, his foot digging into the pedal. A hail of bullets are fired at us, hitting the doors, the hood, the windows. We all duck our heads. We all pray; I know we do, each and every one of us, even Blanche. I hope God hears her prayers the loudest.
23
The firing has stopped. Headlights don’t trail us, not right now, at least. Half-turned in the front seat, I see the front and back of our ravaged car. Blanche holds Buck as close to her as humanly possible. Her head is drooped. Her short hair, blowing in the breeze through the shattered window, masks both their faces. The little bit of Buck’s skin that’s showing on his hands and forearms is paler than usual. Too pale, lit up in the darkness. Blanche ain’t crying. She’s not moving. She ain’t doing a thing.
“Blanche,” I say sharply.
She doesn’t react to her name. In her lap, Buck’s body looks broken. He’s bent, twisted, to fit all six foot of him in half the rear seat. On the other side of Blanche, Jones keeps swallowing, as if to keep his chicken dinner down.
“Tell me…” Clyde begins. Even in the dar
k, I can’t miss how his knuckles threaten to break through his skin with how tight he grips the steering wheel. “Tell me he’s alive.”
I tap my foot, my fingers. “Blanche!”
Her head snaps up.
I gasp. “Your eye.” Dark blood streams from it. Dark blood is pooled ’round Buck’s head, soaking into Blanche’s pants.
“Shut it,” Blanche growls. “I can’t hear him breathing with you two talking.”
Breathing. She said the word breathing. I squeeze Clyde’s arm, his shirt stained from his brother’s gunshot wound. “He’s alive.” I lower my voice to say, “But they’re both bleeding bad, we got to pull over.”
Emotionless, Clyde says, “We got a flat anyway.”
When the car stops, Buck stirs, as if his body instinctively knows we’ve arrived someplace. Blanche cries out, happy his eyes are fluttering.
“Baby,” he whispers. “I need air.”
Blanche moves her feet, blood audibly sloshing. A horrible noise. Somehow the sound is worse than Buck’s moans as he’s lifted out of the car and steadied on the running board. Clyde holds him there with one hand pushing on his shoulder to keep him upright. His other hand grips his chin. “Jones,” he says. “Light a match. Hold it here.”
I can’t look at the boys examine Buck’s head. Blanche paces outside the car, wiping at her eye.
“Come here,” I say to her. I bunch the bottom of my dress, exposing myself, to reach her face with the fabric. Up close, I gasp when I see the glass there—in her eye. I do my best to dab each shard away, turning her head ever so slightly ’til the glass reflects the glow of the moon. “Does it hurt?”
“I’m numb.”
“Yeah.” It’s all I can say.
“I got to get us back on the road, cross state lines,” Clyde mumbles. Jones curses, shakes out his hand, lights a new match. “Iowa is only ’bout an hour or so north.”
But will that help us? We’re wanted in Iowa, too. Maybe for different reasons, but wanted all the same. At this point, is there a state ’round here where there ain’t a price on our heads?
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