Side by Side

by Jenni L. Walsh

  Clyde must have a similar thought. He straight out calls Mullens a stool pigeon. Mullens’s feathers go up, putting on a tough-guy façade with his chin raised.

  “Prove me wrong,” Clyde says. “If you ain’t an informant, you’ll have no problem planting the guns.”

  I startle.

  Mullens stiffens.

  Clyde grins.

  That only makes Mullens stiffen more.

  But he agrees. At least someone does. I ain’t happy ’bout putting our future on the line, yet again. But tomorrow, we’ll see Mullens’s true colors. For his sake, and for ours, they better not be blue. I ain’t keen on the police putting us in their crosshairs again.

  27

  Clyde’s jaw is tight as he drives our gang toward the prison farm. But he does. Not once does he look into the rearview mirror, and I wonder if it’s ’cause he can’t look back.

  Clyde stops the car, and I’m quick to survey him. He gives me a look as if to say, I’m fine, but he can’t be saying it aloud with our two companions in the back. Instead, he says, “Entrance is a mile ahead. The road dead-ends up there. But we don’t got to go any closer.”

  Our Ford sits idle, our headlights off. At this time of night, even on a Saturday, all the inmates are tucked in their cells, probably exhausted, blistered, and bruised. Once, Clyde told me the farm is over twelve thousand acres, a lot of land for the prisoners to work. The prison began, after all, as a “convict leasing” program by people who used dollar bills to wipe their derrieres.

  Clyde twists in his seat, his eyes on Mullens. “Time to plant some guns.”

  Way back when, it was supposed to be Clyde and Raymond planting the guns. Then, Clyde and Buck. Now, Clyde won’t be the one to step onto the farm. Not yet, anyway. He could, he insists, but it’s important to see where Mullens’s allegiances lie.

  “Planting the guns ain’t the riskiest part,” he told me. “It’s what comes next.”

  That being, helping Skelley and the others escape. Then, Clyde’ll go onto the land. He’ll need Mullens at his shoulder, without worrying Mullens’s gun will point his way.

  But first, we need those guns in place for Skelley to get. I feign confidence and say, “Go get it done, fellas.”

  Clyde smirks and temporarily sidles out of the car, allowing Hamilton and Mullens to exit our two-door coupe. “You heard the lass.”

  The boys do as I say. The night’s quiet, their movements stirring a bird or two, and also my nerves. Time and time again, we’ve been nothin’ more than sitting ducks. This may not be the riskiest part of the plan, but it’s a risk nevertheless, being this close to the prison, trapped on one side by a river and the other by the prison’s chain-link fencing. There ain’t nowhere to go to conceal our car if someone else happens down this road.

  Hamilton strides off toward the prison’s property, a bag filled with guns and ammunition over his shoulder. Mullens, on the other hand, has an unsteady gait, as if he’s hit the bottle. He didn’t. We haven’t taken our eyes off him. I reckon he’s drunk with worry.

  Hamilton makes quick work of clipping the fence, and ducks through. Mullens hesitates, his finger tappin’ against the chain link. Eventually, he creeps onto the prison’s land, with another backward glance at us, as if saying: Don’t make me go.

  Back beside me, I ask Clyde, “What do you know ’bout him?”

  “Mullens? Aye, he got out of this place a week ago.” Clyde breathes in, out. “I reckon he ain’t too keen on stepping foot on the grounds again.”

  I nod. “Why’s he even here, helping us?”

  “Raymond got to him, is what I hear. Ray knew Mullens was getting sprung. He told Mullens he’d give him a thousand clams if he went straight to Hamilton to get this raid rollin’. Can’t be too careful, though, he could’ve cut a bigger deal with the po-lice.”

  Clyde’s head jerks to the left, toward those many acres, now nothin’ but shadows. I didn’t hear nothin’, but Clyde stares into the darkness—the seconds piling on top of each other—and I hope he ain’t remembering his years spent in prison garb, working that land or cowering in the dark corners of the prison’s buildings. His jaw protrudes in and out as he grinds his teeth. Then he turns back to me, the burrow between his brow smoothing. “Say, I think my reading’s getting better.”

  I swallow the emotion at watching Clyde and follow him into a new conversation. “Yeah?”

  “I know it says Ford on the outside of our car.”

  “Now don’t look so smug, Clyde.”

  “Why not? Those letters are fancy, even.”

  I laugh. This boy will forever make me laugh, even twenty feet from a prison farm where all hell could break loose. “Fine. What rhymes with Ford? Spell Lord,” I say.

  He does, correctly. Something harder, then. Off in the distance, dogs howl. I ignore ’em and stay in our moment. I pick a new rhyme, this time beginning with C.

  “Like to tie somebody up? Or a guitar chord?”

  “Clyde Barrow, you make me proud.”

  “Now, that’s music to my ears. And speaking of, I get to write our last verse once this is all over with and we get our land.”

  “Last verse?”

  “Of this song. We’ll have more if I get my way.” He winks, but the darkness tries to steal it from me. It can’t. I saw it, maybe ’cause Clyde’s expressions are as similar as my own. He peers off to the left again. His hand finds the gun on his lap, and his fingers begin to wrap ’round the stock, then stop. “They’re coming back.”

  Hamilton’s the bigger of the two, stockier. It’s easy to see who is who, and Hamilton doesn’t have that sack of guns anymore. Mullens is all but capering to get on our side of the fence.

  I say, “Looks like Mullens is going to live to see another day.”

  * * *

  That day includes taking Hamilton, bright and early, back to Dallas, where he can keep up his twice-a-month routine of driving to Eastham prison to visit Raymond. With a prison term of 266 years for auto theft, armed robbery, and murder, Raymond would’ve had endless visits ahead of him with his brother. But today will be their last one—at this prison, at least. Lord knows Raymond can easily find himself behind bars again with the flea-brained choices he makes.

  This afternoon, though, Hamilton will sit ’cross from Raymond and give him the nod that the guns are in place. Raymond knows where them guns will be, considering he was supposed to plant them in the sewer all those months ago. The Colts and their clips will be there, waiting for Skelley in an ol’ inner tube.

  Tomorrow, the fellas will bust out, and Clyde’s debt to Skelley will be paid. An added bonus, it’ll be the first breakout ever at the prison farm. Orchestrated by none other than Clyde Champion Barrow and his lass. Bet ya that’ll chap their hides.

  As we approach Dallas, I let it all sink in, ’specially what’ll come next: An ol’ farmhouse with chickens pecking at the dirt out front. Cows out back. Maybe a pig or two, but for slaughtering. Once Blanche gets out of prison, I won’t let her name ’em. That is, if she’ll forgive me for all I put her through.

  I shake the thought away and concentrate on the quiet streets of Dallas. We gamble on any lookie-loos still being asleep and drop off Hamilton outside his duplex on Harrison Street.

  That’s that, as far as our time in Dallas. It makes it easier we’re on the opposite side of city from home, over ten miles from Clyde’s parents’ house, even farther from my ma’s in Cement City. Still, I feel my heart tuggin’ in their directions.

  In a few hours, my ma will be waking up for church, donning her Sunday best. January in Dallas starts chilly, so she’s likely to wrap a shawl ’round her long-sleeve dress. I’ve got one ’round me. A nice dress, too. ’Cept, I don’t got anywhere to wear it. It’s been years since I’ve been to church, something I ain’t proud of. But I spend time praying, I do.

  Right now I’m praying the escape goes without a hitch. Before I know it, Monday passes without any alarm bells, meaning Skelley retrieved the g
uns, and after driving all the nearby roads to plan our getaway, we’re rolling down that dead-end road again. It’s time to see if the good Lord will continue to answer my prayers.

  He’s certainly making the morning suspenseful. Honest-to-goodness fog rolls off the river, and the sun seems hesitant to join us. I wrap my shawl tightly ’round my shoulders for more reasons than one.

  Clyde appears relaxed. I ain’t surprised by that. We have a jittery ex-convict in our rear seat, who no doubt knows a thing ’bout Clyde’s quick trigger finger. Clyde’s calm demeanor will keep Mullens thinking Clyde could snap at any moment.

  We don’t go as far up the road as before; we don’t need to. That was to get Mullens and Hamilton close to the sewer. This time, we wait near a field the inmates should be clearing any minute now to prepare for the spring planting season. Our escapees will come to us. Most likely at a sprint.

  “X marks the spot,” Clyde says. He pulls off the road. I peer though the mist and a thick patch of trees, spotting a clearing along a creek bank. Beyond it, the fence lines the farm’s perimeter. “Hold her down, Bonnie.”

  “Showtime,” I say and grab the lapel of Clyde’s jacket. I pull him in for a kiss, laced with both excitement to get this here job done and fear this here job could go terribly wrong. “You take care of what’s mine, you hear?”

  He waggles a brow, then he barks at Mullens to bring him another gun. Clyde puts the Colt in the back of his trousers and reaches for his trusty Browning automatic rifle.

  Clyde, in the lead, creates a new entrance into the prison’s chain-link fence and cuts through the trees. They take their places, crouching by the creek bank. From their vantage point, they can see the field where the inmates will flood for their morning’s work. I cannot. I’m left to wait, to listen, to hope. To pray. It’s risky what Clyde’s ’bout to do. But the law won’t know we’re behind it unless they see him, unless he stands tall and spreads out his arms, as if to say: I’m back, and I did this to you.

  In the past, I’d scooch over to the driver’s seat in case Clyde races back, hollering, his arms waving. But with a stiff left knee and a mangled right leg, being the getaway gal is no longer part of my wheelhouse. All I’m left to do is warm my seat.

  The cold air carries the sound of nickering horses. I envision the inmates entering the fields with their tools. Up on horses, the guards patrol, looking down their noses at the men. I cringe to think of the butt of a gun that once slammed into Clyde’s back, or glanced the crown of his head ’cause of a guard’s poor aim.

  Overlooking the field, Clyde could easily open fire, using his practiced aim to take down those guards. But he won’t. It’s not time for him yet.

  I wring my hands. I wait. I listen for sounds of the inmates coming our way. That’s when Clyde’s to spray bullets into the heavens, clearing the way for the escapees, but also pulling the attention to himself.

  Metal clinks. Wood splinters. Horses neigh. Inaudible voices pass through the trees. Then, a gunshot.

  I grip the door handle. That ain’t how it’s supposed to go. Only Clyde’s to fire. My eyes jump to him. Still crouched. That gunshot wasn’t fired at him. But it was aimed at somebody. There’s a shift in the air, from a normal morning of chopping wood and clearing the field to chaos. Men shout. There’s a second shot. A third closely follows. And a fourth bang. Something’s gone terribly wrong.

  Stay down, I urge Clyde. Just come back to me.

  He leaps to his feet.

  Clyde sprays bullets, his barrel angled up at the treetops. He screams, “Let’s go!” before he stretches out his arms. There he stands, a target. I can’t look away, pleading a bullet won’t rock his body. He’s got a vest on. ’Course he’s got that on, but even a single inch of Clyde unprotected is too much for me.

  I lay on the horn. Clyde turns, and I throw up my arm, as if to say, That’s enough, you fool.

  It gets Clyde running back to me. Mullens, too, who did little more than cover his head once the firing began. Yesterday, he told me, almost as a braggart, that he’d done eight terms in jail, but for nothin’ more than robbery. I smiled back politely.

  My smile now for Clyde is genuine. “You don’t got any bullets in your body,” I call, leaning out the driver-side window.

  “No new ones,” he corrects, between breaths.

  “They coming this way?”

  As if on cue, four men run through the trees.

  “More lads than I was anticipating,” Clyde says under his breath. He opens the car door. “You’re going to have a party back there, Mullens.” He laughs, but the sound of it dulls. “Where’s Skelley?” he shouts to the approaching escapees.

  I recognize Raymond, but not the other three. Raymond, mud up to his knees, slows outside the car, towering over Clyde, yet cowering at Clyde’s anger. “He ain’t coming.”

  Clyde bangs the hood. “What you mean he ain’t coming?”

  Raymond raises his hands, one holding his gun, the other an ammunition clip. “Said he wouldn’t last on the outside.”

  Eyes closed, Clyde growls, “Get in.”

  Two of the men go in the trunk. Raymond and another fella, who introduces himself as Palmer, go into the back with Mullens. Clyde drives, fast, following our planned escape route.

  I hold my breath, but for once no one follows us. No one is shooting at us. Farm Number One is done. Done. I let out the breath. By the grace of God, we may’ve taken three steps forward.

  28

  We’re on the run, but that ain’t anything new. Yet now we’re on the run with more heads than ever, with prices on those heads.

  Clyde keeps his lips pressed together and his eyes trained on the road as he navigates the turns to get us away from the prison. In time, he demands, “What were those shots back there?”

  He won’t ask ’bout Skelley again; Clyde will deal with those emotions inside, but I know they’re weighing on him. Have to be after that fella was Clyde’s motivation for so long.

  Palmer says, “Ray dropped his ammunition clip, left me to deal with ’em all on my own while he fumbled ’round in the mud.”

  “It slipped,” Raymond growls. He uses the back of his hand to rub his nose. With the bags under his eyes, I’d wager he hasn’t had any opioid-induced sleep in weeks. It shows.

  Clyde shakes his head. “Any guards die?”

  There are nods.

  “Which one?”

  “Crowson,” Palmer says. “But he had it coming.”

  Clyde states, “He got me a few times, too.”

  Nothin’ more needs to be said; Palmer’s got Clyde’s blessing.

  I notice a thin line ’cross Palmer’s temple. I point at it.

  “Got lucky.” He smears the blood with his fingertips. “Bullet barely scratched me.”

  I turn forward in my seat. Ain’t even close to the worst I’ve seen.

  Clyde wants a new Ford. He drives for hours, maybe five, stopping along the way for some spending money at a filling station. Then, we leave our two-door coupe in a ravine in Oklahoma and find us a four-door sedan.

  We drive, no one in the trunk this leg of our ride. New fellas’ names are Henry Methvin and Hilton Bybee. The seven of us ain’t going anywhere in particular, which ain’t nothin’ new for Clyde and me. But we don’t want to stand still where someone can happen upon a car of fugitives.

  That night, Clyde shoves blankets into the fellas’ arms and tells ’em to sleep under the stars. Stretched out in the rear seat, I rest my head on Clyde’s shoulder, overtop where a bullet once struck him. My body presses against his, stealing his body heat.

  The boys would be smart to cuddle up outside. Those stars ain’t going to offer any warmth. But their own beds would, far away from here. And us.

  “Clyde,” I say. “This car of ours feels too full.”

  He says, “Ain’t nothin’ but the two of us.” I playfully slap his gut, satisfied with his groan. He closes his eyes, exhales. When he’s looking at me again, Clyde doesn’t was
te another breath before kissing me. “Raid’s done.” He kisses me again. “It’s over. Behind us.” A third time. “We’ll find us a radio. We’ll be hearing our names.”

  “Think so?”

  “Know it. They won’t be happy.”

  This time, I kiss him. “Good.”

  “We’re almost there. Now we only need the money for the land. But, Bonnie, I can’t rob alone, and no, it ain’t going to be you.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You were.”

  I was going to make the suggestion. But it wouldn’t have made sense, not with me not being able to walk on my own. It was my eagerness talking, wanting to get us on our land months ago.

  Clyde says, “The lads want to rob a few banks to get it done.”

  I prop myself up. My brow furrows out of fear. “But everyone and their mama will be looking for us.”

  Clyde shrugs, not ’cause he ain’t taking it seriously—I can see it in his eyes—but ’cause he doesn’t have another answer for me. He pats his chest for me to lay back down. “It won’t be long before it’s only the two of us, and, Bonnie, better believe I’m dying for that.”

  There’s a lot I’m dying for, and right now, it’s for more of Clyde; it’s to ride this high that his past stayed on that prison yard. I slide my hand over his navel, and with a quick tug, Clyde’s shirt is free from his trousers. His stomach sucks in. “Why ya want me alone, Clyde?”

  He chuckles, deep, and I lose myself in the sound. “You’ve always had a healthy imagination. I’m sorry I haven’t let ya use it much.”

  “But now?”

  Clyde opens his arms, as much as the rear seat will allow, and that boy smirks at me.

  I make quick work of his belt and, for a few moments, it’s only clanging and Clyde’s quick breathing. His skin’s hot, hotter as I slide my palm down. Clyde trembles, the quivering of his body passing into mine.

  * * *

  If anyone heard us last night, they’ve been wise to keep their mouths shut and grins to themselves. It’s likely they’ve got other things on their minds, like robbing banks. The boys all need the money. Raymond’s got people to pay and dope to buy. Mullens has money to collect from Raymond. Hilton Bybee and Joe Palmer were originally put away for murder, and money’ll give them boys a better shot at staying out. And Henry Methvin, well, he’s a bank robber through and through. I reckon ol’ habits die hard.