by Emma Parker
Baby, how is Frank? (Frank Clause who was also in jail). He sure holds up well. He seems to be always smiling, and I guess he figures it's best to keep smiling. Darling, I hope you will always smile, because it kills me to see that awful look on your face when I start to leave you. It's bad enough to have to leave you, anyhow. Honey, I write books to you and only get little notes from you, but gee, how I love to get them. I wish I had a million because I have worn the ones I have completely out.
Honey, I sure wish I was with you tonight. I'm so lonesome for you, dearest. Don't you wish we could be together? Sugar, I never knew I really cared for you until you got in jail. And honey, if you get out o.k., please don't ever do anything to get locked up again. If you ever do, I'll get me a railroad ticket fifty miles long and let them tear off an inch every thousand miles, because I never did want to love you and I didn't even try. You just made me. Now, I don't know what to do.
And listen, honeyboy, you started this and somebody is sure going to finish it. Baby, — no, I didn't intend to call you that because you're not a baby. Well, darling, I'm going to have to close, as I can't seem to make this letter at all interesting. I have read it over and I can't seem to see any percentage in it at all. I'm so sorry, but I can't think of anything to say, only that I love you more than anything on earth, and I don't know if that is of any interest to you. When I find out for sure maybe I can write a sensible letter.
Tell Frank hello and not to be discouraged, because someday he'll be all right again. I hope you wont consider this letter preaching. Please pardon the mistakes, honey, but Marie has asked me ten jillion questions since I started writing. Tell Raymond (Hamilton) hell — no, I mean hello for me. I sure feel sorry for him. Just think: He has to spend two of the best years of his life in jail. Wouldn't that be awful, honey, if you had to? I'd just have to go down to the grave yard and wait. As it is, I can hardly wait. If you don't hurry and get out, I'm going to be hard to get along with. I would just simply die if you were convicted.
Honey, when I started to close this letter, Glynn said, "Don't stop. Write him a long letter, because he will have something to pass those lonely hours away." But I must stop, honey, as it is twelve o'clock, and Marie wont go to bed until I do. She's about to fall out now. Everyone says hello and they all wish you good luck. We think of you all the time. At least, you're on my mind all the time, and I keep the rest of them thinking about you by always talking about you.
Well, honey, I have to go to bed. I hate these long sleepless nights, but then time goes by as it always does, and maybe I can make it. Be sure to write me a long letter, honey, and think of me down here, thinking of you. I love you.
Just your baby,
Bonnie.
1406 Cockrell Street Wednesday night.
Mr. Clyde Barrow,
Care Denton County Jail,
Denton, Texas.
Dearest Little Darling:
Just a few lines tonight. How's my honeyboy? I guess you are surely lonsome. I didn't even know you'd gone till I borrowed the car and went down town and they told me you went away last night.* I was so blue and mad and discouraged, I just had to cry. I had maybelline on my eyes and it began to stream down my face and I had to stop on Lamar street. I laid my head down on the steering wheel and sure did boohoo. A couple of city policemen came up and wanted to know my trouble. I imagine I sure looked funny with maybelline streaming down my face.
Well, anyhow, I told them I merely felt bad and they offered to drive me home, but I thanked them and dried my eyes and went on out to your mother's. They weren't at home. I came back to town and couldn't find mother, so I went out to Bess's and couldn't find her. By that time I was on the verge of hanging myself, so I tried to wreck the darn car but didn't succeed, and came on home and walked the floor till now.
Your mother and dad came out a few minutes ago. So tomorrow I'm going to make an effort to see you. If I drive all the way to Denton and still don't get to see you, it's going to be "jam up" for somebody, because I'm sure going to be hard to get along with. Darling, do you think of me? I never was so unhappy in my whole life before. Dear, I don't know what to do. I thought I would get a letter from you today, but I don't suppose you have any stamps and paper, do you?
Sugar, I don't know a thing that is interesting, only I love you more than my own life and I am almost crazy. Honey, if you stay in jail two more weeks, I'll be as crazy as a bughouse rat. I dreamed last night that you got "out" and I got "in." I wish I could serve those long days for you, dear. But if I were in, you'd probably forget me. This letter is like all the rest. It is sort of melancholy, but sweetheart, I am so moody, so discouraged and blue. You couldn't expect me to be happy or even to write cheerful letters, for this is more a strain on me, dear, than it is on you.
I promise you when you get out I will be happy and "never cry 'no mo', 'no mo'." I wish I could cry on your manly shoulder. If I even had some one who understands to tell me what to do. I don't eat or sleep. You are driving me insane. Dear, promise me you wont go away when you get out. Honey, if you should leave me, I wouldn't know what to do. Frank says you are going far away. I'm sure you wouldn't leave me for him, would you? Of course, he says if you care to have me go along, it'll be o.k. with him, but he says it in rather a disinterested manner. I know you can't ever live in Dallas, honey, because you can't live down the awful name you've got here. But sugar, you could go somewhere else and get you a job and work. I want you to be a man, honey, and not a thug. I know you are good and I know you can make good. I hope Frank will be a good boy when he gets out, for he is too young to start on that downward road.
Just think, honey, if you and he were to get twenty-five years in the pen! You would be a broken old man, friendless and tired of living when you did get out. Everyone would have forgotten you but me — and I never will — but I should more than likely be dead by then. And think, dear, all your best years spent in solitary confinement away from the outside world. Wouldn't that be terrible? Dear, I know you're going to be good and sweet when you get out. Aren't you, honey? They only think you are mean. I know you are not, and I'm going to be the very one to show you that this outside world is a swell place, and we are young and should be happy like other boys and girls instead of being like we are. Sugar, please don't consider this advice as from one who is not capable of lending it, for you know I'm very interested and I've already had my day, and we're both going to be good now — both of us. Oh, I'm so lonesome for you tonight and I'm hoping I'll be with you in a few days. Dear, I'm going to close and try and get this all in one envelope. Forgive this awful writing, but just thank goodness that I still have sense enough to write a sentence. Answer real soon, dear, and think often of
Your lonesome Baby.
P. S. I am coming up tomorrow, even if they don't let me see you, you'll know I came and tried. I love you. Be real sweet, honey, and think of the girl who loves you best. Try not to worry, for I do enough of that for us both. Everyone is o.k. and mother says hello, and she is hoping you can come home soon. I love you, darling, with all my heart, and maybe it wont be long till we can be together again. Think of me, darling, and what a wonderful time we will have when you come home — how happy we will be. I love you, honey.
Bonnie.
*N. B. Note the extreme delicacy and tact with which the letter is worded. I went down town and "they told me you went away last night'* instead of saying "I went to the jail and the officers told me they took you to the Denton jail last night."
14-06 Cockrell St.
February 23, '30.
Honey Boy: —
Just a line today as I have made another unsuccessful attempt.
Sugar I am so blue I could die. I haven't gotten a letter from you this week. Dear, I went to Ft. Worth today to get some money and when I got up there nobody was home. I have become so discouraged I wish I was dead. I got the car the other day and your mother and I were coming up so I didn't meet her on time and she went on the bus. I started and the muffler
come off and the durn car sounded like a thresher. I was going to take a chance on getting arrested anyhow but I ran out of gasoline and had to walk about 2 miles, and Honey it was sure raining. I got so wet I was terrible looking so I came back home. But listen, dear, I'm coming to see you tomorrow even if I have to walk every step 'cause honey, I can't wait any longer. I know I can get the car and if the darn thing breaks down I'll start walking and talking 'cause I must see my daddy.
I saw Mr. and Mrs. Barrow yesterday. They came over to tell me about you. I was supposed to go out there this A. M. but I coasted over to "Cowtown" and your Sis from Denison is out there today and 1 have never met her. So I didn't want to go on that account. But I'm going out there tonight.
Darling do you still love your baby? Say, honey, I have written you a letter every night but, dear, I didn't think you would be there long enough to get them. Sugar, maybe you won't be there long enough to answer. I love to get those sweet letters from you but I had lots rather you would answer in person. Every night I go to bed with hopes that tomorrow might be brighter but it's always just another day. Maybe it won't be this way always. At least if I thought it would I would go down to the grave yard and wait. For I've already found out life's not worth living without you.
I've got a Majestic Radiola and they nearly drive me crazy with the music. I love music but it always makes me melancholy — and all I've heard today is "Lonesome Railroad Blues" and "I sing all my love songs to you." It nearly drives me mad. Dear, I had lots rather hear you sing than Gene Austin. He's wonderful but he doesn't mean anything to me. I know you think I have forgotten you because I haven't written you or come to see you since you went away but honey, if I could you know I would go to jail for you and more than gladly with you. I only wish I could serve those long old lonesome days for you. It hurts me lots more to have you in there than it would be to be in there myself.
Dear, someone told Bud I got my divorce on the 18th and he come out begging me not to get married again. He said Edith told him I was going to get married the 25th of February. He had been drinking as usual. I got so irritated I almost screamed. If he hadn't left when he did I know I would have "passed out." I hate him. I told him, No I didn't suppose I was going to get married; at least I hadn't had any late propositions. He says he thinks I should consider his feelings before I do anything "rash," but I reminded him that he wasn't in the "racket" any more. He said "Now what would you do if I should tell you I was gonna get married?" and I told him I would like to congratulate the young idiot he married for taking a "pest" off my hands. He didn't see how Bonnie could talk that way — Anyhow as bad as he feels he would like to meet the "Lucky Dog" that made me care.
Honey, I don't know any news as nothing ever happens around here. Glynn is fine; he says tell you hello. Mother was coming up to see you today and we almost knew we couldn't get in so we are hoping we can see you tomorrow. Pat sure wants you to come to work.
He needs you bad. Now I want you to go back and stay with Pat 'cause you must help your Mother. She is sick and she needs you and I need you and I want you to stay here and be sweet.
Well I'll be a dirty name here it is tomorrow — What a silly remark — what I mean is I didn't finish my letter yesterday for I went back over to Ft. Worth and now it's 5:30 in the morning. I guess my sugar is sleeping by now. I had to get up early this A. M. as usual. But I have to get ready to go to Denton early. It looks as if it will rain today but just let it rain. I'll go anyway.
I'm sure tired this morning after driving so much yesterday. Honey, I don't know any news and it's too early in the morning to learn any, for no one is up but me. I'll have to close, baby, and here's hoping they let me see you today —Be sweet and write to me. I love you.
Just your baby,
Bonnie.
Evidence in Denton seemed insufficient to hold Clyde, and he was sent to Waco on March 2, 1930, where he confessed to two burglaries and five motor car thefts. He was given two years in prison on one charge, the others, totaling fourteen years in all, being held in abeyance. Bonnie was determined to go immediately to Waco to be with Clyde, and after quite a bit of argument at home, I consented, but only because Mary, Bonnie's cousin, who was married, had moved to Waco a few weeks before. I told Bonnie to go and stay with Mary till Clyde was moved to Huntsville to begin his term. Bonnie was so nearly out of her head with worry and grief that we all felt sorry for her, and felt that letting her go to Waco wouldn't hurt anything.
Accordingly, Bonnie left with Clyde's mother that same day, and both of them went to Mary's house. Clyde's mother spent only a night and day there, and then came home, but Bonnie stayed till Clyde made his jail break on March 11, just three days after his brother Buck had walked out of Huntsville.
Bonnie saw Clyde every day in Waco and sometimes twice a day; in between times she wrote to him. A sample letter shows how crazy the girl was about Clyde, and how determined to stay near him at all costs:
Waco, Texas.
March 3, 1930.
Hello, Sugar:
Just a line tonight, as I'm so lonesome. Just think, honey, today is the first time I have seen you in two weeks, and just a very few minutes today. But it sure was sweet just to get to see you. Those laws are all so nice, sugar. They aren't like those Denton laws.*
Your mother is spending the night with me tonight. I wanted her to stay so she could see you again tomorrow. Dearest, I'm going to get me a job and stay up here;
I couldn't make it in Dallas anymore without you. Sugar, how I wish you were out of all this awful trouble. I don't see how I can get along if you go away. You didn't act like you were very glad to see me today. What's wrong? Don't you love me any more? I know how you feel, honey. I guess you are awfully worried.
Listen, dear, I wont write much today, because I'll see you tomorrow, we hope, and for a long old time. And honey, just remember I love you more than anything on earth, and be real real sweet and think of me, down here thinking of you.
Your lonesome baby,
Bonnie.
P. S. Don't worry, darling, because I'm going to do everything possible and if you do have to go down, I'll be good while you're gone, and be waiting — waiting — waiting — for you. I love you.
*This is the first time that Bonnie uses any of the slang of gangdom Prior to this letter, she called them officers or policemen.
Mary accompanied Bonnie on all her trips to the jail to visit with Clyde, and the boy's personality, even under these adverse circumstances, was felt by Mary. She had never seen Clyde Barrow till she saw him in the Waco jail with a two year sentence hanging over him, but she told me later that the first day she met him there behind the bars, she thought he was the most charming and likable young fellow she'd ever met, and remember that Mary was twenty-three years old, and happily married, so her viewpoint was likely to be more sane and much less biased than Bonnie's, where Clyde was concerned.
The rest of this story — the story of Clyde's jail break — is something which I, her own mother, never learned till two months after Bonnie was killed in 1934. Mary came to Dallas for the funeral and later told me the entire yarn. She had been afraid to talk about it before because she was afraid of the law, and also afraid that if her husband learned of her part in it, he'd be furiously angry with her. Unknown to the officers till the day this story sees print, Bonnie Parker, who had never been mixed up with crime or criminals before in her whole life, staged Clyde Barrow's jail break for him with all the coolness and daring of an experienced hand, which shows what love will lead a woman to do. But I'll let Mary tell the story.
Mary Relates
One of the boys in jail with Clyde was named William Turner, and his home was in Waco. He had a gun concealed in his house out in East Waco, but he didn't dare ask his sister or mother to bring it to him, fearing they might get caught in the attempt and be implicated. He didn't hesitate to use Bonnie for the purpose, if she was game. With the man she loved behind the bars, Bonnie was game for anything.
Accordingly, Turner drew a map of his house, where the key was to be found, the place where the gun was hidden, the place where the ammunition would be. His mother and sister both worked in the daytime, and he assured Bonnie there would be no trouble about getting in. Bonnie was to get the weapon, but that was only half the job. She then had to get it to Clyde in the jail without arousing suspicion and without getting caught.
Naturally, all this which I have just related was unknown to me at that time. I hadn't the least idea what we were getting into when we started out to East Waco. I knew Bonnie was going after something for the Turner boy, possibly some article of clothing. She ran errands for Clyde and his friends all the time, anyhow. It wasn't till we got out there and I found that nobody was at home, that I began to be worried. After Bonnie had located the key and walked in the door, she coolly informed me that she was after a gun so Clyde could make a jail break!
I never was so scared in my whole life. My feet were like ice and my knees like water. I just knew policemen were all around the house, waiting to pounce on us when we came out. I begged Bonnie to leave, but she said, no sir, she wasn't budging till she found that gun. When I saw that she was determined, I started in to help her hunt, for it seemed the quickest way to get away from there.
The gun wasn't where the Turner boy had said it would be, after all. In the end, we turned that house topsy-turvy before we found it in the window seat, and the place was in such an unholy mess that there was a big story in the papers next day about it's being ransacked, but nothing was said about the missing gun because the Turners didn't know it was there.