Wanted

by Kym Brunner

  My hand slides down Clyde’s slim arm. “I’m in Tellico, Texas,” I tell Dr. Hanson, “sitting in a car with the love of my life. Lord, he looks good!”

  Keep things vague, Bonnie. Don’t mention any names.

  The scene in my brain pans to my left, and then zooms in for a close-up, getting an interior shot of the car. There are unfamiliar foot pedals, a gearshift knob on the end of a long skinny bar, and an outdated dashboard with big dials. “Ready to go, doll?” Clyde squeezes my knee, smiling. I look over at the small white building with wooden siding, complete with peeling paint and raggedy, faded blue awnings. I can make out the words Colleyville Drugs in white paint across the picture window.

  “It’s the day of the first job we pulled together,” I say, my voice all twangy and breathless. “After I helped him break out of prison, that is. That’s a whole other story, though.”

  I hear Dr. Hanson’s pencil furiously scribbling notes.

  Prison! I screech. Are you crazy? Take that back now! Say “just kidding, Doctor!”

  Bonnie doesn’t respond. I need to end this session now before Bonnie says any more incriminating details about her life. I’ll tell Dr. Hanson that hypnosis is not working for me and that I feel uncomfortable. But when I attempt to slide my legs to the side so I can sit up, I can’t. They have become two beached whales that have melded with the couch.

  My ears ring with panic. Could her side of the brain be so entranced that she’s under hypnosis even though I’m not? Temporarily down for the count? Inaccessible? If she is, I guess that means I am, too. I quickly rattle off a prayer to my mom, to God, to anyone who will listen: Please don’t let Bonnie say anything that will make Dr. Hanson decide to commit me for residential treatment. Please, please, please!

  “We’re sitting in the car, talking about our plan and Chestnut—that’s his real middle name, you know, not Champion like he tole everyone—looks so handsome and sweet, it’s breaking my heart.”

  “What happens next?” Dr. Hanson says, sounding intrigued.

  I watch through Bonnie’s eyes as Clyde reaches under his seat and hands me a gun. I twist the two knobs on the black purse on my lap and toss the pistol inside. “You’re gonna do swell, doll. I just know it,” he tells me. “You were born to this life, same as me.”

  “I can’t wait to show Clyde I can pull this job off,” Bonnie tells Dr. Hanson, “but I’m a tad scared about using a gun. I shot plenty of cans out behind Turtle Creek, but that’s not the same as shooting a live person. Made me feel kinda sick in my belly, you know?” She—or maybe it’s me since I don’t know at this point—sighs loudly. “Clyde said it made no matter because I shouldn’t fire at anyone unless they’s aiming a gun at me first. Made that very clear. He ain’t no monster like everyone thinks. Only shot people when he had no choice.”

  “Tell me about the job you pulled,” Dr. Hanson directs.

  “Clyde decided Colleyville Drugs would be an easy target because the owner was older than God himself. I told Clyde it was blasphemy to say that and he told me that I’d see for myself that he wasn’t lying. That was Clyde for you, always kidding around.” I giggle and snort loudly, unable to stop myself. My heart rate increases with her every word. I need to stop her.

  Wake up, Bonnie! I beg. Open your eyes. Session’s over.

  Dr. Hanson clears his throat. “Uh-huh. Keep going.”

  I try again, this time louder, more urgent. The cops are here! Raid! Run for your life!

  “Sure,” Bonnie says, deaf to my pleas. “So then Clyde told me that my job was to go in and distract Mr. Rogers by bringing him to the back of the store, while he robbed the register up front. Clyde said the man behind the counter was one lucky bastard because he got to see my great gams.” When I giggle-snort again, a bit of drool runs out the side of my mouth. I go to wipe it when I realize Bonnie’s hypnotic trance prevents me from moving.

  My dream self daintily dabs the sweat off my forehead with a handkerchief before taking a deep breath and exiting the car. After smoothing my dress, I stroll over and pull open the squeaky screen door of the drugstore, hearing it thump as it swings shut behind me. I’m in an old-fashioned country store with built-in shelves all the way to the ceiling. An old man in a butcher’s apron stands on a tall sliding ladder, like the kind you see in ancient college libraries. He sets a box on a shelf. “Howdy, ma’am! Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank ya kindly,” Bonnie replies.

  “So I go in and walk around,” Bonnie tells Dr. Hanson, “and pretend I’m looking for something. I’m real nervous, this being my first job and all, but I know Chestnut’s counting on me to do it right.” With my eyes still closed, I can feel Bonnie smiling.

  “Uh-huh. Then what?” Dr. Hanson presses.

  “Then I pick up a few boxes and put them back down, like I can’t find what I want. Mama always says I should’ve gone into acting because I’m so good at it. Anyhow, I saunter up to the old man at the counter and make my voice sound sweet, smilin’ just the way men like. Then I ask him if he can help me find rose water, because that’s what Clyde told me to ask for. Said they kept it way back in the far corner of the store when he came here to case the joint.”

  I try to yawn, bite my tongue—anything to regain control of my mouth, but it’s no use. Bonnie keeps on blathering away—telling Dr. Hanson every last freaking detail of her first robbery. And it sounds like she’s enjoying herself. Bragging about it even. “Of course, the old guy is pleased as punch to help me. Tells me to follow him. As I do, I make my heels clunk loudly on the wooden floor. That was my own idea, the clunking. I figured the noise was good cover for Clyde.”

  “What did you and Clyde do next?” he asks, making me wonder when he’s going to do his part with the alternative suggestions so Bonnie will shut the hell up.

  “I touch the geezer’s arm so he thinks I’m flirting with him. When I hear a toot-toot out front a minute later, I tell the old man I can’t make up my mind and need to come back later. Turned out to be the easiest job we ever pulled. Got away with fifty-two dollars and Clyde didn’t even have to shoot no one. Funniest thing was, he came out smelling handsome too. He had dabbed some fancy cologne on at the register, right after he swiped the cash. Ain’t he a hoot?”

  I can hear Dr. Hanson scribbling like mad. “Yes, I see. Very good.” He clears his throat. “I think that’s enough for now. On the count of three, I want you to start waking up slowly, coming back to being in my office. 1… 2… 3. When you’re ready, open your eyes.”

  The light in my eyes flickers and my head feels lighter, as if I’m coming to the surface from being underwater. I bolt to a sitting position, hoping to catch Bonnie off-guard. I’m rewarded for my efforts by being able to whip the poem into my open purse. I take a deep breath, ready to tell Dr. Hanson that the things I spoke about weren’t from my memories, but from Bonnie Parker’s. That I never robbed a drug store at gunpoint in my life and that this is all a huge mistake. My heart races, as I sputter, “Oh my God, that was not me talking just then, Dr. Hanson. I know this sounds crazy, but last night, I think I might have awakened the spirit of—”

  You say my name and we both end up in the sanitarium. Ain’t that what you said?

  A mental sledgehammer pounds my skull. I clear my throat. “Never mind.”

  Dr. Hanson narrows his eyes. “Awakened the spirit of who? It’s all right. You can tell me.” Judging by the slick line of sweat on his forehead, he’s on high alert for a juicy revelation.

  I’m plagued with indecision. Let Dr. Hanson think I have schizophrenia or say I’ve been inhabited by Bonnie Fucking Parker. I realize it probably doesn’t matter what I say.

  Either way, I can kiss my future goodbye.

  CHAPTER 14

  Saturday, May 21st // 5:18 P.M.

  Clyde

  After deciding to drive to Texas to find Methvin’s kin, I realize I ain’t got me no map. When Bonnie was around, I didn’t have to worry. That girl was an expert at st
ealing maps whenever we stopped to fuel up. Lookie what I got here, she’d say, teasing me as she waved it in my face. I swear that gal had flypaper for fingers. Swift and sure, never getting caught.

  White light flickers for a second. Is Jack about to take me over? Shiest! I concentrate on staying put when I realize it musta been the sun shining off a car window as it drove past the house. I get up and look in the mirror. “Ha! You ain’t getting back that easy.” I plug my fingers into my ears and waggle my tongue, like I used to do to my brother Buck when we was kids.

  The door slams somewhere nearby and a man yells, “Jack? Sean? Pizza’s here!”

  I rub my belly. Sure would be good to eat. I smell garlic, cheese, and tomato sauce, which make my stomach growl loudly. I laugh, remembering the time Bonnie bamboozled a slice from a pizza man in Chicago by giving him a kiss.

  Before I knew what hit me, thunderous bolts of lightning flash through my head and I’m plunged into darkness. I’m so angry at myself for letting my guard down that I wish I could beat the daylights out of Jack Daniel. Take him outside and cuff him again and again until blood was squirtin’ out his nose like a faucet.

  I look out through Jack’s eyes and see him pick up a pen and paper off his desk. He writes, “FUCK YOU, CLYDE! LEAVE ME ALONE!” in giant letters. Is that all he’s got—a few curse words? Looking at his pretty boy face and straight nose, I’d bet Jack never got a licking in his life. Defending yourself is something all men should know how to do. Ranks right up there with another event all men should know about, something I doubt Jack knows anything about either. My first time was with Sweet Norma Rae. She was worth all two dollars my daddy paid for her as my sixteenth birthday gift.

  After wetting his hair and messing up all the stylin’ I done for him, Jackrabbit runs out of his room and heads to the kitchen. He grabs a plate and sticks four wedges of that mouthwatering pizza pie onto it. Them wops know what they’re doing. The white cheese is all melted and gooey, and little pepperonis sit on top just begging to be eaten. But eating four whole slices on his own? My God, they don’t got a care in the world about food these days. I seen men fighting over a rich family’s table scraps, just hoping to have enough to survive.

  Jack stuffs it into his mouth, chewin’ and swallowin’ again and again, but I can’t taste a thing. For the second time since I been sharing Jack Daniel’s body, I’m green with envy. First time was watching him make a turrible attempt at wooing Twinkle, knowing I coulda sweet-talked her into giving me a kiss, and now this. He don’t deserve none of it the way he lays around all day like one of those poor army fellers who ain’t got no legs.

  He sits at the table, jawing with Curly and his daddy. I try to read their lips to learn something. They keep looking at a square box on the counter with moving pictures on it. But this one don’t look like the one at the gas station. They’s watching a baseball game, but we ain’t even at a ball park. This new world is strange all right, but with all the dough they have, I could get used to it right quick.

  As Jack heads back to his bedroom after dinner, I start going over every detail of how and when the lights inside my head started flashing. Because if I don’t figure this out soon, I’m going to be left behind like a sissy. Since that boy can’t do nothing without holding his mama’s hand, it means I did something that opened the door for scairt little Jackrabbit to come in.

  I was at the desk sitting and thinking about how to get to Texas when I first seen the lights. Could it be that I was homesick for Texas, and that made me lose myself for a few seconds? Nah, that’s not it. I was hungry and I started remembering how Bonnie sweet-talked the pizza man into giving her a free slice. I let that sink in a few seconds. Could thinking about Bonnie make me lose my head?

  If so, that’s an easy fix. I done all the caterwaulering I need about Bonnie. If I want to stay a real man, I have to forget about her altogether, at least when I’m out working my new body. I call out to her, hoping somehow she can hear my thoughts, wherever she may be. Sorry, doll, but I need to move on. Maybe I’ll see you in heaven after my time is done here on Earth. Amen.

  I think a bit longer, not settling on the first idea that comes to me, because that’s how men fail. Being so hogsure of themselves that they don’t look at all the options. Right before the switchover, I remember smelling the garlic and onions of the pizza. And the first time it happened, I smelled fresh cut grass, then it was the men’s toilet water. So until I’m one hundred percent positive what’s causing the change, I’ll stay away from thinking about Bonnie and from smelling things. Hell, I’ll stuff corks in my nose if I need to.

  Jack Daniel sits at his desk and opens that writing contraption I was using earlier when I talked to Milo. A bit of despair hits me square in the chest. Looks like I ain’t gonna change back anytime soon because sitting in his room writing words isn’t going to scare him. Jack Daniel types and types, lickety split like he’s a dang secretary, and then stares at the screen. When I read what’s written at the top, I tune in real good. It’s a newspaper with the headline “Ivy Methvin Dead” in big letters across the top. Luckily, the boy ain’t a fast reader, so I can follow along.

  Turns out Henry’s father, Ivan Methvin, the dirty filthy squealer who set me up, got kilt by a hit-and-run driver in 1948. The article says the perpetrator never got caught. I chuckle when I read that most people think it was my kin or my sympathizers who did it. Thank you, secret avenger. I hope good luck shone down upon you all the rest of your days.

  The boy clicks onto the pictures and they get real big on the screen. Henry Methvin looks exactly the way I remember him, strong as a bulldog with piercing blue eyes. Eyes I now want to poke out with a sharp stick and roast over a fire for what he done to me. But when I read a bit further, I’m giddy with happiness. Turns out Henry met as gruesome a death as me and Bonnie. Got run over by a train that took off right when he was scampering beneath it. Ha! Looks like God took care of my vengeance for me just fine. Thank you, Lord!

  My only perturbance is that I didn’t get to do it myself.

  My eyes get wide as pancakes when I see pictures of me and Bonnie—the ones we sent to the papers. There was the time I scooped her up in my arms like we was newlyweds. Pictures of me and Henry in our trench coats, our arms draped over each other’s shoulders like we was best friends. God, I was stupider than a stump of wood. After some reminiscing, my eyes freeze on a large ad at the bottom. When I read what it says, I nearly wet myself from shock.

  BONNIE AND CLYDE AMBUSH MUSEUM

  See it all as it really happened!

  Visit the spot where the outlaws were gunned down!

  Photos galore!

  Check us out in Gibsland, Louisiana!

  They got a whole museum about us? Pride springs forth from my innards as bright as the first day of spring. Right as I’m gloating about how lucky I am, horrible pictures loom big onto the screen—snapshots of my getaway car blown to pieces, my body lying sideways in the car, mouth open, blood everywhere. I wish I could look away, but I can’t.

  Jackrabbit scrawls something on a paper and holds it up alongside the writing contraption. There’s an arrow pointing at my corpse. “You’re dead. Stay that way.”

  Have your fun now, Jack Daniel, because soon, you’re all mine.

  Looking at them pictures does make me realize how life can turn on a dime. One minute we was riding high, ready to blow through Texas and on to Missouri, and then next we was dead. Only a hair past twenty years old, the two of us. I get a pain in my chest thinking about it. But then I make myself cheer right back up. The Lord gave me a Second Coming, just like He’ll have one day, so there ain’t nothing to wail about.

  At the bottom is a picture of me and Bonnie sitting together with our arms around each other. It says “Together Forever ~ May 23, 1934 ~ 9:10 A.M.”

  Something about that date irks me. But I don’t have time to think because the fool shuts the lid and reaches for his communicating device. He holds it up to his ear, so it must be
some sort of newfangled telephone. Course, I can’t hear nothing anyhow. A minute later, he pushes a button and sets the contraption down. Lo and behold, the cockroach finally bathes.

  As he washes up, I think about that date again, trying to figure out why it’s getting under my skin. Did I get slaughtered on Mama’s birthday? No, that was March 23rd, not May. Is May 23rd a holiday? I run through every holiday I know, and it ain’t that neither. I try to block out everything and remember the numbers I memorized that Milo tole me.

  5-2-3-9-10.

  That’s when I figure it out. The answer’s as clear as if an angel brought me Jack Daniel’s head on a silver platter. I’d fall to my knees and thank the Lord for providing me with the answer if I had my body back right now.

  May 23, 1934 at 9:10 A.M.

  The deadline is our dead time.

  Hot damn! Now I know the truth! I’d bet anything that the thick-headed dimwit didn’t pick up on that. God sent me that message, not him. God’s trying to tell me that whoever has control of this body on the anniversary of my death wins the grand prize—L-I-F-E. Maybe we ain’t got to share bodies no more. Out with the Jackrabbit, in with the Clydesdale.

  It’s now plain to see that G stands for Gibsland, which is where I aim to be when our deadline hits—in the same spot I died—and I’ll need to be there for my un-dying, too. Hallelujah! Then I’ll set forth on my task to end the lives of all the Methvin kin.

  A niggling thought winds its way into my mind. Killing someone’s grandkids ain’t the same as sticking it to the one who brought you down. None of them was even alive at the time, so that don’t seem right. Looks like I need to think a mite longer about what I want to do. I know one thing for certain—I ain’t gonna live like dirt the way my folks did—always scrambling for money, never having enough to eat, having to move when we couldn’t pay the rent. And while I didn’t much like running from the laws my whole life, I did fancy being famous. Not even pitching woo with Bonnie in the back seat compares with the rush of pride I got whenever my name was bantered about by strangers. I almost think about Bonnie then, but catch myself. Better train myself now to deflect them thoughts whenever they hit me—like cheap bullets off of steel.