by Amy Harmon
I lurched for the door and skidded to a halt. How would I catch a cab or take a bus? I didn’t have any money. I didn’t have my purse or my credit cards. I never carried any of that stuff. I never needed to. When I needed something, Gran or someone made sure I got it. I panicked for a full ten seconds until my eyes fell on Gran’s purse sitting on the vanity. I couldn’t believe she’d left it.
Gran had been poor a lot longer than she’d been rich, and we poor folk liked to keep our money on hand. We stuffed it under our mattresses and in our bras and carved out holes in our walls for our treasures. Gran had the poor man’s mentality, would have until the day she died, and she kept herself flush in cash at all times. I was guessing she had way more than what I’d need for a cab, but I was getting antsy, sure my time was up, so I grabbed it, not taking the time to look through it.
If I knew Gran, she had at least a hundred grand back in the safe on my tour bus. And she was welcome to it. I slung Gran’s designer bag over my shoulder, put my head down and opened the dressing room door.
Then I walked away. No one was waiting outside the door, and as far as I know, no one looked at me twice. I was careful not to walk too fast.
When the lure of escape had started flickering in me several weeks ago, I had begun to make note of the exits wherever I performed. I would walk the perimeter, the concrete hallways, the vast underbellies and industrial labyrinths of the stadiums and arenas, Bear on my heels, using the excuse that I needed to stretch my legs, to get some exercise. It had become a game I played. A game of “what if?” Wherever I went, I plotted a mad dash. Dreamed of it. Fantasized about it. And now I was here, walking away from an arena that symbolized super stardom. And I didn’t look back.
AS SOON AS I let go of the metal truss, I was sorry I had. In that instant, I wondered if everyone felt that way at the end. No life flashing before your eyes, no silent movie reel. Just a brief, yet perfect awareness that it’s over, and the finish line has been crossed. I tipped forward, a slow motion swan dive, with my feet still clinging to the metal rail. I felt the stranger beside me lunge for me. His hand fisted in the back of my stolen sweatshirt and yanked, changing my trajectory, and my feet lost purchase on the rail. My legs flew out from under me, and instead of falling forward, I was falling downward, and my left side connected with the metal railing we’d been standing on. His efforts must have knocked him off balance too, because I felt his weight glance off my shoulder. I landed in a painful sprawl, half on the stranger, half on the wet concrete that butted up to the guardrail, and I immediately tried to push myself up and away from his grasping arms, furious and fighting, robbed of my choice once again.
“Stop it!” he bit out, gasping for air as my elbow connected with his ribs, and I ground it in, trying to stand. “Are you crazy?”
“I’m not crazy!” I cried. “Who are you, anyway? Go away! I didn’t ask for your help!”
My hat had come off in the tussle. I patted the ground for it, but I couldn’t find it. I felt the loss of Bear’s hat more than the near-death experience, and I wrapped my arms around my head, leaned back against the rail, and tucked my legs in against my chest, breathing hard, blinking back the tears. Maybe the tears weren’t for the hat. Maybe it was relief or maybe it was fear, or maybe it was the weight of not knowing what came next. I hadn’t thought beyond the bridge. I knew I couldn’t climb the railing again, and I knew there would be no more falling into the fog. I was cured of the flickering lure. At least for now.
“I might cry too if my hair looked like that,” the stranger said softly and crouched down at my side. And then he handed me my hat. I took it from his outstretched hand and pulled it fiercely over the ravaged clumps of hair.
“I’m Clyde.” He left his hand outstretched, as if waiting for me to clasp it in greeting. I looked at it numbly. His hands were large, like the rest of him. But he wasn’t big like Bear was. Bear was bulky, and bullish, and built like a blockade, which is what he was, essentially. Clyde was rangy, and long, and broad-shouldered, and his hands looked capable and strong, if that made any sense.
“Clyde,” I repeated numbly. It wasn’t a question. I was testing it out. The name didn’t really fit him. He didn’t look like a Clyde. Clyde was the name of the guy that ran the one-pump service station in Grassley, Tennessee, at the bottom of the hill where I had lived all my sixteen years, until Gran convinced my folks we could all be rich if they let her take me to Nashville. The Clyde of Grassley, Tennessee only had two teeth and he liked to strum his banjo that only had two strings. Two teeth, two strings. I hadn’t made that connection before. Maybe two was old Clyde’s favorite number.
“What’s your name, crazy girl?” the new Clyde asked, his hand still extended, waiting for me to shake and make friends.
“Bonnie,” I answered finally. And then I laughed like I really was crazy. My name was Bonnie and his name was Clyde. Bonnie and Clyde. Wasn’t that just perfect? I shook his hand then, and he swallowed it up inside his, and in that second I felt both reckless and redeemed, like maybe I wasn’t done yet, after all.
“Yeah. Right. You don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I get it.” Clyde shrugged. “I’ll call you Bonnie if you want me to.” Clyde obviously thought I was playing with him, but he seemed willing to play along. His voice was still mild, still that low-pitched rumble that made me think it took a lot to make him lose his cool and had me wondering if he could sing. He’d be a bass, hitting all the low notes and anchoring the chord.
“Are you running from something, Bonnie?”
“I guess I am,” I answered. “Or maybe I’m just leaving something behind.”
His eyes searched my face, and I bowed my head. I didn’t know what kind of music Clyde listened to. Probably not the kind I sang. But my face had been plastered in enough high-profile places the last six years to make me extremely recognizable, whether you liked country/pop crossovers or not.
“Is there someone we can call?”
“I don’t want to call anyone! I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to be your sidekick and rob banks, Clyde. I want to be alone now. I want you to go. Okay?” My voice sounded snarly but I didn’t care. I needed him to leave. As soon as word got out that Bonnie Rae Shelby had “disappeared” he was going to figure out who I was. I just wanted to get far enough away that it wouldn’t matter that he’d seen me.
He sighed and swore under his breath. Then he stood up and started walking away. Several cars whooshed by, each a blast coming out of nowhere, and I wondered suddenly if Clyde was on foot. Maybe that’s how he’d seen me. I don’t know how he could have otherwise. I looked around me, as if there were answers in the mist. Instead, I just got dizzy and more confused. I didn’t even know where I was.
I stood up and hurried after Clyde. He was already lost in the fog, so I started to jog a little, stuffing my hands in the baggy pockets of the sloppy sweatshirt, listening for his footfalls, hoping he hadn’t veered off. I shook myself. He couldn’t veer off. There was only one direction he could go on the bridge without turning back toward me. I wasn’t sure why I was chasing him, after having just successfully chased him off, but I suddenly didn’t know what else to do.
The sound of my feet against the bridge changed subtly, and I realized I’d reached a place where it widened and construction cones separated the driving lanes from a pull-out area. There was a white work truck with “Boston Municipal” written on the side parked in the service zone. A beat-up, orange, older-model Chevy Blazer was pulled off behind it, hazard lights pulsing. Clyde sat on the thick bumper, knees wide, hands clasped between them, as if he’d been waiting for me to arrive.
“Is that yours?” I pointed at the Blazer.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you park it here?”
“I couldn’t very well stop back there in this fog. I would have caused a pile-up.”
“Why did you stop at all?”
“I saw a kid, standing on the railing, getting ready to jump into the Myst
ic River.”
“How?” My voice was slightly disbelieving, even accusing.
He looked at me blankly, obviously not understanding my question.
“How did you see me through the fog?”
He shrugged. “I guess I just looked at the right time. There you were.” I stepped back in surprise and considered his answer, puzzled.
“So you pulled off up here, and walked back? For me?” I had gone from disbelieving to incredulous. “Why?”
He stood up and turned away, walking toward the driver’s side door, ignoring my question. “Are you done jumping for tonight, Bonnie?”
“What if I said no?” I challenged and crossed my arms.
He stopped and turned slowly. “Look. Do you need a ride somewhere? A bus station? Home? The hospital? Wherever it is, I’ll take you there. Okay?”
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go. I turned in a circle and rubbed my arms, considering my options, plotting the next step, and I was at a loss. And I was tired, so incredibly tired. Maybe I could just tag along with Clyde until we passed a hotel. Then he could drop me off, and I could sleep for a few days or a few years, until my world righted itself and I had some clarity or some courage, both of which I seemed to be lacking at the moment.
A police car blazed past and then another, their lights making the foggy darkness feel like a smoke-filled nightclub, complete with a psychedelic disco ball. Clyde and I both flinched as the sirens wailed, and Clyde’s eyes met mine. “You comin?”
I nodded and scurried to the passenger side. I had to wrench on the handle a little, but on the second attempt it came open. I slid up onto the tattered seat, pulling the door shut behind me, hugging it as Clyde inched away from the curb and merged into the trickle of traffic coming off the bridge. The inside of the Blazer was still warm, and the radio was set on a classical music station. I didn’t like classical music much. It surprised me that Clyde did. He looked more like the Pearl Jam type, or maybe Nirvana. His knit cap and the week’s worth of stubble on his jaw made him look a little like Kurt Cobain. He kept his eyes forward, but I guessed he knew I was scoping him out, as well as the inside of his ride. He was obviously going somewhere. He had a few boxes, a couple of army bags, a stack of blankets and a pillow, and a very ratty looking houseplant. Behind the second row of seats I could see what looked to be the neck of a guitar case. The urge to pull the case over the seats and into my arms was sudden and intense, as if cradling it would help me find my way, or at the very least, comfort me the way the instrument always had.
“You goin’ somewhere?” I asked.
“Out west.”
“Out west? What is this, a John Wayne movie? There’s a lot that’s west of Boston. How far out west?” I asked.
“Vegas,” he said, and turned down the strings.
“Huh.” Vegas. That was quite the drive. I wondered how long it would take. I really had no clue. It was all the way across the country. Major road trip.
“I’m headed that direction too,” I lied enthusiastically. He looked over at me, his eyebrows disappearing under the thick edge of his cap.
“You’re headed to Vegas?”
“Well, maybe not that far, you know, uh, just . . . west,” I hedged. I didn’t want him to think I wanted to tag along all the way to Vegas, although suddenly I thought I might. “Can I ride with you for a ways?”
“Look, kid—”
“Clyde?” I immediately interrupted. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m not jailbait or an escapee from prison or a mental institution. I’m not a member of the Klan, or even a Bible salesman, although I do believe in Jesus and am not ashamed to admit it, though I will keep my love for him to myself if you’ve got issues with that. I have some money to contribute to gas and food and whatever else we need. I just need a lift out . . . west.” I liked that he’d used “out west” first, because I was milking it for all it was worth now that I needed a destination.
Clyde actually smiled. It was just a quick twist of his lips, but I guessed that was saying something. He didn’t seem like the smiley type.
“You don’t have anything but the clothes on your back and that little purse, and your name isn’t Bonnie, so you’re obviously hiding or running, which means there’s trouble on your ass,” he objected. “And I sure as hell don’t want trouble.”
“I’ve got money. And I can pick up what I need along the way. I packed light.” I shrugged my shoulder. “I didn’t think I’d need a suitcase in heaven.”
Clyde choked and looked at me in disbelief. I didn’t blame him. I was joking, but I sounded crazy. I felt a little crazy. I continued talking.
“And, for your information, my name really is Bonnie. But you don’t look much like a Clyde.”
“Clyde’s my last name,” Clyde offered, somewhat hesitantly. “I’ve been called Clyde for so long now, I use it automatically.”
“So your friends call you Clyde?”
“Uh, yeah. My friends,” Clyde agreed with an edge to his voice that made me believe there was something there he didn’t want to discuss.
“Well, my friends and family call me Bonnie. So you can too. Even if it is kinda funny.”
“Bonnie and Clyde,” Clyde said under his breath.
“Yep. Let’s just hope this little adventure has a better ending then theirs did.”
Clyde didn’t respond. I didn’t know if he was going to let me ride along or not, but he hadn’t said no. The little voice in my head that sounded like Gran told me I had officially lost my marbles. When I stood on that bridge and let go, my mind obviously hadn’t been rescued with the rest of me. It must have tumbled down into the water below the bridge, leaving me a brainless zombie. So I leaned my forehead against the passenger side window, closed my eyes, and played dead.
FINN CLYDE WASN’T a stupid man. In fact, he was brilliant. As a child he was fascinated by reoccurring themes in nature. Why do most flowers have five petals? Why are honeycombs shaped like hexagons? Why do numbers have corresponding colors? He was eight before he realized not everyone saw the colors.
Numbers also had weight. When he multiplied them, the numbers swirled in his head like a blizzard in a child’s snow globe, the answers settling in his mind softly, just like the snowflakes, as if gravity were responsible for the solution. As he got older, the fascination with the patterns nature presented grew into a fascination for probability, using mathematical formulas to predict outcomes. And his predictions became eerily accurate. So much so that he could handily beat anyone at chess, poker, or even games that seemed governed by chance. There was no such thing as chance to Finn. Chance could be analyzed, sliced, diced, and pegged using a little brain power.
But even Finn Clyde couldn’t predict that his brother, Fish, would get desperate, rob a convenience store with a stolen weapon, and drag Finn into the mess. Finn was brilliant, but he was also young. And he was loyal. And Finn had run toward his brother instead of driving away when Fish took a bullet in the stomach after demanding that the Vietnamese owner of the convenience store empty his cash drawer. Fisher Clyde died in the front seat of their mother’s car in his brother’s arms. And at barely eighteen, Finn Clyde’s fortunes took a definite turn for the worse. Life had not been kind since then, and at twenty-four, six and a half years after that fatal night, Finn Clyde was still brilliant, but he wasn’t nearly as young or loyal, and he wasn’t running toward trouble anymore. And Bonnie was trouble.
She was asleep, her head resting against the window, her arms wrapped around her middle as if she was physically holding herself together. She was slim, almost too slim. She said she was twenty-one, but she could pass for younger. When he had seen her perched on the railing, arms braced, her slim form appearing through a sudden and almost suspiciously providential parting of the fog, he had thought she was a kid. A boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen. And he’d driven past. You didn’t stop on Tobin Bridge. Hell, you didn’t walk or bike on Tobin Bridge. He didn’t know how the kid
managed to be where he was. Where she was, Finn corrected himself.
He was heading northbound across the bridge into Chelsea. He had a stop to make—a goodbye—and then he was gone. The Blazer was packed with everything he owned in the world, and he was leaving Boston, leaving it all. New start, new people, new job. New life. But something about that figure in the fog, perched for flight, whispered to the old Finn Clyde, the Finn that didn’t know better, the Finn that ran toward trouble. And before he knew it, he was pulled off in a maintenance lane, trotting back toward the jumper.
When she’d spoken he recognized his mistake. The kid was a woman. Her voice was a smoky drawl, a voice so completely at odds with her enormous sweatshirt and her tear-stained face that he’d almost fallen off the bridge himself. Then she’d looked at him, and Finn saw something he’d seen on a thousand faces in the last six and a half years. Beat-down, hopeless, finished, blank. It was a look he had battled in his own reflection. It was defeat.
Finn wasn’t good with words. He didn’t know how to talk her down. He’d been tempted to throw statistics at her—he’d started to—spouting something about odds. Then he’d seen her high-heeled red boots, and it had thrown him. Those boots weren’t the boots of a runaway teenager or a penniless prostitute. Those boots looked expensive. They looked like they cost more than most people in his neighborhood in Southie made in a week. And he’d been immediately disgusted with her. He’d even taunted her a little, thinking that she was after attention or even a thrill, thinking in minutes her Harvard boyfriend was going to show up in his Beamer and beg her to come down.
Something in her eyes changed as the words left his mouth, and once again, Finn realized he had predicted wrong. He’d lunged for her as she let go, Fisher’s death suddenly so fresh in his mind he could hear his brother’s gurgling last breath. Fisher had died, but this girl would not.