by Amy Harmon
His father had looked at Fish as if he had no idea what Fish was talking about, and Fish had burst out laughing, enjoying the feeling of stumping his father for once. That night they’d gotten drunk, though, and the question had been posed again, this time with a slightly different paradox.
“Fisher! Wait! You’re going to fall.”
Finn felt the fog in his own brain, in the way his lips struggled to form the words. He was drunk. He hated being drunk. Fish was drunk too. Which was why walking along the roofline was a bad idea. But Finn followed him, just like he always did, climbing the ladder that wouldn’t hold still, placing his feet on rungs that wavered before his eyes.
Fish just laughed. “I’m not gonna fall. What was that thing Dad told us about the arrow in flight? The paradox? Or was it the pair o’ dicks? The arrow isn’t really moving, remember? It’s motionless. If we fall, we aren’t really falling.” Fish laughed uproariously at himself, and Finn laughed too.
Pair of dicks. That’s what they were. They shared the same face, the same room, the same friends, but at least they didn’t have to share the same dick. That was good. Fish liked to put his in some nasty places. He had terrible taste in women.
The paradox Fish was talking about was another one of the Greek philosopher Zeno’s—Dad loved Zeno. Zeno said in order for an object to move, it has to change position. But in any given instant, the arrow isn’t moving to where it is, because it’s already there, and it’s not moving to where it’s not because no time has passed for it to get there. So in essence, if time is made up of instants, and if in any given instant the arrow is not moving, then motion is impossible.
The tangle the paradox created in Finn’s head became a tangle in his feet, and about halfway up the ladder he slipped, proving motion is indeed possible and extremely painful as he hit the ground.
He laid there, stunned, the wind knocked from his chest, his eyes on the sky. It was unclear and the air felt wet and heavy as he struggled to pull oxygen into his deflated lungs. You couldn’t see stars in Southie. He wondered if you could see the stars in St. Louis, where his father was moving. The thought made him angry, the anger clearing the muddle from his head better than the fall from the ladder.
“Since when have you ever listened to anything Dad says, Fish? And you are going to fall,” Finn shouted, and struggled back up the ladder, wondering if he was already too late. He hadn’t heard anything.
Fish was sitting on one of the little gables above the two windows that overlooked the front yard. Finn made his way gingerly to the other, straddling it like he was taking a turn on the mechanical bull at O’Shaughnessy’s, and the roofline swam and bucked a little, making the comparison even more apt. The alcohol in his belly sloshed and rose in his throat, and Finn realized that the bull was going to throw him if he didn’t hold on. He lay against the shifting shingles and gripped the edge of the dormer weakly. But instead of getting tossed he did some tossing of his own, throwing up the contents of his stomach, watching as it waterfalled over the side of the roof and down onto the front walk. He was pretty sure he hadn’t made the eight second whistle.
“You throwing up already, Infinity?” Fish laughed. “For someone who soaks up so much shit, it’s amazing you can’t soak up a few shots.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Finn mumbled wishing he could take a shot at his brother, but knowing he probably should just hold still. Very still. “Why are we up here, Fish? You wanna die?”
“Nah. I wanna live. I wanna live!” Fish shouted into the fog, and laughed, raising his arms and throwing back his head, his balance seemingly unimpaired by the alcohol. Finn shut his eyes, wondering how in the hell he was going to get back down.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he groaned.
“Nobody said you had to follow me up, little brother.” Two hours separating their births officially made Finn the little brother.
“Of course I have to follow you. We’re a pair, remember?” Finn sighed, willing the world to settle so he could climb down.
“Are we really? Let me tell you the paradox of the pair o’ dicks, my young friend. If a pair of dicks can piss, screw, and stand up all by themselves, what’s the point of being a pair?”
Fish impersonated their father so perfectly, his tone of voice so thoughtful and serious that Finn couldn’t help but laugh, and he decided to play along.
“If you lose one, you have a spare.” Finn offered a solution to the ridiculous riddle.
“Ah, but that’s the paradox.” Fish stroked his chin just like their father did, as if he had a little goatee. “We’re a pair of dicks, but we’re nothing alike. So are we really a pair? And if you lost me, would you truly be my spare?” Fish shook his head in a very professorial manner, tsking like Finn wasn’t trying—something else their father did sometimes.
Then he answered his own question, but he abandoned the impersonation. “You are Infinity, and I am Infinity’s opposite.”
“Infinitesimal,” Finn said. “Infinitesimal is the twin of infinity.”
“Oh, that’s rich!” Fish replied. “Infinity means immeasurably large, and infinitesimal is immeasurably small—I know that much math.”
“Exactly,” Finn smiled, going in for the kill. “I mean, we are talking about our dicks, right?”
Finn smiled at the memory, the humor banishing the discomfort he’d felt at William’s uncanny question. Fish had laughed so hard he’d almost fallen off the roof, and they had ended up helping each other down the ladder in what could have been a disaster instead of a sweet memory. It was just one of many close calls leading up to the ultimate disaster six months later.
Finn looked at Bonnie and pondered Fish’s question—did Finn exist because he was a reflection of Fish? Or had Fish existed because he was a reflection of Finn? Maybe neither. Maybe both. One egg, two people. Maybe in the beginning they were one, but that day had long since passed. He didn’t dare pose the question to Bonnie. He wondered if she still thought she existed as a reflection of her sister.
William snorted in his sleep and another large, smelly foot found its way onto the console between them.
“He’s a little crazy, isn’t he?” Finn sighed, turning his attention to the problem at hand.
Bonnie shrugged. “I don’t know. What has he really said that’s so crazy? People like to throw words like crazy and emotionally unstable around when people are just . . . different. It’s a way to shut people up. It’s a way to control. Nothing scarier than someone who is bat shit. Nothing more intimidating than someone who is ‘mentally ill.’” Bonnie lifted her hands and made quotations in the air. “Slap that label on someone and it’s over, whether it’s true or not. Their freedoms and their credibility are gone forever—little notations on driver’s licenses, little files that follow them through life, closed doors, suspicious looks, ready medication. I say let William preach. He’s not hurting anyone.”
He’d touched a nerve. Bonnie was a little too vehement and ready in her argument, like she’d had it in her own mind a hundred times. He wondered again about her relationship with her grandmother, about the road that had ended on a bridge a little less than a week before. Bonnie wasn’t mentally ill. Bear had said it right. Her spirit had been broken. Maybe not entirely—she still had more light and personality in her little finger than Finn had in his whole, big body. But she had sustained some pretty serious fractures.
And it was time for a reckonin’.
WILLIAM LEFT US in Joplin with a fervent sermon about taking care of each other and watching for angels in disguise.
“If you have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me!” he quoted boisterously before he thanked us for feeding and clothing him . . . well, clothing his feet, anyway. Finn had given him his old boots. Luckily, neither the old boots nor the new ones had been in the Blazer when I’d ditched Finn in Cincinnati and then ended up losing our ride and everything in it.
Before William left he handed me the cardboard sign tha
t had reeled me in and won him a ride to Joplin.
“Here you go, Miss Bonnie. You keep this.”
I believe in Bonnie and Clyde.
On the back side he’d written a new message.
I believe in Bonnie for Infinity.
“Don’t you mean Bonnie and Infinity?” I laughed.
“Yeah. That too.” He smiled and waved as he walked away, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulders, his eyes on his new (old) boots, like a kid in new sneakers who can’t quit looking at his feet. And I felt like I had missed something important.
OUR HOTLINE HAS received multiple sightings of Bonnie Rae Shelby in the company of ex-convict, Infinity James Clyde, ranging as far north as Buffalo and as far south as Louisiana. We even have what appears to be an armed robbery of a liquor store outside of Chicago carried out by none other than the wanted felon, Infinity Clyde, with Bonnie Rae Shelby herself behind the wheel of a dark colored Bronco, waiting at the curb. Other witnesses claim there was no woman in the driver’s seat, but that there was a woman in the backseat, who appeared to be restrained in some way. Witnesses say she even called out to pedestrians. So far these sightings are unconfirmed and police aren’t commenting on leads. Raena Shelby, Bonnie Rae Shelby’s grandmother and longtime manager, gave a brief interview to Buzz TV about her granddaughter last evening. She claims Bonnie Rae was taken against her will and openly pled with Mr. Clyde at one point, to release the superstar.
THE CONVENIENCE STORE in Joplin, Missouri where we dropped William was kitschy and fun, a little of this and a little of that, and I found myself lingering over a display of books, wondering what Finn liked to read when his head wasn’t filled with numbers. I’d never been much of a reader. The words in my head always came with a tune, and I wondered if books would hold my interest longer if they were written in rhyme, so I could sing them.
My hands ran over the titles of the books, cookbooks that boasted “a taste of Missouri,” romance novels from “local authors,” and even a copy of Huckleberry Finn, the cover a picture of a boy and a black man who looked a little like William without all the hair, gliding down the Mississippi. I had to have it and snickered at the thought of Finn’s face when I asked him to sign it. I started to turn away in anticipation of that face, when something caught my eye.
On the top shelf of the display, propped so the cover could be seen, was a flimsy, dusty book that looked like someone had produced it on a home printer. It was the title that caught my eye, and I pulled the booklet from the shelf, my eyes on the picture of a couple dressed in 1930s clothing, smiling at the camera, the girl perched on the left arm of the guy, clutching him as he clutched her, his left arm holding her aloft, almost in a childlike pose, which showed his strength and her affection.
He held a white hat in his right hand, which partially obscured the license plate of the car behind them. Above the picture were the words Bonnie & Clyde. Below the picture, the words Their Story. It was simple and unsophisticated. It wouldn’t take me more than an hour to read it from cover to cover, twice. But I was spellbound by that picture, by the couple that shared our names. I snatched up all the copies on the shelf, a thin stack of them, as if it were our story and the pages held our secrets.
The cashier seemed surprised that I needed six copies of the glorified pamphlet, but was “glad to see them go,” as they’d been sitting on that same shelf for as long as she’d worked there, which would be ten years in May.
“It’s supposed to be pretty accurate, though. The gal that put that book together was a relation or distant cousin of Clyde Barrow’s, I guess. She was real protective of those two—kind of obsessed with them, actually. She said theirs was a love story first and foremost, and people got distracted by the violence. She’s gone now, but I didn’t have the heart to throw them away.”
The friendly cashier bagged my purchases, which included some lunch to replace the sandwiches William had eaten, as well as a couple of homemade suckers and a stack of pralines because I had a sweet tooth and wasn’t in the mood to deny it any longer. Gran had made me ultra-self-conscious about everything I ate because “being thin was part of the job description.”
“You know, you should drive by Bonnie and Clyde’s hideout while you’re here, since you’re buyin’ the book and all. It’s on your way outta town. It’s just off Highway 43.” She indicated the street we were on. “Head south and take a right on 34th street. There’s a big liquor store on the corner, you can’t miss it. The house is between Joplin and Oakridge Drive, on your right.” She took one of the books out of my bag and turned a few pages, finding what she was looking for. She tapped a picture and showed it to me.
“Here it is. It looks just the same. They stayed here in Joplin back in 1933, according to this here,” she quoted. “You can’t go inside anymore, but you can see it from the road.” I thanked her again and strolled out to the car with my finds and climbed in beside Finn. His eyes were focused on a police car parked at another pump, his brow furrowed.
“Finn?” I asked, not liking the look on his face.
“That cop has just been sitting in his car since he pulled up. No big deal, but he keeps looking over here, and a second ago he picked up his radio and started talking into it, still looking at me the whole time.”
I shrugged. Finn was nervous around the police, understandably. But we hadn’t done anything and I was eager to see Bonnie and Clyde’s hidey hole.
“Let’s go. Maybe he just thinks you’re hot.”
“Most likely he thinks this car’s hot—as in stolen.”
“But it isn’t . . . so we don’t have anything to worry about.” But I thought about the scene at the bank and didn’t argue with him.
Finn pulled away from the pump and eased out into the intersection, heading south down Main Street. He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, as if expecting to be followed by the police car still parked at the pump. I was too busy looking around me, making sure we didn’t miss 34th street. I’d been part of a group of country singers that had raised money to help rebuild Joplin after the tornado hit in 2011. Sections of Joplin had been completely leveled by the twister. In fact, it had headed straight down 32nd street, but the town was already thriving again, building going on in every direction. The old gas station hadn’t been new, however, and I marveled at the sheer randomness of a storm that would take out one business and leave another, take one life and spare another. It was the randomness that made it fair, I supposed.
“Turn right!” I yelped, realizing I should have given Finn a better heads up. He turned without hesitation, and our back wheels squealed a little. The car behind us honked, but I laughed, and Finn lost the worried look he’d had since spotting the police car.
“What are we doing?” he asked.
“We’re sightseeing.” I peered down the street, doubtfully. It felt like spring in Joplin. Late winter could be like that in the south. The sun was shining, the trees looked like they were thinking about sporting some green, and 34th street looked sleepy and content, hardly the place where a shoot-out with a pair of bank robbers cost two policemen their lives eighty years earlier.
“Between Joplin and Oakridge on the right,” I said, repeating the directions the woman at the gas station had given me. “There!” I pointed at a boxy, light-colored stone home facing the street. A pair of large windows sat above two garage doors, just like in the picture. It was neat and well-kept, pretty even, with a side yard. But there was no sign indicating it was a historical landmark. There was a chain link fence around the yard, and the houses around it looked lived in—a tetherball pole with a faded ball stood in the yard of the house next door. It was just a demure house on an old street in a quiet neighborhood. I looked down at the book again to make sure we were in the right place.
“What are we looking at?” Clyde asked, parking in front of the two garage doors and staring up at the big windows above us.
“The infamous bank robbers lived over this garage for less than two weeks before the Ap
ril 13, 1933 shootout with the authorities, who had been tipped off about the apartment hideout. Two officers died, and Bonnie and Clyde escaped,” I read out loud from the pamphlet.
“Here? This is their hideout?” Finn marveled and looked around once more at the surrounding homes. A boy of about nine or ten pedaled by on his bike, eyeing us curiously.
I lifted up the little paper book and showed him the cover. “I bought this at the gas station. The lady there thought I might want to see their love nest.”
Clyde took the book from my hands and opened it to the first page.
“You’ve read the story of Jesse James,
Of how he lived and died
If you’re still in the need
Of something to read,
Here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde,” he read.
Apparently, Bonnie was a poet. She’d written two poems, stories really, and I could imagine them set to some bluegrass music, a little harmonica between the stanzas, maybe a fast fiddle in the getaway scenes. One poem was called “Suicide Sal,” about a woman who had loved a man who betrayed her, landing her in jail, and the other, “The Story of Bonnie and Clyde.” I started to read as Finn drove, leaving the inauspicious hideaway and merging up onto I-44, Joplin at our backs, but Bonnie and Clyde still very much with us as we headed toward Oklahoma.
I read for almost an hour, the account very detailed and elaborate, and obviously written by someone who cared for Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. I thought it was funny that Clyde’s middle name was really Chestnut—not Champion like some accounts claim—and resolved to add that to my list of nicknames for Finn. He only volunteered comment once, when I read about Clyde’s time in prison.
“Clyde was sent to Eastham Prison farm in April 1930. While in prison, Barrow beat to death another inmate who had repeatedly assaulted him sexually. This was Clyde Barrow's first killing. A fellow inmate said he ‘watched Clyde change from a schoolboy to a rattlesnake.’