I open the door, and music hits me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the upbeat tempo and rhythm blows back my hair. Being that Blanche convinced me to take out all my hairpins, it’d be a whirlwind of blonde strands.
I ain’t more than a single step into the room, with its empty bar, its empty tables, and its empty dance floor, before Blanche chuckles next to me, bumping my shoulder. “Well, this ought to be your theme song.”
“Why?” I ask, noting how the stage certainly ain’t empty. I’m told the performers vary from night to night—one singer, two, sometimes three. Tonight is a single girl: dark skin, dark hair, dark dress, draped in pearls. She raises a gloved hand to say hello.
Blanche laughs again and swings her bent arms dramatically. “It’s called ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’”
“You slay me,” I say sarcastically. But then I turn more serious. “What’s this type of music called?”
“Dixieland. New Orleans jazz. Hot jazz. It goes by many— Well, ain’t he looking yummy tonight.”
Blanche picks up speed. Buck is her destination, in his pin-striped suit. I suck in a breath; Mary is right behind him, coming out from the bar’s back room. Having nowhere else to go, I follow Blanche. It feels like the four men from upstairs are following me, too, but that’s only ’cause they’re on their way to the bar.
Buck breaks his kiss from Blanche to greet me, his smooth hello somehow making me feel uncomfortable and two feet tall. Behind him, Mary shakes her head in amusement. When our eyes connect, her smile fades. She saunters over to the bar in her dress shoes and swishing dress without sayin’ a word.
I wring my hands at Mary’s snub and avert my gaze, which lands on my own satin pumps with ridiculously decorated heels.
“Looking good, Saint Bonnelyn,” Buck says, upping my level of discomfort. “Wasn’t sure I’d see your face again.”
“My protégé,” Blanche says, saving me from having to respond, and wraps her arm ’round my waist, pulling me against her like a doll.
My black pantsuit was a compromise. I didn’t want to wear a shorter hemline and Blanche didn’t want me to wear a long skirt again. Apparently, women’s trousers are popping up here and there. Enough, anyway, for Blanche to allow me to wear ’em. She conveniently had a pair that she’d purchased the other day, in my smaller size, waiting for me in Big Bertha.
Not like she’d wear ’em even if they fit. Her sleeveless dress has layer upon layer of a fabric that moves with every motion she makes. “The right kind of glad rags for a night out on the town,” she insisted on the drive here.
“You lassies okay working the bar and keeping the glasses clean?” Buck asks us. “We just made an alcohol run, so you should have more than enough for the night.”
We both nod, Blanche a bit more enthusiastically.
“If you need me, I’ll be back at the tables, keeping the games going. Mary will be ’round, too.”
After that, we all get to work. By the end of each hour, eight more people have filed in. Before I know it, Doc’s is at full capacity. Even though we stop letting people in at eleven, I’ve no doubt the party will be hopping ’til the wee hours of the morning, my deadline to impress Mary.
I clear the tables at lightning speed. I gather drink-mixing ingredients for Blanche as quickly as possible. I wipe down the bar top without being asked. And when my butt is squeezed and I jump, catching Mary’s attention, I convince myself it’s only a bump of an elbow—that can somehow grip.
On edge, I keep my head down, focus on the work.
That is, ’til a boy steps up to the bar—the boy from the other night, with the lopsided grin, who looked like he had so much to say.
“Gin Rickey, please,” he says now, ignoring Blanche, his eyes narrowing in on me.
Gin, lime, sugar, soda.
Loudly, I set them out for Blanche to do the mixing, annoyed with myself when my hand shakes from the intensity of his gaze.
“No,” he says to me with a cocky smirk. “I’d like you to fix my drink.”
If Blanche wasn’t so amused, I think she’d be mad at his brush-off. But no, she pushes the small of my back ’til my stomach bumps the bar. “Go on,” she whispers into my ear.
I know how to make the drink, been watching Blanche do it all night, but I’m only seeing black spots where Pour gin and lime juice over ice, top with club soda should be.
There might as well be a spotlight over my head, the way they both stare at me, but I only have eyes for Blanche.
I don’t want to do this, my eyes say.
Why, I swear she says back.
I widen my eyes farther, shocked she ain’t seeing how this boy is gawking at me like he could eat me right up, and how that attention is wrong, coming from a non-Roy.
“Is there a problem here?”
Mary’s voice. I swallow, my mouth too dry.
I tighten my hand ’round the bottle’s neck, turning to her. “Not at all,” I say, barely looking at her. “Going to fix this man a drink.”
“Good,” she replies, and disappears into the back room.
The nameless boy whistles from ’cross the bar. Arrogant. Self-satisfied. Amused. Frustratingly attractive. If I were one to cuss, now’d be the time for it. I’ve spent the night trying unsuccessfully to meet Mary’s unreadable expressions with a Forgive my insults smile, while working my rear off.
This boy ain’t going to ruin it for me.
Swallowing a growl, I prepare his drink, pushing it toward him through the spillage when I’m done. Taking his money feels dirty, with how he licks his lips. His “Keep the change” feels even dirtier.
Then he goes and opens his mouth again.
“Excuse me,” I say to him, to Blanche, to anyone in earshot, before he can speak.
With an empty glass in each hand and one tucked under my arm, I escape to the back room and close the door behind me, leaning against it. The subdued noise of the back room is a godsend. I don’t want to think ’bout how that boy looked at me, in a way even Roy doesn’t do—and this non-Roy has no right.
A voice distracts me, Buck’s voice, coming through the crack of the office door. “So what are we going to do?”
“How much attention are we getting?” another man asks.
“Enough. My brother’s heard of Doc’s,” Buck says, “and he hasn’t been back in town long.”
“Doesn’t mean the police got wind of us,” a girl responds.
It’s Mary. I should leave. I want to leave. But the last thing I need is her hearing me and thinkin’ I’m eavesdropping.
I don’t dare to step farther into the back room, nor do I dare backpedal into the main room and let the noise seep in again. I’m stuck.
Buck comes into view through the slit in the door. “Look, all I’m sayin’ is, when I picked up last night’s order, I felt like I had eyes on me, ya know?”
“Is there any way to be more discreet?” the man asks.
I hear a clucking noise, and then, “What if I do the pickup?” Mary. “No one would suspect a woman to pick up bootlegs.”
Buck laughs. A hand slaps him. The glasses are sweaty in my grip.
“It’s not a bad idea,” the man says.
“Not one bit, Dr. Peterson. But Mary ain’t exactly known ’round town as the Virgin Mary. No offense.”
“I’ll do it.”
It takes a beat of my heart to realize who just spoke. I’m not sure I truly believe it, ’til Buck’s head whips in my direction. “Well, hot damn, Saint Bonnelyn.”
But nothin’ ’bout me is hot. I’m cold, right down to the bone. Denial hits me. I volunteered. And worse, I did so for the sole purpose of winning over Mary. All so I can keep an illegal job and spend its dirty money.
I take a tiny step back, my heels bumping the door, and one of the glasses slips loose from my hand. It shatters, and the office door swings wider. Mary stands there, mouth dropped open, before her lips curl into a smile.
Beside her is a man I recognize from a photo
graph upstairs: Dr. Peterson.
“Welcome to Doc’s,” he says. “Glad to have you on board.”
Regret and worry shoot goose bumps down my arms. “God help me,” I mutter.
7
That bootleg run is coming soon? Who knows when Mary will tap me on the shoulder? For the past few days, I’ve been trying to keep myself distracted, falling into a routine: work at Doc’s, work on the house, work at Doc’s, work on the house. In between, worry wedges itself in.
Right now, it’s work on the house, and I dip my paintbrush into the bucket, stroke the white paint down the sanded-down fence.
“Bonn? You all right? I think you got that part of the fence just fine.”
I startle at Roy’s words and turn, craning my head back to see the roof through the late-August sun.
Roy smiles. But it’s not a lopsided grin. It’s not a smirk. It’s not laced with desire followed by a demand that I, and only I, make him a drink. I shake my head, clearing away the memory of Non-Roy from the other night, and glance again at the fence, where I’ve painted the same board multiple times.
It’s a peculiar thing, worry. It can morph into paranoia or disguise itself as guiltiness, sometimes even creates doubt.
“Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.” I pause and think of the update my brother gave me yesterday. “Buster saw a doctor.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
Broken in three places, a hand that’s no good to the foreman—for months—’til it heals.
“Bonnelyn, I’ll say it a third time. I can help—”
“We’re making it work.” I hurry my next words so he can’t ask how. Ma already questioned me ’bout the pantry full of food, and I ain’t sure she believed I had a gangbuster couple of days at the diner. With her working ’round the clock, she’s none the wiser. “How’s it going up there?”
Roy motions with his hammer to the roof. “So far, so good. This part is finally all patched up, and I only hit my thumb once.”
“An improvement over yesterday.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but in a playful way. Then he slides down the roof. I hold my breath, keep holding it while he not so gracefully scurries down the ladder.
“How we doing on paint?” he asks.
“Should be enough.”
The porch is already shiny as new, and the fence is just ’bout done.
“Oh, good. I reckon Old Man Willard doesn’t have too much to spare.”
I scrunch my brows. Old Man Willard. Right. I lied, again, sayin’ I got the paint from him in exchange for helping his daughter with her English homework.
“But we do need some things from the hardware store,” Roy says. “You want to come?”
“She can’t,” Blanche says.
Blanche? I look over my shoulder, and there she is. Big Bertha is parked down the road at my ma’s house.
Roy narrows his eyes again, but this time there’s nothin’ playful ’bout it. He and Blanche don’t see eye to eye, haven’t since she convinced me to pocket money from the offering plate for candy when we were seven. “And why can’t Bonnelyn come?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Blanche says.
“Blanche,” I say, between my teeth. I touch Roy’s arm. “I got to work soon.” I conveniently leave out where. “Thought you did too?”
“So why is she here?” Roy nods his head toward my best friend.
My mouth opens, but no words come out. So I do something that could bite me in the butt. I redirect Roy’s question, putting the much-deserved heat on Blanche. “I don’t know. Why ya here, Blanche?”
There’s amusement in her eyes, and it only makes me more annoyed. “I know you’ve got work later and I got a hankering for some cheese grits. Figured I’d give you a ride into Dallas.”
“How sweet. Could’ve taken my bike, though, like I normally do,” I say. Roy doesn’t look convinced, probably ’cause I forced the words out.
“What are friends for? I see you ain’t quite done yet, though,” she says. “And I ain’t one to get my hands dirty, even for grits. Is Buster Boy home? I’m sure he can keep me company while I wait.”
Roy rolls his eyes, then reaches for my paintbrush. “I’ll clean up here. You go ahead.”
“You sure?” I ask him.
“If you got to work, you got to work.”
“I do,” I say.
It’s the truth, nothin’ but the truth, but somehow it still feels like a lie. And there’s that worry, that guilt again, jabbing me in the belly.
“Oh, and Blanche,” he says. “You may want to lay off the cheese grits.”
Blanche slaps her hip. “Boys don’t have a problem with our curves. Ain’t that right, Bonn?”
“Hey, you leave me out of this,” I say to her. To Roy: “Don’t listen to her.”
“Never do,” Roy says, but I don’t think I’m the only one flinging lies.
I lean up onto my toes, peck his stiff lips. “I’ll see you at church tomorrow?”
Roy nods and kisses the top of my head, his good-bye.
Blanche is already skipping away, having won. I follow, glaring at her back, but stopping for a second to watch Roy put the lid back on the paint can. Roy’s good to me—too good. And I won’t do anything to mess that up.
* * *
“I’m through with flirtin’,” I sing along softly, lyrics that are constantly ingrained in my head, and grab a rag to wipe down the bar at Doc’s. “It’s you that I’m thinkin’ of. Ain’t misbehavin’. I’m savin’ my love for you.”
I set my gaze longingly on the stage. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like if I ever had the nerve to stand up there, letting words pour from my mouth. To me, singing is the purest form of feeling free. My daddy said it’s ’cause those words, those melodies, come from deep within.
Same with our hopes and dreams, he believed. Daddy talked big, always wanting the best. It’s why he simply had to have our ma. I scrunch the rag in my fist, hoping my daddy wouldn’t disapprove of where I’ve been spending my nights.
Blanche flits up beside me, bumping me with her hip. “Why the long face? You ain’t still mad ’bout earlier, are ya?”
“Don’t know why you had to open your big mouth with Roy.”
She shrugs. “He’s easy to get worked up. Couldn’t help myself. Besides, I’m sure he suspects nothin’.”
I scratch my hairline, not convinced. “He better not. Lying to him is making me all itchy.”
“Please. I’m the one suffering. Can’t get those cheese grits out of my head.” She laughs, clearly dismissing her earlier actions. “Listen, I’m staying here tonight.” Blanche points toward the ceiling, bouncing on her toes, barely able to contain her excitement. “Buck’s got one of the apartments upstairs.” I raise an eyebrow at her news. “So take Big Bertha to get home. I’ll get her in the morning.”
“Okay,” I say.
“That’s it?” Blanche fires back. “No condemning me to hell for staying overnight with a boy?”
“I’ve got enough on my mind without worrying ’bout the fate of your soul.” And, really, she’s been sleeping on my couch every night this week. A night off from Blanche duty would be nice.
“Fine by me.” She drops her car keys on the bar, slaps my butt. I yelp. She laughs. “Hey, if Roy won’t, I will.”
I sigh and get back to wiping down the bar.
Not long later, I fitfully drive away from Doc’s and pull the parking brake into place outside my ma’s house. The lights are off, the night is quiet, the promise of a new day is only a few hours away. A day I hope doesn’t include that tap from Mary. I wiggle out of my pantsuit, shove it under my seat, pull a more age-appropriate dress over my corselet, and take a long breath. The weight of keeping one foot in both worlds is exhausting.
Creeping into my house at two or three a.m. is part of the reason why. I slip inside, press the door closed, and step forward, then to the right, avoiding a noisy floorboard.
“Bonnelyn Elizabeth Parker.�
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I jolt. A light flicks on behind me.
I turn slowly, knowing the expression that waits for me: disappointment.
But why is what’s important.
“Yes, Ma,” I say, surveying the glimpse of her face in the lamp’s glow. Dark circles hug her eyes. Eyes that are sad, as if she’s been crying. She puffs on a cigarette, a dirty habit she picked up after Daddy died, as a way to comfort herself.
I lower my head, wring my hands.
“Where have you been?”
“I was working—at the diner.”
“It’s nearly dawn, so I know that’s not true,” Ma says from her chair, blowing out a puff of smoke. I try to respond, but she cuts me off. “Were you with Blanche again?”
“Yeah.” I droop my head even lower. “We went to Victor’s after.”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with her. More than usual. She’s been here nearly every night this week.” Ma narrows her eyes. “Are you girls staying out of trouble?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and hope to God her cigarette smoke covers up any lingering scent on me from Doc’s.
She presses her lips tightly together, like she knows I’m up to something but is trying to hold the words inside. “With school starting soon, that behavior can’t last much longer. You hear?”
I nod, my mind now spinning ’bout how I’m going to justify staying out late once summer is over. Ma knows the diner closes after the dinner rush, and we can’t give up the money from Doc’s, not with Buster in a cast up to his elbow.
“Is everything all right with Roy?”
That question rips Doc’s from my thoughts.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say again. “Blanche is just, um, having some problems with her daddy, so I’ve been with her a lot. Roy understands.” Ma purses her lips before her face softens, and I subtly release a breath before yawning to fill the void. “I’m sorry I kept you up.”
She waves her hand in dismissal, then grinds her cigarette into an ashtray. “I couldn’t sleep anyhow.” She meets my eyes again. “I suppose you’ll be fixing up your house all day tomorrow? ’Bout time someone cleans up the neighborhood.”
Becoming Bonnie Page 7