Becoming Bonnie

by Jenni L. Walsh

  I nod, and Ma nods, her expression unreadable. Worry creeps in again, surfacing this time as paranoia, while I fiddle with a loose thread on my dress. I can’t help but think she knows. She knows I work with Roy on the house every day to escape, to feel better ’bout sneaking ’round at night while he’s slaving away at the plant.

  I wonder if she’d accept my rationale: the world we live in today gives me little choice but to mix up right and wrong, doing what I got to do to get by.

  I shift toward the hall, wanting to get away from the speculation I fabricate in my ma’s eyes. “Well, good night,” I whisper.

  “He stopped by, Roy did,” my ma says, and I pause with my back to her, my hands clenching my dress.

  “Why? I saw him earlier today. What’d he want?”

  “He went by the diner, looking for you. You weren’t there, so he came here.”

  I face my ma, hoping my expression doesn’t give away that I’m a big, fat liar. “Oh, he must’ve just missed me.”

  Ma pushes up from her chair. Her arms quiver and I leap forward, reaching for her. She waves her hand again to dismiss me. “I’m fine. Just been sitting here awhile.”

  I help her anyway, leading her to her room.

  “Don’t forget to say your prayers,” she says, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ears. “And get some sleep. You look like you’ve been working yourself too hard.”

  She kisses my forehead before slipping into her bedroom. I creep into my own, careful not to wake Little Billie. In bed, I pull the covers to my chin, despite the stuffiness of the room. I am working too hard, trying to stifle all this damn, relentless worry. It’s enough to make a girl do crazy things, so help me God.

  8

  “Forgiveness comes in all forms,” I sing at church in the morning, trying to make eye contact with no one and everyone in the boisterous congregation. Between verses, so many breathe in at once that it’s hard to believe any hot air is left in the chapel.

  Or maybe this doomy feeling of suffocation is left over from last night, from this whole week.

  My voice falters. I look down at my hymnbook to find my spot, happy it’s not my turn at the piano, then look back up, singing more loudly. My eyes fall on Roy, his parents, and my family, in the same pews as always. Ma’s tired. Probably ’cause of me. Roy’s face is complacent, like I don’t know if he’s happy or unhappy. ’Cause of me?

  “Repent, and set yourself free,” I sing in an uneven voice. Old Woman Myers glances at me from the corner of her eye. I ignore her, my practiced gaze returning to my family.

  This time, Roy’s attention is on me. Heat travels down my neck, like I’ve been caught doing something bad, like I got caught not being at the diner. Between breaths, I force a smile, willing him not to be upset with me. He tugs on his collar, looks away.

  I sing louder, staring at the clefs and notes on the page. I belt out the last word, forcing my voice stronger. When the hymn comes to an end, I sink into my seat, welcoming the reprieve from the feeling like I’m standing in a trial box instead of a choir box.

  Pastor Frank offers the congregation his parting words, signaling the service’s close.

  Right now, I know a few things ’bout this afternoon: Ma is working. Buster is hunting ducks with friends, though I can’t understand how he can do that but not work. Billie is going to a friend’s. Roy is off to the plant. None of them are expecting to see me after church.

  I look over my shoulder toward the chapel’s back door, knowing something else: the line at the front door will be a mile long. That line could mean bumping into Roy and having to lie—in a church—’bout why I wasn’t at the diner last night. All thanks to Blanche and her big mouth.

  I frantically weave through the crowd, toward the back exit, knocking into people and muttering apologies as I go. I’m relieved that the town’s largest oak tree stretches over the church, when I burst outside into its comforting shade. I quickly slip from one tree’s cover to the next, hugging the edges of properties to stay out of sight. I nearly roll my eyes at my own dramatics.

  You’ve lost it, I tell myself. Doggone crazy for escaping like that today.

  I shake my head, ’cause really I’m doggone crazy for escaping every day this week. Doesn’t matter who it’s from—my ma, Little Billie, Buster, my nagging thoughts—I’m acting like a loon. The destination is always the same: Roy’s and my one-day home.

  Being that Roy’s normally at my side, he’s the only person I can’t escape. I stop, hand on the doorknob of our house. ’Til this here very moment, I never allowed myself to think it … that Roy is someone I’ve wanted to escape, too.

  Shame escorts me inside the four walls.

  My hand flies to my chest. “Roy, what’re you doing here?”

  “I’m here every day,” he says coolly, his expression unreadable.

  “But … I thought you had to work?”

  “Yeah, well, I thought you had to work last night.”

  I choose my words carefully. “And that’s nothin’ but the truth. I was just done at the diner by the time you came by.”

  Roy crosses his arms and I fight the urge to tug at my neckline.

  “Look, Blanche has had a rough go of it lately with her daddy.” I pick up a brush from a bucket and mindlessly rub my hand over the bristles. “She’s been sleeping on my couch all week. Guess my ma didn’t tell you that part.”

  His headshake is subtle, but his annoyance is not. “I don’t like you spending so much time with that girl.”

  Blanche. I groan internally and squeeze the brush’s handle. Her shenanigans yesterday certainly ain’t helping me now. “She’s harmless, you know that.”

  “Do I?”

  “Roy, come on.” I soften my voice. “You ain’t mad, are you?” I promptly bite my bottom lip.

  He stares into the bucket as if he’s searching for something to say. But I count my blessings when he only says, “I’ll get you some water.”

  Off he goes with the bucket, the type of boy whose actions are stronger than his words. Chances are, he’s still running things through his head as he brings back the bucket and heads to work, but at least I ain’t in his crosshairs while he’s doing it. Bet ya Blanche is.

  Can’t blame him. As I’m scrubbing the floor, I keep grumbling her name, too.

  Blanche, who put me in the position of having to sneak ’round and lie to my ma in the first place. Blanche, who not only makes me question my passion for—and really, my whole relationship with—Roy, but also puts me in situations where I have to keep secrets from him. Secrets she almost blabs, making Roy feel the need to stop by the diner, to do what? Check on me? Then here he was, minutes ago, ambushing me for answers. Blanche, who uses stupid words like blotter and dab, dab, dab.

  Her big, nonsensical mouth once proclaimed how I blot, only going surface deep.

  Life needs some elbow grease, a good scrub to get the dirt out, she said.

  Well, lookie here, Blanche, I’m going to speakeasies. Speakeasies! And here I am now, literally on my hands and knees, practically rubbing the grain out of Roy’s and my hardwood floor. I scrub harder, proving it.

  From all my recent acts of escape, our fence: perfectly white, picketed and everything. The porch: looks good as new. The old wallpaper: stripped clean. Would a blotter be able to do all that, in a week?

  And, and, would a blotter agree—no, volunteer—to do an illegal pickup for an illegal establishment? I don’t think so.

  Okay, maybe my brown-nosing words slipped out before I could stop them, to get on Mary’s good side and keep my job, because my moron brother got himself hurt. And maybe I’m dreading going on that alcohol run. I throw my brush into the dirtied, soapy water, sending suds everywhere.

  If all of that ain’t the definition of going more than surface deep, then I don’t know what is. With the back of my arm, I wipe my wet face. So there, Blanche. I nod curtly, not feeling a single bit foolish for my one-sided, disorganized, slightly irrational, grumbly ra
nt.

  I drop my head into my hands. I’m losing my mind. I blame stress. And Blanche. I blame Blanche, clearly.

  But that’s stupid, and I roll my eyes at myself, letting out a slow, calming breath. I examine my one-day living room. This helps, staring at the barren walls and empty room, imagining the possibilities, reminding myself why I went to Doc’s in the first place. So I can line my pockets with money. So I can live in a house with elegant wallpaper, polished floors, crown molding, and elaborate, ritzy draperies. It’s for Roy and me, sitting in matching armchairs, getting off our feet after successful days of teaching and reporting, reminiscing ’bout being young and stupid. It’ll be perfect.

  Even Blanche will admit how perfect it is.

  That’s when I allow foolishness to set in. Blanche’s words, even her made-up ones, have too much power over me. Blanche does, in general. Sure, I’m doing this house stuff for us, Roy and me, but part of me also wants to clean this house up nice and good to stick it to my best friend for razzing me ’bout wanting the “American Dream.”

  I lean back on my heels, an idea coming to me, and push to my feet—leaving my brush, bucket, and mess behind—and hurry past the library to my ma’s house. Straight I go to the washroom, not allowing myself time to think further.

  The coldness of the metal shears gives me pause, but I refocus, pulling my hair into a low ponytail. And I cut. I scrunch my face, squeezing the blades, again and again, ’til the last blonde curl drops to the floor.

  In the mirror, a defiant girl with straight hair to her jawline peers back. I press my hands against my outer thighs, stopping myself from tugging on the ends of each strand. Being self-conscious would defeat the purpose. Bobbing one’s hair is usually an assertion of independence against older folk—the ones who say girls should be in long dresses and pinned hair.

  My bob is for Blanche; each cut helps ease some of my resentment, as if I’m taking back control from her. Really, my bob is for me. So is my choice of attire. If I’m going to dress like a flapper, I want to be the one doing it. I ain’t Blanche’s doll. I slit the neckline of my pantsuit deeper and steal sequins from Blanche’s headband she left at my house. Using my ma’s old, beat-up sewing kit, I stitch each sparkle along the hemline. After I stain my lips red, noisily popping ’em, I’m ready for Doc’s.

  Soon after, Big Bertha’s rumbling starts quiet, growing ’til I know Blanche is outside. I take a steadying breath before scurrying to the front door, nearly barreling into my sister.

  “Lynny,” she screeches. “What did you do to your hair?”

  I should ask her what she’s doing here and not at her friend Sally’s, but I stand here like I’ve never before heard the English language.

  Little Billie’s eyes narrow. “And that don’t look like anything you’ve ever worn to the diner before.”

  “I, um,” I stutter.

  “You ain’t going to the diner, are you?” she asks, hand on her hip.

  Feeling like our roles have reversed and I’m the younger one, I simply shake my head.

  Little Billie’s eyes grow larger. “Can I come, Lynny? We can cut my hair, too.”

  And I laugh. For the first time all week, I feel lighter. Pulling my sister against me, I kiss the side of her head. “You don’t even know where I’m headed.”

  “Don’t matter. I’ll go anywhere. You’ve been gone so much lately.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But you can’t come with me. You’re a bit too young.”

  She squirms, creating distance to see me better, slightly worried this time. “Would it make Ma mad to know where you’re going, dressed like that?”

  “Probably. So let’s keep this our little secret, like that time you broke Ma’s heirloom china and I said Duke Dog did it.”

  “Okay,” she whispers, putting her head back down and mumbling into me, “’cause something is wrong with Ma. She’s always tired, but she’s extra tired, like something ain’t right.”

  I think of last night and how Ma struggled to get out of her chair, how she had bags under her eyes, the way she seemed distracted, sad. And suddenly that lightness Little Billie brought me only a moment ago is gone, replaced by this gnawing feeling that my sister is right and that something could be wrong with our ma. Maybe she’s worrying ’bout our financial situation more than she’s let on. She has been working herself nonstop.

  I kiss the side of Billie’s head again, pressing my lips against her hair longer than normal to comfort us both, and whisper back, “Everything will be okay, but I got to go. Did you eat at Sally’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Buster will be home soon.”

  I slip outside before my brain can catch up and feel bad for leaving Billie alone, before I can scrutinize what Billie said, twice, ’bout our ma looking different.

  The late sun blinds me and I cup my hand over my eyes. Like myself, Blanche is already dressed, her bright red dress and feather popping out from Big Bertha.

  “There you are!” Blanche calls over Big Bertha’s idle purr. “I was just ’bout to beep and—” She tilts her head, mouth hanging open. “Your hair…”

  My little sister caught me so off guard that I forgot to strut out of the house confidently, ruining my big ta-da.

  Blanche holds up her hand, and I add some pep to my step. “You are not getting in Big Bertha ’til you explain to me what you did to your hair.”

  I bounce the ends of my new bob against my palm. “Oh, just something new I thought I’d try out.”

  “Are you on the rag, Bonnelyn? All week you’ve been a killjoy like it’s your time of the month.” Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

  “That is none of your beeswax.”

  “You spend all day working at that house,” she continues, ignoring me. “Then you’re all doom and gloom at Doc’s. Now you go and do this? I reckon blood loss is making you screwy.”

  I overlook her grossness. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of cutting your hair first,” I say.

  Her head whips toward me. “Oh, trust me, honey. Blanche has no reason to be jealous of you.”

  But we both know, this one time, she is. I smugly crease my forehead, begging her to deny it again.

  “Wipe that look off your face, Bonnelyn. And stop blaming me for everything. I know you think all your angst ’bout the bootlegging and Roy and your stubbed toe is all my fault.”

  “What? I haven’t stubbed my toe.”

  “Yet,” she says. “But you probably will, and the blame will somehow be on me. Admit it, you don’t hate Doc’s. And that’s why you’re drowning in that angst. You actually like it. You enjoy it there.”

  “No.” The tone of my response comes out a bit too defensive. Hearing her say it makes my rant seem even more foolish.

  She rolls her eyes. “Phonus balonus. Forget your stubbed toe; next you’re going to blame me for defiling your innocent hair.”

  “I didn’t stub … I happen to like my hair. A lot.”

  She releases her death grip on Big Bertha’s wheel. She inhales, exhales. Finally, Blanche says, “It does look nice. Great, even.”

  “Really?” I say, hating that her approval melts some of my resentment.

  “Of course. Now strut that too-skinny butt of yours inside the house,” Blanche continues, “and don’t come back without scissors.” She checks her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “I can’t have you stealing the show without me.”

  She smiles, and somehow Blanche has demanded her way back into my good graces, the same way she always does.

  Fortunately, I’m able to sneak in and out of the house without seeing Billie. Blanche sits perfectly still, for once keeping her mouth closed, while I bob her hair, leaving blonde strands right there on Cemetery Road.

  When we walk into Doc’s, arm in arm, it’s the best I’ve felt in days. Sometimes a gal needs an irrational rant, an assertion of independence, and a moment of acceptance—all jam-packed into an afternoon.

  If only it didn’t leave these
Ma looks different and Roy is on to me fears that have wedged themselves in the back of my brain. But Buck’s and Raymond’s jaws nearly hitting the floor at our appearances somehow pushes those thoughts away. Not that I want their mouths wide enough to catch flies, but it’s still nice to have others thinkin’ you look nice, even if they are gangster-type boys that you wouldn’t dare bring home to your mama.

  “That boy of yours is brave to let ya out of the house like that,” Buck says, coming up to me and bumping my shoulder. I flinch at his touch and concentrate on steadying the glasses I nearly knocked over.

  Blanche hoots. “Roy don’t even know she’s here.”

  I laugh deceptively, guiltily, along with the others, all the while giving Blanche a Better stay that way look.

  She laughs harder, and we disperse before opening our doors to the first group of thirsty patrons.

  Before long, drinks are flowing, some even by my own hand.

  I think ’bout what Blanche said earlier, ’bout me liking it here. And it may be on the verge of being true. I reckon my daddy would be okay with that. After all, Ma did say he pushed the limits now and then with his rebellious ways.

  A man I’ve come to recognize, someone I’ve coined Mr. Champagne Cocktail, sidles up to the bar, slides his reading glasses into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

  Blanche makes him his drink of choice, then turns to me. “Mary says I can take my break, so I’m headed up to Buck’s apartment.” She’s got a gleam in her eyes. “We’re going to use every second of our fifteen minutes, if you know what I mean.”

  Unfortunately, I do. Though it’s strange … “You’ve been spending lots of time with him.”

  Blanche laughs. “Here and there, but it ain’t like we’re married. I’m free to sample him or”—she scans the dance floor—“anyone else who catches my eye. But for the time being, Buck is a mighty fine sampler.”

  I let out an exasperated breath. “Go.”

  She laughs again, skipping toward the bar’s partition.