I fall into a conversation with Mr. Champagne Cocktail, ’bout the stock market boom. I don’t know a dang thing ’bout it, and it’s mostly me bobbing my head in response, between mixing drinks for other patrons. Though his story of how a maid made a killing on stocks has me leaning closer to hear him better.
Raised voices rumble through the crowd like a wave. I stop listening, my gaze jumping ’round the room. Chairs are knocked over. The music abruptly stops.
“What’s going on?” I ask Mr. Champagne Cocktail.
“I don’t know,” he mumbles, and shifts off his bar stool. With his hand on the bar for support, his head jolts left, right, left again. The dance floor is a frenzy of people pushing, shoving. A woman falls to the floor. Mr. Champagne Cocktail turns back, rigid. “Police!” he hollers, his voice barely carrying above the other voices in the room.
“Police?” I parrot, and clutch his hand.
“A raid!” he calls, tearing himself free from my grasp. Then he’s gone, already moving toward the stairs, like nearly everyone else in the room.
Behind me, Mary’s voice rings in my ear, but my mind can’t piece together her words. Raid pounds in my head. Any other sliver of brainpower is consumed by the chaotic, frantic screams and yells on the other side of the bar.
“Bonnelyn!” she says, and seizes my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. “Hide!”
Hide. I remember Buck’s words from the first time I came to Doc’s, his casual “Yup” in response to me asking him if that staircase is the only way out.
“Now!” Mary screams.
I stumble through the door to the back room, but not of my own accord. Mary drags me. The door closes at our backs and mutes the screaming and banging noises coming from the other room.
Mary grabs a handle to a small closet, yanks it open. She slips inside, her face serious, pale. “Hide,” she says again, and slams the door.
I turn on my heels, my arms wrapped ’cross my torso like I need ’em there to hold myself together, and search the back room: office, sink, cabinets, a table. Wrapped beneath the table, there’s a curtain.
I fling back the curtain and crawl under the table, my knees scraping against the cement floor. My head bumps the table’s underside and I yelp, quickly clasping my hand over my mouth. An abrupt noise fills the room, someone coming through the door, and I frantically reach for the curtain to hide myself.
“Wait,” a male voice says, and I stop, hand frozen on the fabric. I’ve been found already.
Black shoes cross the room toward me, each footstep pounding in my head as I envision my future slipping away. I press back against the wall, praying they’ll go easy on me. Won’t make me go to jail.
The shoes stop in front of me and I clench my eyes shut.
There’s a light touch on my arm.
I peek between my lids.
Staring back at me is a lopsided smile laced with concern. I almost call out “Non-Roy,” but catch myself.
Then he’s beside me in the cramped space. He twists, sliding the table’s skirt back into place to hide us, and faces me again.
“Hi,” Non-Roy whispers through the near-darkness, looking completely uncomfortable with his knees too high.
I wipe away the moisture beneath my eyes. “Hi.” My voice is weak, my heart sputtering—and for more than one reason.
He laughs low, quiet, and lightly touches my arm again. Goose bumps erupt over my skin. “I saw you come back here. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you, Bonnelyn?”
“You know my name?”
He laughs. “Of course I do. I found that out the first night I saw you here. But this … This is new.” Non-Roy reaches out and touches my shorter hair. “A nice new.”
“Ow.”
I feel stupid as soon as the irrational response leaves my mouth.
My discomfort adds fuel to Non-Roy’s fire, his smile growing, his eyes hungry. “Do I make you nervous?”
“No,” I say, too fast. “Why are you here? You could get caught.”
“I could, but like I said, I wanted to make sure you’re safe.”
I meet his eyes, quickly lower my gaze. “I, um, I have a Roy.”
“A what?”
Looking at him, finding a smirk on his face, only flusters me more. “I have a boyfriend, a fiancé.”
“You have a boyfriend and a fiancé?”
“No, I mean—”
He chuckles, and I hate that it sounds nice, contagious even. I hate that I sneak a peek at his empty ring finger and that his hypnotic laugh steals the rest of my thought.
“Well, I don’t see a Roy here, unless there’s another table he’s hiding under.” He feigns peeking out of the curtain.
“No—”
“Good. We’ll ride out the raid together then, without Roy.” He pauses, looking years younger than his early twenties as he finds a more comfortable position. “Sorry. Am I coming on too strong? I don’t think I’ve made the best impression so far. You make me nervous.”
“I do?” His vulnerability catches me off guard, although it’s a welcome change from his self-assuredness.
“Yes.” He smiles, revealing a crooked tooth I didn’t notice before beneath his cocky grins. Somehow, that imperfection puts me more at ease. “Word of Saint Bonnelyn and her flirty sidekick have gotten ’round.”
“You think Blanche is my sidekick?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Oh, is that her name? I only cared ’bout finding out yours.”
The back of my neck prickles with heat. Non-Roy nudges my chin up. Hotter. “Would you like to know my name?” he asks, his voice teasing.
I want to say no. He’s Non-Roy. Not someone with a real name. Not someone who could or should go beyond the boy with that hungry look in his eye. My body betrays me. I nod again, and a burn creeps into my cheeks, no doubt turning my skin red. I study a piece of lint on my pantsuit.
“Henry,” he says.
The sound of Henry pulls my attention back to Non-Roy in a heartbeat. “That was my daddy’s name.”
He smiles, showing that perfect, imperfect tooth. “Did you know it means ‘ruler of the home’?”
“No,” I whisper. I think of my daddy and how providing for us was all he focused on.
“I’d make a great king,” Henry says, his confidence seeming playful instead of arrogant.
“Why is that?”
“Well, there’re my dashing good looks. But I’m also fair and honest and swell. Maybe you’ll give me the chance to show you.”
I take a deep breath, finding it hard to meet his eyes. Finally, I do, and even in the darkness, they sparkle. “Maybe.”
* * *
From our hiding spot beneath the table, we wait, left with only questions and prayers.
A door is opened and closed, and I can’t help inching closer to Henry. My head cocks when I think I hear my name. But I can’t be sure. I ain’t ’bout to check, to answer. Henry holds a finger to his mouth—as if I need a reminder not to give us away.
Eventually, all is quiet. I let out a breath, even lightly chuckle at the absurdity of the situation, but the rapid beating of my heart continues long after. Henry’s gaze is equally unsettling.
Though he unravels my unease as the night lingers on, as we fill it with soft-voiced questions, responses, and muted laughter, ’specially ’bout how he lost all his clothes in a poker game.
I fall asleep on the hard floor, tiredness and the unknown state of Doc’s keeping me here. When I wake, my breath catches in my lungs, stays there. My back is pressed against Henry’s hard chest; his arm is slung carelessly over me. With a hand pressed to my forehead, I curse myself for being here with him, like this. I untangle from his arm and practically dive out from under the table, throwing caution to the wind.
Standing in the quiet back room of Doc’s, I rub my face, a flurry of unknowns hitting me at once—ones ’bout the raid and what this means for Doc’s, ’bout Blanche and if she’s safe, ’bout Roy and if … if it
’s truly possible I let another boy capture my attention all night long. And why? ’Cause he put himself at risk for me? ’Cause he looked at me in a way that made me feel wanted? In a way that boys only ever gawk at Blanche? In a way that Roy hasn’t yet?
A sliver of Henry shows beyond the curtain, and I groan, knowing the answer to all those questions is a pathetic yes.
Busying myself, I study the back room, the door into the main room, the office, the sink, the cabinets, the closet where Mary hid. I tiptoe toward it, whispering her name. Laughter whips my attention toward the exit. The door is flung open.
“There you are!” Mary comes in from the main room, her voice loud. Raymond is on her heels.
Guiltily, instinctively, protectively—I don’t know which—I glance at my hiding spot, at the blue of Henry’s shirt, slightly visible. I step to my left, blocking Mary’s and Raymond’s views of him, and paw at my sleep-ridden hair.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, confused by their lightheartedness.
Mary waves a hand. “Yup.”
“The raid?” I ask.
“Never happened,” she says flippantly.
I raise a brow.
“False alarm. Buck’s brother came by, said how he heard talk of the police. One of the patrons overheard and started yapping.” She sounds exasperated by the end of her explanation.
“Damn drunk started a stampede,” Raymond adds. “Caused quite the scene out on Elm Street, but nothin’ came of it. Thank God.”
“Where’s Blanche?” I ask, my mind still trying to catch up.
“She went back to bed,” Raymond says with a smooth smile.
Typical.
“So everything is fine?”
“Eh,” Mary says, “my uncle wants to shut down for a few nights, to be sure. Timing is good, though. We need to make that alcohol run. So get yourself ready.”
My stomach grows hot. I knew this day was coming.
“Mary…” Raymond says, a warning in his voice.
“What?”
He talks more softly, as if that helps, with me standing only a few feet away. “Your uncle said not to involve Bonnelyn.”
She rolls her eyes, and part of me wonders why Dr. Peterson said this. Before, he was happy to have me make the run.
“Saint Bonnelyn will be fine,” Mary says.
“But he said—”
“She’ll be fine,” Mary says, her voice stern. Raymond opens his mouth again and she cuts him off. “We need her.”
“Don’t you think Blanche would be better at it?” I suggest.
Mary shakes her head sharply. “No. We need your virginal look, as not to attract attention. Even with this shorter bob of yours. But hey, if you’re going to look like a flapper, perhaps you should start acting like one.” She steps closer, pats my cheek. “So we’re good here, right?”
“Mary, I—”
Behind me, there’s rustling.
Henry.
“I can do it,” I say urgently, even as I regret the words. I walk toward them, coaxing ’em out of the back room. “When do we leave?”
“Not we,” Mary corrects. “You and Buck are going. Tonight.”
“Buck?”
We enter the main room, my eyes widening. Chairs are overturned; glass covers the floor; tables lie on their sides.
Mary doesn’t look pleased, with the room, with me, with anything. “Is there a problem, Bonnelyn?”
I swallow. “No.”
“Good. I already got enough on my plate. This is going to take all day to clean up.”
Raymond kicks a bottle. “First, food. Want to come?” he asks me.
“Um, thanks, but I should get home and face my ma.”
Mary shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
With each step toward the exit, my mind races and my mouth becomes drier. All I can think ’bout is Henry under that table and how I’m going to get him out unnoticed.
“Oh, shoot,” I say, slapping my hands against my legs. “I … forgot something.”
I fidget, but Mary and Raymond don’t seem to notice. Mary acknowledges me, barely, and is more than satisfied to keep on going without me.
The door closes behind them and I retrace my steps to the back room, coming to an instant stop. Henry is sitting on the table, legs swinging.
“I was wondering if you were coming back for me.” A crooked smile stretches ’cross his face and my stomach muscles tighten. “Let me guess … You want to hear more ’bout that time I walked out of the poker game in nothin’ but my birthday suit?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Should’ve had a better poker face,” I tease.
He hops down from the table, crossing the room in a matter of steps. “I assure you, my poker face is top notch.” Then his hand is on my cheek. “We should do this again sometime.”
“What? Hide together?”
Stop, I tell myself. I don’t know why I’m engaging in banter with him, letting him touch me like this.
“I like hiding,” he says, and pulls his hand away, my cheek cold without his fingers there. “But I should go.”
Henry’s abruptness has me taking a tiny step to balance myself. “Um, yes, me too.”
We leave the back room, Henry whistling at the mess in Doc’s before we climb the stairs. On the main floor, I push him through the door leading to the apartments and casually walk through the reception area of the physician’s office, completely out of place in my flapper dress. Two Ma-aged women wait in wooden chairs, both reading Time. The older of the two peers over her magazine at me, apparently not pleased with my progressive attire. I exit, coughing to feign sickness.
Elm Street’s sun is blinding when I step out. I squint, finding Henry tying his shoe. He stands, walks by me, grazing my skin. In a soft voice, he says, “Thanks for the bedtime stories. See you soon, Bonnelyn.”
I shiver at his slight touch, unable to think of anything as simple as the words Okay or Bye before he’s gone, confidently striding down the street.
I’m left standing alone, relieved that my night with Henry has gone unnoticed.
My skin still tingles.
9
Billie bounces beside me, taking three steps to my one as we walk toward our bikes. The girl won’t stop yammering ’bout how excited she is to be going shopping for clothes.
It’ll be the first year the Parker girls will strut into class in non-hand-me-downs. I can’t think of a more satisfying way to take a step closer to my dreams.
Shopping is also a good distraction from last night with Henry and tonight’s illegal escapades with Buck.
“Hey,” Billie says, beaming. She points at my one-day home. Behind a long piece of wood is my one-day husband, struggling to carry it toward the house. “There’s Roy. Let’s go say hi.”
She’s leading me by the arm before I can react. I scratch the back of my neck and pull my fingers through my shorter hair. This is the first I’ll see Roy since he ambushed me, the first I’ll see him with my new bob.
“Roy!” Billie calls, releasing my hand to run toward him. He bobbles the board, resting one side of it against the grass, and squints against the sun. “Lynny is taking me shopping.”
“Is that so?” he says to her. The question is obvious in his voice. Bet he’s wondering how it’s something we can afford. Bet he’s also wondering why I didn’t tell him my plans, since I’m normally at the house with him each afternoon. Henry’s the answer to that one. Guilt kept me away from Roy, had me making a beeline for my bike instead.
His gaze rises to me, a few steps behind Billie. His head cocks to the side, his lips part. I reckon those original questions are gone. My heart pounds one, two, three times. I can’t help feeling like I’ve been on shaky ground with Roy, and I don’t want something as silly as a haircut to cause him to crack.
I shift my weight. “Do you like it?”
Roy doesn’t answer right away, but I recognize intrigue in his eyes, the same look I got from Henry last night. Then Roy’s eyes flic
ker to my sister, and he only smirks.
I smile. “Something new I thought I’d try out.”
His face falls, as if his head catches up to his initial delight. “’Cause of Blanche? That girl seems to be your answer for everything lately.”
“I cut mine first,” I say quickly, then force a laugh. “Of course, she had to bob hers too.”
“Well, that ain’t surprising.” He regrips the piece of wood. “Looks like a hairstyle that could get the two of you in trouble.”
I swallow. “Don’t be silly.”
* * *
It’s just me who could get in trouble tonight, not Blanche. I’m the one sitting next to Buck, a convicted felon, in his slick Model T, staring out the window into Dallas’s dusk, not just pretending to be a flapper, but acting like one, too.
I breathe deeply.
Everyone has a defining moment in life. At least that’s what Ma says. For Blanche, hers came early. Her ma left. No warning, no explanation. Just gone. Blanche’s daddy nearly fell apart, but Blanche stayed strong, even if marriage did become a dirty word.
I reckon I would’ve done things differently, taking on a maternal role, but Blanche didn’t. Blanche put Blanche first, doing whatever she had to do to survive, to be wanted, to feel whole.
For a long time, I judged her for that, always wanting to fix her and show her “the way.” Now I wonder … is Blanche the one who’s been leading me? No one put a gun to my head. But somehow I’m on my way to help the illegal Doc’s get illegal alcohol. I could’ve found another way to earn my keep. But I didn’t. Instead, I made the choice to move forty miles per hour toward the unknown. So what if I’m as far away from Buck as the bench seat will allow?
“Uh-oh,” Buck says, glancing at me. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Despite my uneasiness with being ’round him, one side of my mouth curls into a smile ’cause of his very un-gangster-like question. “I’m not sure they’d make sense.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time lately with Blanche, ya know. She rambles ’bout a lot of things that don’t add up.”
I laugh. It surprises me, and it feels good.
“She called me a ‘stripe’ the other day,” he says, his voice booming—for whatever reason, Buck’s voice always seems like it’s booming—and he regrips the wheel to veer right. “Had this elaborate explanation for it. I still have no clue what the word means.”
Becoming Bonnie Page 9