Becoming Bonnie

by Jenni L. Walsh

  I stare blankly at him, my mind desperately trying to catch up, to understand, to fully digest that Roy catching me wasn’t by chance.

  Roy’s patience seems to have run out. He tosses the paper flippantly in the air, frowns, then turns on his heel.

  I’m frozen in place. Tears stream down my face. My legs give out, and I slump to the ground. Through blurry eyes, I watch him walk away from me.

  A tortured sound bubbles out of me and I lower my head, noticing the paper he’s left behind. I crawl to it, fumbling to pick it up. I start reading, and my breath catches.

  Roy, I want to share something with you that I’ve been afraid to tell you. 34 Elm Street. Saturday night. 11:03, on the dot. Ask for me at the door.

  No, no, no.

  I would recognize that chicken scratch a mile away.

  “God damn it, Blanche.” I wipe away my tears.

  I don’t realize I’ve stormed from outside to downstairs ’til I slam the note atop the bar, a splotch of wetness seeping through and smudging Blanche’s words.

  “How dare you?” I scream at her.

  With knowing eyes, she looks up from the drink she’s preparing and cringes.

  “Blanche!”

  A few patrons turn to stare.

  Mary rushes over, grabs my arm. “Not here. I don’t give a rat’s ass if y’all fight. But don’t do it here.”

  I stand there, fury too overwhelming for me to be the next one to move or talk.

  “We can go in the back room,” Blanche says quietly.

  I follow her back.

  I shake with anger.

  I cross my arms.

  I wait for her to speak, pinning her with a glare.

  Blanche chews on her bottom lip, finally saying, “What happened?”

  “What happened? I’ll tell you what happened! Roy caught me outside with Henry and it’s all your fault.”

  “Mine?” Her face wrinkles like she smells something sour. “Nope. None of this is my fault. You should’ve told me ’bout kissing Henry before tonight, Bonnelyn. Frankly, I’m hurt that ya didn’t.”

  “Let’s not make this ’bout you, Blanche.”

  “Me? All I’ve been doing is thinkin’ ’bout you. Blanche wrote that note for you.”

  My hands ball into fists. “Enlighten me. How on earth was inviting Roy here supposed to help me?”

  She sighs, but her voice is testy when she begins. “You kept dragging your dogs, not telling Roy ’bout your ‘other’ life. So he comes, he sees. Done. You’re both happy.”

  “You’ve never liked Roy. Why the hell do you care if we’re happy or not?”

  It dawns on me, remembering our conversation from the other day. This ain’t ’bout me and Roy; it’s ’bout her and Buck. It’s always ’bout Blanche. She opens her mouth and I hold up my hand to stop her.

  “It all makes sense now,” I say, and narrow my eyes, stepping closer, talking slower. “You really invited Roy here to reveal my secret to Roy to help stop some stupid gossip? All ’cause you’re insecure?”

  “I am not—”

  “I am not done. You didn’t stop to think that I wanted to figure out how to share all of this with Roy? In my own way? Or,” I say, even louder, “that maybe I’m afraid that Henry will be here and cause some scene. Oh wait, that happened.”

  “You were living a lie, Bonnelyn. It was bound to catch up with you. Hell, I bet you only liked Henry ’cause he has your daddy’s name and he looked at you in a way that Roy never bothered to do.”

  I ignore the last part—Blanche nailing the truth—and focus on the blame she slings at me. “That’s your response? That this is my fault?”

  She shrugs again, looking smug. “You’re the pushover who was easily seduced by Henry, not me.”

  I throw my hands up. “You are unbelievable. How I’ve put up with you all my life is beyond me. But not anymore.”

  Blanche’s mouth falls open. I storm out. Mary doesn’t question me when I inform her I’m going home.

  Telling myself I can’t let Blanche win, I fight back tears. But when I collapse into the comfort of my bed, I fall apart.

  I bury my face in my pillow.

  I beat my thin mattress with my fists.

  I cry.

  A light touch lands on my arm.

  “What’s wrong, Lynny?”

  “I’m okay,” I say to my sister, the pillow muffling my words. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to bed.”

  Little Billie squeezes my hand. “You can talk to me. I’m not so little.”

  I roll onto my side. A soft glow lights up her sleepy, doe-like eyes.

  My door creaks open, and I see our ma standing there. I curse myself, hating that I woke her.

  “Billie, honey,” she says. “Why don’t you sleep in my bed tonight?”

  It’s not a question, but Little Billie hesitates, as if she’s searching for an answer. I cup her chin, putting a fake smile on my face. “Thank you for checking on me.”

  She takes a deep breath before her bare feet pound ’cross the room. Somehow, Little Billie is overtaking Ma in height, and quickly outgrowing her nickname. She scampers by Ma and out the door, our ma patting her butt as she goes.

  In the dark, Ma takes careful steps. I scoot toward the wall, giving her room to sit on my bed.

  “You’ve been going through a lot lately, haven’t you, dear?”

  Like with Billie, this sounds more like a statement. I nod, my bottom lip starting to quiver.

  “I reckon that’s part of growing up. Why don’t you start by telling me ’bout that speakeasy you work at?”

  I shoot into a sitting position. “What?”

  Ma smiles. “Now what kind of mama would I be if I didn’t know where my daughter slipped off to nearly every night?”

  After the past few hours, I think my head may explode. “Are you mad?”

  “I was. Had your daddy’s belt in my hand, ready to whop you good.”

  I cringe. “But you ain’t mad anymore?”

  Ma sighs. “Sometimes, Bonnelyn, being a mama is hard. Knowing what’s right and wrong can be even harder.”

  “How did you find out?” I ask.

  “It’s not as if you girls covered your tracks real well. When I was leaving for work one morning, I saw that napkin with the address on it, smack dab on the dash of Blanche’s car.”

  “Blanche is a moron.”

  Ma’s eyebrows rise. “So those tears are ’cause of her?”

  Not all of ’em. But I can’t bear to tell my ma what I’ve done. “Blanche invited Roy to the speakeasy tonight without me knowing,” I say. “He got mad at me, and I don’t know what’s going to happen between us.”

  “He’s a good boy. I’m sure he’ll come ’round.”

  I rub my tired eyes, hoping the pressure keeps any tears from falling. “I’m not sure he will.” Not sure he’ll forgive me for kissing someone else, I finish in my head.

  And damn it, Blanche is right. This is my fault, and I am plumb out of ideas ’bout how to fix it. “Did you and Daddy ever have rough patches?”

  “Of course we did, sweet girl. No relationship is ever perfect, but you work at it. And in the end, you find each other again.”

  “Like the first time Daddy found you?” Ma tilts her head, and I explain, “The first time you met.”

  She chuckles. “Your father was a determined lad, that’s for sure.”

  I laugh, too, already having heard this story a million times, and each time a sense of giddiness settles over me.

  “There we were,” Ma continues, “at a school dance. Your daddy was the new boy in town, which already gave him an air of mystery. Well, he saw me from a ways away, dancing with another boy, no less. Our eyes met, and it’s like he spoke to me from ’cross the room. Of course, I did the proper thing and focused on my date.”

  “But Daddy had other intentions.”

  “Yes, he did. He marched right over to where I was dancing and tapped my date on the shoulder to cut i
n.” She smiles, a hint of sadness lurking in the way her chest rises. “Once your father had me, he refused to give me back. But”—she taps my nose—“it doesn’t mean I didn’t try to push him away now and then when he got my blood pumping. Didn’t stick though. It never stuck.…”

  I frown. My parents were torn apart by death, not by choice. But Roy is choosing to push me away. Shoving, actually. Though, really, I may’ve been the one pushing him first, ever since he proposed, ever since that first fear of being nothin’ more than Mrs. Roy Thornton.

  “Do you think Roy and I can find each other again?”

  “If that’s what you want. He may just need a li’l prodding from you. Remind him that there’s something worth fighting for.”

  I sigh, not knowing what to do.

  “Come here, darling.” Ma stretches out her arm, and I slide closer to her, lay my head on her bony shoulder. I almost pick my head back up in surprise. She’s always been thin, but never like this. My stomach grows hot ’cause of what I’m ’bout to say, what I’m ’bout to face. I’m still not sure I’m ready to hear the truth, ’specially when my stomach is already raw from how things are with Roy. I count to three, working up courage, then I whisper, “I know you may have mammary ductal carcinoma.”

  She stiffens.

  “Ma?”

  She hesitates further before stroking my hair. “You aren’t the only one with secrets lately.”

  I lift my head to see her face, swearing she has more wrinkles than yesterday.

  Ma sighs. “Dr. Peterson agreed not to tell you.”

  “He didn’t. I saw your file by mistake.”

  She nods, the simple action seeming to exhaust her. “Do you know what that fancy term means?”

  When I shake my head, she continues in a somehow even voice, “Breast cancer.”

  “No.” I repeat the word ’til Ma pulls me into her arms.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she says into my hair. “I should really thank you. If you weren’t being a devious young adult, I wouldn’t have ever found out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After I copied the address, I went there. I made an appointment, when I saw it was a doctor’s office, to try to figure out what you were up to and if you girls were okay. Dr. Peterson did a physical on me. I should’ve had one long ago, but life was too busy to stop and think ’bout myself.”

  “Maybe he’s wrong and you don’t have cancer,” I say desperately, once again leaning back so I can see her face in the darkness.

  “Maybe. He found a lump. Look, honey, you don’t need to worry over the details. Dr. Peterson and I are trying to fix it.”

  “How? What are you doing?”

  She frowns at my persistence. “It’s taking a bit of time to save up for it, but I’m having surgery in a few weeks.”

  “What?” My mind falters, triggering a memory of my daddy and his surgery and him dying. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

  “I guess you could say I was working up the courage.” She pauses, patting my hand. “But that’s not the only way I’ve been selfish.”

  My ma and I never spoke like this before—like adults, like equals. I hate the why behind us doing so, but I like that she feels she finally can. If only I could be fully honest back.

  “Right away,” Ma says, “Dr. Peterson asked me if you were my daughter. So much happened from there. He reluctantly explained to me his other business. Said he’d ask you to leave, if I didn’t want you working there.” Ma scratches her head, casting an eerie shadow on the wall while she formulates her next thought. “At first I was appalled, and he assured me he’d let you go, but then we started to discuss payment for my doctor visits and the surgery. The amount”—she blows out a long breath—“the amount is a lot. So Dr. Peterson agreed to keep a careful eye on you. He also agreed to skim a little from your tips to put toward my medical bills.”

  “Ma, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m so sorry, Bonnelyn. It was selfish of me, and careless. That place is dangerous, and you shouldn’t be working there. Every day, I’ve hoped you’d stop going. But with Buster still out of work, I’m scared, so scared. I can’t die and leave you, your brother, and sister without any parents. So I’ve been taking your money for myself.”

  “I don’t care,” I say quickly. “I have more money. I started a bank account. You can have it. All of it.”

  “No, I’ve already taken too much from you. You’re not mad, Bonnelyn?”

  “Of course not. I want you to be better. I’ll do whatever I need to do to make sure you get better.”

  Anything, I think to myself, and hug her. It’s the God’s honest truth.

  17

  Sunday morning I go to church with my family, something I still do every week. So does Roy—or at least I hope he’ll be here today. From the choir box, I wring my hands and study every face that walks through the chapel’s arched entrance.

  Then there he is: his golden hair, his handsome face, coming in behind his parents.

  Roy’s eyes dance everywhere in the room, ’cept for on me.

  I go through the motions of the service, standing when I’m supposed to stand, singing when I’m supposed to sing, pressing my hands together when I’m supposed to pray. All the while, I try to gauge what it means when Roy shifts from foot to foot, when he continually runs his fingers through his hair. Or, more importantly, why he’s wearing the flight jacket I got him.

  He knows I saved months and months for it. He knows I bought it ’cause it reminds me of my daddy’s, which Ma still keeps in her closet. Why would Roy wear it if he were truly and fully done with me? Or do boys not think the same way as girls? What if his wearing it means nothin’, if he put it on this morning ’cause there was a chill in the air?

  Remind him, my ma said.

  I bite my lip, pretending to listen to Pastor Frank’s sermon, and rack my brain on how to fix things with Roy. An apology seems inadequate. But a promise, that could work. A reminder of the life Roy doodled for us.

  A buzz runs through me. I open my hymnbook, flip from page to page ’til I find one that’s mostly white. Old Woman Myers shushes me. I tear the page out, and she gasps.

  Because I’m determined, it’s easy to ignore her as I grab a pen from the pew. It’s crude, my drawing skills leave much to be desired, but Roy’s and my house takes form on the page, and then a sun. Birds speckle the sky. On the porch, we sit in rocking chairs, holding hands, smiling. I angle the paper away from Old Woman Myers, the next part too private for her prying eyes. Coming from my stick figure’s head, I sketch a thought bubble: Grow old with me.

  I neatly fold the drawing, hold it between my palms, and pray I won’t lose my nerve. As soon as Pastor Frank is done with the closing prayer, I’m on my feet, out of the choir box, rushing down a less-crowded side aisle, the sanctuary resembling a hive of bees.

  There’s a line at the door by the time I get there, Roy three people ahead of me.

  I tap my foot, urging everyone to shake our pastor’s hand faster, to stop their mindless small talk.

  Pastor Frank smiles when he sees me. I give his hand a firm shake and flutter past him. The late morning sun is blinding, and I shield my eyes, finding Roy halfway down the stairs.

  My heart pounds. My legs feel like rubber as I follow him.

  “Roy.”

  I swallow, nearly losing my nerve as he turns, not quite looking at me, but past me.

  Like a schoolgirl, I shove the drawing at him. “This is for you.”

  * * *

  Over the next few hours, every time I think of something better I could have said in that note, I rub my eyes, my forehead, my lips.

  Like a caged animal, I pace my bedroom. Each lap, my eye catches on my Mason jar. Part of me wants to fling it against the wall. The other half of me is still hopeful Roy will accept my apology and we’ll add the doodle to the rest.

  Little Billie stays on her side of the room, like she’s expecting I could have
a breakdown any moment.

  It’s possible.

  And I need out. I need to be somewhere that I feel free. Within minutes, I’m dressed and out the door, heading toward Dallas. In my haste, I nearly stumble down the stairs to Doc’s.

  Empty … so different than at night. My gaze lands on the piano. I walk toward it as if it’s calling my name. I settle onto the bench, my feet barely touching the pedals, fluff out my skirt, and straighten my back. There’s something ’bout sitting before a piano that requires being proper.

  I start slow, my fingers lazily hitting each key. Graceful, even. But this type of piano playing is a lie. Blanche’s words and accusatory glare replay in my head. I press more firmly on the keys. The cowardly way I shoved a note into Roy’s hand slams into me like one of those new wrecking balls. Not knowing if he’ll read it, if he’ll forgive me, hits me on the backswing. I move my hands left, away from the high-pitched keys, needing the lower, bass-filled sounds. Hazel’s smug expression hits me again, pulling me deeper into my own gloom. The visual of Ma struggling to stand from her chair adds to it all, another blow.

  I close my eyes and let my fingers bring my feelings—so raw, so real—to life against the keys. My face becomes lax. I’m letting the music move me, but my arms remain stiff and in control.

  “Whoa.”

  I rip my hands from the piano. The melody abruptly cuts off. Mary stands by the door.

  “That’s some dark stuff,” she adds. “But don’t let me stop you.”

  “No,” I say, not even sure if that’s an appropriate response. I rub the back of my neck, trying to bring myself out of a moment that was meant to be private, personal, intimate. “No,” I repeat, and avert my eyes. “I’m done.”

  “Perfect,” Mary says, looking a bit uncomfortable, too. “You can help me stock the bar.”

  So I do.

  And I wait, and wait, for Blanche to strut in with her chin raised.

  Only, she doesn’t.

  Mr. Champagne Cocktail and his friends come waltzing in first. I check the door repeatedly, wondering why Blanche hasn’t paraded through. The minutes tick by, and I shred a napkin to pieces. Another hour mark nears, and I grab a sturdier dishrag instead, becoming more irked at Blanche for making me wait to face her.