“Careful,” Mary says, snagging a bottle. “You’re destroying this place. You’ve already left two piles of glass in the back room. And at the rate you’re going, you’ll scrub right through the bar.”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Mary starts to turn, then stops. For once, her detached and unruffled facade is softer. “I heard ’bout what happened with that fella, with your boy—”
“What?” I ask, my nostrils flaring. I know it’s Blanche’s big mouth that blabbed, probably to make herself look better.
“It ain’t like things stay a secret ’round here. Honestly, I’m surprised you lasted weeks without your boy finding out ’bout all your dirty little secrets.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, scrubbing the bar top even harder. I don’t need Mary’s voice to add to the one already in my head, ’bout how Roy’s and my ailing relationship was never really Blanche’s fault.
Mary shrugs. Over her shoulder, the door to Doc’s slowly opens. Four men walk in, and I gasp. I know them well. Charles, George, and Edward, from the cement plant. The final man: none other than my brother.
“Buster,” I say under my breath. Someone else who’s ’bout to unravel my secret. I brush past Mary, pushing the dishrag into her stomach.
I know I could hide from him, but I won’t, and I fight my way ’cross the dance floor, carelessly knocking into people. The entire time, my mind races ’bout what I’ll say to my brother. The moment he sees me, recognition lights up his narrow eyes.
His friends flank him on either side, his group lingering inside the door as if they don’t know which direction to go next.
“So this is where you go every night?” Buster shouts over the noise. Not even a hello.
I examine his face, but I don’t know if he’s angry or not. “Yeah, guess it was only a matter of time before you found out.” I scan the familiar room. “It’s a good place.”
Buster’s expression is impossible to read as he says, “It was hell getting in. Bouncer only agreed ’cause I told him that you’re my sister.”
I raise my brows at how he knew I’d be here.
“Roy told me.”
His name is a punch to my gut.
“Wow, Bonnelyn,” George says. “This place is amazing.”
“Thank you?” I reply, not sure if that’s the right answer. Doesn’t matter; a girl on the dance floor has already stolen Buster’s friends’ attention.
I roll onto my tiptoes to talk into my brother’s ear. “Ma knows ’bout this place, Buster. So don’t go thinkin’ you’re going to tattle on me. She’s already got enough going on.”
He studies me before he says, “She’s sick.” When I don’t act surprised, he goes on, “Having surgery soon.”
“So she told you?”
He nods.
“Does Little Billie know too?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Good.
“This place pays well?”
I raise a brow. “Yeah.”
He bobs his head. “Ma told me she’s got to stop working to get her strength up. She’s been ’fraid to tell you. Says she’s doesn’t want to put any more pressure on you.”
I swallow, already feeling the weight of being the family’s only breadwinner, and turn toward Rosie onstage. Our conversation feels too heavy for Doc’s. I come here to feel free, but my real life keeps tailing me.
Buster’s eyes follow my line of sight to Rosie. She motions for me to join her. “You get up there and sing?” he asks.
I smile. “Yeah. It makes me happy.”
“I reckon if it makes you happy, this place can’t be all that bad.”
“So you ain’t going to hog-tie me and carry me out of here?”
“Nah. We need the money. Besides, that’d be hard with only one hand,” he says. “But I don’t need two hands to have myself a drink.”
I should’ve known Buster and his wild ways would like Doc’s. His friends certainly do, having already disappeared onto the dance floor. I smile, and pride that Doc’s is mine flows through me. “Follow me.”
Mary snickers at me when I return behind the bar, Buster grabbing a seat on the other side. “Sheesh, Saint Bonnelyn, how many men do you have? You’re going to need a new nickname.”
“Funny,” I say dryly. Then I turn to my brother. “She’s only razzing me.”
He gives me a Better be expression.
“Mary,” I continue, “this is Buster—my brother.”
She accepts his handshake but addresses me. “I reckon that look in your eye means he’s off-limits.”
I nod, and Buster laughs.
“Just as well,” Mary says, and points to Raymond at a poker table. “I’ve got that buffoon over there. He’s enough work as it is. Now, how ’bout some brown.”
Mary grabs a bottle of whiskey and sets out two small glasses, fills ’em, pushes one to Buster, keeps one for herself. “Shall I pour another?” she asks me.
Buster hoots. “You’re telling me that you’ve been here all these weeks, Bonn, and you haven’t had any?”
Mary rocks her head back and forth, answering for me, and I shoot her a glare. My brother beams proudly at me, then he gets this flicker in his eyes. It’s a tiny ache in my heart, with how much it resembles our daddy’s mischievousness.
“Well then, let’s add some hair to your chest,” he says.
A third glass is set in front of me, and I blow out a breath.
“Bottoms up.” Mary slings back her brown. Buster drinks his, grimaces.
I hesitate. “Oh, what the hell,” I say, figuring the alcohol may ease my Blanche-related anxiety.
I grab the glass, spilling some. I take a mouthful, swallow it down, cough, my throat feeling as if it’s on fire. I open my mouth, hoping some of the heat will escape, and cough again.
“Tickles, doesn’t it?” Mary says, smiling.
I breathe out, hoping no one realizes there’s still a little whiskey left in my glass. “Something like that.” My torso and limbs feel warm.
Buster asks me if I want another, and I feverishly decline. I fix him another drink, though, along with the other men and women who stumble up to the bar. It’s nice, spending time with my brother. In between patrons, we talk. I actually laugh. He doesn’t utter Roy’s name, and I’m thankful for that. Neither of us mentions our ma or our money situation again. I don’t think he wants to face it, either.
“How ’bout one more?” Buster asks.
“Mary ain’t going to like I’m giving away all her juice.” But I’ve already got the gin in the glass and I’m working on adding the soda.
Buster grins, turning in his seat and propping his elbows against the bar. Leaned back, that boy doesn’t look like he’s got a care in the world. Or maybe he’s just got himself a real good buzz, this being his third drink in less than an hour.
“Bonn.” With his back to me, he turns his head. “Bonn,” he says again.
I drop beneath the bar to grab a new bottle. “Yeah?”
When I stand, Buster is facing me again, his shoulders no longer relaxed. “Who’s that guy?”
“Which guy?” I ask, and imagine Mr. Champagne Cocktail doing something stupid again. Just last week he used his pants like a cape on the dance floor.
But, no, Buster is acting every part of a protective big brother, the way he’s shifting his chair farther to the right, blocking where I stand.
“I don’t like the way he’s looking at you,” he says.
I lean to the side and heat stabs me in the stomach.
Mary comes up beside me. “No way. Never thought I’d see him again.”
Me either.
“Why? Who is he?” Buster says, his tone sounding dangerous.
Henry strides toward the poker tables, smirking at me every few steps. It’s hard to fully describe the raw fury I feel toward him. He acted like he was something he wasn’t. He played with my emotions. He tempted me, made me fail. He’s the real liar, the real cheater. Nothin’ mor
e than a despicable excuse for a husband and future father. How is it that men like him exist, when my daddy—a kind, decent, loving, faithful Henry—no longer does?
I take a slow, controlled breath. Henry may have lured me, but never again will I let a boy bend my will. “He’s nothin’.”
Mary examines me. “If you’re going to implode, please don’t do it here.”
“What’s going on?” Buster says, louder.
“Honestly, Buster. Let it go.”
He shakes his head. “If that’s the fella Roy was telling me—”
“Buster,” I say firmly, more firmly than I intended, ashamed my brother knows I cheated on Roy. “He’s just some jerk who ain’t worth either of our time.”
My brother sips from his drink, and I notice the deliberation behind his eyes. “Fine,” he says eventually. “Unless that creep comes any closer.”
“Thank you,” I say.
But I don’t follow my own advice. I search the crowd again, looking beyond the chaotic dancing, needing to know where Henry is.
The first face I see is Raymond’s. It’s hard to miss him, when he’s the only one unmoving, the only one staring at me, hoping to catch my attention. He nods toward Henry at the next table.
“I know,” I lip.
Raymond opens his mouth, but my eyes jump to a new movement: Henry’s.
Midlaugh, he turns his head toward me. The anger from the other night is gone from his expression. His residual cockiness is back, but there’s something more in his pinning gaze and smirk. Defiance. It’s as if he thinks he’s untouchable.
He’s not.
The tempo of the music increases, fueling something inside of me. I lock my eyes with Henry’s, fighting the urge to shrink away. My next gesture ain’t for Henry. It’s for Raymond. But I want Henry to realize that this is my doing. I nod confidently toward the exit, silently demanding, Raymond, get this sorry excuse for a man out of here.
Two hands land on Henry’s shoulders. Raymond yanks him out of his chair. Henry shouts, but the noise of Doc’s swallows his protests. He tries to shake Raymond off, so desperate and childlike. I watch Henry, wholeheartedly enjoying the power I’ve wielded, as Raymond escorts him away.
The door opens as they approach it. Blanche enters, Buck coming in next. Blanche’s features instantly morph from hesitance to anger, her lips pursing. Her hand winds back, flies forward, smacking Henry ’cross his face. Raymond’s shoulders bounce in amusement. Blanche steps aside, and Buck slams his shoulder into Henry’s as Raymond gives him the bum’s rush. Blanche kicks the door closed.
She takes a moment before she turns, Buck’s hand on her lower back to guide her. Blanche instantly searches behind the bar, for me.
A slow smile appears on her face.
I realize that a smile is already on mine. I straighten my lips and ask Buster if he wants another drink.
“I’d rather you tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“Later,” I lie, and I get to fixin’ him another Gin Rickey. “I’ve got to deal with her first.”
Buck pulls Blanche ’cross the room, toward the bar. I’m ready for her, adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
“Y’all need to talk,” Buck says to me, his arm stretching fully behind him, with Blanche hanging on as if he’s a lifeline. He yanks her and she stumbles forward. “Now.”
I push the drink toward Buster, then fold my arms over my chest.
No one says a word, my brother looking back and forth between Blanche and me with scrunched brows.
Buck shakes his head. He grabs my hand, pulling Blanche and me toward the back room. The voices and music ring in my head when the door closes behind us.
“Blanche will go first,” he says.
She glares at him, and he smiles sweetly before leaving the two of us alone.
“Fine,” she mutters. “I’m an ass. I should never have written that note.”
Her sort-of apology catches me off guard. I’d been mentally preparing myself to go toe to toe with her. “Do you understand why?” I ask condescendingly.
“It was selfish. I did it more for me than for you. But part of it really was for you. I swear to that God of yours.” When I don’t answer right away, she continues, “Bonn, I really am sorry. You know Blanche never apologizes.”
“You really messed up, Blanche.”
“I know. I won’t do anything like that ever again. Please forgive me? I slapped that jerk good and hard for you.”
I sigh, the fight in me diminishing, ’specially since I know I messed up, too. “Okay, but—”
“No buts. I’m already a big enough ass.”
I scrunch my brows.
“I know that didn’t make sense,” she says, “but at least you don’t look like you’re going to slaughter me anymore.” I roll my eyes, and Blanche bites her lip. “How ’bout this … That Halloween bonfire thing is in a few weeks. I’m sure Roy will be there. Everyone will be having fun, be more relaxed. We can woo him.”
“Weeks?” I ask, and rub my forehead.
“Time heals all wounds, Bonn.”
“I don’t know. I think I messed up too badly.”
Buck pops his head into the room, bringing a wave of noise with him. His shoulders relax.
“We’ve all been there,” Blanche says with a half-smile.
“Maybe. But I let that two-faced jerk affect me too much.” I motion with my hand, slowly, steadily to the right. “It’s like my life was moving on this good path with Roy. Then Henry smiled at me and wham”—I stop, start moving my hand sharply to the left—“that path started going the wrong way.”
Blanche grabs my hand. “I can fix this, and your, um, path. Let me try. How did you leave things with Roy? Did he say it was over?”
“I don’t know. He told me how he wasn’t sure if he could get past me kissing Henry. He just walked away. Then today”—I let out a slow breath—“I gave him a doodle.”
“You gave him a doodle?”
“Yeah, like one of those drawings—”
“Oh, I know what ya mean. I reckon you could’ve thought a bit bigger, though, Bonn.” She claps her hands once. “But I can work with this; it’s all promising. There’s still a chance.”
Considering Roy couldn’t so much as look at me at church, I ain’t so sure I agree, and now I’m doubting my apology even more. Bigger? I should’ve gone bigger. But how?
Buck steps forward. “Please let her try to help.”
I smirk at his desperate tone. I can only imagine the earful Blanche has given him since our fight.
But I think ’bout being at that bonfire. I ain’t convinced it’s a good idea. Though I’m not convinced it’s a bad one either.
Blanche stomps her foot, like an honest-to-goodness two-year-old, and brings her hands together as if she’s praying. But she wouldn’t actually ever do that.
My chest rises. “Fine.” I exhale. “I’ll go.”
Blanche squeals.
18
I moan.
“Smile.” Blanche taps her foot. “Come on, Bonn.”
Buck—or should I say, Buck the Court Jester—leans closer and whispers to me, “Let’s just get this over with. I feel ridiculous too.”
I force a grin, showing too much teeth. Blanche rolls her eyes and snaps a photo. “Thanks,” she says sarcastically. “Okay, now one of me and Buck.”
He groans, and I catch the camera she shoves at me, knowing one picture really means ten. Poor Buck is a human prop while Blanche poses with him, on him. I take the photos, glancing at the clock in Buck’s apartment. The bonfire started over an hour ago.
Over the past few weeks, when I’m not at Doc’s, I’ve been at home, washing, scrubbing, trying to get the house as spotless as possible before my ma’s surgery. Where I’m not at is school—excused ’cause of my special circumstances—while Buster, Billie, and I take shifts caring for our ma, not letting her out of her favorite chair, so she can get her strength up. Blanche brings me my schoo
lwork so I don’t get behind. I’ve done enough damage to my love life; losing that hold on my teaching dreams would be too much to bear.
It’s bad enough I spend my days exhausted, stretched too thin, but also hoping that Roy didn’t simply toss my doodle aside. I’m endlessly questioning our passion, if our love is anything like my parents’: long-lasting and enduring.
It’s that thought that led me to doing something bold, something permanent, to show Roy my commitment.
A few days ago, Blanche skipped behind me, giddy with excitement, yapping ’bout how this was exactly the “bigger” she meant before.
The initial prick of the needle felt like nothin’ more than a cat’s scratch. From there, a bee sting, a careless swipe of my razor. Then it worsened: a hot needle being dragged over my tender skin, again and again.
Blanche held my hand and tapped my cheek whenever my eyes began to roll back in my head.
But I’ve done it.
Roy’s name will forever be inked on the delicate flesh of my inner thigh, a spot only he will see.
If he forgives me today—and frankly, I’m worried. I stopped going to school, just like that, and Roy hasn’t come knocking. I kept thinkin’ I’ll look up and see his tall frame taking up my bedroom doorway. But no, nothin’. And I told Blanche to leave him be; didn’t think her pestering him would win me any points.
“Ready!” Blanche wipes her lipstick from Buck’s face. “Bonn?”
I moan again.
“There you go,” Blanche teases. “That sounded sort of pirate-like.”
I look down at my black-and-white dress, the red scarf tied ’round my waist. “Nifty,” I say sarcastically.
A few minutes later, the football field comes into view, and I hesitantly get out and shut Big Bertha’s door. A huge bonfire blazes beyond the field’s end zone. A bunch of my classmates dance ’round it, skipping and shouting our school fight song in tune with the marching band.
I scan for Roy but, from this distance, the costumes and setting sun make it hard to distinguish who is who. “So how do I do this? What am I supposed to do? Do I—”
“Go and talk to him,” Blanche offers, and starts down the path toward the stadium, hand in hand with Buck.
Becoming Bonnie Page 16