Becoming Bonnie

by Jenni L. Walsh

  I pick up another dirty glass. “Perhaps. I don’t want to be some damsel who needs a man, but—”

  Blanche holds up her hand. “Trust me, a damsel couldn’t have survived like you have. You, Bonnelyn, being the A student that you’ll, uh, be once again, are simply graduating from distress to happiness. And I’m a strong believer that necking aids in happiness. It’s proven, scientifically.”

  I laugh. “I’d like to see those reports.”

  “It’s good to hear you laugh, Bonn.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Hey, I’ve been thinkin’.” She doesn’t give me a chance to object, ’cause when Blanche thinks, it’s never good. “Your birthday is coming up. Nineteen. As in, the very last year before twenty. I think that deserves a li’l hoopla.”

  “That makes me nervous.”

  “No. No nerves; just fun. We could be one of those crazies.”

  I stare at her blankly.

  “You know, when people do crazy things for fun. That one man sat on top of a flagpole for days.”

  I shake my head.

  She twists her lips. “Did you hear how that other man strapped himself to the wing of a plane?”

  “Right,” I say. “Let’s use the spare plane I’ve got lying ’round out back.”

  Blanche tips a fake hat to acknowledge my sarcasm. “Something less outlandish?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “But listen, Blanche, I don’t think I’m up for anything crazy.”

  She taps her lower lip with her finger. “Of course. I need to think like Bonnelyn, not Alvin ‘Shipwreck’ Kelly.”

  “Who?”

  She sighs, feigning exasperation. “The fella who sat on the flagpole.”

  I snort. “You ain’t going to stop ’til you think of something, are ya?”

  She grins, showing her teeth. “Nope.”

  “Fine.” I knead the back of my neck with my wet hand, trying to also think like Bonnelyn. Which, frankly, is plain ol’ pathetic. Now that I think ’bout it, fun is exactly what I need. I’ve spent the past year wallowing ’bout one thing or another. And, my God, I reckon I’ve grown tired of myself. I need a renewed pep in my step.

  “A dance marathon,” I suggest, and smile at the idea of letting the beat take over my body. Just moving. Not thinkin’.

  “Yes,” Blanche says enthusiastically, and claps her hands together once. “That’d be perfect. You know what? Let me talk to Mary. I bet we could do one this weekend. I think the record is three weeks.”

  “You’d last three hours, tops.”

  “Challenge accepted,” Blanche says with a curt nod. “Okay, I need to find Mary, then get back to the bar. It’ll be hard to pull this together so fast, but I can do it.” She walks to the door that leads back into the main room of Doc’s, then stops, her face devious. “Great idea, Bonn. This is going to be your best birthday yet. I’ll pick you up. And as far as your dance partner … I know the perfect adult tooth for you.”

  She winks, and his name passes between Blanche and me in a heartbeat.

  Clyde Barrow.

  28

  Clyde Barrow? The criminal. That ain’t who I need to get my life back on track. I chew my bottom lip, glancing at Buck’s apartment door for what feels like the millionth time.

  Beside me on the couch, Blanche lowers her magazine. “Whatever is going on in your pretty head is probably juicer than the goop I’m reading in here.” She taps the cover of Photoplay. “So tell me, why is meeting Clyde so scary when he’s been hitching your breath for years?”

  “He hasn’t been…”

  Blanche raises her eyebrows, and even I know that’s a fib. I can’t deny Clyde’s got an allure to him. Problem is, I don’t think it’s the right kind.

  Instead, I say, “He’s older than me. He’s been arrested, probably more times than I care to know. He doesn’t go to church or school or—”

  Blanche narrows her eyes. “Would ya look at that? You’ve gone and described Buck.”

  I cringe.

  “My ears are ringin’,” Buck says, coming into the living room. “You lassies talking ’bout me?”

  Blanche sets her magazine on the coffee table, props up her feet. “Bonn was just mentioning some of your better qualities.”

  “Is that so?” Buck laughs, stops behind the couch, and wraps his arms ’round Blanche. He leans in and kisses her neck. “Bonnelyn is blushing,” he says to her. He tilts his head toward me. “I assure ya, Clyde’s a good lad. Like yours truly.” He snorts. “But if ya break his heart, you’re going to have to answer to me.”

  There’s a knock at the door. I jump, my hand flying to my chest.

  Blanche’s feet clunk to the floor. “And here he is now.” She skips to the door.

  I wish I put on plaid today, then I’d blend right into the couch. Then Clyde’s gaze would pass over me. Then I wouldn’t wonder, once more, what those eyes have seen. Then I’ll find a boy unlike Roy and Henry and Clyde, to start anew with.

  But no. Clyde strides in and sets his sights on me. Just like that.

  My mouth goes dry. I swallow roughly and study the deep red of my nails.

  “Bonnelyn,” Blanche says.

  She tugs my arm, and I stumble to get my feet under me. My stomach is fluttering—and I hate that it’s fluttering. ’Til now, Clyde’s only existed in my head, where he was a safe distance away, where he ought to stay. But now he’s standing in front of me, his hand stretched out, waiting for me to lay mine in his.

  I won’t be rude. I offer my hand. His skin is clammy, despite the redness of his cheeks from being outside.

  “The name is Clyde,” he says. “Clyde Barrow. I’ve been wanting to officially meet you for some time now.”

  “Bonnelyn,” I respond.

  My gaze slides to his eyes. And, in those deep, hazel eyes, I could lose myself. I could forget that I am Bonnelyn Parker from some no-name town. That, right there, scares the dickens out of me. I try to pull back, but his grip is firm.

  “Bonnelyn,” he repeats. “Well, that name ain’t pretty enough for the likes of you. I reckon Bonnie suits you better.”

  Bonnie.

  He nods, seeming satisfied. Then Clyde bends, smiling up at me as he presses his chilled lips to my hand. “Hi, Bonnie.”

  “Hi,” I say, weakly.

  I breathe him in, recognizing the scent of gasoline. He’s younger than I imagined, no more than nineteen or twenty, but he’s matured, like a man should be. It’s an impression I get, not only from his dark, slicked-back hair but also how he walked in here, like he knew where he was going. He doesn’t wear a suit like Buck. His baggier trousers and plain white tee give him a look all his own. A handsome, carefree one.

  “Why’re you staring at her like that?” Blanche asks Clyde.

  My hand is still in his hand, the spot he kissed still feeling cold from his lips.

  “I’m trying to catch the breath Bonnie took away,” he says.

  Buck laughs boisterously and smacks his brother on the back. “Clyde fancies himself a poet.”

  Or somebody who’s had plenty of time feeding lines to girls.

  “Well, don’t scare Bonn off,” Blanche says, stealing my hand from Clyde’s. “We’re going to get our dresses and faces on. You two boys, behave yourselves.”

  Blanche pulls me ’cross the living room, and I take another peek at Clyde, when he’s not looking. He runs a hand over his dark hair, dimples framing a wide grin. His eyes jump to me again, and somehow that smile grows larger. Somehow, the butterflies in my stomach flutter faster.

  Blanche presses the bathroom door closed behind us. She turns to me with a serious expression. “Sorry ’bout how intense Clyde was. You’re not going to run away, are you? I don’t think you’ll fit through the window. Even if you did, we’re three stories up.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, just as serious, and casually sit atop the toilet lid. But, inside, I feel upside down, attracted to someone who ain’t good for me—a road I’ve stumbled do
wn before.

  “You’re lying,” Blanche says with a hand on her hip. “But look, I ain’t asking you to marry him, just dance with him. And I’ll be there the whole time. It’d mean a lot—to him, I mean. That boy’s been waiting to meet you for ages.”

  My head perks up.

  “And you’ve been wanting to meet him, too!”

  “Shh,” I say. “Keep your voice down. That ain’t true.” But could it be, even if only a little?

  She laughs louder.

  “Blanche,” I say between my teeth.

  “Okay, okay,” she whispers. “But how ’bout getting to know him before ya write him off? You ended up liking Buck just fine. Now”—she holds up two dresses for herself—“red or black?”

  “Black,” I say, wanting to be the only one in red tonight—a thought that almost has me changing my mind and having Blanche put her other dress on.

  Over the next hour, we primp and ready ourselves for the night ahead. Clyde’s and Buck’s voices float through the wall, here and there. Sometimes their voices sound serious, and other times as if their ages have regressed ten years.

  “They better not break anything,” Blanche says, and rolls her eyes. “I just bought that new coffee table.”

  “Do you live here now?” I ask, realizing I should already know this, as her best friend.

  “In the bathroom?”

  I shake my head at her.

  “Yeah, I mean, you know I’ve been staying here most nights, but now I help Buck with the rent and all. My pa’s got a new girl, who hasn’t taken a liking to me. Besides, I’d rather live here.” She shrugs and reaches for her bright red lipstick.

  I lightly touch her arm. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I mean, what can I do? Pa’s always been more interested in his law firm than in me. Makes sense a new girl would eat up more of his time. Honestly, I doubt he’d notice if I disappeared for real. Only reason why he wanted me to start paying my own way or find a man is so that he could wipe his hands free of me.” She pauses. “Like mother, like father?”

  “That’s not true, Blanche.”

  “It is.” She studies herself in the mirror with an unreadable expression. “But it’s something I accepted awhile ago.” She turns to me. “But enough ’bout my pa and his women. Let’s get our dancing shoes on.”

  I bite my lip. Blanche can be hard to read. But she wiggles her fingers, and I hand Blanche her pair, slipping on my own.

  “Well, look at us,” Blanche says. “We’re the most bonny lasses this world has ever seen.”

  When we stroll out into the living room, it’s clear the boys believe it, too. Buck whistles, and Clyde’s lips part ever so slightly.

  I fidget with my crochet hat, making sure it’s straight though I just checked it in the mirror.

  “You lassies look great,” Buck says enthusiastically, then sweeps Blanche up in his arms. She squeals and yells at him not to muss her hair.

  Clyde and I stand opposite each other, awkwardly. I scratch my collarbone, pull on my stud earring.

  “You look nice,” Clyde says.

  “Thank you. You look nice, too.”

  He smoothes his plain white tee and, like before, I notice the three letters inked on his upper arm. USN. “I reckon I’m a bit underdressed. These juice joints ain’t my thing.”

  “Oh?” I respond, distracted by what those letters could mean.

  “Too many people all in one spot.” He shudders, as if someone runs a feather down his spine.

  I may not agree with him—I love the energy and crowd at Doc’s—but I smile at his animated reaction.

  Blanche skips back to us. “We better hurry. Mary wanted to start the dance marathon promptly at five.”

  We descend the steps to Doc’s, and anticipation for the music’s upbeat tempo courses through me. Blanche flings open the door, and my jaw drops at the amount of people who’ve showed up, and at such short notice.

  “How did everyone get in here without causing a scene?” I ask, leaning close to Blanche so she can hear me over the roar of the crowd, a crowd that’s got all of Clyde’s weight on his heels.

  “Didn’t you see the sign out front, for a free health exam?”

  I laugh. “Mary thinks of everything.”

  She spots us, waves us in, then hops up onstage in front of a band. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Doc’s very first dance marathon.”

  I quickly count at least thirty couples, everyone throwing their hands up and cheering.

  Mary shushes them. “Before we begin…” She makes another Shh sound. “Before we begin, let’s go over the rules. You’ll be dancing in pairs. You’re required to remain in motion—that means, pick up one foot,” she says, demonstrating with her own feet, “and then the other. Shuffling is fine, but if you stop, or if a knee touches the ground, you’re out. Every forty-five minutes, I’ll sound the horn and you’ll get fifteen minutes to rest. Everyone understand?”

  The crowd hoots and hollers.

  Mary laughs. “Well, okay then. Ladies and gentlemen, I only have one more question for you: How long can you last?” She swings her arm up and the band springs to life.

  The sound of “When the Saints Go Marching In” fills the too-crowded basement. I can’t help the huge smile that spreads ’cross my face. Mary searches for me, catches my eye, and lips, “Happy birthday.”

  “Dance!” Blanche says to me, already holding on to Buck.

  Everything is happening so fast that I feel a bit light-headed. I turn and find Clyde, with his thumbs dangling from his trousers’ belt loops.

  “I also ain’t much of a dancer,” he says with a lopsided grin.

  “You don’t like crowds. Or dancing. Why’d you agree to come?” I shout over the music, the laughter, the idle chatter. ’Round us, people already swing and twirl. In my mind, the answer I want to hear prickles the back of my neck.

  “I had to meet you!” he shouts back.

  A couple bumps me and I stumble to the side. Clyde grabs my arm to steady me. His touch and his response send shivers down my arms.

  “I don’t happen upon many girls who can handle a gun like you,” Clyde adds.

  This surprises me, and I laugh. “What?”

  “You impressed me. Fearless.” He extends his other hand, nodding for me to take it. “I’ll warn you, though—you take my hand again and I may not be able to let you go.”

  I stare at his hand like it’s foreign, hesitating. Truly, I don’t know the first thing ’bout the one and only Clyde Champion Barrow, besides his questionable past. And, really, this boy should remain a mystery from my past. But—I press my lips together—I like how he sees me.

  Fearless.

  Quick, as not to change my mind, I place my hand in Clyde’s, willing to let him swing me ’round the dance floor.

  “I’m going to need your help here.” He tightens his hold of me. “I’m afraid I have two left feet.”

  His modesty stirs something inside of me, and I raise Clyde’s arm to spin underneath and toward him. I stop against his chest. One hand embraces mine. The other drops to my lower back, and I suck in my belly, acutely aware of his fingertips holding me against him firmly.

  I am just a lonesome trav’ler through this big, wide world of sin.

  The upbeat Dixieland lyrics surround us, a contrast to how Clyde and I are moving, swaying back and forth, completely out of sync with the music, my palm flat on his chest.

  Come and join me in my journey, ’cause it’s time that we begin.

  “Bonnie,” Clyde says in his raspy tone, and hearing that name again hitches my breath. “Red is a good color on you.”

  My cheeks grow hot, hotter as our eyes meet. I drop my gaze. “We ain’t dancing like everybody else.…” The others are twisting, twirling, fully engrossed in the energetic spirit of the dance marathon.

  Clyde smirks, even as his heart pounds under my hand. “I told ya I ain’t much of a dancer.” He leans closer and adds, “Do you want to get
out of here?”

  “And do what?” I ask, trying to force my voice louder than the noise, louder than my own heart pounding in my ears.

  Clyde grins at my response. I don’t know what he’s so happy ’bout; I didn’t say yes. Yet, I didn’t say no, either. He backpedals toward the exit of Doc’s. My hand begins to slide from his, and I feel the roughness of his calloused fingertips, before he regrips, not letting go.

  And we’ll be there for that judgment, when the saints go marching in.

  He knocks into dancing couples, but simply sidesteps, adjusting his path, his eyes not leaving me. I look over my shoulder, searching for Blanche.

  Sorry, Clyde, I could say. Can’t go. Blanche insists I stay.

  ’Cept Buck swings Blanche ’round and she has an ear-to-ear smile on her face, not wasting a second on me. It’s not as if she’d help me anyway. That she-devil would most likely usher me out the door with Clyde.

  I decide it can’t hurt to slip away for a few minutes, though it’s not lost on me how I joked Blanche wouldn’t make it three hours and here I am, not lasting three minutes.

  We stumble up the stairs, onto the sidewalk. The cooler dusk air jars my senses, and I clutch my sequined neckline. My breath comes quicker, and I ask, “Where’re we going? I don’t want to be long.”

  “You’ll see, Bonnie.”

  “Clyde…” I look up, down Elm Street and steal back my hand. “I don’t know.”

  He bobs his head and rubs his bare arms, as if he’s searching for the right thing to say.

  But I don’t need the right thing; I need answers. Fearless or not, I can’t go running down the street hand in hand with a boy who knots my stomach with uncertainty. Not after Henry. Not after Roy.

  I need to know more. “Your tattoo.” I hesitantly touch the same spot on my upper arm. “What do those letters mean?”

  Clyde takes a deep breath, traces the USN, a solemn expression on his face. “I’m afraid it’s not a good memory.”

  I picture the three letters on my own skin and say, “You don’t have to tell me.”

  As I avert my eyes, then look back, Clyde slowly nods.

  “It seems I do, Bonnie. ‘United States Navy,’ that’s what it stands for.”