Becoming Bonnie

by Jenni L. Walsh

  Clyde and Buck have joined Blanche.

  I smile, anticipating Clyde’s smooth voice as he greets me.

  He’ll pull me into his lap, and I’ll have to playfully squirm and say, “Let me go. I’m on the clock.”

  The whole time, though, I’ll want to find that spot, just south of his shoulder, that God may’ve made for the sole purpose of me resting my head.

  Clyde runs a hand along his hairline, and that’s when I’m snapped from my fantasy. His face is etched with concern. I rush over to my friends. “What’s going on?” I ask Clyde.

  “Bonnie.” His eyes ain’t as vibrant as usual. “I’m sorry, but I got to go. We just came in to borrow Blanche’s car.”

  Blanche’s expression is just as concerned as Clyde’s. I turn back to him. “Why? Are you okay?”

  “Just a situation at home,” Buck answers for Clyde.

  “Someone tell me what’s going on.”

  “I will,” Clyde says, and half stands to sidestep from the booth. “Later. What time are you done today?”

  “Now,” I say, lying, and untie my apron. “I’m done now. I’ll tell Marco I ain’t feeling well.”

  Clyde studies me, and I hate that I can’t tell what he’s thinkin’. Finally, he says, “All right. Let’s go.”

  The four of us pack into Big Bertha, boys in the front, girls in the back. I manage to hold my questions as Dallas passes us by, becoming less populated as we head toward Cement City, not toward the Barrow home. Finally, I whisper to Blanche, “Where’re we going?”

  She leans closer. “I reckon it’s better you know what’s going on. Remember that train accident a few years back?”

  I strain my memory. “You mean,” I whisper, “when that little girl was hit?”

  Blanche nods yes, then toward the Barrow brothers. “I started to tell you before, how Dallas has some bad memories for their family…”

  I don’t need her to say more. I also remember how, at the time of the accident, the little girl was the same age as Billie, eight. My heart drops. The situation was, and still is—as Clyde stares out the windshield, motionless—devastating.

  Neither of the Barrow brothers has said a word since we left the café. We turn down a dirt road lined with trees, parallel with the tracks, and my chest tightens as I realize we’re going to the spot where their little sister was killed.

  I gasp, hoping it wasn’t audible, hoping I ain’t right: today’s the anniversary of that little girl’s death. Blanche squeezes my hand. When Buck slows the car, I stare at my knees, afraid to see what awaits us.

  “You can stay in the car if you want,” Blanche whispers.

  She reaches for the door handle, and I slowly look up, find a gray-haired man and woman sitting alone, with their backs to us, at the edge of the tracks. The setting is serene: the sounds of the rushing river on the other side of the tracks, splotches of wildflowers lingering into the colder months, the man’s arm ’round the woman.

  But all those things somehow make this worse, that something so beautiful could be the setting for something so tragic.

  Three car doors close, one after another. A crash of thunder follows, and I notice the darkening skies. Blanche slips her hand into Buck’s, but they move only a few paces from Big Bertha. Clyde walks on alone. I bite my lip, not knowing how to act.

  Clyde’s and my relationship is new. Does he like to deal with his emotions alone? Or is he the type of person who wants me there for support? He hesitated before he said I could come along. Why?

  I stop torturing myself and get out of the car. But I stop next to Blanche, not following Clyde. He now sits beside his mother.

  “She’s down here every weekend,” Buck says in a low voice, his sad eyes trained on his family. “But it’s always harder to get her to leave on this particular day, and with a storm coming … Clyde’s the only one who can ever get through to her.”

  “I’m so sorry, Buck.”

  He presses his lips together, nods. We stand there in silence, the darkness becoming more prominent with each passing minute. Finally, Clyde and his parents stand, and his ma hugs him, her shoulders shaking. It’s almost as if his daddy needs to be in constant contact with her, shifting with every motion she makes, as they begin walking down the road, away from us and toward an old, beat-up car.

  Buck exhales. “We’ll give ’em a few minutes.”

  ’Til what? I think. Blanche heads back to Big Bertha, and I follow, unsure what’s going on. In the front seat, they exchange quiet voices. I feel out of place in the back of Big Bertha, out of place having witnessed something so private in Clyde’s and Buck’s lives.

  When Buck begins driving, I’m happy to be moving, to be doing something. But that relief turns to a jumble of uncomfortable nerves at the sight of the Barrows’ service station. My mouth goes dry at the thought of walking through their door, as if I’m invading something too personal.

  “Cumie makes the best food,” Blanche says.

  Buck pulls the parking brake, rubs his hands together. “Ya can say that again. Ma’s got the golden touch.”

  The shift in their tones, mannerisms, is jarring.

  “You’ll see, Bonn.”

  “Okay.” The word comes out prolonged, a question mark attached to the end.

  My feet are heavy as I follow them to the apartment. Thunder rumbles in the distance, the sky dark. ’Cross the street, Old Jed sits on his stoop and, honest to God, part of me would be more eager to spend time with him than to go inside the Barrows’ solemn home—if Clyde ain’t happy to see me there.

  The scent of cinnamon greets me, and I breathe in the comforting fragrance. Embers are fighting to take hold in the fireplace. Everything is neat and tidy, same as I remember it from before. Mr. Barrow sits in an armchair, reading the paper. He glances up and smiles, before wetting his thumb and noisily turning the page, giving it a firm shake to set the new page in place.

  It’s as if I’ve walked into another world, even more so when I trail Blanche and Buck to the kitchen. Mrs. Barrow, short and plump, flutters from the stove to the sink to the counter.

  “’ey, Ma!” Buck calls.

  She turns, her hands finding her apron.

  “Oh, Blanche,” Mrs. Barrow says, and rushes over to envelop her in a hug. She then turns to me. “And you must be Bonnie.”

  I’ve a face full of breast before I know it, and I stutter out a muffled greeting.

  She pulls back, eyes bright, even brighter smile. “Tweed kettle and grilled tomatoes, how’s that sound?” she asks.

  No one objects—I don’t even know what it is—and Mrs. Barrow claps her hands together.

  Clyde strides in through a back door, arms full of tomatoes, a few large raindrops staining his shirt. Nerves speckle my stomach, unsure how he’ll react when he sees me.

  “Oh, good!” Mrs. Barrow inspects the tomatoes he plops onto the counter. “Reckon this will be the last batch we get before winter comes. Now out, out.” She ushers us from her kitchen.

  I’m the first one to stumble into the living room, and I’m inclined to keep walking right out the door, into the rain.

  Clyde grabs my arm and whispers, “I was hoping they’d bring you, despite everything. How you holdin’ up?”

  “Me?” Truly baffled, I study his face for any sign of the pain I saw down by the river. “I should be asking you that. But you look okay. Everyone seems fine.”

  He aimlessly plucks a chord on his guitar, which leans against the couch. “Situation is a wee bit strange, huh?”

  “Yes, a wee bit.”

  “Come on,” he says, and leads me out the side door, the rain pummeling the tin awning above us. Clyde slides his hands ’cross my belly, propping his chin on my shoulder. “That, inside,” he goes on, “is how my ma copes, one extreme to the other. She grieves at the tracks. But when she’s within those four walls, it’s as if she pretends her life is different. Like if she scrubs a little harder, cooks fish that’s perfectly pink, fluffs the pillo
ws just so, it’ll make our family whole again.”

  “Oh, Clyde.” I face him, wrapping my arms ’round his narrow waist, at a loss for words. His heart thumps under my ear, and it’s one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard. Strong. Resilient. Fearless.

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe it, though. We’re born whole, then life takes a little more from ya each day, each experience, each loss. It ain’t something you can get back.”

  “But it’s okay, I think … to pretend.” I tilt my head to see his face, not disagreeing with him, but understanding that’s how his ma gets by. At seeing the slight curl of his lips, I smile coyly. This boy sees through my words. He knows I ain’t only referring to his ma. Here I am, spending my days in between daydreams and Clyde’s arms.

  “There’s nothin’ wrong with pretending while you mend, Bonnie. But my ma’s been doing it for years now. Breaks my heart. Why I’m going to get her out of here.”

  I sigh and rest my head again, staring out into the rain. “You’re a good man, Clyde Barrow, and here I am, tying your hands behind your back.”

  “That ain’t true.”

  “But it is.” Guilt forces my eyes closed. “The work’s not coming, and you’re barely putting anything away for that land. You ain’t even going out to look for it. All ’cause of me.”

  “Hey, Bonnie?”

  The rain may sound angry ’round us, but when I look up, Clyde’s got an understanding look in his eyes, and I talk first. “Clyde, I’m starting to think that you had it right all along.” I’m starting to fully realize what Blanche said forever ago, ’bout life needing elbow grease, ’cause right now I’ve got a B version of Doc’s and I’m working a dead-end waitress job. That ain’t how I pictured myself thriving. But Clyde has it worse—doesn’t have a real job at all, no way to save for what he wants. A thought comes to me, and I say it aloud. “Life will do what it wants with you, huh? Eat you up, spit you out. Comes a point when you got to push back, make things happen for yourself.”

  “I don’t like hearing ya say it, Bonnie.” But he nods, keeps nodding. “It ain’t fair, though.”

  “It’s not,” I say into his chest.

  He puts space between us, ’til I see his out-of-place smirk. “So you are in agreement, then, that I should meet your ma as soon as possible?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s not fair you met my family but I haven’t met yours. So I’m going to make that happen.”

  I laugh, and, honestly, this has been one of the most backwards afternoons of my life.

  “So, tomorrow then?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, and throw up my arms. “Seems I’m agreeing to everything nowadays.”

  Clyde laughs. I do, too. But I also swallow, nervous ’bout two things: basically telling Clyde he’s free to run amok, and how my ma will react to me bringing home a convicted felon—on a Sunday, no less.

  34

  It’s been forty-seven, -eight, -nine seconds of silence ’round our dinner table. Clyde sits in Daddy’s old seat, which probably ain’t winning him any points, ’specially since the last boy who sat there was Roy.

  I chew my chicken more thoroughly than need be, willing Billie to say something. But for once, the cat has my sister’s tongue. At least Buster has stopped glancing at his shotgun, which he specifically spiffed up earlier and conveniently left leaning against a cabinet. The only one who’s fine with Clyde being here is old Duke Dog, snoring at Billie’s feet.

  Clyde doesn’t seem to mind my family’s cold shoulder. He’s a proper gentleman, complimenting my ma on her lemon chicken and asking Billie ’bout school. With Buster, I told Clyde to mind his own, unsure of a safe topic for him to talk ’bout with my brother. Clyde’s done good. Still, I’m seconds away from leaping out of my chair and turning on the radio for background noise.

  Ma clears her throat.

  “So, Clyde, do you have any hobbies?”

  He wipes his mouth with his napkin, and I pray to God an illegal activity doesn’t come out when he pulls that napkin away.

  “I like to tinker with cars. My family owns the Star Service Station over on Eagle Ford Road, so I get my hands dirty now and again.”

  Tension eases from my shoulders. “Clyde also reads quite a bit of poetry.”

  “Is that so?” Ma says, her voice even.

  “Yes,” I answer for him. “William Butler Yeats.”

  “My ma and I like to read it together,” Clyde says.

  “And he plays the guitar.”

  “Oh?” my ma says, but she doesn’t direct the question at Clyde. “Anything else you’d like to tell me ’bout Clyde, Bonnelyn?”

  Billie chuckles, and my cheeks flush. Ma’s pointed look doesn’t help matters, either, probably questioning how much time I’m spending with this boy, ’specially with me not biking home ’til after the sun comes up, to bathe and change clothes.

  Clyde jumps in, saying, “I taught myself to play the guitar a few years ago. I’m not very good and can’t read the music, but for me, it’s all ’bout how the music vibrates through my bones. It’s beautiful, makes me feel alive.”

  Ma nods, softly chewing her chicken, and I let out a small breath.

  “Your daughter and I actually started a song together, but we have a few more verses to go.”

  “Do you now?”

  I subtly shake my head at him, a plea not to elaborate on the song, even if my ma is finally showing interest. I’m rather confident she won’t want to hear ’bout how I saved him from a hooligan trying to kill him while he was bootlegging liquor.

  “Your daughter’s been a great inspiration,” Clyde says, with an impish grin.

  “Growing up, I used to sing in the church choir,” Ma says in a gentler tone, and sets down her fork.

  I smile; the first glimpse of the real Emma Parker is shining through.

  “Say, that must be where Bonnelyn gets her voice.”

  Ma chuckles. “I’m flattered.”

  Billie says, “She’s going to be famous one day. Did Bonnelyn tell you how she wanted to be an actress when she was little?”

  “’Til,” I say, “I realized I wasn’t any good. I’m plenty fine with simply going to films.”

  “Yeah, best to stick with singing, Bonn,” Buster says, rocking back on the chair’s back legs.

  “Don’t listen to your brother,” Ma says, and motions for Buster to lean his chair forward. “You never know what the future will bring, sweetie.”

  I don’t, but I’m relieved to know that, after winning over my family, Clyde will be part of that future, without us having to go behind my ma’s back.

  Someone knocks on the door, and Duke Dog shoots to his feet, barking incessantly.

  “It’s probably Blanche,” I say, talking over the noise. “You know how nosy she is; probably wanted to see if Clyde would crash and burn.”

  As I walk to the door, Clyde says to my family, “I ain’t much for fire.”

  I smile to myself, and pull open the door. “Blanche Cald—”

  “Good evening, ma’am,” an older fella says in a flat voice. He tips his hat, covering his overgrown brows. A shiny emblem catches my eye as he returns his hat to his head.

  “Yes?” I throw my weight to one side, keeping a hold on the door. If he’s here for Roy, this conversation won’t take long.

  “I’m Officer Jacobs.”

  And, just like that, my heart could dislodge from my chest.

  “I have reason to believe that Clyde Barrow is inside your residence. And this here”—he holds up a paper—“is a warrant for his arrest.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, my brain rushing to think of something to say. I land on, “Who?”

  “Clyde Barrow, the man who was arrested a few weeks ago with your husband. That name doesn’t ring a bell?”

  I swallow. “Not a lick.”

  “Mrs. Thornton…”

  I grimace at the use of Roy’s surname.

  “It’ll be unfortunate if I have to
arrest you for obstructing justice.”

  Officer Jacobs drops his hand to his cuffs. Mine tightens on the door. “Don’t come to my house and threaten me. Now, if that’s all—”

  He exhales, then shouts, “You hear that, Clyde Barrow? We know you hit up Buell Lumber. Someone came forward. Claimed they saw ya. I’ve got enough to put you away now, and if you don’t show yourself, I’m going to haul this young lady down to the station for questioning.”

  I move to shut the door, but Jacobs slides his foot into the doorway. I’m left counting the beats of silence, willing Clyde to keep his butt in my daddy’s chair, hoping I’m a better actress than I think, and praying for the stalemate to be over, for the officer to give up and leave. But footsteps grow louder behind me, and I curse under my breath. Eyes trained on the officer, I keep my feet where they are.

  Two hands touch my shoulders, gently moving me aside, and I want to cry out for Clyde not to hand himself over. But he will; he already proved that once.

  Clyde holds out his arms, and my eyes blur as I watch him get cuffed for a second time. The officer yanks him forward and Clyde resists, straining to turn to see me.

  “I ain’t leaving you, Bonnie. I’ll be back for you.”

  The officer snorts. “Not for a long time.”

  Inside, I’m screaming with every ounce I’ve got for that pig to take his hands off Clyde. He saves me. I save him. That’s how this is supposed to work.

  I take a step forward, stop. I know getting myself arrested will do neither of us any good. I need to be strong for Clyde—for myself—to give us a chance. So I raise my chin and say, “I ain’t going anywhere.”

  35

  After a few weeks of visiting Clyde, I know the routine. Get the bus at ten. Check in at McLennan County Jail’s front desk. Let an overweight, underloved guard frisk me with lingering, probing hands. Then wait in the cold, sterile, cement-walled room ’til the clock strikes eleven and the inmates all file in.