Charley turned his face toward her. “We could have some fun right now,” he said, a smile working its way into the corners of his mouth. “How about it, honey?”
“How about it?” Ruby replied.
4
The picnic went fine, until Dempsey caught the fishhook in his lip. It was his best day ever as a fisherman, and he wasn’t willing to quit, even though it was almost too dark to see the cork. He had caught seventeen perch and two small catfish in the course of the day, and he wanted to catch just one more. Three of the perch and both the catfish were big enough to eat—his mama had promised to cook them, if his daddy would clean them.
No one could quite figure out how Dempsey threw his line in such a way as to make the fishhook catch his lip. One minute he was fine, and the next minute he was screaming. Charley was cleaning the five little fish when it happened, and Ruby was carrying the remains of the picnic to the car. It had cooled off after sundown, enough so that she had goose bumps on her legs.
“Hold still, son—hold still,” Charley said. “You ain’t dead, it’s just a fishhook.”
“Now you know what a fish feels like,” Ruby told him between screams.
“Don’t tell him that, there’s nothin’ wrong with fishing,” Charley snapped.
“No, except that you can get fishhooks in your lip,” Ruby remarked.
“Get the flashlight!” Charley said.
“What flashlight, we didn’t bring it,” Ruby said. “We didn’t plan on staying after dark.”
“Get it out! Get it out!” Dempsey yelled.
“Son, I can’t see well enough to get it out,” Charley said, cutting the line. “We’ll jump in the car and be home in a minute. Then we’ll get it out.
“Put a towel around him so he won’t bleed on the seat,” he told Ruby, but while Ruby was trying to fix the towel, Dempsey started jumping up and down, screaming again. He bled on the seat.
Dempsey whimpered most of the way home. Charley nearly ran over a dog, trying to hurry.
“Slow down, he ain’t gonna bleed to death,” Ruby said.
“Sorry, my nerves are on edge,” Charley said. “Stop whimpering, son.”
When they pulled into the driveway, a car with Oklahoma plates was sitting at the curb. It looked familiar, but Dempsey was making so much noise and Charley was so distracted, he couldn’t place it.
When they went up the back steps, with Ruby carrying the groaning Dempsey, they saw the glow of two cigarettes over near Dempsey’s swing. Charley jumped, wishing he had a gun—but then he placed the car: it was Bob Birdwell’s old flivver.
“Don’t shoot, pard,” Birdwell said. “It’s just us Okies.”
“My God, George,” Charley said. “Dempsey’s got a fishhook in his lip, this is Ruby, come on in.”
“Hi,” Ruby said. “We’re a mess, we had a picnic, but there’s some fried chicken left if you’re hungry.”
When they turned the kitchen light on and saw how much blood Dempsey had dripped onto his shirt, both Charley and Bird became visibly faint.
“I can’t stand the sight of blood,” Birdwell said, turning white.
“You boys go clean the fish,” Bob Birdwell said, taking charge of the situation. “Me and Ruby will take care of the doctorin’.”
The two men quickly went out the back door.
Ruby held Dempsey more or less still, while Bob sized up the situation.
“That fishhook won’t come out—it’s got to go on through,” she concluded. “If you get a little wire cutter, I can snip that hook off.”
“Go ask Charley, I’m confused,” Ruby said. “This has got me so shaken up, I can’t remember up from down.”
Bob didn’t waste any time. She found the wire cutter herself, and snipped the hook. Then she took Dempsey’s chin in her hand.
“Yell, Dempsey,” Bob said. “Yell as loud as you can. Pretend this is a hog-callin’ contest. See if you can call the furthest hog.”
Then she winked at him, and pushed the hook on through his lip, blood dripping everywhere. Ruby felt a little faint herself, but she held Dempsey still. Then Bob quickly pulled the straight part of the hook through Dempsey’s lip. Dempsey screamed so loud that Charley and Birdwell, way out in the yard cleaning fish, both jumped and cringed. In a few seconds, his screams subsided. Bob even got some iodine on the wound before he noticed.
In a few more minutes, Dempsey’s cries subsided, and he went to sleep in his mother’s lap.
“No fun getting a fishhook in the fat part of your lip,” Bob said, grinning at Ruby. “What he don’t know and we do, is that there are worse things.”
Ruby wasn’t quite sure what Bob meant by that, but she was sure she liked Bob, skinny and crazy as she appeared. Once Dempsey stopped screaming, the men came in, looking abashed. Ruby thought Charley still seemed as if he might puke, but he soon recovered enough to eat six pieces of cold fried chicken, and two slices of vinegar pie that Bob Birdwell had brought for them.
“Ruby, you’re plumb beautiful,” Birdwell said, gallantly. “I don’t know why they keep calling Charley Pretty Boy. Who would ever think his mug was pretty?”
“Well, I do, sometimes,” Ruby ventured. She was shy around strangers—on the other hand, she was glad for the company. Charley was so annoyed about her not bringing a flashlight on the picnic that there would have been a fight if the Birdwells hadn’t turned up. It was just the kind of little thing that started their worst fights.
“See, Bird?” Charley said. “I don’t have to be pretty enough for you. I only have to be pretty enough for Ruby.”
Bob went out to the car, and came in with a jug of moonshine. Charley carried Dempsey upstairs and put him to bed, and then the four of them got drunk. Ruby rarely had guests in her house, and it made her nervous. She was afraid she would forget something proper, and offend her guests. She might forget to put washrags in the bathroom. For most of her life, she hadn’t even had washrags, just pieces of flour sack cut into squares. Her father hadn’t believed in spending good money on frills.
“Wash your face with your own two paws,” he used to say. “It’s just your face.”
Ruby and Charley had a guest room, but they hadn’t been expecting any guests, and hadn’t bought a bed for it yet. The guest room was filled with Dempsey’s toys.
“Let’s give ’em our bed,” Charley whispered. “We can make a pallet.”
Once Bob Birdwell got thoroughly drunk, she began to sing “The Wabash Cannonball,” her favorite song. She got up and danced around the kitchen, pretending she was playing the fiddle while she sang.
“I run around naked sometimes when I’m drunk,” she confessed. She had on her clodhopper shoes, laces untied and all.
Charley winked at Ruby. He thought Bob Birdwell was a real character. Ruby was glad Bob was drunk; maybe she wouldn’t notice if some little something like washrags was overlooked.
Then Ruby got sick at her stomach, and ran outside to throw up by the trash barrel. She didn’t want her guests to hear her heaving.
Later, when she and Charley were almost asleep on their pallet on the floor, they heard a thumping sound from upstairs in their bedroom.
They raised up on their elbows to listen.
“Are they having a fight?” Ruby wondered. She had never heard a sound quite like the thumping.
Charley listened a minute longer—then he grinned.
“It ain’t a fight—listen to them bedsprings zing,” he said.
Before Ruby could get to sleep, she grew melancholy. It was fun having the Birdwells, and she was especially grateful to Bob for getting the fishhook out of Dempsey’s lip. If Bob hadn’t done it, she herself would have had to. Charley couldn’t have managed it without losing his lunch.
Still, Charley had talked to her many times about Birdwell’s expertise as a bank robber. It seemed to be his profession, just as it seemed to be her husband’s. If the Birdwells had driven all the way to Arkansas, it was most likely because George wanted Charl
ey to help him pull some bank jobs. Charley would do it, too. They were running pretty low on money.
It meant Charley would leave, and she and Dempsey would be alone in a place where she had no friends. Bob Birdwell wouldn’t be staying with her; Bob had already let it be known that she wanted to hurry back to the farm.
Later in the night, there was more thumping from the bedroom.
“Why do they have to thump?” Ruby asked, rolling over. “We don’t thump.”
Charley slept through the Birdwells’ second session. The next morning he got mildly irate when he saw that in the course of the Birdwells’ lovemaking, George had dented the wall behind the Floyds’ bed by butting it with his head.
“Dern, George, can’t you screw a little lower down on the mattress?” he asked Birdwell, while the women were frying sausage and making coffee.
It was George Birdwell’s practice to ignore all criticism, though occasionally he would deign to reply to one by saying something particularly wise.
“Trouble hangs on a woman’s skirts, bud,” he said. “Plenty’s hung on Bob’s. Do you want to do a little banking with me tomorrow, or not?”
“How far’s the drive?” Charley asked, grinning. It was a crisp morning, and Charley felt good. Dempsey’s lip had bled on the pillowcase a little, but he had bounced out of bed full of mischief. He seemed no worse for wear.
“I was thinking we might hit one of them nigger towns,” Birdwell said, referring to the several colored townships sprinkled across the Oklahoma plains.
“Those niggers are prosperous,” he added.
“You can carry out that plan by yourself, if that is your plan,” Charley said.
“Why?” Birdwell asked, surprised to have his suggestion rejected. In his view, it was a prime suggestion.
“Every nigger I’ve ever met could shoot the eye out of a squirrel,” Charley said. “They have to shoot good, or they’d starve to death. They wouldn’t have no trouble plugging two white boys.”
“Okay, then let’s rob Ardmore,” Birdwell said. “Ardmore’s nearly in Texas, but it’s prosperous. If we don’t get enough there, we can cross the river and rob Henrietta or somewhere close.”
“Let’s leave Texas to Bonnie and Clyde,” Charlie said. “I expect we can survive doin’ jobs in Oklahoma.”
As soon as breakfast was over, Bob Birdwell got in the flivver and left. She had not spoken to George all morning.
“Them kids had better not forgot the pig,” was her parting remark. “I gave them plain orders to slop the pig.”
Birdwell and Charley lolled around all day, playing cards. George threw the football with Dempsey for nearly an hour. When he really drew back and threw, he could shoot the football almost out of sight.
That night, George took the pallet, and Ruby and Charley went back to their bed. They didn’t do any thumping, or any zinging, either. Ruby was in a low mood. Charley went to sleep immediately and started snoring, but Ruby lay awake for two or three hours, looking out the window at the moonlight. The uneasiness she’d felt the night before about Birdwell’s arrival had lingered throughout the day, and on into the evening.
The next morning, she was hanging out a load of wash when Charley and Bird got in the car and left. They were laughing and cutting up, like boys going to a fair. Charley strutted over, and gave Ruby a big kiss—George Birdwell came, too, to thank her for her hospitality. He tipped his hat, real courtly. Ruby didn’t kiss back when Charley kissed her; she felt too low.
When the car drove away, she began to cry.
5
Robbing two banks in one day was a bank robber’s dream—Charley and Birdwell soon got so slick that they were able to do just that. The second robbery was in the small town of Atoka, and baseball season had just started. As soon as they got the money safely under the back seat, they blazed out of town at top speed, passing a ballfield on the way.
“I ain’t seen a ball game in a while,” Charley remarked. “That bank was way down in the middle of town. I doubt folks at the ball game even know it’s been robbed.”
“I doubt it, too,” Birdwell said. “When I was pitching baseball, I once struck out ninety-one batters in a row.”
“Ninety-one batters?” Charley said, skeptical. “Bird, that’s a lie.”
“It was eleven batters, at least,” Bird amended. “I can’t remember the figures, but it was a good many batters.”
They drove out of town a few miles, took off their coats and ties, rolled up their shirtsleeves, and went back to the ball game. There were no bleachers, so they sat on the fender of the car. The game ended in the sixth inning because the community only possessed one ball, and a big, blond-haired boy hit it so hard it sailed out to the highway, landing in a truck that happened to be passing by.
The game had been close up to then, and the spectators looked gloomy.
“It ain’t just the game that’s over,” Birdwell said. “It’s the season—they lost their ball.”
“Shucks, I love baseball,” Charley said. “Let’s buy ’em some balls and drop ’em off in front of the bank, next time we come through.”
“Okay, Robin Hood,” Bird said. “They say charity begins at home, though.”
“Not at my home, it don’t,” Charley said, morose himself over the abrupt end of the ball game. “Ruby hardly ever makes biscuits anymore. I like makin’ a pot of spaghetti once in a while, or a pie, but that don’t mean I like to do the cookin’ all the time.”
When they drove out of Atoka, Birdwell was in high spirits, but before they had driven ten miles down the highway, Charley’s mood darkened even more. They passed a little shack of a farmhouse, with a family on the porch. Charley glared at them for a moment, and then looked wistful.
“Reckon we’ll ever be normal, Bird?” he asked.
Birdwell, who was driving, cocked an eyebrow at him.
“I don’t know about you, bud,” Birdwell said. “I am normal. I been pretty much normal ever since I was born.”
“Applesauce,” Charley said. “You ain’t a bit normal.”
“We just watched a ball game,” Birdwell pointed out. “Ain’t that normal?”
“Not if you rob a bank first, it ain’t,” Charley said. “If all we’d done was watch baseball, that’d be normal.”
“But robbin’ the bank was normal, too,” Birdwell insisted. “We’re bandits—bandits gotta rob something, and banks are a helluva lot easier than trains.”
“How would you know?” Charley asked him. “The James boys robbed trains, I guess we could too, if we tried.”
“I did try, once,” Birdwell told him. “That damn train wouldn’t stop. The engineer didn’t have the imagination to figure out I was trying to rob him.
“Banks ain’t moving objects,” he added. “That’s why I favor banks, and there’s another thing to consider.”
“What?” Charley asked.
“Most normal folks is bored shitless,” Birdwell informed him. “They just sit around the house watchin’ the grass grow, yellin’ at each other, mostly.”
“Well, I wouldn’t,” Charley said. “I seldom argue. I’d like to stay home with Ruby and Dempsey from now on and be normal.”
“What’s stopping you, chum?” Birdwell asked. “Go on back to Fort Smith. Maybe if you pretend you’re an insurance salesman long enough, some sucker will walk up and buy a policy from you someday. Then you’ll have a new career.”
“I ain’t no insurance salesman,” Charley said. “I have to make money, and lots of it. My family’s gotta live.”
Birdwell cackled.
“In other words, you’re just a working man’s bank robber … just doing it for the money, huh?” he said.
“Well, sure … ain’t you?” Charley asked. Some days he thought he had his partner figured out, and other days he had to admit, he didn’t have a clue.
“Not me, chum!” Birdwell said. “I’m a pure bandit. I don’t scorn the cash, but I do it for the thrill and the publicity.”
/> “The publicity?” Charley asked.
“Sure,” Birdwell said. “Everybody likes to see their name in the paper.”
Charley didn’t say much for the next ten miles or so.
“Well … I guess I’m a bandit too, then,” he admitted. “But you’re happy about it, and I ain’t. Don’t you feel like a low hound when you have to run off and leave Bob and the kids?”
“Not hardly,” Birdwell said. “I might miss the tykes once in a while, but I can find a skirt most anyplace I go, and that always helps.”
“You mean like Whizbang?” Charley asked.
Birdwell, for once, looked just the slightest bit unhappy.
“No, not like Whizbang Red,” he corrected. “Me and Red, we’re thick. I just meant a skirt.”
“Don’t Bob get mad?” Charley inquired.
“Why would she?” Bird asked. “Do I look like I’m fool enough to tell my wife everything I do? It’s all me and Bob can do to get along four days at a stretch. If I didn’t leave, she’d run me off—and she has, too, plenty of times.”
“On account of what?” Charley asked.
“On account of general orneriness,” Bird said. “Bob irritates me. If I’m home three or four days, we fight like alley cats.
“Ruby looks like she could scare up a temper herself,” George added. “Don’t you and her ever scrap?”
“Mostly about my leavin’,” Charley said. “Ruby don’t like it when I leave.”
“Retire, and stay home for about a year,” Birdwell suggested. “She might begin to see the benefits of a solitary life.”
“I doubt it,” Charley said. “Ruby ain’t like Bob.”
Just then, Birdwell turned the steering wheel so hard, Charley almost ended up in his lap.
“You nearly hit that chicken!” he said.
“Aw, who asked that imbecile hen to stand in the road anyway?” Bird replied, indignant.
6
“I ain’t stealin’ your husband, Bessie, I just gotta get out now and then,” Beulah said, as she and Bradley got ready to head for the honky-tonk.
Pretty Boy Floyd Page 23
