Side by Side

by Jenni L. Walsh

  Hoovervilles, that’s what I’ve heard these areas called. And that armadillo roasting on a spit, I believe that’s known as a Hoover hog.

  President Hoover ain’t a popular man.

  But that man won’t get a second more of my thoughts. A bus is approaching down the street, kicking up dust. I smooth my hands over my new secondhand coat, then down my long dress. My hat gets a quick adjustment, too, before I wring my hands together. And wait. I wait to see the man I haven’t set eyes on in almost two years. I haven’t heard his voice. I only know Clyde in the stiff letters of a typewriter and through Buck’s deeper tone.

  Clyde will be different. I know it. I just need to look deeply into his hazel eyes to know if everything will be okay. If we’ll be okay.

  The five-hour ride from the town of Huntsville shows differently on everyone who exits the bus. A man stretches. Another has ruffled clothing. A woman exhales, a red-faced child in her arms. I chuckle as one fella stomps his boot at the top of the bus’s stairs, shaking life back into his numb foot.

  Reunions happen at the mouth of the steps. I wait impatiently for my own, praying for my own. A man exits, then it’s like the bus is out of more. I stare at the opening, my spirits darkening as the seconds go by, before surveying the small group that’s formed.

  Then another fella appears at the top of the bus’s stairs, slicked-back hair, a face that appears to be freshly shaven, a full bottom lip I’m aching to kiss.

  Clyde.

  My smile and my fluttering heart compete to be the first to respond to the sight of him after so long.

  I rush closer, saying excuse me as I angle my body left and right.

  Clyde chucks a bag and a long stick down the bus’s steps, and I don’t realize ’til I’m standing over them that the second is a crutch. He shuffles forward, then hops down the three stairs. Each thud he makes against the steps pounds in my head.

  All his weight is on his right foot, his left foot hovering above the dirt. The laces of his boot are undone, the shoe’s tongue hanging to one side. I’m a statue, my mind rattling with too many fears of why Clyde Barrow stands before me—lame—to think of what to do next.

  “Bonnie,” Clyde breathes.

  Then I’m in his arms. Clyde wobbles, steadying himself against the bus. At first, his arms are stiff. He softens. Our eyes meet, and it aches how badly I want him to crash his lips to mine. Clyde’s too slow, and I cup the back of his neck, pulling him to me. Our kiss is clumsy, as if we’re trying to remember how the other’s lips move. I help him remember, taking the lead. Then Clyde deepens the kiss. Boy, does he kiss me, like he’s got something to prove.

  I stay in his embrace, my forehead tucked beneath his chin, and we both breathe in, like we’re trying to recapture each other’s scent. I don’t recognize Clyde’s.

  He pulls back, raising his hands. Clyde hesitates before framing my face. His own features, ’specially his jawline, are tense. Then there it is: I recognize the intensity of his eyes. My heart expands and my breath catches, a wonderful tightness seizing my chest.

  A line of poetry flitters into my head, as it so often does when Clyde sets his gaze on me.

  Love comes in at the eye.

  Thank you, William Butler Yeats. I know with certainty that Clyde’s love for me knows no ends. But I also can’t miss the darkness lurking behind those eyes. I should ask Clyde why part of his body weight rests on me, but I ain’t eager to learn the answer to how the guards hurt him this time. The bus’s engine fires to life. I lean toward Clyde’s good ear, the one the malaria he got as a boy didn’t steal the life from, and a lie tumbles out above the engine’s rumble: “I’ve good news.”

  Clyde’s head cocks. “I could use a heaping of that.”

  I push on, desperate for our reunion to be a happy one. But even more, I’m desperate for Clyde not to break the terms of his parole and be sent back to a place that’s made him unable to walk on his own. “I’ve gone and found you a job.”

  Clyde’s voice comes out unhurried, unsure, as he says, “Did ya now?”

  No, but I nod eagerly. The bus pulls away. Clyde bends to pick up his crutch. I ignore the sight of it. “I was leaving the theater the other day and the owner—Mr. Johnson, his name is—joked he should put me on his payroll, since I’m there so much.” This much is true. With each step, my shoes rub my heel raw a bit more. Clyde moves beside me, all his weight to one side. “But Mr. Johnson really does need an usher. His last one—this big, burly fella—just landed himself in the big house. So this morning,” I say, transitioning from fact to fiction, “I marched over to the theater and demanded for you to get the job.”

  “Did ya now?”

  “I did. And when Mr. Johnson said no, I threatened to take my patronage elsewhere. I told him Clyde Champion Barrow could keep things in line better than most. No one would dare slip past you with a five-finger discount.”

  Clyde’s on the verge of a smirk, but it’s not quite there. I lean in to kiss him, but ain’t it strange, he turns away. “Truly, Bonnie, I’m flattered you think I could do the work of a big, burly fella. But—”

  “Just say thank you”—I force a smile—“and show up tomorrow for the matinees. Shanghai Express opened today and the line stretched ’round the block to see Marlene Dietrich. Tomorrow is sure to be just as busy. You’ll show ’em how burly you are, honey.”

  He stares at the cracked sidewalk. For a few unbearable seconds, it’s just the thunk of his crutch followed by the quick movement of his good side to catch up with his bad. Finally, with those eyes of his still trained down, he says, “Thank you. I’ll do good by you, Bonnie.”

  Excitement over Clyde’s return fills me again, and this time my smile is genuine. Now, I got to exit stage left to get Clyde that job. I ramble some more, telling Clyde to go on home to see his family, then I say, “I’ll come by tonight.”

  I expect a kiss good-bye, but Clyde’s head must be elsewhere, and I have no problem taking matters into my own hands.

  I’m halfway to the theater, my blisters screaming at me, when I remember I ran out of the diner with hours to go. I curse at my foolishness; another gal would gladly snatch up my future shifts. By the time I reach Marco’s, I got my excuse on the tip of my tongue.

  “Feminine problems,” I tell my boss, and promptly hold my breath.

  He mumbles something incoherent before, “Don’t do it again.”

  “I won’t, sir,” but it’s as if Marco is reading my mind, as all I want to do is get to the theater. I busy my hands with pouring coffee, and I busy my mind with how Clyde’s hands are going to relearn my every curve tonight.

  When it’s finally quitting time and I escape outside, the crisp air is a rush to my senses. I hightail it down the street, and in between breaths, I practice my conversation with Mr. Johnson.

  “Clyde’s a hard worker.” I pass Doc’s, not looking at it. “Wonderful attention to detail.” Up ahead, a crowd is already lined up outside the Palace Theater to see Marlene Dietrich on the silver screen. That’ll work in my favor, as Mr. Johnson may be eager to make me smile and get me on my way. “Committed to his work.”

  I find Mr. Johnson inside, rushing here then there, that way then this way. Frankly, it’s baffling his midsection resembles a spare tire with all the running he does. I tap him on the shoulder, his round face lighting up as it does when he sees me.

  Chin raised, I spout off my idea and Clyde’s better qualities.

  Mr. Johnson says he won’t hire him, not a fella like Clyde, known for robbing all over Dallas. “I ain’t keen on swapping one convict for another, Bonnie,” he says, not making me smile one bit. In fact, it boils my blood.

  Clyde tried before at an honest life, going so far as to ink USN on his upper arm before trying to enlist in the United States Navy. ’Cept, it didn’t go as planned, not with him having malaria as a boy. The navy didn’t want a lad who had trouble hearing out of one ear.

  I ain’t going to accept Mr. Johnson being someone
else who doesn’t want Clyde. My chin goes up more to deliver my rebuttal.

  “I ain’t keen on finding a new theater to go to. I rather like it here.”

  Despite the depression, Mr. Johnson ain’t hurting for patrons. I’m a dime a dozen, but there’s something to say ’bout loyalty in these times, and he exhales, louder than his already abnormally loud breathing. Mr. Johnson fetches me the previous burly man’s uniform. “Bonnie, don’t make me regret this.”

  “Won’t be nothin’ to regret,” I say. “Clyde did his time. He’s straight now.”

  Later, I tell the same thing to my ma as she purses her lips at me. She sighs and stitches into the sleeve of the uniform’s red jacket. Clyde’ll need it shorter. I could sew it myself, but the new cuffs on his matching pants will take me long enough and Ma’s spent decades working as a seamstress. She’ll have the jacket fitting Clyde in no time, which will get me over to the Barrows’ in half the time. My foot’s already tapping with the need to see him.

  What I don’t need is my ma mumbling under her breath ’bout Clyde getting out sooner than she thought he would. Or should. Then, loud and clear, she says, “Your brother made manager at the cement plant.”

  We make eye contact. The single lamp in our living room casts shadows ’cross her face. Ma pokes her needle through the fabric. I nod and glance at the clock. It’s getting late. “That’s wonderful for Buster. Daddy would be proud.”

  My ma pokes again. “Did Billie tell ya she’s going to be a nurse? Of course, she still has a year of senior high to go, but she’s got her heart set on it.”

  “I’m glad they’re both building futures for themselves.” I say it ’cause I am, but also ’cause I know what my ma’s getting after with her not-so-subtle updates. I focus on Clyde’s pants, restraining from pointing out how I dropped out of school after Ma got sick to work extra hours, all to keep a roof over my little sister’s head. It’s not as if I wanted to say good-bye to one of my dreams, of standing in front of my own classroom, all those eyes on me.

  She says, “Ever think ’bout going back for your degree?”

  “Some,” I say, but it’s been hard to pull myself from the “life’s on hold” feeling that swept over me when Clyde was sent away. But now he’s back, with a second chance at an honest life. No reason for me not to get another shot, too.

  Ma rips the thread with her teeth. “Ya know,” she says, and I brace myself for whatever she’s throwing at me next, “I heard over the party line that Roy’s back in prison.”

  “Sounds ’bout right,” I deadpan. “What’d my charming husband do this time?”

  “Roughed up a fella. Mrs. Malone told Mrs. Davis that Roy was three sheets to the wind at the time.”

  I’d be redundant to say sounds ’bout right again, so I settle for a slow headshake.

  “Sometimes ya think ya know a boy…” Ma shakes her own head.

  I smile tautly, not giving in to her taunts. Sorry, Ma, but my heart’s set on Clyde, and there’s a future waiting for us. Clyde believes it so much that a few years ago he wrote it into a song. I complete the stitches of Clyde’s pants, our chorus filling my mind’s ear. Bonnie and Clyde—sung one after the other. Four quick beats, followed by three slower ones—Meant to be—I pause, then think—a-live—I dip my chin once, twice, before the two final notes of our melody—and free.

  A free man is what Clyde is now, even if earlier it seemed like chains were still wearing him down. It’ll take time, I’m sure. But tonight, it’ll be the two of us: Bonnie and Clyde. Boy, am I ready to feel alive.

  3

  Ma sewed at a snail’s pace, delaying my reunion with Clyde as long as she could. But here I am, the moon high in the sky, twisting the knob of the Barrows’ apartment door. Each time I come here, I’m impressed with Clyde and his family. They didn’t end up in Dallas ’til after the Great War, when life fell apart for farmers. Cities promised more. Still, Clyde’s family lived under their wagon, then a tent, ’til they opened this here Star Service Station.

  It’s almost as if our relationship started under a tent, too. But now we’ve got a chance for more.

  The door’s unlocked, Clyde no doubt expecting me. I smirk at Blanche asleep on the couch, like she said she’d be, and tiptoe toward the second of the two bedrooms with his uniform slung over my shoulder.

  The door’s ajar, the room dark on the other side. On a twin-sized bed, Clyde lies on his side, his back to the door. I lay down his uniform and shed my coat. With each step toward him, my anticipation grows. My foot connects with something hard, and I nearly stumble. The noise startles Clyde, and he rolls over. What I kicked gives me a start. His crutch. I step over it, not sure I’m ready to know what caused his broken bones. All I know, they’ll heal, given enough time.

  “Sorry for waking you,” I say. I’m not. This is Clyde’s first night home, and what I have planned doesn’t allow for much sleeping.

  Clyde rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Late,” I say. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. I’ve got your uniform for tomorrow.”

  I kick off my shoes. Clyde’s now slouched in bed, darkness hiding his features. He pats the space beside him, and it’s all the invitation I need. There ain’t much room, but I have what I need to lie facing him. Something—a hesitation I feel—stops me from draping my arm ’cross his body. Maybe it’s ’cause we haven’t been intimate in years. Or maybe it’s from how I had to kiss him first back at the bus station.

  “Bonnie,” he says, and I’m glad he spoke next, as I’m at a loss for words, besides asking for another kiss. “I’m mighty thankful for you.”

  “Oh yeah?” I stretch out my arm now. His stomach is hard beneath my touch.

  He nods. “Aye.”

  I’m encouraged and rock into him. “How thankful? Want to show me?”

  Clyde clears his throat. The roughness of it vibrates through my arm. He scratches his neck. He sniffs. The boy does everything besides move to touch me.

  “Some other time.”

  Some other time? I prop myself up. My heart thumps in my ears, no longer from anticipation but from the fact this is going all wrong. “Not now? It’s your first night home.”

  He nods. “That’s right. First of many nights, Bonnie. Reckon we’d be better off when my parents aren’t on the other side of the wall. Go on and lay your head down. Let’s get some sleep.”

  I glance at the shared wall, then back at Clyde. His rejection has me stuck between thoughts. “You want me to stay?”

  Clyde mimics my position and runs the back of his fingers ’cross my cheek. “More than anything, darling.” He settles back down. “Tomorrow’s a big day. I don’t want to misstep.”

  “Okay.”

  I slowly shift to my back, as if I got to move at a snail’s pace myself, uncertain of how to act. By now, I thought Clyde’s hands and mouth would be running all over me. That’s certainly not the case, and I can’t help wondering if his parents were an excuse. Or if being home, and all I threw at him, is too much after what he faced in jail. I glance again at the crutch and decide it ain’t fair of me to be impatient. And Clyde’s right, tomorrow’s a big day. There will be another one after that. There will be plenty of time for us to discover each other once again.

  * * *

  The next afternoon at Marco’s, I glance at the clock every two minutes. My shift fell later in the day, keeping me from overcompensating with one smile after another as Clyde worked the matinees. I can imagine his smirk in reaction to my grins. I can hear him say, Bonnie, you can do better than undressing me with your eyes.

  ’Cept, I haven’t seen that smirk of his since he’s been home, and last night makes me feel like those words aren’t ones I would’ve heard.

  It’s nearly dark by the time I’m headed toward the Barrows’. Down the block, in front of a boardinghouse, Clyde sits on the stoop with a boy I’ve never seen before. The kid’s looking at Clyde like whatever Clyde’s saying is going to be on his next exam.r />
  Clyde sees me, whistles. The boy mimics Clyde, earning the kid a hoot from Clyde. The whistle is odd enough, but coupled with Clyde’s animation, it’s like he’s putting on a show. He edges himself off the steps.

  “Quite the greeting,” I call and point at the boardinghouse. “Ya getting us a room?”

  “Nah.” Clyde tucks the crutch under his arm. “Just here talking to an old friend.”

  That there strikes me funny, being the kid looks to be teen-aged. I wave to the young’un, resembling Clyde in his dark hair and narrow shoulders. Clyde totters toward me, I walk toward him. He says, “Reckoned you and I could find a spot of our own, though.” He nods to his family’s service station down the road, their apartment tacked on to the back. “That place is feeling a bit cozy.”

  I smile, which will be the complete opposite of my ma’s reaction. In fact, it’s a bit of a relief Clyde’s thinking ’bout us getting a place that doesn’t share a wall with his parents. “How’d your first day go at the Palace?”

  Clyde says flatly, “Po-lice came by.”

  We stop, face-to-face; a streetlight flickers above us.

  “What on earth for?”

  “Johnson did me good and called the laws to let ’em know I was employed. They came down to see for themselves.”

  “Good,” I say, still not sure why his voice has an edge.

  He raises a brow. “Would be good if they didn’t take me in.”

  “In where?”

  “‘Cross town to the station. Sat me down. Questioned me—”

  “’Bout what?” I shake my head. “Clyde, tell me you didn’t go and steal something within hours of getting out of prison.”

  Clyde turns away. “That’s great, Bonnie. Thought you’d have more faith in me. In us.”

  I curse myself and grab his arm, keeping him from going any farther from me. He tenses. “I do,” I say. “I’m sorry. It got me nervous, that’s all, at hearing they took you downtown.”