Side by Side

by Jenni L. Walsh

  “Well, I didn’t do nothin’. They only wanted to shake me up, let me know they have their eyes on me. I’ll tell ya what, I didn’t enjoy the twenty-block walk home.”

  I flicker my gaze to where the crutch meets his arm, imagining the skin rubbed raw, even beneath his coat, uniform jacket, and shirt.

  “Bonnie,” he says, “ya didn’t tell Johnson I’m crippled.”

  I hadn’t. Mr. Johnson needs an able body. But that’s Clyde. “You ain’t crippled.”

  He starts to limp toward home, as if proving his point, and I’ve no choice but to finally acknowledge it. “I’m sure you don’t need that ol’ pole. Not for long, anyway.” I raise the pitch of my voice at the end of the sentence, indicating a question. A large part of me hopes it goes unanswered. I’m terrified of the happenings of the prison farm.

  Clyde stares straight ahead, but it looks like he rolls the words ’round his mouth until he says, “I cut off two of my toes.”

  “You cut … You did it to yourself?”

  “I had no choice, if I wanted to survive. I ain’t exactly a big, burly fella, Bonnie. It was hard out in them fields. But with two less toes, they assigned me to the kitchen.”

  Clyde’s clever, horrifyingly clever. But the more I think ’bout it, Clyde’s willingness to forever handicap himself is every bit horrifying. And also limiting, being Clyde will need work that doesn’t require manual labor. I restrain from wringing my hands, not wanting Clyde to see my unease, and also my worry that ushering at the theater may qualify as a job unfit for him. I swallow, refocusing, ’cause one thing’s for sure: “I’ll take that limp if it meant saving your life.”

  “Me, too,” he says. “I’ll be damned if I didn’t wish that pardon came a few toes earlier, though.”

  “Me, too,” I mumble. Yet now he’s out. We’re living the straight and narrow. Clyde’ll make ushering work, and the law will grow bored with him.

  “But Bonnie?”

  I look over at Clyde, and, golly, I’m taken aback by how much I missed being next to him. I only wish pain wasn’t etched ’cross his face.

  “I need ya to know something,” he says. “I ain’t never going back.”

  “To the theater?” I lick my lips. “Clyde, you got to.”

  “No, Bonnie. I meant to prison.”

  I scrunch my brows and reassert the thought I just had. “The police are going to move on and find a new fella to harass.”

  He slowly shakes his head.

  “Clyde,” I say firmly. “They’ve no reason to take you back to prison.”

  “It’ll break me.”

  He packs so much emotion and conviction into those words. I count my heartbeats, suspecting there’s more to Clyde’s survival at the prison farm than I’ve been told. I’m at twenty heartbeats before I muster the courage to say, “Whatever it takes, we’ll keep you out.”

  Clyde turns to me. He kisses my forehead. “That, we will.”

  4

  The Palace looms ahead. I lower my head and lean into the wind. The first week of Clyde’s job, all went well. I convinced myself the law only came on Day One to set the stage, almost as if saying, Now be on your best behavior.

  Which Clyde has been, I note, and tuck an escaped strand of hair beneath my hat. As the days went on, his foot healed enough where he left his crutch at home. He limped, but that teeter gave him an edge, one the theater’s patrons didn’t seem like they wanted to cross. My man had that theater orderly, running like a well-oiled machine. Mr. Johnson had no reason to work himself into a sweat. ’Til the police started coming in again, their fingers pointed at Clyde, their hands gripping his arm as they took him away—for no good reason.

  I sigh, hoping today will be one of the good days, with Clyde ushering people to their seats instead of him sitting on a wooden seat down at the police station. After the first handful of times he got picked up, I practically had to drop to my knees for Mr. Johnson to keep Clyde on his payroll. We’ll keep you out, once spoken with such positivity, became a battle cry.

  Each day, I donned my hat, my gloves, my coat, and marched to the theater. Each night, I lay beside Clyde at his parents’ and spoke those words aloud. Mostly, Clyde stared at the ceiling, only ever holding my hand in his.

  Today’s matinees are ’bout to start, and a crowd’s got their dimes ready to get in the doors. I wait my turn, the wind nipping at my face, and rub two nickels together between gloved fingers. Inside the building, I blink to adjust my eyes to the darker lobby. My coat’s only half shrugged off when I see Clyde.

  I exhale. He’s here. His red uniform is pressed. His dark shoes shine. His black bow tie is slightly askew. The poor boy’s put together well enough, but I see the tightness of his shoulders. I’ve offered to massage his muscles at night, but his answer is always no. I can’t help being hurt by that, still aching for Clyde to do more than rub a thumb over my hand or press his lips to my forehead.

  I take a step toward him, planning to level the bow tie. Maybe I’ll even try for a kiss. But then, a man shoves him. My mouth drops open. Clyde rocks on his heels, taking a cluster of steps backward.

  “Clyde,” I call, just as he shifts his balance forward. He charges the man. No, don’t, I finish in my head. Clyde bowls over the man, along with an innocent couple standing nearby.

  I wince; nothin’ will save Clyde’s job now.

  “Filthy cop,” Clyde growls. A cop? The man’s in plainclothes. Clyde’s got him by the shirt collar, pressing him down.

  I run over the patterned carpet toward Clyde, watching his arm cock back in anticipation and his fist take aim.

  “Clyde, no!”

  Mr. Johnson, wheezing, grabs Clyde by the shoulders and yanks him back. He yells at Clyde—not at the undercover cop who started this whole scene. I can’t believe it, ’cept I can. With both hands, I tug my hat lower, clenching the brim so tightly my knuckles might burst. And I watch. I watch as two ushers take Clyde by the arms, forcing him through the double glass doors and onto the street.

  “Sorry, Bonnie.” That’s all Mr. Johnson says to me. “I’ll be sad not to see you anymore. But I can’t have this in my establishment.”

  My hands drop from my hat, thumping against my thighs. I don’t even bother responding.

  Outside the theater, Clyde paces like a lion in a cage. Most of the crowd is inside by now, but those remaining stay out of his path.

  “I made it a month for ya, darling,” he says.

  I take in a mouthful of cool air and touch his back. He startles.

  I snap, “Why you keep doing that?” I breathe deeply and focus on this right here … the fact Clyde’s conditional pardon is currently going to hell. “We’ll find you another job.”

  He turns quickly, facing me. “For what? To be hounded again?” Clyde shakes his head. He takes a step backward, out of my reach. “That won’t do.”

  “Stop that,” I say, to the distance he keeps creating, to him giving up, to this whole mess we’re in now.

  His head still shakes. “You know that won’t do. That cop could come out right now and haul me off.”

  “You’ll get a new job. You have to try, honey. Please,” I plead.

  He comes back to me and takes my hands. “We can’t be out here. Let’s go.” His jaw is tight. His next word comes out silent, one syllable, a profanity spoken only to himself. Then: “Bonnie, I’m sorry. We’ll talk ’bout it more tonight. A nice supper. What do ya say?”

  I agree, but I reckon I won’t have much of an appetite. How can I when Clyde’s tight as a drum? But we’ll figure it all out. We’ll talk it through at a table for two, instead of on a sidewalk of rubbernecks.

  Blanche is more than happy to help me prepare.

  “I’ll get ya all gussied up for that dinner of yours,” she says.

  Soon, air rollers dangle from my head. As I wait for Blanche to take ’em out, I twirl my wedding band from Roy ’round my finger, a habit I do when I’m nervous. Can’t seem to quit it. Lord knows I twir
led the damn thing plenty when Roy and I were together.

  Blanche is helping a woman settle underneath what resembles an upside-down trough, maybe ten feet long. Two other women are already positioned under it, their hair trapped under hairnets. One woman is also receiving a manicure in Look-at-Me Pink. The full treatment, as Blanche calls it. Off in the corner is a scary-looking device I’ll scratch and claw to avoid. From the bottom of the saucer-like contraption hang two dozen tentacles, little clips dangling at the end of each. I reckon it resembles a medieval torture device more than anything else. One designed by Medusa herself.

  Blanche chuckles, walking toward me. “By the looks of your expression, you’re making up stories ’bout the Scary Hair Machine in your head.”

  My eyes bulge. “It’s really called that?”

  Blanche reaches for a roller. “You got a better name for it?”

  She’s got me there.

  Blanche removes another roller from my head. “Last week, one lady asked me to perm her dog. Actually wanted me to hook her little pooch up to that thing.” She bends and talks in a baby voice to Snow Ball, who’s curled up on a fluffy bed beneath Blanche’s counter. “Don’t worry, my li’l love. I’d never do such a thing to you.”

  I think I see relief pass over her little love’s face.

  “Now, just relax, Bonn. When I did this for a woman the other day, I had her shut her eyes. Didn’t want her knowing how to do a finger wave for herself. She’ll start doing it on her own, and I’ll be out a customer. But I’ll let ya keep them eyes of yours open. The perks of being Blanche’s nearest and dearest.”

  I smile at her and clasp my hands together, waiting for whatever a finger wave entails. Being there aren’t any devices ’round us besides a few clips, a spray bottle, hair spray, and a comb, I let my shoulders relax.

  Blanche wiggles off her wedding band. “I hate taking this here off, but I don’t want to get any goop on it, you see.”

  This time I really smile at her. Blanche and Buck tied the knot in July, then drove her Ford, lovingly named Big Bertha, to Florida for their honeymoon. Blanche said it was a glorious week of sand, sun, and sex. Plus, “Icing on the wedding cake,” Blanche said, waving ’round her marriage license. “I finally know Buck’s real name.”

  All Blanche had known for years was that it’s six letters long. Drove the girl crazy Buck kept it to himself.

  I’d be lying if I said I’m not jealous. Not of her knowing Buck’s name; I only feigned interest ’cause she prides herself in knowing. I’m green with envy ’cause I didn’t get a honeymoon or cross-country trip of my own. My marriage to Roy only gave me heartache, his name inked on my upper thigh, and a hunk of silver on my finger. But divorce doesn’t make sense. Ain’t worth the distress or time. One party has to be at fault, and Roy wouldn’t ever let that be him, despite his wandering eyes. Our marriage is long over in my mind, even if I still got his ring. I could easily take it off, but I keep it as a reminder of my past mistakes.

  Not thinking for myself.

  Lettin’ someone steamroll my dreams.

  Trying to keep up with the Joneses.

  Blanche says, Fuck the Joneses. But not the comic strip. We both enjoy reading that, find it funny. And maybe that’s ’cause ya got to find the humor in life.

  Blanche is my humor. Without her, there’d have been little laughter this past month. Also, without her on the couch, little time for Clyde and me to be alone. Not that it has done us much good. I’ll admit, Clyde being home isn’t what I imagined it to be. Nothin’ ’bout our day-to-day is feeling free, and I let out a sigh.

  She says, “Hey, this’ll be painless. Mostly.” Blanche winks and keeps removing rollers from my head, curls springing to life, and runs her fingers through my hair. “Wish I could say the same ’bout some thoughts I’ve been having.”

  I try to meet her eyes in the mirror, but she’s concentrating extra hard on my hair. “’Bout what?”

  “My ma. After Buck gets out and all, I was thinkin’ of finding Lillian. Just to see her. What’s it been … ten years?” She uses her shoulder to scratch her nose. “Don’t know if I want to know her. Who knows, I could change my mind by the time Buck gets out, but for now, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to knock on her door, then, I don’t know. Feels like something I should do, right?”

  Now she looks at me. My head involuntarily tilts to the side, as if pity pulled me by a string. “You certainly didn’t get your spirit from your daddy. May be nice seeing who gave it to ya.”

  “Yeah,” she says, drawing out the word, still thinking it all through. She shakes her head. “Say, did my brother-in-law hint to what this dinner of yours is all ’bout?”

  I bite my lip as Blanche styles my hair, cinching it between her fingers until it creates a wave. She sprays it with the goop, then clamps the wave in place with a clip.

  “These’ll come out once your head’s all dry. And voilà, you’ll have the perfect look for a fancy night out with your fella. He won’t be able to keep his paws off ya.”

  Blanche starts on another wave. She adds another clip.

  “That’ll be a change,” I say.

  The tip of Blanche’s tongue sticks out, one eye closed. Clips another. “Huh?”

  “Clyde,” I say, “hasn’t had his paws on me. Even said he was going to find us a place but never did.”

  Blanche laughs. “Wish he would.” Then she stops, cocks her head, seeing me in the mirror. “Bonn, Buck don’t know all the particulars, but he said that prison took Clyde to hell and back. He’s adjusting, that’s all. But ya know what, that tilt works for him. It pushes all his smarts toward his good ear, so he’ll be back to his old—dare I say—charming self soon. In the meantime, let’s give him something pretty to look at.” She slides in another clip. “There you go, baby. Nice and smooth.”

  “Blanche, don’t talk to my hair. That’s nutty.”

  She sprays more goop from the bottle and speaks in that same baby voice. “This’ll keep you in place. Yes, it will.”

  “Blanche.”

  She laughs. “Go on and answer me, then. What’s tonight all ’bout?”

  I bite my lip.

  * * *

  I’m at a loss for the meaning of Clyde’s expression. Besides how his tongue pokes out. That means he’s thinking. I fidget with my napkin, laying it over my lap. His eyes ain’t giving anything away, and that jaw of his has been tight since he stepped off the bus over a month ago.

  Clyde shakes his head and reaches ’cross the table, pushing aside the butter plate to take my hands. I lean forward, sinking into his touch. “It ain’t working,” he says. “I tried to give life on the outside an honest try, but…” His words hammer in my head, and all I want to do is hook up Snow Ball to the Scary Hair Machine for letting me believe Clyde could ever be free. “Bonnie, I appreciate you doing all this for me, writing those letters, finding me a job—”

  “There’s others out there,” I insist. “What ’bout your daddy’s service shop? You’ve worked there before.”

  Clyde nods, even as he says, “Not a chance. I won’t bring that type of attention to my mama’s door.” He eyes the other restaurant folk ’round us. “It ain’t going to happen. No job in Dallas is going to happen.”

  I sip my water, wishing it were gin. As much as Clyde feels cornered, I do, too.

  “Ya know,” I say, “I once had this silly daydream that one day you’d play your guitar and I’d sing. We’d be stars.”

  “Darling, we can still do that.” He strokes my hand with his thumb. “Not for all eyes and ears to see, but for you and me. I have every intention of writing the next verse in our song, you hear?”

  I’m not so sure I do, or see how, with what Clyde’s saying. Another verse in our song is another chapter in our story, a story he’s saying is done in Dallas. So far, we’ve written two verses here. Clyde wrote the first one after I saved his life. During a bootleg trip gone wrong, Clyde found brick walls on either side of h
im and a gun pointed his way. But I had a gun, too. Took all my faculties to pull the trigger. Of course, my aim wasn’t at the man. I only wanted to scare him off with the noise.

  That man wasn’t the only one who left the alleyway spooked. The intensity of Clyde’s gaze seared into me. His eyes unnerved me; I couldn’t stop wondering what else those eyes had seen, where else Clyde Barrow had been. His name started to bounce ’round my head. Then his name caught in my throat. I didn’t want to admit my budding feelings for him, not when I was trying so hard to make Roy and me work.

  Roy ruined that plenty well on his own. In stepped Clyde, with his guitar and some fancy words.

  “Death is a five-letter word, with a five-finger clutch,” he said more than sang, his jaw relaxed, eyes closed. “It cornered him, pitting him against the bigger man … By the throat, edging closer, nearing Death’s final touch.”

  The rhythm of Clyde’s guitar quickened, the beat an unexpected surprise. “Then there she was, light in the dark, defying Death’s plan … She stared it down, held on tight, fired off a shot all her own … Ohh”—he drew out the word, as if taunting Death—“Oh, oh, oh, death for the boy has been postponed.”

  Clyde’s fingers shifted to a higher pitch on the guitar. He smirked and sang our chorus—what he hoped to be our chorus—from the corner of his mouth, “’Cause lean closer, listen close … How the story ends, no one knows … But one thing’s clear, you’ll see … Bonnie and Clyde, meant to be, alive and free.”

  After that he asked me a simple question: You and me. What do you say?

  Wasn’t long before the boy took up residence in my heart.

  And now, Clyde’s making my heart race ’cause I know what’s going to happen next. If Clyde is without a job … if he ain’t willing to look for another … I let out a long breath, laced with sadness but also, I’ll admit, aggravation.

  “You’re giving up,” I state. “You want to leave town, don’t you?”

  He nods. “I don’t have a choice.”

  I’m stuck between agreeing and disagreeing. But that ain’t what’s important right now. My next question catches in my throat before I ask, “Without me?”