Side by Side

by Jenni L. Walsh

  I sob again, filled with pity; this time it’s for Jones.

  “Don’t matter,” Clyde says. “We can’t stay in Dallas. You can’t, either.” Clyde nods at Jones. “You know that, don’t you, lad? You got murder on you, just like me. You can’t go home right now.”

  It’s silent, save the engine, and I can’t bring myself to see Jones’s reaction. It’s bad enough I hear the hitching of his breath and feel the way he punches the back of my seat. Soon, Clyde stops the car, nodding to Jones again. “Lad, shinny up that pole and cut them phone wires. We don’t want the law calling ahead.”

  Smart. But I can’t help staring at Jones, climbing up the pole like a lost bear cub, and feeling like we’re ’bout to be cut off from a hell of a lot more. Now we’re truly in our own little world, and Clyde’s truly a murderer.

  11

  I stare at the wood slats of the cabin’s pitched ceiling. Jones snores lightly on a pallet on the wooden floor. Clyde’s quiet beside me on our twin-sized bed, my right side touching all of his left, fitting together. And I let my mind roam and remember.

  I could’ve left, snuck away. A passerby would’ve picked me up. I technically didn’t have blood on my hands. But I felt like I did, having wished for Clyde to do whatever he had to do to get away. He did, and the bruises on Clyde’s neck slowly shift my thoughts from him taking a life to saving his own—and to us carrying on, together, so we can eventually leave this life behind.

  Two weeks after we fled Dallas, we were out of money. Bone dry.

  “We need a quick hit of dough,” Clyde said and rubbed his brow. “A big quick hit.”

  Clyde hated holding up the Home Bank of Grapevine, with the risk of getting caught so high, but he and Jones did it, successfully. Two thousand eight hundred and fifty clams have helped us lay low, ’specially with another mouth to feed—one I feel responsible for.

  How low we need to lie? Clyde’s not sure. Knowing if he’s been named—or the boy’s been named—for the murder would help. The papers haven’t said yet, but that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been talk. Clyde keeps debating a meet-up with a pal, Odell Chambless, who often makes a nest at Raymond’s sister’s place. Problem is, that’s in West Dallas, and Clyde himself said we can’t be there.

  I also can’t let myself leave Dallas behind, not fully. Even now, we’re only thirty minutes outside the town limits at a tourist camp, skirting ’round our childhood homes. The first time we left Dallas, it felt like a solution to Clyde getting pinched for breaking parole, a way to get the law to forget Clyde’s scent.

  But this time, we all have our hands in our hair. Clyde’s wanted for motor theft, bank theft, probably theft I haven’t heard of yet, kidnapping, and maybe even murder. I can feel us all becoming reckless. Hell, it’s more than a feeling; we are being reckless. Just this morning, while I was putting dresses and trousers on the counter of the dry cleaner, the woman working the place looked at me too long, and I sneered at her, stopping short of baring my teeth. That ain’t like me to try to intimidate a gal, but I knew it’d make her end her scrutiny of me. It also could’ve sent her to squeal on me: the young woman with bags under her eyes, who had two men, one fitting the description of a known fugitive, waiting for her in the car outside.

  Wouldn’t that take the cake? Fingered by a Nosey Parker. No relation to my family, of course.

  My next breath is deep, the air in the cabin never seeming enough. What I wouldn’t give to be in a place that felt even a fraction like being in a home.

  “Bonnie?” Clyde whispers, not ’cause he doesn’t want to disturb Jones. Well, maybe, but in general, we always whisper. The cabin is one of many, all lined up down a dirt road. You drive in, you hand over some bills, you stay the night, you leave. You also don’t know your neighbor from Adam. Our conversations aren’t ones we want heard. I roll onto my side and run my hand over Clyde’s forehead, pushing aside his tousled hair. It’s one of those nights where the moon takes up the Texas sky, and it’s brighter outside the window than inside our tiny cabin.

  “I’ve had Doyle Johnson clogging up my head,” he says.

  The man we killed only hours into Christmas Day. I read an article ’bout it. The man wasn’t much older than us, only twenty-seven. He worked as a grocery clerk, an honest job. Doyle had a wife and infant son. Now that son doesn’t have a daddy.

  I know a little something ’bout that. My chest still tightens when I remember my ma’s cries at learning my daddy died in the Great War. Much changed after that, with only four of the five chairs occupied at supper each night, my ma refusing to take my daddy’s away. With my ma working her fingers to the bones, and still the electric company coming after us. With wondering if the choices I was making would’ve made my daddy smile or brought out those creases between his eyes.

  I want none of that for Doyle’s li’l boy.

  “You know why he died, right?” Clyde asks.

  A bullet.

  “You can’t go back to prison,” I say.

  Clyde nods and kisses the back of my hand. He’s silent, then says, “But it’s weighing on me. I’m guessing Doyle barely made ends meet for his family, and now they won’t meet at all. If that car would’ve come to life seconds earlier, that family wouldn’t be suffering now. I wouldn’t be suffering now. Sounds selfish, don’t it?”

  “Some,” I admit. “But, Clyde, you were only out to get the car, not the family or Doyle himself.”

  I believe it, and leave it at that, letting Clyde say more if he’s got an itch to do so. He doesn’t. I roll onto my back and slide a leg out from under the quilt; the electric stove, our makeshift heater for the night, is too stifling for my liking. My daddy never liked the heat either.

  Jones is the closest to the warmth, nearly pressed up against the stove, being this room is barely bigger than that calaboose, but sound asleep, he doesn’t seem to mind. Me, I’m the one always counting sheep.

  “Bonnie?” Clyde whispers again. “I feel responsible for the lad.”

  “We’ll take care of Jones like our own.” The pillow rustles in my ear as I turn my head. My question sticks on my tongue, with us still not being intimate, but I manage to ask, “Think we will, though—ever have one of our own?”

  One side of Clyde’s mouth turns up. “God willing.”

  That may’ve been the first time Clyde’s mentioned Him. I smile back.

  “’Til then,” Clyde says. “I want to tell the family we do have that we’re okay, and have that chat with Odell.”

  “How we going to do that?”

  Now those dimples appear. “I’ve an idea.”

  * * *

  “Jones, let’s see if that aim of yours has improved since you threw a ball through Ms. Myers’ window. That is, if Bonnie ever finishes our letter.”

  I narrow an eye at Clyde. Playfully, of course. He’s got a way of adding enough amusement to his voice to never ruffle my feathers. From the rear seat of our latest Ford, Jones lowers the Coca-Cola bottle from his lips to say, “My aim’s just fine.”

  “Don’t sign it,” Clyde says to me, “your ma’ll know your handwriting, right?”

  “Right.” I cross a t. “Ya know, this would go faster if you didn’t keep telling me how to write it.”

  “Wanted it worded a certain way. And, like I said, we’ll see ’bout that aim, lad. You done with that drink yet?”

  Jones lets out a carbonated belch, and I give him a have some manners look. “Then you could’ve written it,” I say to Clyde. “And watch those potholes.”

  He shrugs, and turns us down a new block.

  “Well”—I swallow, knowing the Star Service Station is only a few blocks away—“letter’s done.”

  Now his parents will know ’bout our failed Christmas surprise, that we’re getting enough food, that we miss them and want to know the second Buck’s out of jail. We leave out that Clyde wants his brother for Farm Number One.

  They’re to plant flowers—yellow ones so there’s no confusion—out f
ront of my ma’s house once Buck’s back home. Then we’ll come for them—Buck and Blanche. We’ll all be together again. We’ll be moving again.

  I can imagine Mrs. Barrow going to Ma’s door, and the smoker lines on my ma’s upper lip becoming more pronounced when she purses them. She ain’t the biggest fan of Clyde’s ma, holding her responsible for the antics of her son. But I know my ma. She’ll invite Mrs. Barrow in and she’ll hang on her every word as she tells Ma we’re okay. If I weren’t so excited, I’d be more jittery ’bout being back in Dallas, ’specially with us ’bout to drive past the Barrows’ service shop.

  Clyde takes the letter, keeping one eye on the road, and passes it back to Jones. “Roll her up. Put her inside.”

  Jones does, creating our own message in a bottle.

  We pass the service station once—go ’round the block—pass it again a second time. I fidget, absently tapping my fingernails against a pistol nestled on the bench seat between Clyde and me, but my mouth stays quiet, knowing Clyde will only risk one more circle of the block. The first two times, a customer was in the shop. We need it empty.

  Halfway down Eagle Ford Road a third time, I let out a breath. A car pulls out of the station.

  “Go on,” Clyde says to Jones. He slows our Ford. Jones rolls down his window. The winter air seeps in. “Show me that arm of yours, boy.”

  Jones whips the bottle from our car, the glass shattering against a barrel by the station’s door.

  Clyde’s heavy on the gas, and I rock in my seat as I twist to see Mr. Barrow emerge from the store, dropping to a knee to retrieve our note.

  I smile at Jones.

  “Told ya,” he says to Clyde, to which Clyde removes his tan hat, using it like a disc to fling into the rear seat.

  We laugh, a sound I could hear for days.

  Don’t have time for that, though. Our next stop is tracking down Odell Chambless, to see if Clyde—or Jones—has been named for Doyle’s death. Facing forward again, I wring my hands, not willing this renegade lifestyle on anyone, ’specially not a sixteen-year-old kid.

  The house is so close we nearly passed it while staking out the service station. There are double doors, the house split in two, with bars on all the windows.

  We park out front.

  “How well you know this fella?” I ask Clyde.

  “Well enough where he won’t pull a shotgun on me when I’m at his door, but not well enough where the law will think I’ll show up here.”

  I suck my bottom lip. All right. “And what makes him somebody who’d know things?”

  “He’s Mary’s brother, which got him introduced to Raymond, which is how he got friendly with Ray’s sister Lilly. And Lilly is friendly with even more.” Clyde leaves it at that, then says, “There shouldn’t be any trouble. But I’ll run if I need to. You take the car and the lad. I’ll find ya.”

  Before I can object to such a loose plan, Clyde taps his lips. I kiss him. I start to pull back, then kiss him again.

  I feel Clyde slide the pistol toward me, pressing it against my leg.

  “You remember how to use this, right?”

  I stare at the hunk of metal. “The gun?” It’s a dumb question; nothin’ else Clyde could be referring to.

  “Bonnie,” Clyde says softly, “we live in a world where it’s either kill or be killed.”

  I nod.

  He says, “I don’t want you using it. But if things go south”—he places it in my hand—“fire at the sky. It’ll spook whoever it needs to spook.”

  Jones leans over the front seat. “I can do it.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I can.” Jones has already done enough, and I’ve fired off a shot to save Clyde’s life before.

  Clyde flicks his collar up, shielding his face from lookie-loos and the bite in the air. His hobble is less pronounced as he walks ’cross the street and toward the house. I don’t reckon it’s cause his foot’s any better; can’t regrow toes. His smoother gait is Clyde trying mighty hard to stay straight, making himself seem like the old Clyde Barrow.

  One thing’s for sure, either version of Clyde’s got enough pride to fill the ocean.

  Like so many times in the past few weeks and months, I scan ’round me, looking for signs of danger.

  I crack open the passenger door. If I need to, I’ll kick it open and get to firing at the clouds.

  Using the back of his knuckle, Clyde casually raps the front door. He stays nonchalant, looking down the street as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, his face shaded under the brim of his hat.

  The door opens on the porch, and the leather seat creaks behind me.

  “That ain’t Odell,” Jones says to me.

  Clyde retreats a step. The fingers on his right hand twitch, no doubt ready to pull the gun from beneath his dark trench coat if it comes to that. I lift my foot, ready. The gun’s heavy in my hands.

  “How you know that ain’t Odell?” I ask Jones. Clyde’s talking to the man at the door. The fella’s tall with a smart look to him. He put himself together, maybe too well. We know something ’bout dressing up to play a part.

  “I’ve seen Odell. He’s done a few banks. His face ain’t unknown.”

  Panic seizes me.

  “Shit, Bonnie,” he says, and that panic is for good reason. Another figure moves inside the house, passing by the barred window. “This here’s a trap.”

  “For us?” I practically scream.

  The man at the door has his own twitch

  “For Odell,” Jones says—to my back. I’ve got the car door open and I let a bullet fly at the sky. Clyde’s eyes fill his face. He draws his gun a heartbeat later. So does the copper, nearly salivating at his dumb luck that Clyde Barrow stands in front of him.

  It’s either kill or be killed, I think.

  I’ll be the hero, he must think.

  Not as long as I can help it. I round the car, pistol leading the way.

  We all fire.

  PART TWO

  THE BARROW GANG

  12

  The undercover cop falls. He tumbles down the three porch steps. He doesn’t get up. The shots still echo in my ears. I stand and stare, my own gunfire too reckless to know if I’ve caused the bloom of red on the man’s gut.

  Clyde runs toward me, away from the house, and I eye him for any wounds. None, but still a pang of worry nearly folds me in half. To the law, his back is a coward’s target. An opportunity that ain’t beneath them these days. Clyde may not know it, but I do: There are more men inside.

  Glass shatters and the long barrel of a gun appears on the windowsill.

  I close one eye, raise my hand, doing my best to keep the gun straight and level. Clyde’s life is in my hands, and I can’t afford for the gun to shake. I fire again, imagining the bullet spiraling past Clyde. Wood splinters on the porch’s post, and the barrel withdraws.

  Clyde runs into me, picking me up as he goes. He wears me ’round his middle, my feet no longer on the ground, carrying me toward the car. I keep the gun free, aimed. I got two bullets, maybe one. I ain’t sure how many times desperation pushed on my trigger finger when I first rounded the car.

  I let one more shot fly before yanking my hand back, dipping my head and squeezing past the wheel. On the passenger side of the car, I drop the gun, my fingers shaking, it landing at a thud at my feet. Jones curses. Clyde’s already got us moving. My breath comes fast, my chest tight, rising high then low, up and down, fast, but not nearly as fast as my heart.

  “Clyde?” I ask, not recognizing the sound of my own voice. “Did I kill a man today?”

  “I did, Bonnie.”

  My vision’s blurry. “But I fired bullets, too.”

  “I don’t miss. It was me, you hear?”

  I nod, but I ain’t sure it’s better it was Clyde. He’s already got enough dark spots on his soul.

  Clyde drives like the devil himself is after us, right out of Dallas, right out of Texas.

  He barely lets up for days. I need those d
ays for my hand to stop trembling. I remind myself firing those shots gave Clyde a fighting chance. That the copper died in front of that house ’cause he wanted to take Clyde’s life away. Even if they didn’t kill Clyde right then and there, they would’ve locked him up. Either scenario equals death.

  We’re in Missouri or Kansas now, can’t be sure, but I’m thinking Missouri. Either way, it’s rip-roaring cold. Up ahead, there’s a big lake, frozen solid, a bridge stretching ’cross it.

  Clyde’s got a thing ’bout bridges, doesn’t like ’em, likes to get off of ’em as fast as possible so he’s not trapped. I glance over at him.

  He’s staring in the rearview mirror.

  I turn to look out the back of our car. Jones is fast asleep. A motorcycle is coming up behind us.

  The bridge rumbles beneath us.

  The motorcycle pulls up alongside our car, motions for us to pull over. Clyde and I curse in unison, believing—and at the same time not believing—it’s the law again, so soon. By looking at him, it’s hard to tell if this fella is an officer; he’s so bundled up, his uniform covered, but there on his helmet is the insignia that gives him away. Clyde does his own motioning to me, silently asking me to scoot closer to him. I slide down the bench seat, using part of my long coat to cover the gun that’s always between us. I can’t help wondering if this officer is after us ’cause of what happened only days ago, but I got to imagine if he was, there’d be more than just him.

  Clyde rolls down his window, still cruising along, the icy air flooding our car. He smiles, shouts, “Just a minute, sir,” which reassures me that I’m right. This copper coming after us is a lousy coincidence.

  The officer, a young fella, gets nasty, hollering at us to pull over, but Clyde keeps driving to get off the bridge. On stable ground, Clyde stops the car and slips on the charm like it’s his favorite shirt. “Something wrong, Officer? I got a taillight out?”

  The officer’s eyes flick to me. “Long way from home.”

  I search my memory for what plates are on this car, but I can’t seem to remember. Clyde nods, slowly, as if he’s trying to remember, too.