Clyde’s car veers into the grass to park, as close as they’ll go to town. I inhale, long and hard, on my cigarette, calming myself. A bend in the road steals him from me right as a flash brings my free hand flying to my chest.
Blanche lowers her camera.
“That’ll help, blinding the driver,” Buck says.
They both laugh, and I try to let the melody soothe my unease. But as we pass a sign for MUSKOGEE, OKLAHOMA. POPULATION: 32,026. I slink lower into my seat. It’s what I do when I’m with the boys. I slink. Jones stops yapping. And Clyde’s hands stiffen on the wheel. Then he mutters a landmark with each turn we make through town. Bread crumbs, like Hansel and Gretel. “Fire hydrant,” he said one time. We whipped back ’round that hydrant when we were being followed. All it took was three turns for Clyde to shake the unmarked car. By the drugstore, we lost ’em.
“You okay back there?” Blanche asks.
“Our girl thinks highly of herself,” Buck jokes.
I narrow my eyes at them, but they’ve got a point. Why am I slouched when no one’s looking for me? I’m over three hundred miles from Kaufman jail, and the newspapers that reported on the death of Deputy Sheriff Malcolm Davis during our shoot-out outside Odell’s house only mentioned a female. Clyde Barrow and a female. No one noticed Jones in the car either. Nevertheless, Clyde likes to keep him hidden away whenever possible.
I think I’ll stay slouched. We pass a Gulf station and a storefront where, in each window, a different letter appears to advertise SALARY LOANS $5-$50, then we pass a theater. My gaze lingers on the building, my head slowly turning with our progress. Two oversized posters create a triangle over the awning, promoting King Kong and Scarface.
In the gangster flick, there’s a gal in red glad rags. Nostalgia hits me. What I wouldn’t give for a fancy dress, afternoons in the cinema’s dark, and evenings in a stage’s spotlight. Singing at Doc’s was a high unlike anything a dopehead could ever feel.
Buck parks Teddy, its nose pointed toward the sidewalk like all the other cars. We’re out front of the Jefferson Hotel. Blanche waits for a streetcar to pass, then runs ’cross the street to a café. I’m left to chew on my lip. I pat the pocket of my dress—empty.
Telling Buck I’ll be right back, I lift my chin and parade down the sidewalk toward a tobacco stand. Clyde says that when we do mingle with the public, act like ya belong. I do, giving the attendant a meek smile. Clyde also says never to put on my best performance. Memorable isn’t something we want to be.
Back inside Teddy, my cigarette tip flares. I exhale the smoke and some of my unease. The cigarette lasts ’til Blanche returns, and we drive down the road to meet Clyde’s car. I quickly give up one comfort for another, lodging myself under Clyde’s arms.
I plan to stay that way during every second of our running-board picnic. It’s not glamorous like a real picnic, where legs are stretched out and time is lost. We eat quickly, before anyone comes by wondering why we’re on the side of the road.
With mouths full, Buck and Clyde scheme ’bout our apartment and how we’ll make sure Clyde stays under the radar.
Jones pipes in with suggestions.
Blanche nitpicks, grumbles, and protests the need for a plan. “It’s ridiculous we’re even in a situation where we need to take these precautions,” she says.
“Baby,” Buck says, then yadda, yadda, yadda.
I only pay attention to each glorious bite of chocolate, graham cracker, and marshmallow I shove into my mouth, happy to focus on my MoonPie and be left out of the planning for the first time in a while. As long as I’ve got Clyde’s arm ’round me, I’ll be okay. That may be the confection talking, but for the moment, I’ll take it.
The moment’s over too soon, and once we’re headed toward Joplin, my sugar rush runs out right ’round the time Clyde pulls over and asks me to ride in Teddy again. I hate leaving him a second time, like chopping off a limb, but with Blanche already on edge, I don’t want my restlessness to add to hers.
Joplin’s green, with parks and trees and grass. Street after street, there are tiny homes, all well kept, with owners who must take pride in ’em. The area has a nice feel to it, somewhere I’d be happy to spend my time. Halfway up a hill, Buck points off to the right. “There she be, 3347½ Oak Ridge Drive.”
Blanche sighs. “Home sweet home.”
I smile. Home sweet home. For a little while, at least, before it’s on to the farms.
We park in front of the garage apartment, and Buck goes to the main house to check in as William Callihan and get our keys.
Blanche says, “You know I love you, Bonn, but I still ain’t jazzed ’bout this setup.”
“Blanche.” I eye the two garage doors, with a door off to the left. Above the garage is our two-bedroom apartment, a row of five windows inviting me inside. “You once said all you wanted was the four of us together again. I believe you even said, ‘Is that too much to ask?’ It’s not. Here we are. But Clyde was run out of town. The only way for it to be the four of us again is if you run with us.”
At that moment, Buck unlocks the front door. I’m skipping toward him, never giving Blanche a chance to respond.
I could cry happy tears as I enter our new home, albeit a temporary one. Off to the right is the inside entrance to the garage, and up a flight of stairs, overtop, is the apartment. The kitchen’s immediately off to the left; straight ahead is the sun-drenched living room.
Blanche opens a closet. “All the guns go in there. And stay there.”
Bucks nods like one of those marionette dolls. It’s funny, seeing a man who towers over Blanche, who herself has gams for days, doing whatever she says. Reckon he’s that way with Clyde, too. Buck was the one who first made Clyde a criminal, after all. But Clyde took it from there, the mastermind behind their jobs. Buck’s happy-go-lucky, making him happy to go along.
I keep walking toward the two bedrooms, one facing the front of the house, the other facing the back, with the glorious bathroom in between.
I call out, “Clyde’s going to want the bedroom in the back.”
Buck laughs. “He already put in his request.”
Mid-yawn, I check my watch. “You better keep an eye out for him.”
That’s another bonus of this place: its many windows to keep a lookout from. Soon, Clyde and Jones will drive by ’em, which is Buck’s cue to start walking down the hill. Clyde’s to pick him up, and if Buck gets the sense that everything’s okay, Clyde will park our stolen car in our half of the garage. The other side is rented out to a fella we don’t know. That leaves the Marmon out front, but that’s fine and dandy, being she’s been bought and paid for. No one’s going to be looking for Teddy.
Buck holds the curtain back, sees the boys drive by, and leaves to head down the hill.
While waiting for them, I sit properly in a chair, purposely not fidgeting with the hemline of my dress, not bouncing my knee, not itching the back of my neck, not twisting my wedding band. Blanche is the one twisting her ring ’round her finger.
She’s worried ’bout Buck.
I know that feeling. Right now, though, excitement edges out my nerves, fear, and exhaustion. The door opens below, and I’m on my feet. Clyde’s barely had the chance to thank Blanche again for coming before I drag him through the apartment. It’s not big, but big enough for me to point out the eating nook in the kitchen, the antique dresser in our bedroom, and the cast-iron tub in the bathroom.
“My God, you’re beautiful, Bonnie,” Clyde says, leaning against the bathroom’s pedestal sink, ankles crossed, that lazy smile on his face. When’s the last time I truly saw that smile?
In the mirror behind Clyde, I see my own grin. It belongs to a more confident girl from long ago, before all this, before what happened to Clyde. I’m learning the future ain’t something I can count on, but this night can be something special. Then, I watch myself bite my bottom lip. I slide my blouse down one shoulder.
Clyde’s body tenses, in the way I was hoping
for, something else I haven’t witnessed for far too long. He licks his lips. “Bonnie, you better get over here.”
“Yeah?”
“Aye.”
I breathe out a laugh. Within two steps, Clyde’s hands are on me, pulling me against him. Blanche, Buck, and Jones are only a few feet away, but the door muffles their voices. Let’s hope it does the same to all the noise we’re ’bout to make, finally.
Clyde nips at my neck, his lips still next to my ear. “Thank you.”
I turn on the tub. “Show me.”
Oh, how I need to know he desires me.
He does, with every clutch and grasp, every caress, every stroke, every second he relearns my curves.
14
I emerge from the bathroom a new woman, my skin pink from the heat of the water and Clyde’s touch. I’d like to also think Clyde’s a new man.
Blanche meets me with a knowing smile. She doesn’t know it’s Clyde’s and my first time since before he got sent away. Nor that I’ll have a bruise or two, as if Clyde couldn’t hold on to me tight enough, and in my mind, he couldn’t. But she knows Clyde and I christened the apartment, beating her and Buck to the punch. I return her devilish grin, then in customary Blanche fashion, she takes charge and demands we go buy linens and things so we can keep house.
We take Teddy, and maybe it’s ’cause he’s bought and paid for or ’cause we’re doing something so normal as shopping for sheets or ’cause I have a place to come home to—not just tonight but for the foreseeable future while Clyde’s planning Farm Number One—that I don’t duck my head at every stranger’s glance in the department store. I laugh. I enthusiastically point out a quilt I hate. I joke with Blanche, ’specially when she picks up a dog bowl with rhinestones.
“Don’t think that fits Buck’s style much,” I say.
She whacks me with a dish towel.
On the way home, we stop by the market for food. The grocer said he’d be happy to deliver our bags for us, and before I can stop her, Blanche rattles off that new address of ours.
“Why’d ya go and do that for?” I hiss when we’re out of earshot.
Her eyes are huge. “You assured me we’re safe.”
I avoid a real answer to that by saying, “Teddy’s too packed anyway to fit in all that food.”
When Jones meets us at the garage, his eyes—all big and wide—reaffirm we bought too much. Funny how Blanche hemmed and hawed ’bout coming to Joplin, but she’s got no problem spending our dirty money.
In fact, she’s eager to spend more of it. Tomorrow she’s got our afternoon planned at the theater. Not like I’m going to say no to that. Nor ’bout spending the money, if it’s going to make my best friend stick ’round longer. All that does is give Clyde whatever time he needs with Buck, and gives me the time I need with her.
Jones starts unloading Teddy, the boy getting a kick out of how many we bought of each item. Eight large feather pillows, a feather bed, four sets of sheets and pillowcases, fourteen quilts and blankets, four bedspreads, dishes for eight, silverware for twelve, two towels for us each, three dish towels, and six bags of other odds and ends.
Blanche nods along with Jones, as if she’s also counting.
Once we get it all inside, Clyde uses a few empty bags to bring in his guns. He’s barely up the stairs when we hear a knock. Blanche skips to the door to answer, smothering the grocery man with thank-yous for bringing by our food. But when he insists on carrying the bags upstairs, Blanche’s voice tenses, even more so when their conversation volleys back and forth.
“I’ve got it,” she says.
By the abrupt rustle of bags, I picture her yanking ’em out of the man’s hands. She thanks him once more, adding her usual Blanche-like melody back into her voice, and the door closes. At the top of the stairs, Blanche’s eyes immediately jump to the bag of guns propped against the couch, then to Clyde, his own shoulders tense.
He says, “They’re on their way to the closet.”
“Good. Now, no one goes into my kitchen, you hear?”
Buck laughs ’til Blanche cocks her head at him. He quiets right up.
I gladly stay out of her way, making up our house. I walk from room to room; all the blinds are drawn tightly shut, but every lamp is on, feigning daytime. Then, once all the beds are made, I curl up on the couch, tucking my legs under me, and simply watch the fellas as they carry on with a poker game on the table they dragged out from the kitchen, making Jones go in to fetch it. The boy’s a quick study, even though he claims he’s never played before and even with a quarter of his whiskey gone. Drinking ain’t something new to him, ’specially with how he helped to run bootlegs since he was twelve. He’s got a youthful look to him, almost a younger version of Clyde’s own baby face, but I get the sense Jones has seen a lot in his sixteen years. Not as much as Clyde in his twenty-four, though.
Clyde pushes back from the table, his own whiskey barely touched. Come to think of it, he hasn’t gone near the bottle much since we’ve been on the run. He’s said it’s to keep his wits ’bout him, but we’re good and safe here. He nuzzles next to me on the couch, and just by the shape of his lips—not a smile, but not a frown—I can tell he’s ’bout to say something sly. “I can’t even call the lad a cheat. He’s just whooping me on skill alone.”
I raise a brow. “Or maybe your lack of skill?”
Clyde’s lips are now clearly a smile, and his eyes broadcast he’s ’bout to throw me into the pillows.
“Off my table,” Blanche says to the boys, saving me. She’s carrying two plates. The girl even has on an apron.
Before I know it, we’ve got five chairs pulled up to the table.
Buck’s plate and mine both have pickled pig’s feet and olives.
Clyde and Jones got French-fried potatoes and English peas, smothered in cream and pepper.
Blanche made herself some cheese grits, her own heavy-handed dusting of pepper on top.
We all have our favorites—Snow Ball, too, with boiled chicken in his rhinestone bowl.
“Dig in, folks,” Blanche says, proud of the meal she fashioned for us all. Somebody has been spending lots of time with Mrs. Barrow in the kitchen. I reckon Blanche didn’t have much else to keep her busy when she wasn’t at the beauty shop. I was gone. Buck was gone. Now we’re all back together.
With a brand spankin’ new utensil in each hand, I pause. It’s not ’cause my pickled pig’s feet don’t look tasty. They do. It’s also not ’cause I’m not hungry. It’s quite the opposite, actually, considering it’s well past suppertime. I pause ’cause I can. Normally we’re shoving food in our mouths, getting it down before any surprises sneak up on us.
But anyone who knows where we are is sitting ’round this here table. I cut into my pig, slowly, and take the time to chew thirty times, for optimal digestion. In this moment, no one’s chasing us. We can stand still. Ain’t that beautiful.
* * *
“This should do the trick,” Blanche says, wagging a pair of scissors behind me. I’m glad the mirror I’m holding up ain’t any larger. It’s best not to fully see what Blanche is doing to my head. She flicks some water onto my hair, getting me in the eye. “I got to say, though, for living out of a car, you don’t look half bad. But now you’ve got Blanche, so you’ll look better than half bad. Fully good, in fact.”
I wipe my face. “Thanks?”
I’ve been trying, though, to keep myself put together as best I can. Sure, Clyde and I were playing the part of a young well-to-do couple out exploring the country. But I also wanted to look good for Clyde, and for myself. We spent so much time in a car, and it wasn’t rare to catch myself in the sideview mirror. I’d much rather catch a glimpse of a face with red lips and rosy cheeks, the face I used to show to a crowded dance floor, than my otherwise washed out skin.
For a couple days now, Blanche and I both have put extra effort into gussying up. We saw a show the past three afternoons, just like old times, while Clyde and Jones went off looking for po
tential land or scheming what store’s register to empty once the first farm’s done. That’ll mean no longer keeping house with Blanche and Buck. Something I don’t like thinking ’bout.
Even with nothin’ illegal going on at the moment, Mr. Blanche Barrow always stays behind in the apartment or tinkers with Teddy. Neither Clyde nor Buck wants to make Blanche’s nostrils flare, being she’s got a flair for dramatics.
She does another snip of my hair, then hops to the kitchen sink to pull the drain. Our clothes have been soaking all morning. We’ll wring ’em out once the water’s all gone, then string our dresses, skirts, shirts, and pants ’cross the kitchen, while trying not to trip over Snow Ball. Normally I’d be mortified by our drying methods, but with the blinds pulled tight, it’s not like the neighbors can see how we’re living, and Clyde doesn’t want us to hang our things outside, inviting small talk from anyone passing by.
It’d sure be nice to get a lungful of fresh air. More than we get going from Teddy to the theater.
“Hey,” I say. “How ’bout we do a picnic?” I flap my hand. “Somewhere off the beaten track.”
I tilt the mirror to catch Blanche’s face. She’s smiling. The fellas are going to have to do as she says.
Doesn’t take long before all five of us are packed in and then out of Teddy. To catch sight of anyone coming, Clyde found us a spot where a crest of rocks hides us on one side, a row of bushes shields us from behind, and there’s nothin’ but open land on the other sides.
Our biggest worry, in my mind at least, will be retracing our way out without giving Teddy a flat. I surely thought one of her tires would blow on the way here as we cut ’cross the field.
I cast a blanket up, then down, settling it over the grass. We all stretch out our legs, my Mary Janes clanking against Blanche’s, and we pass a bottle of whiskey and a bucket of chicken legs in a circle. Buck and Jones light cigars, puffing out smoke between laughs. Clyde barely lets any brown pass his lips, and even with us being hidden away I catch his eyes darting left and right and toward Teddy, where Clyde insisted on bringing a stash of guns. Blanche doesn’t know it, but that boy even slyly slid a shotgun beneath his side of the blanket.
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