Side by Side

by Jenni L. Walsh

  It’s a shame; Clyde always has an eye and ear out for trouble. Along with keeping the blinds closed at all times, the other day he brought home a Missouri plate for Buck to put on Teddy. Clyde didn’t want people seeing the Texas plate, even if Teddy ain’t hot. Decisions like that make Blanche nervous, which I can understand.

  She licks chicken grease from her fingers, not nervous at the moment, and disappears behind her camera.

  It gives me an idea on how to loosen up Clyde: I’ll put a gun in his hands.

  “Blanche, will you take some photos of Clyde and me?”

  Buck hoots, no doubt remembering all the times Blanche has used him as a prop. Before Clyde protests, I drag him to his feet, then wink, revealing his gun from beneath the blanket.

  “Here you go,” I whisper to him. “Looks like you’ve been missing her in your arms.” I nod for Clyde to take a seat on Teddy’s front bumper. In my most sultry voice, play-acting I’m onstage, I say to him, “Show me how bad you really are.”

  Clyde’s smirk is to die for. He goes and props the shotgun ’cross his leg and tilts his head like he means business. That look of his is smart, accented by his slicked-back hair, suit, and tie. I’ll pretend I don’t see the dirt mucking up his black shoes.

  Blanche clicks, capturing his devil-may-care pose.

  “Move over, baby brother,” Buck says. He joins Clyde on the car’s bumper, shoulder to shoulder. Neither of ’em smile, but not for lack of enjoying themselves.

  Blanche clicks. Jones gets a nod from Clyde. He’s added to the picture: Clyde in the middle, sandwiched between his older brother and Jones, who may as well be his younger one.

  “Our tough guys,” Blanche says to me with a laugh.

  The photo’s taken, the three boys. Jones and Buck with their cigars. Clyde with his gun.

  “I reckon it’s your turn, Bonnie,” Clyde says in his smooth voice, standing and popping on his hat.

  “I reckon it is.” Slowly, I wipe any grass and stray dirt from my dark dress, running my palms over my rear end, down my sleeves, ’cross my belly. Then, in a heartbeat, I got the shotgun out of Clyde’s hands. I turn it ’round on him. Jones and Buck both jump back. Clyde’s arms shoot out in surprise, his fingers splayed, but his face is calm, cool, collected, accented by those gosh-darn dimples.

  My left hand dances against his chest, my fingertips brushing aside his tie. Clyde ain’t soft, but it comes at a surprise his chest is unnaturally hard. Chuckling, I ask, “Are you wearing a vest? All the way out here?”

  He nods at the gun I’ve got pointed at him. “Darling, clearly there’s danger everywhere.”

  He licks his lips, and I trace my tongue ’cross my own. Then, Clyde whips the gun away, even faster than I pulled it on him. He tosses it aside. He steps toward me, his hat blowing off. He’s against me, his whole body, but most important, those lips. The intensity of his kiss arches my back and Clyde’s hands—one between my shoulders, one ’round my waist—are all that keeps me on my feet.

  Not one part of me minds.

  Too soon, he breaks our kiss, his breath trailing over my ear. “Bonnie, I’d rather have you in my arms than a shotgun any ol’ day.”

  I swallow, still feeling every inch of him pressed against me, and adjust my crochet hat.

  “Better believe I captured that on film,” Blanche says. “Anyone got a cigarette after that?”

  Buck laughs. “Come here, baby. I’ll give ya a puff of my cigar.”

  She scrunches her nose. “I ain’t touchin’ that thing.”

  Jones motions for Blanche’s camera. “Give me a turn with that.”

  Clyde lifts me into his arms, bouncing me up higher so I’m a head taller than him, perched so I’m sitting on his arm. “Here’s your star. Let me sit out a few.”

  I kiss his temple before I’m back on my feet.

  Jones puffs on his cigar between his teeth, trying to line up his shot. Without Clyde—and no microphone in front of me to place my hands—I ain’t sure what to do with myself. Of course, Blanche knows. I become her doll, my elbow propped on top of Teddy’s headlight, my other hand on my hip.

  “Hmm, something’s missing. Ain’t a bad shot, but also ain’t great,” she says.

  She returns with a revolver, holding it between the tips of her fingers, not looking directly at it. “Put it on your hip. And push your hip out. More. Li’l more.”

  Jones coughs on the cigar’s smoke, the cigar still between his teeth and both hands on the camera. I break my pose to snatch it from his mouth, put it between my lips, then I’m back in my position.

  It feels scandalous. Not long ago, seeing a woman smoke in public was considered vulgar. A cigar—a man’s vice—makes it doubly so.

  Clyde’s gawking at me, so I reckon he likes what he sees. And I want to up the ante even more. My foot goes on Teddy’s bumper. I lean into my arm, resting on the headlight, pushing out my hip even farther.

  I remove the cigar to say, “Now, these pictures are just for us?”

  “Bonnie, darling,” Clyde says. “They’re going to be just for me.”

  I put the cigar back in my mouth and puff out my chest.

  Jones snaps the shot.

  15

  Blanche stands at one of the apartment windows, peeking out between the drapes. A car rumbles outside.

  “Clyde home?” I ask, surrounded by too many jigsaw pieces.

  “Nah, it’s the fella using the other side of the garage. Must be headed out, but I don’t like how he lingers, like he’s got the volume of his ears turned to the far right.”

  “You’re paranoid, baby,” Buck says from the couch, without looking up from his magazine.

  Blanche settles next to me on the floor, side by side on our knees, and proceeds to twist her lips. I’m not sure if it’s ’bout the fella outside or the three-hundred-piece puzzle. I softly sing the tune I heard in 42nd Street the other day.

  “Do you think this could be a teat?” she asks.

  I chuckle, the question catching me off guard.

  She slaps my hand. “And don’t go cheating by looking at the photo on the box.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I say. But I was. In fact, I was a second away from flipping over the top of the jigsaw puzzle’s box to give my memory a jolt of what this thing was going to look like with all the pieces in place. “I reckon it could be a dog’s teat,” I say. “Either that, or one of the bullfrog’s eyes.” I shrug.

  “It’s the teat,” Blanche says matter-of-factly.

  Buck groans. “Stop saying teat.” He shakes his head. “I should’ve gone with Clyde.”

  Blanche throws the teat at him. “No sirree. And don’t think I didn’t hear you whispering ’bout that prison job with him last night.”

  I raise an eyebrow, but I don’t ask any questions and risk the wrath of Blanche. Besides, that girl will ask her own.

  She shakes her head. “The two of you are thick as thieves.”

  Buck flips a page in his magazine, casual as can be. “We were only talking.”

  “And those guns. What were you doing with ’em?”

  “Cleaning ’em, that’s all.”

  Blanche stands, no doubt feeling more clout that way. Her hand goes onto her hip. “Funny how you’re cleaning guns you won’t ever use again, ’specially when it was agreed upon those things would stay in that there closet.” She points ’cross the room.

  I study the jigsaw pieces.

  “Come on, baby. I wasn’t doing any harm, ya know.”

  “Why you cleaning guns you ain’t going to use?”

  “Why you doing a puzzle you ain’t going to finish?”

  Something between a roar and a scream comes out of Blanche. She dives toward Buck. Snow Ball materializes and goes into a fit of barking. Blanche and Buck’s wrestling match turns into tickles and squeals, and some dirty talk I’d rather not hear. Back and forth, Snow Ball hops, keeping a semicircle ’round his masters. Each time, his little paws scratch the discarded te
at puzzle piece.

  I save it.

  Clyde appears at the top of the stairs, his eyes crazed, his revolver grasped between both hands. He sees me, doing something so ordinary as a jigsaw puzzle, clearly not in any danger, and I imagine the sound of his exhale, matching the release of his shoulders. I can’t actually hear it with all the Blanche-related commotion in the room.

  Clyde removes his hat and walks over to the couch to whack Buck with it. Snow Ball scurries back to Blanche’s room, always weary of Clyde when he’s on his feet, as if the dog doesn’t trust Clyde’s limp.

  Jones appears at the top of the stairs, a big ol’ crate in his arms, a big ol’ grin on his face. If I were to rank who’s enjoying our new carefree lifestyle the most, I’d put me first, no doubt ’bout it. But Jones would be second. Behind the eagerness to get a pat on the back from Clyde, I can see his longing to be back in Dallas, no longer a fugitive.

  “What ya got there?” I call to him.

  His grin doesn’t waver as he holds up the crate. “Some suds.”

  Clyde adds, “As of a few days ago, beer is officially back on the market.”

  Buck quits his wrestling with Blanche. “Did Uncle Sam deep-six Prohibition?”

  “Not fully, he didn’t. Only beer,” Clyde says. “Roosevelt said, ‘How can I partially remove the stick from Blanche Barrow’s bum?’ and he decided on making one less thing we’re doing illegal.”

  Blanche rolls her eyes. Buck laughs. That earns him an elbow to the gut.

  Soon, we’ve all got a beer in hand, enjoying our evening. The boys got a poker game going, Blanche is on the carpet, halfway through her puzzle, and I’m stretched out on the couch with a book. Clyde pushes back from the table, a look of disgust on his face. “I ain’t ever been good at cards.”

  I smile at him and turn my book at him, as if saying, Want to read?

  He shakes his head and inches closer to Blanche. There’s a Clyde-sized shadow covering the puzzle pieces, him standing perfectly in front of the lamp.

  Blanche doesn’t bother looking up at him, but says, “Don’t go thinkin’ you’re going to work this here puzzle with me after that comment earlier. There ain’t nothin’ up my bum, thank you very much.”

  Clyde slides his hands in his trouser pockets and rocks back on his heels. One eyebrow arches. “Is that a teat?”

  Blanche smirks and pats the carpet beside her. It ain’t long, though, before she’s on her feet and using the tip of her finger to push aside the drapes. Her feet reposition, and I know something’s going on she doesn’t like.

  “What?” I say, over the noise of the boys. Clyde, on his knees, shifts his attention from me to Blanche.

  She says, “Heard that fella drive in. But didn’t hear him pull down the garage door. He’s still out there.”

  Blanche’s implication, ’specially this late, is that he’s nosing ’round, looking at Clyde’s stolen Ford he keeps on the other side of the garage. I don’t think she’s wrong, and that’s making me feel as dark as the night.

  * * *

  I decide, after not having the urge for so long, to write ’bout all I’m feeling. While I hunt for the next word in my poem, I study Blanche’s completed masterpiece. The puzzle piece did indeed belong to a dog. The pooch lies on its back, tall stalks of grass surrounding her. Or him. Both male and female dogs have teats, for whatever reason. Water is only inches away from the pooch, with five bullfrogs perched on five lily pads. The sun beats down on them all, glistening in the pond. Doesn’t look like a bad place to be, if ya ask me. Better than hiding out. But the alternate to hiding out is running. I don’t want that either.

  Blanche and Clyde worked the puzzle to the wee hours of the morning. Clyde didn’t want to come to bed ’til they had it done. Bet ya Blanche only stayed up that late to supervise, complaining ’bout her beauty sleep with each piece she put down. Lack of sleep didn’t show on her this morning, though. Ain’t sure how that’s fair. She came prancing out of her bedroom in a blue crepe dress that had once been an evening gown. Few days ago, Blanche hemmed it at the bottom to make it into a housedress. I still got on my kimono nightgown and slippers. I yawn. I haven’t bothered to put on hose or my housedress yet. Maybe after this poem.

  I tap the pencil against my bottom lip as I think, as I ponder if we’ll ever stop running.

  Clyde comes up the stairs, then crosses the living room, going ’round the jigsaw puzzle on the floor like it’s a piece of furniture. He pulls open the closet and deposits a few guns he had stashed in a bag.

  “Where’d those come from?” I ask him.

  Clyde peers over his shoulder at the bathroom door. “She still in there?”

  He’s referring to Blanche, who wouldn’t be too pleased with the closet being turned into a full-blown gun arsenal. Quite frankly, I ain’t too pleased she turned the bathroom into a darkroom, banning me from the room before I had a chance to make up my face. I nod to Clyde.

  “Jones and I picked up some new toys,” he says. “Had ’em in the back of the Ford.”

  I twist my lips. “But now that man’s snooping ’round the garage.” Which can mean one thing: Clyde’s restless, and this hideout won’t be ours much longer.

  Clyde unbuttons then buttons his blue suit jacket and tilts his head toward the stairs. “Got a few more to bring up.”

  “Better make it quick. She’s been in there a while.” I glance at the bathroom door. Snow Ball is scratching at the bottom of it, his claws scraping off little bits of the towel that Blanche shoved underneath to keep out any light.

  “What ya got there?” Clyde kisses my forehead, and I quickly cover the paper. My poem’s dark. Ain’t sure Clyde needs dark when he’s already on edge.

  “It ain’t finished,” I say.

  He winks. “Caught a glimpse of my last name.”

  Billy said to the Barrow boy …

  I smile, holding it ’til Clyde leaves, then I’m alone with my poem again. I tap my pencil over Clyde’s name. Billy the Kid’s in here, too, as if him and Clyde are swapping stories.

  I only had my pinto horse

  And my six-gun tried and true.

  I could shoot but they got me

  And someday they will get you!

  Depressing, that’s what this poem is.

  The living man who can know no peace

  And the dead who can know no rest.

  But it’s where my head’s leading me, and with Jones downstairs with Clyde, Buck washing Teddy ’round back, and Blanche busy with her photos, it leaves me alone to explore my fears.

  I enjoy the near-quiet to work through ’em, even if I keep getting distracted, my self-consciousness maybe not wanting to accept we could end up like Billy the Kid instead of sippin’ lemonade on our farm. The dog is making the only noise. Blanche ain’t making a peep, which surprises me. I’ve been convinced I’d hear her cackling ’bout the photos we took last week, ’specially the one where I put Jones’s stogie in my mouth.

  Lookie here, she’ll say when she emerges, waving the photo ’round. Proof of my very own cigar-smoking gun moll.

  I practice my fake, sarcastic laugh. Outside, shouting cuts my snigger short. I startle toward the window. Lots of shouting. I get to my feet, all else forgotten, but I’ve made it no more than two steps toward the window when gunfire erupts.

  Instinctively I duck, my hands going over my head. My eyes fall on the stairs and my mind screams for Clyde, downstairs, possibly in the line of fire.

  The rat-a-tat-tat pulls Blanche out of the bathroom, her eyes wide. Snow Ball’s barking adds to the commotion; so does his jumping. Before I know it, those feet of mine lead me to the closet, then to the window: pulling back the drapes, smashing the glass, the barrel of my rifle poking through.

  I’ve a moment of clarity, realizing those may’ve been the longest and quickest ten seconds of my life.

  There’s four men. Five, I correct, but the fifth is lying facedown next to a police car in the driveway. The other men are
running to a second car ’cross the street, firing a haphazard shot over their shoulders as they go. I line up my eye, staring down the gun. Outside the garage, there’s Clyde, but he’s not firing anymore. My finger dances over the trigger, resolved to what I may have to do, ready to pull the trigger if it’ll keep Clyde alive.

  “Blanche!” Buck yells.

  He thumps up the steps, half bent over, fighting for breath. Blanche, hysterical, rushes into his arms. Buck’s voice comes out ragged as he says, “Hurry, we got to get out of here. Clyde will hold ’em off.”

  As if those two brothers are connected by the brain, Clyde fires off warning shots at the officers hiding behind the car ’cross the street. They don’t return fire.

  “What?” Blanche says. She rubs her forehead. Her eyes are even wider than before, and now also unfocused. “Why do we have to go? We didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

  Buck says, “Don’t matter, baby. Let’s go.”

  “But our stuff…” Blanche staggers toward the kitchen, with Snow Ball on her heels. She picks him up, puts him on the table, wraps her hands ’round her stomach. Blanche turns toward the bedrooms. “Our marriage license.” She stops, steps toward the kitchen again. Snow Ball hops down from the table, and he’s back on her heels. “My watch.” Blanche had taken it off earlier to develop the photos. Ain’t a second more before Blanche changes directions again, back toward her bedroom. “Your pardon papers, baby.”

  I’ve heard the expression of a chicken with its head chopped off, but this here is the first time I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. Buck goes to her. Their foreheads press together.

  Gunfire erupts. Too much of it to only be coming from one gun. I look down, but I can no longer see Clyde. I tell myself he’s in the garage, using the car to shield himself. It’s what the coppers are doing, their heads popping over their car to volley a shot. ’Cept there’s four of them.