Clyde and Jones fix the flat. Progress is slow. Buck’s in and out of consciousness, saying things that don’t make sense. We stop outside a drugstore, and Jones runs in for a slew of supplies—ice, bandages, antiseptic, aspirin, and rubbing alcohol—to try to do what we can for the hole in Buck’s head.
“Keep the ice on him,” Clyde says to Blanche. “The cold’ll slow the bleeding.” He looks to me. “Billie taught me that.”
Next Clyde pulls a sedative from his pocket, one he normally gives me to help me sleep.
“No,” Blanche snaps. “He’ll never wake up.”
I start crying at that.
At a service station, the gas attendant mentally counts the bullet holes in our car; I can see it in how his head bobs fourteen times. He peers into our rear seat, right through the busted-up window. Blanche and Buck lay ’cross the seat, covered by a blanket. We all hide the blood on our clothes the best we can. I think Clyde may kill this man right here and now, but he keeps his gun between him and Jones. I can’t help being surprised, ’specially since Blanche said it was the law who came knocking at her cabin door looking for “the men.” This attendant is likely to call the law before the dust settles in our wake.
By daybreak, we’d only gone about fourteen miles. Not far enough. Not yet to Iowa. An hour or so later, I released a breath as we crossed the state line. We drive and drive, looking for a place to hide. At one point, we come upon an abandoned something. Clyde and Jones get out to investigate, running half bent. I lean forward in my seat, trying to make sense of our surroundings. There appears to be a carousel that somehow looks worse than we do. And there’s a swimming pool, green water probably a few feet deep. It smells, even from a distance away.
Clyde and Jones return with a pamphlet.
Dexfield Park
65 Acres of Beautiful Shade
The brochure boasts of live bands, high-diving, baseball games, a roller-skating rink, evening fireworks, vaudeville shows, a merry-go-round, campsites, and concessions of all kinds.
Wouldn’t that have been a sight to see? It saddens me, how it all turned out for this place. Broken. Dirty. Unwanted. A shell of what it’s supposed to be.
We make camp on one of the unused campsites, in a small clearing surrounded by trees. We clean ourselves, wringing blood from our clothes, treating wounds—it all has become too common.
Clyde goes out for more bandages and morphine, posing as a veterinarian. When he returns, he rips the cushion from the car so Buck can lay on it in the shade of a tree.
Blanche says she can barely see out of her right eye. I don’t want to tell her, but a shard of glass I couldn’t get out is stuck in her pupil. I expect her to complain, but Buck is all she cares ’bout, always at his side. She often lays her hand on his chest, staring at the slow rise and fall of her fingertips.
I’m shocked when we wake on our second day and Buck’s still alive.
I’m shocked on day three.
That afternoon, I hop on my good leg, trying to find Clyde. I’m out of breath by the time I do. He’s on his hands and knees, pawing at the dirt. A hole is starting to form.
“What are you doing?” I ask his back.
His muscles go still, but they’re still tight. “He ain’t going to make it much longer.”
“And what?” I demand. “You think we ain’t going to bring him home to your ma?” My voice trembles as I add, “That we’d leave him here?”
I turn and hobble back to our campsite before he can reply. Though part of me wants to fling my arms ’round him and acknowledge the fact that Clyde’s doing the best he can as his older brother slips away.
That night’s the longest. A whippoorwill—or at least that’s what Jones says it is—won’t stop chirping, as if saying, Here they are!
A screech owl responds, the sound chilling. Twice, Clyde jumps up, gun in hand, only to settle beside me a few minutes later. Buck may be the only one who sleeps.
And to think, the first farm could’ve been done by now. I could be mad, but with all I’m feeling, there ain’t room for it.
Once again, I’m shocked when on day four I find Buck’s chest still rising and falling. Blanche is changing his bandages.
“Don’t leave me,” she says sternly. “You better not leave me, Buck.”
His eyes are closed, but he’s grinning at her. And I know that smile is undoubtedly for her. He’s always given Blanche her very own look. I saw it that first night we went to Doc’s—when he fiercely, passionately wrapped his arms ’round her.
Back then, ’cause of my own unease, I demanded we leave the speakeasy. Blanche did, at my persistence. Now, I wish I gave them more time to be together in those moments of first touches.
“Weiners will be ready soon,” Jones says. He’s got sticks through ’em, dangling over a fire. We had weenies last night, and I ain’t looking forward to having ’em again. Hell, I ain’t looking forward to spending another day out here in the woods. All the trees look the same, every place we go. I tap my pocket, thinking ’bout starting my day with a smoke.
“Look out!” Clyde yells. He scurries for his gun, his eyes trained off into the trees. I’m frozen in place on the blanket, too overwhelmed to know what to do. “We’ve got company,” Clyde says evenly. His tone jars me, and I try to stand. “No, Bonnie, stay down. We got us some cowards, hiding behind trees. But I saw ’em.”
My eyes flick to Blanche. She’s sobbing, her body over Buck’s. Jones pushes open the trunk and removes an automatic shotgun. He closes the trunk and—bang—I cover my ears. A gunshot reverberates through our campsite and the trees all ’round us. I jerk every which way ’til I see Jones. No longer standing, but on the ground, clutching his head, a wound eerily similar to Buck’s.
I begin to crawl to him. Pine needles and dirt slip under my palms, but I’ll get there. He’s going to be okay. He has to be okay. Jones ain’t sharing that sentiment; he’s howling like an ol’ hound does when a thunderstorm passes through.
“Blanche,” Clyde says. There’s panic in his voice, a rare thing. He’s propped behind the hood, looking down the barrel of his gun. “Get Buck to the car.”
I’m halfway to Jones, having dragged myself for only a handful of seconds, when there’s a second shot.
Clyde goes down, and it rips all breath out of me.
By the time I’m breathing again, I see he is, too. His hand’s over his shoulder, his mouth gulping in air. I change direction. Forest debris pokes beneath my fingernails as I pull and scratch and push and kick my way, frantically, toward Clyde.
There’re more shots, and I cry out as if I’m the one who’s been hit. But it’s not me who is. It’s the car. With a pop, a tire sinks, the car groaning as it leans toward the deflated corner. My lip quivers, not believing we’ll ever get away now.
“Clyde,” I call, nearly to him, desperation making his name sound like it came from someone else. The car blocks the men from us, but I know they’re there, creeping closer. It’s only a matter of time. “They’re going to get us.”
His hat fell off when he hit the ground. He licks his lips, puts his hat back on, adjusts it ever so. “Bonnie,” he says. “We’re going to have to run for it.”
My mouth drops open. The tree line ain’t far off; beyond it, plenty more trees.
“I’ll carry you, Bonnie. You’re mine. Always mine. You hear that?”
I nod, and swallow down the emotion—from Clyde being hit, from Jones being hit, from Blanche now staring at us like she don’t know what to do.
“Baby.” Blanche slaps Buck’s cheeks. “Baby, I need you to run for me.”
Buck’s head lulls to the side, but he answers, “I ain’t got any shoes on, ya know.”
Blanche drops to the ground and reaches for a shoe, as if him wearing shoes is the most important thing in the world. Not the men scouting us. Not the fact that all three of our boys have bullets in their bodies.
No other shots are being fired, but do they even need to fire more? We�
��re still lying in a clearing of trees, here for the taking. Jones crawls toward me.
“My head. I need you to look.”
I shut my eyes, bracing myself for the white bone of his skull, like Buck’s after you’ve wiped away the blood, before the blood comes right back. I’ve got my lip between my teeth when I open my eyes, and let out a sigh. “My God, I think you’ve only been grazed.”
“Don’t feel that way,” he mumbles. “My head’s all rattled.”
“I know, honey,” I say. “I know.”
“Now,” Clyde says. “All of us. We got to go.” Clyde reaches for me, his face scrunching in pain. “I got you.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t. You can’t carry me with a busted arm.”
“I got her,” Jones says. “We both may fall over, though.”
Somehow, I smile. This boy’s always been earnest through and through. Earnest and good-hearted. I’m on his back, my arms and legs wrapped ’round him like a monkey. Clyde walks backward toward the tree line, cringing with the gun pressing against his busted shoulder. Buck’s got his arms and body draped all over Blanche, and my heart breaks with each piece of encouragement she gives him to get to the trees.
We do, then they do, and I’m relieved we’ve made it this far.
We’re broken. Dirty. Unwanted.
’Cept we’ve never been more wanted, just not in the right way. The scary thing—besides all the wounds and injuries and blood—is that whoever is pursuing us is playing a game of cat and mouse. They’re out there, in the trees on the other side of the clearing, but they ain’t in a hurry. They can take their time. Where do we got to go? Why do they have to hurry when a boy with a bullet mark on his head is carrying a crippled girl? Or when a ninety-pound girl is trying to support the weight of a six-foot man? The only one who has a chance—who truly has a chance—of getting away is Clyde.
Buck and Blanche are getting farther and farther behind.
“Clyde,” I say. “They can’t keep up.”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t react.
“Clyde,” I shout.
“I know that,” he states, his voice somehow calm. His eyes ain’t, though; they’re frenzied, looking between the trees. “Don’t you think I know that? But Buck wouldn’t want us to get caught to save him.”
I glance over my shoulder at Blanche. She’s on her knees, her arm ’round a thick trunk, using it to counter Buck’s weight as she pulls his arm. “But—”
“Darling, there ain’t time for that.”
I bury my face in Jones’s neck. His breath is ragged, his body leaning forward as he fights for every step up a small hill. I can’t help it; I look back. Buck and Blanche are at the base of it, Buck on the ground, his eyes shut. Blanche’s head is on his chest. Then she’s pulling again on his arm.
Get up, I plead.
Clyde sprays a few seconds of bullets. Off in the distance, a group of men are visible between the trees. Or they were; now they’re behind those trees. He says, “We need to hide. I ain’t seeing how we’re going to make it on foot. Not like this.”
At the top of the hill, Jones steadies us against a tree. My left arm is soaked with his blood. I press my hand over his head wound.
“Thanks,” he mumbles. Then we skid down the hill, using our body weight to get us to the bottom. Jones barely keeps his feet under him.
On the other side of the incline, now’s our time to hide without the men seeing us. It also means we can’t see Buck and Blanche anymore. It tugs at my heart, making me want to go back over the hill. I close my eyes, glad Jones is carrying me, giving me no choice but to move forward. The three of us cross a dry riverbed. What I’d give to palm some water in my mouth right ’bout now.
Jones puts me down so he can haul his body over a large log. I climb on it. Jones dips, and with a quick look over my shoulder, still no sight of Blanche or Buck, I fight back tears and resume my position on his back.
“That there may be our only chance,” Clyde says, pointing. There’s a den of sorts. My best guess is that it’s the work of beavers, pulling together sticks and mud to make a dam. One the critters no longer need with the drought that’s hit Iowa.
The space is tight, too small for two grown men and a girl, even if weight’s been falling off me like leaves from a tree in the fall. We cram in, knees to our chests. My heart pounds into my leg. Peering through the thicket of branches, Blanche and Buck appear at the top of the hill, and I release a sob.
I’m ’bout to shout, Over here! when Clyde says, “No, Bonnie, we all can’t fit.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong, that we’ll figure out a way for all of us to be in here, but he ain’t wrong.
With Blanche’s first step down the hill, she ain’t able to keep them upright. They’re a mess of arms and legs ’til they hit the bottom.
I can’t help myself and edge toward the dam’s opening, and Clyde snaps, “No.” More calmly he says, “No, Bonnie, we’re goners if we go out there. The law will be showing their faces any second now.”
I know Clyde’s right, but I don’t want him to be. Blanche is strong, though. I’ve never seen this type of strength in her before. She’s already on her feet, running her hands down her pants. Then she’s doing her damnedest to get Buck on his feet. They make it to the log, they cross over it, then there they stay. Blanche leans against it. Her chest heaves. Buck’s head rests in her lap. She strokes his hair, her lips moving. I look away.
She could leave him. Blanche has run off before, with Blanche putting Blanche first. But she doesn’t. She won’t. Blanche would rather die than be without Buck.
As if on cue, the lawmen descend over the hill. They keep coming, one after another. Thirty of them, if that’s possible. My heart jumps into my throat. Fingers point at Blanche’s head sticking out over the log. She turns slightly, her face falling at the realization they’re sitting ducks.
Clyde stiffens—we all do—when Buck springs to life, pulling a gun no one knew he had. He’s on his knees, his stomach against the log, firing at the men, looking ’bout as steady as a cattail in the wind. The law returns fire, their automatic guns overpowering his Colt. He throws himself on top of Blanche. His body jolts, and I quake at the thought of a bullet finding its way through the log and into his side. Blanche struggles, trying to push him off, crying, “No, baby.”
Buck’s voice is indiscernible but fierce. Then, they kiss, maybe for the last time.
My nose stings with emotion. My eyes blur with tears.
Clyde’s chin drops, touching his chest. His body trembles into mine.
All I can do is watch as the lawmen, so many of them, creep closer and closer, guns raised, an almost enraptured expression on their faces. They’re ’bout to capture two from the Barrow Gang.
When I look back at Buck and Blanche, she’s on her feet, arms raised.
No! I call out in my head. But all she’s doing is speeding up the process of getting caught. Two men yank her over the log, each with a firm grip on one of her arms. She screams for Buck as she’s separated from him, as men yank him to his feet.
“Don’t die, Marvin,” she pleads. “Don’t die without me!”
That name is a punch to my gut. Buck’s real name. Blanche has kept it to herself all this time, only to reveal it now when it may be her final words to him, ever.
I sob, turning into Clyde’s chest. It’s wet, hot from his wound. I don’t care. I want to feel his warmth. I want to feel his heart beating. I don’t want to live in a world where it’s not beating in tune with my own.
“Bonnie,” he whispers. He presses his lips against the side of my head harder than he’s ever done before. “My brother…” His breath hitches. He blows out a steadying breath. “I don’t want to die, but you know I ain’t going back to jail.” I nod into his chest. “I hope you know I ain’t going to live without you, either. If they take you, I’m taking myself out. But I need to give us a chance.” I meet his eyes. He runs a thumb down my cheek, spreading the wetn
ess there. His blood. My tears. Jones is quiet next to us, ’cept for the shudder of his breath.
“I’m going to sneak off,” he says, “and see ’bout finding us a way out of here.”
My head whips back to where Blanche and Buck hid, not knowing how he intends to escape with a posse of officers only a stone’s throw away. What was once thirty of ’em is now cut in half, a group of officers taking Buck and Blanche up the hill. Buck is all but limp. Blanche is all of a rabid animal. The rest of the men stand in a circle by the log, talking. Maybe they’re figuring out their plan for tracking down the rest of the Barrow Gang.
“Clyde, if they catch you…” I whisper. “They ain’t putting you back in jail. They’re going to give you the chair.”
Clyde considers it, exhales. “That sounds like something they’d do.”
“Clyde.” It feels important to keep saying his name, as if I may not have too many more chances left. And I make a decision: Clyde’s name will be the last thing I utter, even if it’s nothin’ more than a breath. I reach behind him, knowing he’s got a pistol tucked in the back of his pants. I put it in Jones’s hand and raise it to my head. “If Clyde goes out there and he goes down, you pull this trigger. You hear?”
Jones swallows.
Clyde palms his own face, but I pull his hand down, needing to see his hazel eyes. And now … “Can I see that dimple of yours before you go?”
Clyde’s cheek twitches more than anything ’til he forces a smile in place. There it is. Then he crashes his lips to mine. I taste earth and blood. I taste fear. I taste love.
He crawls backward from our den. With Jones pressing the gun to my temple, I utter, “I love you, Clyde.”
PART THREE
BONNIE AND CLYDE
24
I’ve never pressed my eyes closed more tightly. I’ve seen Clyde shot one too many times. I know what it’s like to see the eruption of red on his skin, ’cept when it’s fatal. I don’t want to see that. Nor do I want to see my own death coming. If he goes, I go. That’s our pact.
A twig snaps. Jones reacts to Clyde’s movements, and the pistol he holds against my head slips to my ear.
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