Side by Side

by Jenni L. Walsh

  I breathe a few more breaths, still alive. Emotion bubbles in my chest ’cause I know I deserve to die. Clyde and I both do. Even still, Texas has never given a woman the chair before, and I don’t want to be their first.

  I won’t let that happen. Clyde won’t, either. We’re in this together, to our final breaths.

  But it’s utterly terrifying, hiding behind my lids, not knowing if death’s coming for me this second or the next.

  “Bonnie,” Jones whispers. The metal against my skin, now warm, disappears, and my skin responds with goose bumps. “He made it. I can’t see him no more.”

  I open my eyes, and all the tears I’ve been suppressing pour out. “He made it?”

  “He crawled down the riverbed.” His cadence is shaky. “Or at least I assumed he did. I couldn’t see him in there.”

  Bless this drought. There’s no doubt the officers would’ve heard him if he was splashing ’round in that river.

  “So now what?” Jones eyes the gun. “Bonnie, I don’t want to use this no more. Not on you.”

  I take the pistol from him. It was wrong of me to ask this boy to kill me. It was wrong of Clyde and me to bring Jones back into our games. Our games aren’t for seventeen-year-old boys. I curse myself; there’s a lot I’ve been doing wrong to Jones. I should’ve told him the truth, but I waited for selfish reasons. I can’t be doing that no more. Not when life’s shown us it can turn a corner in a heartbeat. I ain’t sure how to tell him besides spitting it like poison.

  “Jones,” I whisper. It feels cowardly to confess so quietly, but I ain’t got any other choice. “You ain’t wanted for any murders. Doyle Johnson’s was pinned on somebody else.”

  He pokes a finger in his ear, itches. It comes out bloody. The boy stares at it, calm, so much like Clyde. “You’ve known for a while, haven’t you?”

  I nod.

  “And you kept it from me?”

  “Only ’cause of Billie. I didn’t want ya following her.”

  “’Cause I ain’t good enough?”

  “Not you, Jones. It’s this life that ain’t good enough for her.” That ain’t the whole truth. Jones was on his way to the slammer before we picked him up. But he needs to hear that he’s got worth. Everyone does, even if they’ve done horrible things. “But you can have more than all of this, too.”

  Jones sniffs, his nose scrunching. “I could walk away. You really think so?”

  “Not right this second.” I try for a smile. It doesn’t feel right. How could it? But the boy’s a good kid, half his mouth’s turning up. I say, “I reckon the law could find plenty to arrest you on, but they’ll treat you differently than Clyde and me if they get their hands on you.”

  “Like they will with Blanche?”

  I got to close my eyes at the sound of her name. I ain’t ready to digest how I turned my best friend from a gal who, without me, wouldn’t have done worse than table dance with some bootleg in her hand.

  While she was with us, she never pulled a trigger, but she’ll go to jail nevertheless—all ’cause she couldn’t quit Clyde Barrow’s woman and Clyde Barrow’s brother. And to think there was a time that Blanche only ever thought ’bout Blanche. Turns out, I’m the one who only thinks of herself. And of Clyde. Always Clyde. I need to start thinking ’bout more, like how I’m going to get this boy out of here alive, then get the bleeding from his head to stop.

  We haven’t been hiding long, Clyde’s only been gone a few minutes, but I don’t trust that circle the officers are in. Their heads move ever so slightly. I know cunning when I see it—thanks to Clyde—and I’d bet money they’re standing there for show, trying to give us false confidence to make a break for it. They pursued us slowly up ’til this point, knowing their bullets hit their mark with Clyde and Jones. They had to have seen I wasn’t walking on my own. That adds up to one thing: we couldn’t have gotten far. Clyde snuck out while commotion was still going on. But if we move now, they’ll see it. If they see it, we’re sunk. I’ll be forced to use that gun on myself, and pray that after I do, Jones puts his hands high in the air.

  Not as if he’d be able to do that from in here. Those beavers could’ve built something larger. My good leg is as stiff as my mangled one. I try to slide it straight, but I end up kicking the wall of the dam. Some of the mud and leaves fall, and I’ve done it. I’ve caused one of their discreet-moving heads to turn this way.

  One man jostles another with his elbow. Another regrips his gun. One laughs, loudly. A distraction? No, it’s a way to mask the words they’re exchanging.

  Gunfire erupts, a sound I’ve heard so frequently during my time on this earth that I’ll hear it even after I’m buried deep. And maybe that’s what’s happening now: The sound has followed me into death to haunt me, ’cause surely if they are shooting at us, this shelter isn’t doing a damn thing to block their bullets.

  But no, it ain’t the men. They take cover, behind the log, behind a tree, flat against the ground. They aren’t the ones firing. Still firing. Then there’s a touch on my arm. I jump and find a face covered in grime. “Clyde,” I utter in relief, the gunfire swallowing his name. “Would you look at that,” he hollers into my ear. “That gun of mine got stuck on again.” Hysteria from the realization I ain’t dead but saved bubbles up in me, and Clyde’s quick to add, “Let’s go.”

  Within a few feet, we’re in the riverbed, Jones on our heels. We crawl. The bullets stop.

  It all happened so fast, in the matter of seconds.

  We drag ourselves all the way ’til the river winds into a farm. It couldn’t have come any sooner. There, Clyde makes a car ours.

  In that passenger seat, farmland—that ain’t ours—passing us on either side, it all hits me, every moment of this final ambush. Final, ’cause that’s what it is for us. Blanche is in cuffs. Buck is on his way to dying, if he hasn’t already met our Maker. I turn my hands palm up, down, up. Doesn’t matter which side I look at, it’s all blood and filth.

  I drop my hands and say, “Holy hell.” And that’s it. I don’t got anything more, at least not to out-and-out verbalize. I could write it down, my deepest and darkest thoughts ’bout how I failed my best friend. Or ’bout how Buck took more shots than his body could handle to protect the woman he loves. But I’m too numb to move.

  Clyde’s only got one hand on the steering wheel. His other arm lays limp at his side. He taps the wheel, his cheek sucked into his mouth, gaining composure. I know his ticks.

  I say, “You best not be blaming yourself.”

  He’s slow to look at me. “Ya blame who’s at fault, Bonnie. That’s the way it works.” Clyde shakes his head. I shake mine right back. I ain’t surprised he changes the topic of our conversation as he says, “Got one of your poems. In my pocket.”

  It takes some work, but I retrieve the paper that’s folded in a tight square.

  “Found it laying ’round the camp site last night. Some of our money, I buried, in that hole I started for…” He licks his lips. “And some guns. We can go back for it, once things calm down. But we’ve lost everything that’s not on us”—he pauses—“again.”

  I squeeze the paper in my palm. In a reality where it’s hard to see beyond the straightaway we’re flying down, it’s even harder to know when we’ll stumble upon that calm. But I nod again, and I’m appreciative of the small mercy: a poem with my innermost thoughts isn’t in the hands of those lawmen.

  All they’ll do is feed our stories to the news reporters, who’ll sip their illegal booze and smoke their imported cigars while writing tantalizing headlines ’bout our illegal goings-on.

  Even now, I bet today’s coppers will clink glasses with those dirty reporters, once they see how the newspapers paint them as heroes for dismantling the Barrow Gang. Maybe they’ll count it as a victory that one of us didn’t survive.

  I hate having that thought, without knowing Buck’s fate, and I hate the idea of a world without Buck’s booming personality and voice. I can’t imagine what Clyde must be fe
eling, and frankly, it’d be too painful to hear. I open the paper, to see which poem Clyde rescued. My throat’s immediately too dry. It ain’t my handwriting. It’s Blanche’s.

  Sometimes

  Across the fields of yesterday

  She sometimes comes to me

  A little girl just back from play the girl I used to be

  And yet she smiles so wistfully once she has crept within.

  I wonder if she hopes to see the woman I might have been—

  Fuck.

  It’s all I’ve got to think. I close my eyes and blindly put away Blanche’s poem.

  * * *

  We all do our best to heal. New scars mar our bodies and hearts. With little money, few days are spent in actual beds. Normally we sleep in the car, windows down and bugs feasting on our clammy skin, tucked away in some thick patch of trees. Each day I wake, expecting Jones to be gone. I think his head hurts too much to go off on his own. He should, though. We ain’t doing more than fumbling, nothin’ more than the same sad song stuck on the radio. I want to change that, but I ain’t sure how—or where Clyde’s head’s at.

  Some days I stir to find him walking—just plodding along—with hands in his pockets, his head tilted back, mumbling to the sky. He’ll rub his forehead, then thrash his arm down, as if trying to rip a thought straight from his head.

  On a Saturday, I catch him looking toward home, as if he’s imaging his ma down by the railroad tracks, his daddy’s arm cradling her to him.

  North, south, east, west—our direction changes like the wind. Clyde’s too paranoid to go in any one direction for long. Jones is restless when we stop, afraid we’ll be caught if we stay in one place too long. Seems to be true.

  Whenever Clyde can, he telephones Pretty Boy Floyd, my only inclination Clyde’s still got an eye on our future. Jones and I wait in the car, awaiting whatever news he’ll bring back to us.

  We learn that Blanche was charged with assault with intent to kill, ’cause of how she delayed the law when they came knocking at the cabin’s door so Buck could open fire. Her bail’s been set at fifteen thousand dollars. That amount is staggering, more money than we’ve ever had. Pretty Boyd Floyd says not to bother trying to pay it; it’ll only buy her a few months on the outside before she’s brought back in for her trial.

  On the next phone call, Clyde drops the phone. He sinks to his knees. He howls, punching the phone booth. I rush from the car, jumping and crawling my way to him, and shove the booth’s door, barely opening it enough to slide through with Clyde on the ground, blocking the door. I find a way, and awkwardly drop to my knees beside him. Blood smears the glass from his fists. I put my arm ’round him, and Clyde tries to shake me off.

  I won’t let him. I won’t lose him after he’s come so far to be us again. I hold on tighter. His elbow jabs me, pushing me off, and my head knocks against the glass.

  “You ain’t doing this alone,” I say. Then I’m leaning into him again. I whisper, “It’s you and me, Clyde.”

  Finally, he turns into me, the weight of his body rocking me into the glass. There, I hold him. There, I learn what I’ve been afraid to hear: Buck died five days after the law got him.

  I help pick up Clyde, get us back in the car, get us back out on the road. As the days go on, Buck’s death ain’t something Clyde wants to talk ’bout. Neither do I, and I’m scared to push too hard.

  “Bloodsucking cops,” Clyde says one time. He can’t look at me as he says it. He just drives, eyes narrowed. “That’s who was with him when he died. Not my ma. Not me. Not Blanche.”

  I clench my hands, my nails biting into my palms; all Blanche wanted was to be by Buck’s side. That’s all I can ask for, when it’s my time to go, to be beside Clyde.

  During the next call, Clyde laughs. All the way from the car, we hear the boom of his amusement. Jones and I exchange confused expressions, even more so when Clyde’s laughter dries up. When he’s back in the car, I say, “Out with it. What’d he say?”

  He keeps me waiting a few long seconds ’til we’re moving again. The wind twists my hair ’round. I put on my tam hat, hoping the breeze doesn’t take it right back off, and prop my elbow on the open window, anxious to learn more.

  “Seems our friend Ray,” Clyde says, “robbed one too many banks. In fact, he was too high to remember he already robbed the bank before. They recognized him as soon as he walked in the door. Now guess where he is?”

  “The joint?”

  “Not just any prison.” Clyde sticks a toothpick in his mouth. “He’s at Eastham.”

  My jaw drops. Well, ain’t that ironic, the exact place he was supposed to help us raid.

  Jones, being he doesn’t know Raymond, ain’t all that interested in what we have to say. In the rear seat, he props his hat over his face, hiding the bullet scar near his left ear. But I’m eager to hear more, this being the first Clyde’s mentioned Eastham after his delay in going there. A delay that cost him his brother’s life.

  “The thing is,” Clyde says to me, “Raymond got word to Pretty Boy. Ray wants us to get him out.”

  I swallow, waiting to hear Clyde’s next words. That’ll mean getting the first farm done and allowing us to move forward. But Clyde doesn’t say more. He only moves the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. I lick my lips. “Clyde, I got to know what you’re thinkin’.”

  He clamps his teeth down, talking ’round the toothpick. “I’m thinkin’ I ain’t jumping at the chance to help the lad, but Ray knows people, people who say they’ll turn their heads if we visit their armory.”

  I exhale, slowly, not to show my relief. Instead I ask, “Why would they do that?”

  “Why do any of us do anything? Maybe Ray promised to line their pockets once he gets out.”

  All this sounds good. I’m ready to go like lightning to that armory. ’Cept for one thing. “But Ray … do you think we can trust him?”

  Clyde flicks his toothpick out his window. Then he taps my chin, flicking his gaze to me before it’s back on the open road. “Life’s been nasty, hasn’t she? We take two steps forward then we’re yanked one step back.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I can’t step no more.”

  He takes my hand, presses it to his lips. “Bonnie, I won’t lie to you. I lay awake at night wondering how many more got to die before we can have the life we want. If only I didn’t hesitate. I spooked myself ’bout being back at Eastham. Now Buck’s dead.”

  “Clyde, honey, he’s dead ’cause the law shot him, and the same thing is going to happen to us. We can only dodge a bullet for so long.”

  “We’ll be off the road before that happens. I promise you. One damn thing.” He bangs the wheel three times. “I got to do one damn thing right, and that’s paying my debt.”

  I say what we’re both thinking. “To Skelley.” I bob my head. “Clyde, ya got to get that farm done.”

  “I will.”

  “No more delays. That prison’s been haunting you for too long.”

  He nods.

  “It needs to be in our past,” I say. “Now.”

  “All right.” Clyde peers into the rearview mirror. “Jones!”

  The boy startles, his hat falling off his face.

  “The missus gave me her blessing, so I got to ask one more thing of you.”

  “What’s that?” he says.

  “Get some guns with me.”

  I straighten. “Now, I didn’t give my blessing for that part.”

  “Help me get those guns,” Clyde says. “Then that’s that. I want you to scram. You’ve seen enough blood and hell for one lifetime, at least ’cause of us.”

  “That,” I say, “actually has my blessing.”

  I hope the blood and hell are coming to an end for us, too. We’ll get the guns, we’ll get out Raymond and Skelley, then we’ll get the hell out of this life. So help me God.

  25

  The boys raid the armory without a hitch, thank you Lord. In September, it’s time to sit Jones d
own, the three of us on the side of some road. In a few moments, it’ll only be the two of us.

  “Now listen, lad,” Clyde says. He holds Jones by the shoulder. “If the laws get their hands on you, I want ya to do something for me.”

  Jones cocks his head. “What’s that?”

  “Lie.”

  “Lie?”

  “That’s right. Now, repeat after me,” Clyde says. “Clyde Barrow forced me to run with ’em.”

  Jones laughs.

  Clyde grabs him by his collar. Not rough, but the boy knows without a doubt Clyde’s serious as sin.

  Jones mumbles, “Clyde Barrow forced me to run with ’em.”

  “You’re a minor. Remind the po-lice of that. It was Buck, Bonnie, and me who did all the shooting and robbing. Never you.”

  “Oh?” I put a hand on my hip, but every part of it is playful. “You don’t want the boy implicating himself, but he’s free to throw ’round my name?”

  “Darling, don’t trick yourself into believing they’d go lenient on you.”

  “Shucks,” I say.

  Clyde kisses the back of my hand, then his attention’s back on Jones. “Last thing, tell ’em we tied you up. Trees, car bumpers, whatever was ’round. You never had a chance to escape ’til now.”

  Jones asks, “How’d I get away?”

  Clyde jabs at his ribs. “Don’t tell me my wits haven’t rubbed off on ya by now.”

  The boy chuckles, but he ain’t looking overly confident, his hands going in and out of his pockets like he don’t know what to do with ’em.

  I pull him into a hug. But no tears. Jones will leave. Still, I see the way he’s tethered to Clyde. Me crying won’t help matters. I assure him, “We won’t come for ya again.” At arm’s length, I remind him, “And you’ll stay away from Billie.”

  He snorts. “I’ll let her be.”

  “Reckon it’s my turn,” Clyde says. He’s got Jones by the shoulders again. “First time I saw ya, you were nothin’ but five. I hope you live to a hundred five, but—don’t take this the wrong way—I hope I never see ya again. Go home to your mama, lad.”