I don’t question why he’s there instead of Louisiana. But, like us, I can reckon most fugitives like to roam. A few hundred miles later, Clyde pats Henry on the back. Clyde’s mostly cordial with his fellas, but Henry’s royalty to us now. I give him my own one-hundred-watt smile and a hug. I didn’t think I’d be so happy to welcome one of the fellas back into our car. But here he is, and tomorrow’s a fresh start. Tonight, we’ll find a side of the road to sleep on ’til someone passes by, then we’re off to Louisiana. That ride, if we’re hugging the state lines, could eat up a full day.
I wake to the distant sound of church bells, a beautiful sound. Propped against the passenger-side door, my head resting on a rolled-up blanket, I don’t bother moving or opening my eyes. I only listen. Clyde’s got us on a backcountry road, but I’m surprised we lasted all night and into the morning, which is already warm. I’m glad we slept with the windows down.
My church back in Cement City has a single bell. From the overlapping clings and clangs, this melody is the result of numerous chimes. I wonder if every Sunday they put together such a complex harmony, then I realize it’s Easter. March is now behind us, and it’s the first of April.
The harmony continues, and I try to memorize it, wishing there were words so I could sing along. I picture Billie smiling.
Ain’t long before there’s a rumble, a revving. With Texas being so flat, that noise, like the bells, can carry. I open my eyes, certain Clyde will be rousing, too. He’s got a sixth sense for the sound of engines. Henry’s still asleep in the back. Clyde immediately orients himself. His eyes flash to me, to his rifle, to his rearview mirror, to the key he keeps in place. He’s halfway to reaching for the ignition key when he pauses. I twist in my seat, seeing what Clyde hears. Two motorcycles approach over a hill.
I can’t help remembering the last time a motorcycle came up behind us.
“Hurry, Clyde, should we go?”
Clyde’s knee bobs. “That might turn them onto us if we take off. It’s too late now. We’ll let ’em pass, then head the way they came.”
“Henry,” he shouts, and slides his gun along his right leg, hidden out of sight, “look alive. We’ve got company coming up behind us. Let’s hope they go by.” He says the last part mostly to himself.
Poor Henry isn’t as quick to wake up. He ain’t as quick to conceal his gun. Before I know it, I’m sucking in my breath ’cause those motorcyclers are right outside our car, and they aren’t going by.
In fact, they’re patrolmen with shiny badges on their chests.
From the corner of my eye, I watch, my heart pounding. “They look green,” I whisper, leaning closer so Clyde can hear me over all the engines. “Don’t even got a hand on their guns. Bet they’re peach-fuzz cops.”
The one officer knocks on Clyde’s door. Clyde stares straight ahead, his fingertips dancing on his gun. He nods, agreeing with me. “Henry,” he says between his teeth. Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror. “Let’s take ’em.”
I’ve seen Clyde kidnap before. He’s likely to throw open his door, startling the officer before shoving a gun in his face. With Henry doing it, too, the patrolmen will be in the back of our car in no time.
’Cept there’s a bang. I do a double take, my brain taking precious seconds to catch up. Henry’s out of the car, firing. Then Clyde’s doing it, too. All that’s left is empty bikes.
Clyde ducks his head to get back into our car.
“Shit!” He punches the wheel. “Get in,” he calls to Henry.
But I want to kick Henry right back out.
“Hostages,” Clyde says, his voice eerily calm. “That’s what I meant by take ’em.”
Henry grabs clumps of his hair. “Fuck.”
That word comes out plenty more. I press the heel of my palms into my eyes, not believing that only minutes ago, I was listening to the melody of church bells, and now it’s a string of profanities. When I drop my hands, my eye catches on Clyde’s ring, and my breath shudders, knowing this mishap—if ya can even call it that—is a monstrous step back.
The bells are long gone. We’re long gone. There wasn’t anyone ’round to chase us, a small blessing.
“We can’t go to the farm straight away.” Clyde talks to himself, barely loud enough for me to hear. I grit my teeth, with nothin’ helpful to say, so I sit here, twisting my ill-fated wedding band. “I won’t risk it. Can’t lead any heat there. Got to get a new car. Got to drive. Dammit to hell.”
We pass a sign for FORT WORTH. POPULATION: 106,482.
I slink lower into my seat, feeling the familiar pang of nerves. I search for the false confidence I sometimes get at being another pretty face in a sea of people, but it’s hard to come by, knowing that the lives of two patrolmen are draining out of ’em onto a dirt road.
Downtown is a mass of buildings, jutting into the sky at staggering heights. Brick buildings. Stone buildings. Signs for drugstores, theaters, tailors, and the like, snake up buildings and dangle from awnings.
Clyde points at a small red light blinking on and off near an intersection as we pass through. I bet it’s flickering ’cause of us. I imagine cops responding to the signal, scurrying for a call box, checking in with their headquarters to get their assignments.
To find us.
Do they know it was us?
Clyde stops at the first Ford V-8 he sees. “Henry,” he says. “Follow me out of town.”
I straighten in my seat, not wanting Clyde to go anywhere without me. But that boy’s seeing red right now, and I ain’t going to cross him.
“No,” Clyde adds and steps on the gas pedal. “I’ve a different idea. I used to spend some time over in the stockyards. Lads in those parts keep their heads down. Let’s get us a room.”
I can’t help myself: “A hotel room?”
“I reckon anyone looking for us wouldn’t expect it, and Bonnie, look up at those clouds. They look mighty heavy to me.”
And fierce. That’s reason enough for me to want shelter in something other than our auto.
A streetcar rides beside us for a stretch. A dark-haired boy presses his nose to the window, staring down at me. He waves. He can’t be more than five or six, but I’ve got anxiety firing on all cylinders. I sink lower in my seat and inch my hat down.
“Bonnie, say, name a lass from the pictures.”
“Right now?”
“I’ve an idea.”
I scratch my forehead “Joan Crawford.”
“And another.”
“Other day I read ’bout this li’l gal, Shirley Temple. She got her start at only three. She’s ’round five now.” Nerves keep me saying, “Ya know, I found my first stage ’round that age. Buster pushed me up there on a Sunday morning, with all the kids taking turns to sing a song. Gal before me sang ‘Jesus Loves Me,’ but when my mouth opened, out came ‘He’s a Devil In His Own Hometown.’”
I recall a line:
When it comes to women, oh! oh! oh! oh!
He’s a devil, he’s a devil.
Behind me, Henry smiles, but he doesn’t make a sound, probably wanting Clyde to forget he’s even there. Clyde shakes his head, but he’s clearly amused. “How on earth did you know that honky-tonk song?”
I shrug. “Heard it on the radio.”
“Okay, how on earth did that story never come up at supper with your ma?”
“She’s still mortified, is my best guess.”
Clyde’s laugh is deep. Gloriously deep. “All right, my li’l mischief-maker, this should be easy enough for you. You and Henry will check in to the hotel under the names Shirley Crawford and”—he gestures—“give me a big actor.”
“James Cagney,” I offer.
“You two will check in as Shirley and James Crawford. Ya hear that, Henry?”
“Yes, sir.”
That sir is comical. Henry can’t be more than a year or two younger than me. Double that for Clyde. But Henry knows this extra heat is on us ’cause of him, and more important, that Clyde calls the s
hots.
“I’ll get rid of our Ford,” Clyde states, “then I’ll stroll in to the hotel through the front door, a thirsty patron, settling closest to the radio at the bar. Bonnie, get the room key. Henry, get her there.”
Henry’s a few heads taller than Clyde. Despite the fact I’d rather use my arm to whack Henry upside the head, I hold on to his waist. His arm winds ’round me. My free hand has our bag with our measly belongings and loot. He easily carries me at his side, my feet tap-dancing ’cross the floor. To anyone, we’re a young married couple attached at the hip, and I got the band on my finger to prove it. Not like anyone will recognize me without a stogie between my lips, that being the only photo of me the papers ever care to print.
The lobby ain’t grand, but it’s dripping with local flavor. The town’s known as the last stop before the Wild West. A cheerful woman behind a desk greets us. I meet her cheer and—presto—there’s a room key in Henry’s hand.
“Three oh five. You see that, honey? Three oh five happens to be my lucky number.”
I say it nice and loud. Over at the bar, Clyde brings a tumbler to his lips and his shoulders slightly bob at my theatrics.
Upstairs, safely behind closed doors, I exhale. Henry excuses himself to use the little boys’ room, and I finger open the drapes. To the left, a sign stretches ’cross the dusty brick road, letting us know we’re in the stockyards. To the right, Exchange Avenue meets Main Street, the direction trouble would come from if the law tracks us down.
There ain’t many buildings taller than us. It ain’t like downtown. Here, the saloons and shops are attached in a long strip of brick, which the rain is currently pummeling. Good thing the men scattering like ants got those big ol’ cowboy hats to keep the wet off their heads.
I’m starting to get antsy ’bout Clyde’s whereabouts when a knock bangs on the door. Henry’s still in the water closet. I slide my pistol out of my skirt, holding it under my chin while I tuck in my blouse again. Arm bent, the pistol goes behind my back. I edge open the door.
Then it’s all thumps and heavy breaths as I’m whisked ’cross the room with a hand under each cheek—butt cheeks, that is—and, by sheer momentum, my legs wrap ’round him. Clyde. “You’re a madman,” I squeal.
“Mad ’bout you, Miss Crawford.” He tosses us on one bed, tosses my pistol on the second, and palms my face. “You really are beautiful.”
“You really are drunk.”
“Not quite, only had one pour. But between us, it don’t take much more. I’m simply glad to be anywhere but out there.” He nods toward the window, the wind howling beyond. “With you.”
Henry emerges from the bathroom.
“And Methvin,” Clyde adds, with less enthusiasm. Much less.
* * *
It takes a while for that howling to stop, even longer for the rain. I pull aside the drapes, careful the light doesn’t stir Henry. The rain’s still coming down. Besides foot traffic and a few cars, all’s quiet below. There ain’t police running this way. I slump into a chair by the desk and roll my head left to right, right to left.
It’s been a few blissful days of running water, electricity, and soft beds. Each morning Clyde brings a paper to me, like he’s off doing right now, and we scour the headlines. We haven’t been in there, not for the murders of the patrolmen, at least. But last time Clyde saddled up to a bar in the shadows of a saloon, he heard mention on the radio how funerals are being prepared for E. B. Wheeler and H. D. Murphy of the Texas State Highway Patrol.
I tap my fingernails against the wood desk. That ain’t something I feel good ’bout. Lousy, actually. So many of Clyde’s deaths are out of necessity, but this here was a fool’s mistake, a mistake that may mess up our plans to get to our farm after all. Sounds callous to put it that way, but I’m not sure there’s another way to frame it.
A key rattles in our lock, and Clyde walks in. He taps a newspaper, folded in half, against his hand.
“What?” I say. “What’s it say in there?”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Clyde, I know you inside and out. And right now your outside looks sour. Did you read it?”
“Some of it. Its words are a fair bit larger than that poem the other day.”
“Give it here,” I say and spread it wide on the desk.
OFFICERS SLAIN BY KILL-CRAZY YOUTH AND HIS MOLL.
“Now that ain’t the whole truth. You ain’t looking for people to kill.”
“Bonnie, darling, if you’re already upset, you best stop while you’re ahead.”
I stare at his face one, two seconds longer, trying to read his expression. I come to the conclusion: defeated.
“Clyde, you ain’t giving up, are ya?”
He rubs his lips together. “On our farm, nah. But what they’re saying ’bout us here will make it harder for us to get there.” He points at the paper, for me to keep reading. I can, I think, only ’cause I know Clyde ain’t throwing in the towel.
The first paragraph ain’t even ’bout Easter morning. It’s a sensational account of the things we’ve done. Us laughing vindictively as we escape the scene of a crime. Me, described as always having a large, black cigar gripped between my teeth. A vivid account of a shopkeeper dying in a pool of his own blood.
“You’ve never killed a shopkeeper.”
“Lads and I took out an operator at a filling station, remember?” He rubs his brow. “While you were locked up. Maybe that’s what they mean.”
“Did you pull the trigger?”
“Does it matter? The man’s dead.”
“Clyde.”
“It was Ray, as far as I know. I was busy cleaning out their safe when the shot went off.”
I keep reading, feeling twitchy, feeling torn. We’re called “a pair of human rats.” They got my age wrong, saying I’m only nineteen. But they didn’t miss how I was married before, and my husband now rots in jail. Somewhere between these half-lies is the truth, and the truth of the matter is we’ve been the ringleaders behind many gruesome murders.
Finally, the patrolmen on those motorcycles are mentioned. Edward Bryan Wheeler. Only twenty-six. Then Holloway Daniel Murphy. Twenty-two. Murphy’s younger than us, and it’s, no lie, his first day on the job. These deaths sting like a hornet. Clyde was supposed to drive ’em far away from their precinct then let ’em loose, like we’ve done before. Instead, they’ll be pushing up daisies.
I palm my mouth and say, “No.”
There, in black-and-white, is a photo of a young woman in a wedding gown. I saw it when I first spread the paper, but I didn’t think it’d be part of this story. Yet it is. Murphy’s fiancé wore her unused gown to the funeral. Unused by only eleven days.
Bring my fiancé’s killers to justice.
I swallow but nothin’ goes down, and I got to look away from her picture before anything comes up. I greedily read, driven by the horror. My stomach knots more at a supposed eyewitness account, which is how the law fingered us for the crimes.
The red-haired dame—guess that’s me—used the sole of her foot to flop the young patrolmen onto his back, cackling at him the whole time. Then, she shot him point blank.
’Cept I never even got out of the car. That sparks my anger. “That so-called witness is saying I turned him over with my foot. He clearly didn’t get a look at me. Did he forget to mention how I hopped on over on one leg? Did I levitate,” I say, my voice growing hysterical, “so I could flip him with my one good foot?”
“Bonnie. That’s enough. You’ve had enough.” Clyde kneels next to me and grips my face, turning me to him. Before he does, my eyes catch on a phrase.
Dead or alive.
32
After calming me down, Clyde’s hands rubbing up and down my arms, he shakes Henry awake. We pay up for another twenty-four hours, but leave midday, our heads down, looking guilty as sin. Clyde spots a Ford out front and we’re on our way. We trade for another Ford a few miles later. Even in these parts, we can’t count on people looking
the other way. Not anymore.
Clyde curses, and not for the first time.
Love poems by gals like Mabel K. Moore will become something of the past. Who’s going to applaud outlaws portrayed to have zero trace of a soul? How long before they seize their proverbial pitchforks and shout for our escapades to come to an end?
Yet there’s one consoling thought: If we make it to the farm tomorrow, how long before they grow tired of searching the papers for “Bonnie and Clyde”?
We won’t be in there, for anything factual, at least.
The car’s movement has me woozy. I grip the door handle.
Clyde’s head ticks toward me. I’m puzzling him; we’re barely moving on the rain-soaked roads, but I feel like I need to hold on. I feel the tide turning. No, it ain’t turning. Those waters have turned. And now they’re churning ’round us.
We head north into Oklahoma. Louisiana is southeast. That’s the direction I want to go. Henry does, too. “My father’s going to think something went wrong if we don’t get to the farm soon.”
“The land won’t up and walk away, will it? We still got a deal, don’t we, Henry?”
“Of course. It’s just been longer to get there than I thought it would.”
Clyde flicks the underside of his hat, lifting the shadow from over his eyes. The look he gives Henry in the rearview mirror is clear.
Whose fault is that?
But he says, “The roads up in these parts are gravel. We’re better off here than inching ’cross the south.”
“Not the road we’re on,” I say.
“No,” Clyde says evenly. “But we ain’t far off. ’Nother few miles.”
The mud’s so thick I’m afraid we won’t make it to the crunch of gravel. And gravel means flat tires. Mud or a flat. What choices.
I bet the water in the field over yonder would come halfway to my knees. Rows of spinach or lettuce leaves—I can’t tell which—barely show. The setting sun reflects on the water, making the plants the same reddish tint.
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