by Amy Harmon
Finn sighed and sat down on the little table positioned in front of the large window that looked out onto a parking lot adorned with two very large dumpsters. He shook his head and leaned forward, holding my gaze.
“You have to call her, Bonnie. If you don’t, I’m calling the police. And you’re going to sit beside me and tell them every damn thing that’s gone down. Your choice.”
“That’s not much of a choice, Clyde.” I meant to sound flip, but the words stuck in my throat. I lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling. The texture looked like oatmeal laid on thick and painted in white sparkle. I had the urge to jump up and down on the bed so I could reach it, so I could grab giant handfuls of the texture and fling it around the room. I wondered if our $50 deposit would cover it.
“I can’t talk to her, Finn,” I whispered. “I can’t do it yet.”
Clyde sighed and swore, but I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the crusty ceiling, willing him to let me be, just for now.
“Here’s what I’m going to do, Bonnie Rae. I’m going to take a shower. And when I get out, I’m calling the police. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll let you decide what you want to do.” He shoved up from the table, grabbed his duffle, and went into the closet-sized bathroom and shut the door. The shower started up a few minutes later.
Funny. Clyde said he would let me decide what I wanted to do.
So I decided.
But it wasn’t at all what I wanted.
I shot up from the bed and grabbed the keys to the Blazer. Clyde had left them next to the TV—dropped them like everybody does when they walk into a motel room. His wallet was beside the keys, along with his phone, like he’d emptied out his pockets when he’d set down his bags.
I took his phone too. Then I counted out $2000 and laid it out next to his wallet, so he couldn’t miss it. I’d given him half of the money I had left. The motel had provided three sheets of stationary and a pen with the motel chain on it, as if people still sat and wrote long letters to their loved ones back home. Still, I was glad it was there, because I had a letter to write, and very little time to do it.
Meet me in St. Louis, Louis, Meet me at the fair. The words to the old song tripped through my brain. My high school had done the musical, Meet Me in St. Louis, the fall of my sophomore year. I’d tried out for the part played by Judy Garland and had every song memorized a week after auditions. I’d gotten the part but never ended up being in the play. Jackie Jacobson had ended up taking my place. The Nashville Forever audition had been the same day as opening night, so I’d had to back out. I put down my pen and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. I was back on the interstate, reading road signs as I listened to Blake Shelton do his thing, hoping that Indianapolis was easy to find. I flipped down the radio and greeted my friend, Clyde.
“Bonnie Rae, turn around and get your ass back here with my Blazer.”
“I’m driving to St. Louis, Finn. I left you some money. You can rent a car and meet me there. Or . . . you can call the cops if you want to, but I think it might be a little hard to explain everything when I’m not there to back you up. They might think you have me tied up somewhere.”
The anger coming through the phone was palpable, and I winced and rushed ahead when he didn’t speak.
“I’m calling Bear. I’ll tell him to straighten things out with the police. Okay? I’m going to have him overnight me the things I need, just like I told you. But he needs an address to send them to, Clyde. Can you tell me where your dad lives? I’ll meet you there, with the Blazer. I’ll hand it over, get my things and be on my way. Deal?” My voice squeaked at the end, undermining my tough girl play.
Finn hung up on me.
I kept on driving, both hands on the wheel, holding on to the Blazer like it was my only friend in the world—a stolen best friend. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon but I felt like I’d been up for days, the pressures of the last 36 hours creating a time warp where time felt stretched and surreal, like I’d lived it all before and would live it again, over and over until I got it right. Whatever “right” was. “Right” felt like a very relative word at this point. Since the moment I’d walked off the stage in Boston, I couldn’t think of one single thing I could have done differently. Finn Clyde was certainly wishing he’d let me fall into the Mystic River at this point. But me? I didn’t feel like I’d had much choice in the matter.
I didn’t die on the bridge. Finn Clyde saved me, and then he kissed me. And I had to keep moving, because the minute I stopped, the momentum that kiss had given me, and the life that kiss had breathed into me, would be snuffed out like everything else. What Finn couldn’t understand was if I called Gran and turned my life back over to her, I might as well just find another bridge.
The phone vibrated against my thighs where it sat nestled between them, and I grabbed for it, flipping it open on a breathless hello.
“Write this down,” Finn snapped, not returning my greeting.
“Can’t you just text it to me?”
“I’m on a motel phone, Bonnie,” he roared.
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.” I scrambled for the purse I’d purchased at Walmart, but the only thing I could find was the red lipstick I’d kept from Gran’s bag—no pen or paper.
“Bonnie?”
“Uh, okay. Go!”
Finn clipped out the address, and I wrote it on the window with the lipstick as he did. Not bad. I could read it, and I wouldn’t lose it.
“Call Bear.” Click. Finn was not happy.
I called Bear, and I managed to make it to Indianapolis. Finn was right. It only took about three hours. But by the time I got there I was so tired I found a Wendy’s, used their restroom, and bought a salad and a couple of bottles of water. I ate in the car, afraid someone would recognize me, even in my pink coat and beanie. It had happened before. When I finished, I locked the doors and crawled in the back seat, falling asleep parked in the far corner of the Wendy’s parking lot.
I awoke to chilly darkness tempered by street lights and the comforting sounds of nightlife. The blankets around my shoulders smelled a little like Finn, and I wondered how far he was behind me, and what he would say to me when I saw him again. I thought about that kiss, and felt slightly devastated that there wouldn’t be another one. Not now. No more Finn kisses. No more Finn smiles. No more Finn.
I crawled into the front seat and started the Blazer, cranking up the heat and drinking the second bottle of water.
It took me several seconds to realize that Finn’s phone was buzzing again, and I snatched it up gratefully, feeling incredibly alone now that darkness had fallen and I was, well, alone.
“Finn?”
“I have been calling you for three hours. Where are you?” Finn still wasn’t happy.
“I’m in Indianapolis. I had to rest my eyes for a minute. That minute lasted a few hours.” I still sounded tired, even to my own ears, and I muffled a yawn. “Are you still at the bugs-r-us motel?”
“No. I’m on the road. Finally. I rented a car, and I got one of those little throw-away phones, the reloadable kind, from Walmart. My mother’s probably calling my phone. Don’t answer it. I’ll leave a message on her home phone and tell her I’m okay, and that I didn’t kidnap anyone,” Finn snapped.
“I called Bear. He doesn’t like me very much right now either. It must be something in the water. I told him you had only given me a ride, that I was just fine, and that I just needed some time off. He’s sending my things, and he said he’d talk to Gran.”
“And the police?”
“And the police.”
Silence.
“St. Louis, Bonnie.”
And then he was gone. Again.
The phone rang again almost immediately, but the number wasn’t the same as the one Finn had just called me from, so I didn’t answer it, aware that it would be for him, well aware that I didn’t want to explain his absence. It was probably his mama, j
ust like he’d warned, and I had a feeling that just like Bear and Finn, she wouldn’t be too happy with me.
I held the phone for a long time, wondering if Finn would call back or if I dared call him, wondering if he would listen if I tried to explain why I was so crazy, if I tried to explain what life had been like for me for the past six years. We weren’t so different, Finn and I. Cages come in lots of different colors and shapes. Some are gilded, while others have a slamming door. But golden handcuffs are still handcuffs.
I studied the maps, waiting for him to call, but when he didn’t, I gassed up the Chevy and headed for St. Louis, a straight shot westbound on I-70 from point A to point B. I wouldn’t have to look at the map again for this leg of the trip. So I drove and let the miles take me far away.
I DIDN’T THINK I could find the address in the dark, but Finn’s instructions were detailed and precise, even smudged in red lipstick on my window. St. Louis looked peaceful and picturesque in the quiet moonlight. There was snow on the ground, but just a dusting, a bit of glitter in the shadows. The streets were lined with trees, and as I neared my destination, I realized I wasn’t far from the university. I thought about Clyde senior—Clyde said his name was Jason—and whether or not he knew a runaway celebrity was about to crash his pad. It was midnight, and morning was a long ways away. Dread filled my stomach, and I decided to drive around for a while, or find a place to park and sleep until morning came, a place that wouldn’t invite curiosity or cops.
A pretty park edged in trees not far from the campus seemed like a logical place, and I hugged the curb and turned the key with sudden relief. I needed to breathe. I grabbed the keys, shrugged into my coat and was out of the Blazer and stretching my legs within seconds. The park looked old—like it had been built when ladies strolled while holding a man’s arm. Curving benches with wrought iron edging, stately fountains, and winding cobbled pathways meandered through the park. I followed them for several minutes until I came upon a little fence, complete with fleur-de-lis edging and a swinging iron gate that enclosed a towering swing set, a see-saw, and a metal slide easily as old as the park, and just as well preserved. I laughed and thought of Minnie. When we were little she loved to fly on the swings, and I was happy just to push. For all my bluster, I didn’t do well with swings. Heights didn’t bother me, but swinging made my stomach flip and tumble in unpleasant ways.
The playground called to me. It echoed with silent laughter and ghostly twins chasing each other through the trees and down the slide. It made me ache for moments lost and the little girls Minnie and I had been together. Those little girls were both gone. And I missed them so much that I held my breath, gripping the wrought iron bars of the decorative fence, waiting for the wave of painful longing to abate. When the sorrow ebbed enough for me to breathe again, I moved to the gate, hoping it wasn’t locked, hoping I wouldn’t have to risk impalement trying to scale the spiky fence. I smiled when the latch lifted easily. Feeling a bit like Goldilocks entering unknown territory, I pushed through the gate and let myself in.
FINN WAS ONLY blocks from his dad’s house when he passed a little park and saw a familiar orange Blazer snuggled up to the curb, not another vehicle in sight. He slammed on his brakes and slid in front of his old Chevy, relieved that Bonnie was actually in St. Louis, mystified that she had stopped at a park in an unknown city after midnight, and still pissed about what she’d pulled in Cincinnati.
He could see that Bonnie wasn’t in the Blazer as he approached, but he peered into the back windows to make sure she hadn’t crawled into the backseat and fallen asleep again. He couldn’t make out anything but a few of his boxes, Bonnie’s duffle bags, and a lumpy blanket, but as he pulled back and turned away, he noticed the dark streaks on the driver’s side window. In the half-light of the tall street lamps, the streaks looked like blood. Finn grabbed at the door handle, suddenly afraid of what he’d find slumped across the front seat, but the door was locked.
His stomach filled with ice and his hands shook as he framed them around his face to see inside the dark interior. He couldn’t make out a shape or a form, but the light made strange patterns against the seat and camouflaged the floor in shades of black.
“Bonnie?” he yelled, and looked under and around the Blazer. There was no trail of blood outside the vehicle, no macabre footprints walking away. He wished he could open the damn door! He tried to see in again from another angle, looking this time through the passenger window, and felt a measure of relief when he confirmed that Bonnie wasn’t unconscious in the front seat.
“Bonnie?”
He set out through the park at a brisk pace, his eyes scanning benches and quiet corners until after about five minutes, the path curved around and he saw, among the trees, a small play area. He rushed toward it, knowing intuitively that she was there. A girl like Bonnie would be drawn to the playground. Sure enough, standing tall on the top of a steep, metal slide was Bonnie Rae Shelby, feet planted on the platform, hands in her pockets, face to the sky. Was it the bridge all over again? It felt like a loop of the first time he saw her, and the relief he felt at finding her was immediately overpowered by the same dread he’d felt when he’d seen the blood on the car window.
The gate was hanging open, evidence that she’d passed through it. He slipped through it too, grateful that he wouldn’t have to make a sound. He wanted to call out to her, to tell her to come down, or to at least sit down, but he was afraid he would startle her and cause her to fall. So he froze, her name on his lips, his heart at his feet. She didn’t seem upset. She didn’t seem to be crying. He moved a few steps closer, but her face was angled away, the curve of her cheekbone the only thing visible from the angle he approached. There were no dark streaks on the pale pink of her coat, so no obvious bleeding. She seemed entranced by the view from the top of the slide and completely at ease with the height.
I’m just a poor wayfarin’ stranger
Travelin’ through this world of woe
There’s no sickness, toil or danger
In that bright land to which I go
Her voice rang out like bells across the park, and Finn took a step back, the sound as shocking as it was sweet.
I’m goin’ there to see my Father
And all my loved ones who have gone on.
Just a poor wayfarin’ stranger
Travelin’ through this world of woe.
He didn’t recognize the song. He’d never been to church, and the only song his mother had ever sung was the theme song to Cheers. And she’d sung it badly. This was something different, so different as to be incomparable. And Bonnie, singing for no one but the stars and the hovering trees, sang the words like a broken hallelujah, a heartsick hosanna, and the song echoed in his chest as if he hummed along with her.
I know dark clouds will gather ‘round me
I know my way is hard and steep
But wide fields arise before me
Where God’s redeemed, their vigil’s keep.
I’m goin’ there to see my brother.
He said he’d meet me when I come
Just a poor wayfarin’ stranger
Travelin’ through this world of woe.
The last note hung in the air for a full five seconds and Finn realized he was holding his breath. He told himself that was the reason for the tightness in his chest and the moisture at the corner of his eyes. He wanted her to sing again. But she had clearly finished the only number she was going to perform. She dropped her chin to her chest and sank to the little metal platform, her legs stretched out in front of her, positioned for a turn down the slide.
Relatively safe from being startled into a fall, her arms wrapped around the bars at the top of the slide, Bonnie didn’t even turn as Finn approached, and she seemed oblivious that anyone might have heard her concert in the park. He circled the slide and stood at the bottom, looking up at her.
She blinked and then gasped a little, as if she thought for a moment he wasn’t real. Then she smiled. It was a smi
le that said she was thrilled to see him and overjoyed by his presence. She’d smiled like that when he’d promised her he would wait for her outside of the Quik Clips. She had smiled at him like that when he’d told her they were going to have to spend the night in the Blazer in the middle of a blizzard. She’d smiled that way when he told Shayna and her girls he would get them home. Now she smiled at him, sitting there on top of the slide as if it made perfect sense for her to be there, like she hadn’t just stolen his vehicle and led him on a chase across two states. She smiled at him, her whole face infused with light, and he forgave her. Instantly. No longer furious. No longer scared. No longer ready to strangle her, tie her up, and call the police. All of that was gone—evaporated like snowflakes on his tongue.
It was one a.m. on a Thursday, the end of February, in a cold, deserted park in St. Louis, and there was no place he would rather be.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” Dammit. Now he was smiling too. And shaking his head in surrender. “What in the hell am I going to do with you?”
“You could move so I can go down this slide.” She winked. He didn’t move. So she let go. He knew she would. She flew toward him, whooping all the way down, and at the last second he stepped back so he didn’t take two red cowboy boots to the shins. She barreled into him anyway, all momentum, wrapping her legs around him, and he grabbed her, falling back as he did. Thick, rubber playground bark broke their fall, for the most part, but Finn still found himself flat on his back with Bonnie sprawled across his chest.
“I told you to move.” She laughed, her face above his, her knit cap clinging to her head. He reached up and pulled it all the way off, and she immediately ran one hand over her hair self-consciously, smoothing down the strands that floated with static. He followed her hand with his, a caress that had nothing to do with her hair and everything to do with needing to touch her.
