by Amy Harmon
Fish had listened attentively to the paradox of Achilles, declared it ridiculous, and promptly challenged Finn to a race, giving him a head start just like the tortoise, eventually overtaking him, just as he always did. Fish was faster, just like Achilles.
“See?” Fish had said to Finn and his father. “Stupid. Achilles would have passed that dumb turtle before the turtle could even create another gap between them.”
“It’s not about speed, Fish,” his father had explained. “It’s supposed to challenge the way we think about the world versus the way the world actually is. Zeno argued that change and motion weren’t real.”
Finn had puzzled out the paradox all night long and had written his own solution and proudly presented it to his dad the next day, complete with ideas about convergent and divergent theory. His dad had been so proud, but Fish had just sighed gustily and challenged Finn to another race.
The paradox reveals a mismatch between the way we think about the world and the way the world really is, his father had said.
Finn had no illusions anymore about the way the world really was. It had shown itself too many times—and it always worked against you. They were running, the gap was closing, but he feared the paradox of Bonnie and Clyde might be insolvable.
I AWOKE TO darkness and the feel of Finn beside me, his body large and warm, the air on my cheeks cool and crisp. We were still in the park. I could see stars through the pine needles above us—tiny, sharp pieces of broken glass. I stared at them for a while, and the song, “Nelly Gray,” tiptoed into my head—the line about the moon climbing the mountain, and the stars shining too. Minnie and I would sing it to each other, changing the name from Nelly Gray to Bonnie Rae or Minnie Mae, depending on who was singing it.
Oh, my poor, Minnie Mae, they have taken you away
And I’ll never see my darling, anymore
I’m sitting by the river and a weeping all the day
For you’ve gone
From the old Kentucky shore.
Now my canoe is under water, and my banjo is unstrung
And I’m tired of living, anymore
My eyes shall be cast downward, and my songs will be unsung
While I stay on the old Kentucky shore.
I hadn’t stayed on the old Kentucky shore. I was somewhere in New Mexico, and I had no idea what time it was. I had been so tired, but now I was wide awake, and not nearly as tired of living as I’d been just days before. I rolled carefully from beneath the sleeping bag Finn had obviously pulled over us. He needed all the sleep he could get, but I had to visit the little girl’s room. Or the little girl’s concrete out house, which was what the bathrooms at the park were, but they had running water and a toilet, which was all I really needed at the moment.
Using my phone for a flashlight, I did my business, washed my face and hands, and brushed my teeth. I ran my fingers through my hair, fixing the damn turkey tail that was the first to spring to attention any time I rested my head. I’d set my phone on the sink, and the white light shining up from below me made me look ghoulish.
The little display informed me that it was 11:00 pm. I had been asleep for at least six hours. I felt recharged and did my best to make myself look that way. I’d filled my purse with my new cosmetics, and I wanted to be beautiful for Finn, but it was almost impossible to see by the light of my phone. When I was done, I peered at myself, holding the phone close to the mirror, hoping I hadn’t made a mess of my face. The upside was that if Finn still liked me after all this, and I still liked him, then we had something. No candlelight dinners and best behavior, no pressed shirts, salon visits, and perfumed hugs. This was us. Real and unplugged.
I found I preferred real. Like I told Finn, I’d been searching for it. There had been so little of it in my life in the last seven years, so little that was genuine and foundational, that I wanted to cling to it, even if it wasn’t pretty. The problem with life is that sometimes it’s hard to know what’s real. I figured it was the reason some people weigh six hundred pounds. Because in that moment, while the food is in front of you, while it is being lifted to your mouth, and then swallowed, that moment when it hits your stomach, that moment is bliss. And it’s real. Sure you feel too full, but being too full is also real.
I turned away from the mirror, slid my belongings back into my purse, and left the restroom, picking my way across the grassy expanse that separated me from Finn. He was crouched down, rolling up the sleeping bags. He saw me coming and paused, looking up at me.
“I woke up and you were gone. I thought maybe you’d been dragged off by the brothers playing catch. I fell asleep to them arguing. It reminded me of me and Fish.”
“Brothers? At eleven o’clock at night?”
“Nah. Hours ago. You ready to roll? We’ve got to drive if we want to make it to Vegas tomorrow.”
I peered down at him, trying to make out his expression in the darkness. I brushed his hair back from his face. He’d taken off the elastic band, and it hung loosely around his shoulders. The strands I touched were damp, and I could smell soap and toothpaste. He must have woken up not long after I did.
“Where are we?” I was talking about our distance from Las Vegas, but I looked up at the stars as I asked him. The stars were brilliant, the night so still and cool that each glittering speck competed for my attention, and I wished I could turn the world upside down and fall into them, snatching them up as I floated by. Curse gravity for keeping me earthbound.
The song I’d been composing since the day before danced through my head, and I added the missing line that I’d been searching for. No matter how I try I’m bound by gravity. That was it. I could hear the melody and feel how my fingers would move across the strings as I sang the words.
“We’re in the center of the universe.” Finn had risen and now stood with his face lifted skyward as well.
“New Mexico is the center of the universe?” That seemed like a much better slogan than Nicest Little Place on Earth. They needed to change their sign.
“If you travel in any direction from this point, you’ll never run out of space.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, but I’d stopped looking at the stars so I could look at him. “You could be anywhere on Earth, and technically you’d still be the center of the universe. We’re surrounded by infinite space.”
“All that space makes me feel like floating away. And never coming back.” I didn’t mean to sound forlorn, but I suppose I did. It just looked peaceful, and I liked the idea of being surrounded by infinity.
I told him that too, wrapping my arms around him, surrounding him as best I could, but I could tell he was still thinking about me floating away. I always managed to say the wrong thing. He was silent as we loaded our things and left the park.
We flew through the dark as if we owned it—the late hour clearing the roads, the mild weather clearing the skies. And it felt like we were indeed at the center of the universe, the fulcrum, Finn had called it. He’d turned up the music until it made the dashboard shake, listening to me tell him how I was coming “undone,” the title track to my most recent release.
I’ve lost a shoe,
A few buttons are gone
The dress I’m wearing
Has come undone
It’s come undone
But nobody stares
They don’t seem to notice
My shoulders are bare
But I’m coming undone.
Finn flipped the music off abruptly, as if he’d suddenly decided he couldn’t stand the song. Then he looked at me, the dim light from the dash highlighting the angular planes of his face.
“Did you write that song?” he asked.
“I write all my songs. They didn’t trust me on the first full-sized album, the one that came after my Nashville Forever release. Management picked most of the songs and only let me write a couple. The two I wrote out-sold and out-performed their songs in a very big way. My producer decided to let me write a few more on the next album. Same thing ha
ppened. On the fourth and fifth albums, I either wrote or co-wrote every song.”
Finn nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t thinking about all my number one hits. “Didn’t anybody wonder about you . . . after they heard that song? Bear, your gran, anyone?”
“It’s a sad song. Heartbreak sells. They all loved it. But most people can relate with heartbreak. What was it Bonnie Parker said in her poem?” I had a head for lyrics, and poetry wasn’t much different. I pulled the lines up easily and spoke them without thought.
“From heart-break some people have suffered
from weariness some people have died.
But take it all in all;
our troubles are small,
‘til we get like Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Til we get like Bonnie and Clyde?” Finn asked. He sounded funny, like the line bothered him.
I looked at him, not sure what he was getting at, waiting for him to tell me. He seemed to be thinking about something and was quiet for several minutes.
“Are we there yet, Bonnie Rae? Are we like Bonnie and Clyde? Desperate? Hunted? Driving on a dark road that just leads to more trouble?”
“I hope so,” I answered instantly, half-teasing.
Finn stared at me, shaking his head. “What in the hell does that mean?”
“They were together. Through it all, they were together.” I wasn’t teasing now.
He looked away immediately, staring out at the road and the lights of Albuquerque twinkling in the distance. His eyes, when he looked back at me, seemed impossibly bright. Brighter than the city lights, and I couldn’t look away.
I shrugged my shoulders, not understanding the intensity of his expression.
“They were doomed from the start,” he said flatly.
“Not doomed. Immortalized,” I said automatically, surprising myself.
“I’m not interested in that kind of immortality, Bonnie Rae. I’d rather grow old and unknown than die young by your side and have the world write books and make movies about my sad, short life. I don’t want to be Bonnie and Clyde!”
I gasped, rejection slapping me in the face and stealing my breath. It was my turn to stare ahead, eyes wet, trying to control my emotions. “Don’t worry, Infinity. Didn’t you tell me infinity plus one is still infinity? Without me, you’ll still be you,” I said finally.
Finn swore and pounded on the horn, an angry blast no one heard.
“I don’t want to be without you, Bonnie! Don’t you get that? I am in love with you! I’ve known you for one week. And I’m in love with you! Crazy, drive-off-a-cliff-if-you-asked-me-to, in love with you. But I don’t want to drive off a cliff! I want to live. I want to live with you! Do you want that? Or do you still think about jumping off bridges and going down in a hail of bullets?”
Finn slammed his hand against the horn again, over and over, cursing as he did. And I realized there were tears on my cheeks. His face was a study in contradictions, fury and despair battling it out across his features. I hadn’t been able to move, to even speak. I was too stunned.
“Finn?” I whispered, reaching out my hand. He pushed me away, like he couldn’t bear to be touched. He rolled down the windows, filling the interior of the car with roaring cold, effectively drowning out any attempts at conversation, but I screamed into the wind anyway. I screamed that I loved him too, but the wind whisked the words away. I never took my eyes from his face, watching him as he gritted his teeth and drove, never looking my way, shaking off my every attempt to reach him.
I stopped screaming and fell into silence with him, wondering what had happened, knowing something had, knowing another bridge had been crossed and not sure we were still on the same side.
FINN PULLED OFF at the first exit, an exit surrounded by businesses closed and dark and locked up tight. The gas station was well lit, boasting twenty-four hour service and the lowest prices in town. Bonnie had stopped trying to touch him and had turned in the passenger seat, averting her face. He knew she was crying, and he swiped at his own face, making sure his own humiliating emotion wasn’t visible.
That damn song. Bonnie singing about coming undone, falling apart. And here was, coming apart too. She seemed so blasé about death, so hell bent on floating away, and he’d lost control. He told himself it was anger, frustration. He told himself it was an anomaly. He never got emotional. Never. Not since Fish died. Not when he’d been sent to prison. Not when he’d been beaten up and marked in his cell, not ever.
Fish was the emotional one. The loose cannon. Not Finn. He was the opposite of Fish. He had been the counter balance to his wild brother. He told himself he needed to be that for Bonnie, too. He needed to be the voice of reason, the ballast. But instead, he found himself completely out of control, passionate, impulsive, and emotional.
He shoved the door open and stepped out, unsure of whether he should risk recognition by paying cash inside or use his card and mark their path if someone was really looking for them. Bonnie seemed to think the frenzy was more media driven than legally instigated, but they didn’t really know anything for sure. That thought had him trudging inside, keeping his head down as he shot a fifty-dollar bill at the clerk, grunting out the pump number and immediately turning away. The clerk repeated the request cheerily, and Finn pushed back out of the doors hating that he had to hide his face and look over his shoulder.
He didn’t want to get back in the car. He was hungry and agitated and he and Bonnie needed a distraction. But everything in the vicinity looked dark, though he could hear a pulsing bass line coming from somewhere, and he turned his face toward the sound as he finished filling the tank.
A car pulled up on the other side of the pump, and Finn eyed the occupants of the black Escalade from the corner of his eye. Definitely not cops or the kind of people who wanted anything to do with cops.
“Is there a bar around here?” he found himself asking, as he met the eyes of the driver of the Escalade over the top of the pump.
The driver raised his eyebrows in surprise and gave Finn a quick once over, as if making sure he was club material, worthy of the information. Finn must have passed because he answered without much hesitation.
“Yeah, man. There is. Hear that?” He stopped, listening, and Finn assumed he was referring to the throbbing bass he’d noticed. The man pointed in the direction of the music.
“That’s Verani’s. It’s a club. They stay open until three a.m. Down the block on your left. It’s completely dark on the outside, except for the big, red V. Parking lot in back, basement entrance. No cover charge, good food, and anything else you might want.” His eyes flickered away when he said this, and Finn knew he wasn’t talking about beer.
Finn nodded, hanging up the nozzle. He wasn’t interested in “anything else.” But music, darkness, and food sounded just about right. And he needed to hold Bonnie, now that the rage had passed. He’d told her he loved her. Now he needed to show her. Maybe they could dance in the shadows, maybe pretend they were a normal couple and not outlaws or runaways for an hour or two. They had time.
“Thanks,” he nodded to the Escalade driver, who nodded back.
Bonnie had flipped down the visor, which lit up accommodatingly. She was smoothing a makeup brush over her face as he slid back into the Charger. She didn’t comment as he pulled back onto the road, her gaze on her reflection, reapplying the shadow around her dark eyes, but she looked at him, her brow creased, when he pulled into the parking lot behind the black, windowless building with the slashing red V and turned off the car.
“I don’t want to be Bonnie and Clyde. I want to be Bonnie and Finn. Just for a little while. Okay?” It was all the apology she was going to get—he was still angry. And he was still very, very afraid. Afraid of loving her, afraid of losing her, and mostly, afraid of losing himself in the process. But he did love her. And that emotion was stronger than all the others.
She nodded, her eyes wide. “Is this a club?”
“Yeah, it is. Hopefully it’s dark and smoky
and full of criminals who never listen to country music or watch entertainment TV. People who would never make a concerned citizen’s call to the cops or the news channels, even if they happened to see a famous singer eating at a table next to theirs.” He stopped, wondering if he was being an idiot. He decided he was, and he didn’t care. “I’m guessing you love to dance. I don’t. But I’m thinking I might like to dance with you.”
The smile—the big, beaming one that had started it all, stretched across Bonnie’s pretty face. She turned and added a couple strokes to her eye makeup, deepening the effect. She slicked color on her lips and ran her fingers over her hair. She even dug some earrings from a little, plastic, Walmart sack she’d tucked into a pocket of her purse. The dangling loops made her look dressed up, and when she pulled off her heavy sweatshirt and tucked the black tank top beneath into her snug jeans, he grabbed her brush and ran it through his hair, deciding maybe he’d better spruce up too. He gathered his hair into a tail and unzipped his leather coat so he didn’t feel so buttoned up, but he grabbed Bonnie’s from the back seat, a whim he would be grateful for later, though he didn’t know it then.
They descended the stairs into Verani’s, and no one stood by the door to greet them or to turn them away, so they slipped inside, the murky light welcoming, the music deafening. Finn snaked his arm around Bonnie, looking around for a place to sit. A long bar stood to his immediate left, and they sidled up beside it, waiting for the bartender to look their way.
He was a young guy with gauges in his ears and a hair do that was severely short on the sides and swooped back, Elvis-style, on the top. He was non-stop motion, filling and fixing, sliding and squeezing, his hands sure beneath the never-ending orders. But when he looked at Finn his eyes skittered away as if he was amped on something and couldn’t hold still long enough to maintain eye contact. Someone called him Jagger, and when Finn asked him if they were still serving food, Jagger called out to one of the girls all in black, weaving in and out of the crowd.
