Becoming Bonnie

by Jenni L. Walsh

  “Get it!” the smaller man yells—to me. His face is hidden in the shadows, but there’s something in his voice that makes me want to obey. A punch connects with his jaw and he grunts, cutting off his next plea.

  They scuffle; the shorter man throws his own right hook. The other man staggers backwards, his heel bumping into Buck’s foot. Buck doesn’t react.

  My eyes dart to the gun, back to the men. The smaller man—no, a fella my age—looks up, the light from the car now illuminating his face. Our eyes connect. And those eyes—they reflect his pain and fear as if he’s put them into words.

  I breathe out, slow, controlled.

  “The gun—” he calls, the rest of his words swallowed as he dodges a punch. He finds me with his eyes again. “You can do it.”

  This time, there’s more I see in him: a reassurance. It sparks this unexplainable urge to prove him right. And, in that moment, my heart rate slows and the franticness of my brain clears.

  The gun’s warm against my fingertips, even warmer in my palm. I stand, fumbling with it, not sure where to place my nonfiring hand, without a shotgun stock to grip. I wrap my left over my right, squeezing the pistol’s handle tightly. With my thumb, I struggle to cock the gun. It clicks into place.

  I don’t aim. I don’t know how, when the gun’s not on my shoulder. I don’t know how, when my target is a person and not a bird.

  Twisting, I fire off a shot at the base of the brick wall.

  The recoil snaps my hands back and the gun drops. I stumble away from it, shaking out my wrists and arms. My insides tremble again from the echoing sound, which mixes with the screams behind me. I refocus before the walls seemingly get any closer. The taller man, who must’ve been thrown off guard, is now knocked out cold. The boy who spoke to me hovers over him, his chest heaving in and out from their fight.

  He lifts his head, the blackness hiding his features. “Help me get my brother in the car.”

  Brother.

  Another slow, controlled breath. I know who he is.

  Clyde.

  The one and only Clyde Champion Barrow.

  Following his lead, I slip my hand under Buck’s armpit and pull. Buck stirs and moans, the blood spot on his stomach growing. Clyde reacts, moving faster, and I match his pace. Together, we slide Buck, limb by limb, into the passenger side of the car.

  Clyde slams the door. “Go,” he says to me, the light catching a glint in his hazel eyes. “Get Buck to Doc Peterson.”

  I run to the driver’s side, jump into the seat. Clyde reaches in, flicks on the car. Unlike Blanche’s car, there’s no crank, this one having an electric start, saving us precious seconds as the engine roars to life.

  Staring at the three pedals, I try to remember which one reverses the car.

  “The middle one,” Clyde calls, as if reading my mind. He’s already backpedaling in the opposite direction, his shoes scuffing against the cracked cement. “Go! Doc Peterson! Now!”

  The darkness hides the intensity of Clyde’s eyes, but I can feel his urgency in his demands. I slam my foot on the middle pedal, barely able to see beyond the crates, and the car lurches backwards. I pull the throttle, increasing the speed, silently pleading with anyone behind me to get out of the way. I blindly swerve left and right, thumping over potholes, scraping the alley walls.

  Skidding into the street, I duck my head, trying to hide my face, and switch my foot to the other pedal. Without my heels, the slickness of my stockings makes my foot slide off. I curse, stomping down again.

  “Move!” I scream hysterically, avoiding eye contact with the innocent, curious bystanders crowding the street. “Move, move, move!”

  Buck stirs beside me.

  “Buck!” His eyelids flutter, and I shake him. “Buck, wake up. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

  He touches his stomach, his hand coming away glistening. “Shit,” he mumbles. “Damn guy…” He sucks in a shaky breath. “He got me with a shiv then ran away. Other fella took my gun. Clyde—”

  “He’s fine,” I say. “You’re fine. Put pressure on your stomach.” I grab his hand to cover the blood. Too much blood. He groans but doesn’t resist. I take a deep breath. “Keep talking to me, Buck. I need you to help me. How do I get us back to—”

  A car rushes toward us, its headlights growing too fast for a normal person to be driving.

  Buck curses under his breath. “Just stay calm, Saint Bonnelyn. Slow ’er down. We’ll be okay.”

  I fight my urge to shrink in my seat. The determination in Buck’s voice is all that keeps my hands firmly in place on the wheel and my foot steady. We both know that Buck doesn’t have time for us to be stopped, questioned—’specially with a backseat full of giggle juice.

  “Okay, okay,” I say to myself, letting up on the throttle.

  The car approaches. Closer. Closer.

  It whizzes past and, as suspected, I catch a glimpse of the word Police plastered ’cross the car’s side.

  I flick my attention to the rearview mirror, seeing red lights peek through a space between the crates. The taillights keep going.

  “Thank God,” I say between my teeth, and I press my wrist against my chest to stop the line of sweat creeping down my neckline.

  “Ya did it.” Exhaustion pours from Buck’s voice. He wheezes, coughs.

  Instinctively, I reach for him, forgetting that he ever made me uncomfortable. The paleness of his skin can only mean one thing: he’s running out of time. “Buck, I need you to help get me to Doc Peterson.”

  He looks at me, but his gaze is adrift.

  “Buck,” I say firmly, even though I’m on the verge of crumbling. “We’re a team now, right? Which way do I turn?” I risk shaking his arm.

  He stirs and peers out the window, sweat falling on either side of his droopy eyes. “Go right.”

  Hand over hand, I make a brisk turn. And the ones that follow.

  “Talk to me, Buck. Keep talking to me. What happened back there?”

  “They got spooked,” he manages to say. “Took too long.” His eyes begin to roll back in his head. I shake him, his head rocking forward, and I thank the Lord Jesus when Doc’s comes into view.

  Blanche is out front with Raymond, both casually yet tensely leaning against the brick exterior. She sees us and her hand grips Raymond’s wrist.

  I slam on the brakes in front of Doc’s, jump from the car. Blanche and Raymond are already at the passenger side, helping Buck.

  “What took you so long?” she seethes.

  Her attack surprises me. My mouth falls open.

  “Stop it, Blanche. She got him here, didn’t she?” Raymond says. He hoists Buck over his shoulder. Buck cries out in pain.

  Blanche is frantic—her eyes, her speech, everything. “Clyde was here minutes ago. Minutes!”

  “Just help me,” Raymond demands.

  I race for the door, holding it open for him and Blanche to carry Buck through. Blood covers my hands.

  Trailing behind, Mary and a handful of nurses scatter like ants. Noticeably missing is Clyde—the boy in the shadows, with the captivating eyes, who fought off an attack, helped me get Buck in the car, raced here to warn everyone we were coming, but is now nowhere to be seen.

  Doc Peterson ushers us into a sterile-looking room. Raymond carefully places Buck on a table, looks up at the doctor expectantly. But Doc Peterson is staring at me and doesn’t seem pleased. “Out,” he demands, already reaching for the door.

  11

  Trembling, I sneak into the house and feverishly scrub the blood from my hands under a slow trickle of water, as not to stir my family. I force myself to sleep, each dream soaked in red. I wake with a metallic scent somehow stuck in my nose.

  At the breakfast table, Ma hasn’t asked me a single question ’bout why I’m only stirring my oatmeal ’round and ’round. She simply watches me as she folds laundry, creating a stack of neat clothes beside me on the table.

  Buster rushes into the kitchen, and I clutch at m
y heart. Part of me thought he was the police, coming to take me away. In the midst of folding a shirt, Ma reaches for the chair he’s knocked, but she’s too slow to catch it and it cracks against the ground. I watched it falling, the entire time, but still I jump from the gunshot-sounding bang.

  “Shh,” Ma chastises. “Your little sister is still asleep.”

  Buster drops into another chair at the table and, with his good hand, unfolds a newspaper, painfully slow to lessen the noise. He grins mischievously, like I bet my daddy would’ve done. I wasn’t double-digits yet when Daddy passed away during surgery in the Great War, so the resemblance could be all in my head.

  I hope my sky-high nerves from last night are also all in my head.

  “Can I see a page or two of that paper?” I ask my brother.

  “Bonnelyn, this here newspaper is fact, not one of your fairy tales.”

  “Buster.” Ma slumps down into her own chair. “Give your sister the paper.”

  He sighs, removing the sports section, and pushes the remaining pages ’cross our small table.

  I discreetly tap my foot and flip from page to page, only fake-reading the headlines. That is, ’til I come to the one that has my fingers crinkling the thin paper: an article proclaiming how hooligans caused a disturbance in Dallas last night.

  The gory details—’bout the blood, the screams, the chaos, the gunshot, the speculation of bootlegging alcohol—are all there. What’s not written in black and white is a solid idea of the hooligans’ identities. There are varying accounts of our appearances. I steady my foot, feeling relief. For me, at least. This here newspaper can’t tell me a thing ’bout how Buck’s doing, and all I want to do is hide away in my fairy tales.

  I step outside. The mercifully cooler air greets me before I escape to a familiar corner of the library, book in hand, with the musty smell of a story written long ago. I tuck my legs under me and breathe out a slow breath, eager to lose myself in the calamities of Jane Eyre’s life instead of my own.

  It ain’t long before I hear footsteps. I fear it’s Roy, but he’s still sleeping. Like usual, I’ll see him at the house in the afternoon, after I’ve had time to get my nerves in check. No, the fast-paced gait coming toward me is Blanche’s. I quickly lower my head, puff out my cheeks, not sure what to expect from her.

  “Bonnelyn.”

  I narrow my eyes, concentrating harder on my page.

  “Bonnelyn,” she repeats, far louder than the whisper she’s supposed to use in here, and this time she crouches down to my level.

  My shoulders rise, fall. “What do you want, Blanche?”

  “So, last night…”

  “Yes?” I snap my book closed, the sound echoing throughout the library.

  “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you. I was just worried ’bout…”

  Finally, I look at her. There may not be tears in her eyes, but there’s moisture there. And … sincerity.

  “I was worried ’bout Buck,” Blanche finishes. She lowers herself from a crouch to a cross-legged position and takes my hands. “I ought to thank you, though. Buck says he probably wouldn’t have made it without you there. He was babbling ’bout how you two are a team. You ain’t moving in on my man, are ya?”

  I scrunch my brows. “Your man?”

  She smiles coyly. “Thought I could sneak that in without you noticing. That dope may mean more to me than”—she scratches her head, drops her gaze—“maybe Blanche has let on.”

  “Blanche Caldwell is goofy ’bout somebody? Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

  She playfully slaps my knee. “Don’t go making a big deal ’bout it.”

  “I’m glad your boyfriend is okay, Blanche.”

  “He will be,” she says confidently. “Doc Peterson almost had to take him to the hospital. But he finally got the bleeding to stop and stitched him up good as new.”

  “Good as new.” I finally loosen my grip on my book and let my shoulders relax. Buck is fine. I’m fine. Last night is over.

  “He’s all loopy on painkillers, though. Looser in the mouth. I almost got him to tell me his real name. It ain’t Buck, ya know. ’Cept he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Bothers you, huh?”

  Blanche sighs. “Don’t you know it.” I see the moment she moves on, humor filling her eyes. “So,” she says, drawing out the word, “I heard you almost shot someone, Bonn. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that thou shall not kill?”

  I hide my smile. “I fired at the wall. On purpose.”

  “Uh-huh,” Blanch teases. “You’re turning into quite the moll.”

  “Thanks to you.” I roll my eyes, lower my voice. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that car was hot.”

  She cringes. “I did it for you, ya know. I didn’t want you backing out. I know you need Doc’s.”

  I nod my head, both of us knowing it’s true and that, despite last night, it’ll continue to be true. It has to be. Ma hasn’t mentioned my late-night outings again, even with school starting the day after tomorrow. For lack of a better plan, I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing, then work extra hard to bring home good grades. Though, lately, with Ma going to bed right after supper, I ain’t sure she’ll even notice I’m gone.

  “Besides,” Blanche continues, “I didn’t tell ya ’cause I knew you’d be in good hands with Buck and his brother.”

  Clyde.

  Casually, I flip through the pages of Jane Eyre, then pop my head up, as if a question just came to me. “What’s the deal with Buck’s brother, anyway?”

  “Ooh.” Blanche clasps her hands together. “You interested in Clyde? Could you imagine: me with Buck, you with Clyde? How grand would that be?”

  I move to the shelf and say, “No.” I add a shake of my head, thankful my back is to her. “No, Blanche.” Though, if I’m being honest with myself, if she didn’t make that leap, I may’ve tried to learn more ’bout the mysterious boy. But no, of course Blanche went there, and now I bite my lip, thinking of a follow-up to my question. “I mean, why did Clyde warn you that I was on my way with Buck and then leave? I thought he’d stay to make sure his brother was okay.”

  “I asked Buck the same thing. They have this rule. They call it their ‘heat rule.’”

  “Which means…” I ask, facing her again.

  “Let me finish.” She feigns exasperation in her own headshake. “If they ever get in a situation where things get a little hot, they separate. Even in life-or-death situations. That way, if someone gets caught, it won’t be both of ’em.”

  I nod. There was a time that the idea of being in a life-or-death situation and getting pinched by the police would be outside the realm of possibilities. That time has passed.

  Over the next couple of nights, that thought becomes even more apparent, ’specially after four large bathtubs are rolled into the back room of Doc’s so we can brew our own hooch. No more alcohol runs for us.

  That makes me happy. At the bar, I look down at my hands and notice how the cherries, other garnishes, and bottles are now all lined up in the way I’ve come to prefer it. After spending so much time here, and after putting my life—Buck’s life—on the line for this place, Doc’s has become familiar. It’s become mine.

  My eyes wander the room. Rosie is fidgeting with the height of her microphone, getting ready to sing her first song. Mary is skirting ’round the room, doing last-minute preparations. Blanche is double-checking she has everything she needs. Raymond is pulling out a seat at one of the poker tables, ready to carouse with the men who join him.

  And me, I don’t feel like I’m pretending anymore to be somebody I’m not.

  The first group of patrons will walk through the door any minute now. Rosie or whatever band is playing always catches their attention first. People peer through the smoky room, shoulders already starting to shimmy, trying to find the source of the music. Or perhaps that’s only how I enter.

  I wonder how Roy would enter. He’s home tonight, having a rare night off.
Maybe I could slip out, finally bring him here—to my place. Shouldn’t I be sharing this with him?

  “Bonnelyn,” Blanche says, and smacks her hands against the bar top. “I’ve a feeling tonight is going to be epic.”

  I smile. “Is that so?”

  “Uh-huh. Doesn’t hurt I’m going to end the night playing nurse to Buck. I even got myself a li’l outfit to look the part.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Ya always got to leave ’em wanting more.”

  She winks, I shake my head, then our night begins. Four men flow into the room, none of which are Henry. I reckon that’s good. Four women are next. The cycle continues—men then women, men then women—’til the roar of Doc’s curls my lips into a smile. I lose track of what time it is, but I know hours must’ve passed, by the amount of people who now dance, giggle, tease, sling back drinks, and gamble their money away. I wipe the back of my arm ’cross my forehead, trying to keep up, and realize I never did put any more thought into sharing my world with Roy.

  Blanche nods toward Mr. Champagne Cocktail. I’ve his drink made even before he can tear his eyes away from Blanche to ask me for it.

  “First one’s free,” she says, with a smile that rivals a film star’s. Then Blanche takes a sip of her own drink.

  I watch her a moment. Like so many times before, I envy Blanche’s easiness at being herself, free. Perhaps part of that is ’cause she goes with the flow, accepting life with open arms. That could be me.

  There’s a lull in the music, and I look at the stage, all the while twisting a dishrag, ’cause I can’t stop thinkin’, I wish it were me up there.

  And then I’m opening my arms and throwing down the rag. I leave the bar. My eyes are trained to the left of Rosie, on a vacant microphone.

  The dance floor may as well be the Red Sea, with how people separate to form a path. Rosie smiles, her black dress shimmering in the light. I wonder if she’s seen the way I’ve longingly set my eyes on the stage, watching her sing. I wonder if she knew it was only a matter of time before I found myself under the lights. Rosie gestures, extending a hand to the microphone beside her. She lowers it to my level, as if sayin’, Join me.