Becoming Bonnie

by Jenni L. Walsh

  Doc Peterson gestures for me to join him.

  I turn back to Ma, her eyes firmly closed. Gently, I release her hand and step slowly away from her bed.

  “Let’s go into the hall,” the doctor says.

  Buster is already there, both his hands and his forehead pressing against the wall.

  He sees me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I couldn’t—”

  “It’s okay,” I respond, not sure if that’s true, but not caring, and only wanting to hear what Doc Peterson has to say.

  “Surgery went well,” he begins. “We removed the breast.”

  I shudder, and Buster’s skin pales.

  “Is that all then?” I ask. “Is she better?”

  “For now. We’re fortunate we caught it early. But, if we need to, we could consider radiotherapy. It’s fairly new. It’s harsh. It’s expensive. There are risks involved.” I cover my mouth with my hands. “Why don’t you two go home, get some sleep?”

  “No, I want to stay. Buster, you go home. Someone needs to be there when Billie comes home in the morning.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. His eyes tell me he wants to be anywhere but here.

  I nod.

  After Buster leaves, Doc Peterson squeezes my shoulder. “Take some days off from work, help your mother recover.”

  “No,” I say. “I can’t. I’ll keep working.”

  I don’t tell him it’s ’cause we need the money to pay for this surgery and my ma’s recovery. But he knows. He dips his head before he, too, leaves.

  I go back to my ma, quietly pulling a chair up beside her bed. I bite my lip, watching her sleep, not allowing myself to cry again. Ma’s always been so strong. She may not have liked how her life progressed—losing Daddy, raising us alone, struggling for money, and now this—but she faces it head-on, always.

  Roy pokes his head through the curtain into the little room. “Hey,” he whispers.

  I force a smile. He lifts a spare chair, and I wait for the commotion I know will ensue, ’specially since it’s dark. Roy bangs the legs against a table and scrapes ’em against the floor, the noise echoing in the quietness, ’til he settles next to me.

  “Hi,” I say to him. A genuine smile tugs at my lips. Roy wraps his arm ’round me, pulls me against him, and I feel safe, fortunate that we found each other again. “Thank you for being here.”

  “How could I not be, Bonn?”

  “Plenty of reasons, but I’m glad you’re here. You easily could have walked away from me.”

  “But I didn’t.” He kisses the side of my head. “I won’t.”

  Those words … so simple, yet I could float away. And in that moment, I allow myself to float, to keep dreaming of Roy being beside me as we grow old and gray. “Marry me.”

  A sliver of space forms between us so he can see my face, his own face creased with confusion. “What?”

  I cradle his hands in my lap. “You said before that when I’m ready, you’d marry me. I’m ready, Roy.”

  “Bonn—”

  “I know we got some figuring out to do, and I’ve messed up big.” I glance at my ma, back to Roy. “But there’s so much uncertainty in this world, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I’m certain I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

  “What ’bout your dreams to finish school, get—”

  “I still have those dreams, and then some. I want it all; you know that. We’ll just reach it all together, after we’re married. I don’t know why I made a stink ’bout having everything perfect before we say ‘I do.’”

  There’s silence between us, but unlike under the bleachers, electricity laces this conversation.

  “Bonnelyn,” Roy starts, and I hold my breath, “you’re being unfair to me again.” He pauses, and my heart may as well be in a vise. “I want to be the one asking.” Something between a sob and a laugh comes out of my mouth as he lowers down to a kneel, and he says, “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes!” I say, not caring how loud that word comes out, and fling myself into his arms. Framing his shadowed face with my hands, I kiss him, and it feels like layers of weight fall away.

  20

  “Before we go to Doc’s…” Roy leads me from my ma’s house, both of us decked out in our glad rags. Roy’s even in a three-piece suit he borrowed from his daddy, who got it from his daddy.

  “You ain’t backing out, are ya?” I rub my neck. “I really think you’re going to like Doc’s. And I thought it’d be a nice way to celebrate our engage—”

  “Relax, Bonn. I wanted to show you something first. Besides, I look too good to stay in.”

  I tilt my head, smiling, and my curiosity builds as we walk past the library, where we stop.

  “Here we are.” He motions.

  “Our house?” I ask. I haven’t been here in weeks, haven’t even been able to walk past it.

  Roy nods, and the simple gesture has me releasing a breath I didn’t know I held.

  She looks the same, the white of the porch and fence gleaming in the darkness. I go to say as much, but Roy says, “What I want to show you is inside.”

  Hand in hand, we walk up the broken pathway. Roy opens the door, flicks on the light, and I gasp. Before, I’d stripped the wallpaper, leaving behind an unfinished mess. Now a floral pattern in a soft yellow covers the walls. Crown molding gives the room an elegant style. All the trim is painted white, matching a built-in bookcase.

  “You did all of this? You built that?” I raise my hand, taking his with mine, and demonstratively examine his hand. “But where are all your cuts and bruises?”

  “Very funny.” Roy steps inside, closes the door. “You like it?”

  “I love it. I absolutely love it.”

  I love that he kept working, even when things weren’t right with us. I love that he did this for me, for us.

  He smiles. “I know things were weird between us, and I wasn’t sure how to act or what to do. Instead of facing you, I avoided you, coming here. I worked, thought. And,” he says, “I couldn’t fathom how one”—he pauses—“mistake could unravel over ten years of you and me. Or the next eighty we’ve been planning.”

  I return his smile halfway through his ramble. “Roy Thornton, you are too good for me.”

  He laughs, and I lean into him. “Here, let me show you more,” he says.

  “There’s more?” I ask, my stomach fluttering with excitement.

  “There should always be more.”

  Together, we walk through the rooms. The tiny bathroom now has a sink and tub. The flooring in the kitchen has been mended and polished to be like new. Cabinetry needs to be refinished, but we can do that together. The two spare bedrooms still need paint on the walls, new trim work, and such. I adore seeing the rooms all the same, thinking of all the possibilities for what and who could one day fill these empty spaces.

  Then we come to our bedroom. I’m nervous walking in, and my palms are sweaty. I don’t know why; I’ve come in here before when Roy first showed me ’round.

  The room’s simple, the walls a soft blue. A mattress is on the floor. No furniture, yet. Soon I’ll be bringing over mine.

  “I was in here the other day,” Roy says, behind me, his hands on my shoulders. He spins me to face him. “Just standing here, thinking.”

  “’Bout what?” I ask.

  “You, us, the moment you became more than a silly crush.”

  I look up into his familiar eyes, practically jumping out of my skin for him to continue.

  “Do you remember that day we were riding our bikes along the tracks?”

  I laugh. “Which time?”

  “When we were thirteen, and you fell off and skinned your knee?”

  “The time I thought I could ride with no hands?”

  “Yes, that time. You were doing good, ’til that rock came out of nowhere,” he teases.

  “I went right over my handlebars.” I still remember how the perfectly circular scrape matched the setting sun.

  He
nods. “Afterward, I helped you home, pushing both our bikes, while you hobbled next to me, doing your best not to cry.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t. Not ’til I cleaned your cut. But I saw something more than tears in your eyes as I bandaged your knee. You trusted me and needed me. I swore to myself that I’d never let you be hurt again. You were—are—someone I’d do anything to protect, no matter how life changes us as we grow older. That’s why I came back; that’s why I sat beside you; that’s why I kept working on this house.”

  I hear all that. I do. But all I can think ’bout is how I want to kiss him.

  I hold my breath when his hands gently frame my face. His chest rises and falls, slowly. Roy moistens his lips, and I ache inside. I ache for him, for the boy who will one day be my husband, who will forever protect me.

  He moves closer, his forehead lightly pressing against mine. I feel his warm breath and smell his familiar scent of Ivory soap. His lips skim over my lips, his kiss soft, then hungrier.

  Roy stops, meeting my eyes, recognizing my desire. It’s easy. I’m breathless.

  “Thank the Lord,” he says, “that we’re getting married next week.”

  I playfully fan myself. “Ain’t that the truth?”

  Roy slides a hand ’round my waist. “I’ve shown you mine; now you show me yours.”

  * * *

  “I really do think you’re really going to like Doc’s,” I say.

  Roy’s laughter drowns out the muffled sounds from the other side of the door. “You’ve told me that ’bout five times now, Bonn. You trying to brainwash me?”

  I shake my head, but I can’t resist one last comment. “This place means a lot to me. The music, the singing, the energy. It’s like it invigorates me.”

  A smile stretches ’cross his face. “Go on, then. Show me.”

  I bounce on my toes, feeling seven and not seventeen, and swing the door open.

  The upbeat jazz I’ve come to know and love is a tidal wave. I keep my eyes trained on Roy as he steps into the basement. The chandelier in the middle of the dance floor catches the red glow of the DOC’S sign and casts shimmers of color on his face. The poker tables, the dance floor, the bar, back to the tables—I watch him scan the room, that smile still on his face. But he also slips his hands into his pockets, as if he’s a bit overwhelmed.

  “All right!” Roy shouts.

  I lean closer to hear him and nervously twist the hem of his jacket.

  “All right,” he says into my ear. “This place is a real eye-opener.”

  “In a good way?”

  He smoothes his lapels. “That’s yet to be determined.”

  That response is good enough for me. I release my grip, slide my hand down his arm, pulling his hands out of his pockets and intertwining our fingers. “Let me show you ’round.”

  I point out Raymond at the tables, before we hug the edges of the room to avoid the chaos of the dance floor.

  “Mary,” I say, coming to the bar, “I want you to meet someone.”

  “Oh, good, you’re finally here,” she says.

  “Sorry. I wanted to make sure my ma got her meds and was asleep before—”

  She turns to Roy. “You must be Saint Bonnelyn’s very understanding and loyal boyfriend.”

  “Fiancé, actually,” Roy says. “And you forgot ‘very forgiving.’”

  Mary chuckles. “How ’bout a drink to celebrate? Whiskey seemed just fine with you before, Saint Bonnelyn.”

  Roy raises an eyebrow at the fact I’ve had alcohol, but doesn’t say a word. He also doesn’t say no when Mary slides a glass of brown in front of him.

  “You don’t have to drink it, if you don’t think you should,” I whisper to him.

  “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

  “Roy, you know that’s not what I meant.”

  Roy flicks his gaze to Mary, back to me, as if I’m embarrassing him.

  Mary raps her glass against the bar. “You two going to drink or exchange pleasantries?”

  “Drink,” Roy says. “You wanted me to experience your world, didn’t you, Bonn?”

  I sigh, trusting Roy.

  We tap glasses, the sound of a trumpet eating up the clink, then sling back our brown.

  Roy goes into a fit of coughing. I lick some spilled whiskey from the back of my hand and remember how it burned, the first time I swallowed it down.

  “Want another?” Mary grins mischievously.

  Roy pushes his glass toward her. “Why not?”

  I sigh again, that trust waning. “Where’s Blanche?” I ask Mary.

  She points to the ceiling. “Taking her break with Buck.”

  “Say no more.”

  “More” comes out like a shout, Rosie having just sung her final note onstage. Roy grins at my outburst.

  “Saint Bonnelyn,” I hear, coming through the speakers. Rosie waves at me, motioning for me to hop to it and join her. “Come sing with me.”

  Mary gives me a go-ahead nod, and I lean over the bar toward Roy. “This will be a bit different than the choir music you’ve heard me sing.”

  It comes out as a question, being that I’m still unsure how Roy is handling his immersion in the speakeasy world—besides the whiskey; he’s clearly okay with that.

  He grabs my chin, his thumb rubbing against my cheek. “Thank you for finally sharing all of this with me, Bonn. If you’re here, I’m here.”

  Trumpet and piano harmonies erupt into the room, cheers from the crowd accompanying the melody. The music and Roy’s sentiment fill me with warmth as I scurry toward the stage. An overly friendly patron kisses my cheek, and I feel Roy’s eyes on me.

  Rosie pulls me up, midclap, and I realize Roy’s eyes are really on the man who kissed me. I ignore the guilt that he’s probably thinkin’ ’bout Henry and fall into a rhythm with Rosie, both of us clapping, both tapping a foot, waiting for the instrumental opening to finish, while the dance floor is a frenzy of fox-trotting flappers and their men.

  Roy sits at the bar, clapping, no longer consumed with the man, and I chuckle at him, partly in relief but also ’cause each slap of his hands is severely off the beat.

  I moisten my lips, preparing to sing, when my attention is pulled to the door. In walk Blanche and Buck and, trailing a beat behind them … Clyde.

  He doesn’t waste a breath before looking at me, drinking me in, a moment I can’t seem to pull myself from. Even if he didn’t resemble a shorter version of Buck, I’d have recognized him.

  It’s his eyes. It’s those same intense, captivating eyes I first saw in the alley.

  Deep down, I have this desire to know what he saw, what he did, before he stepped into this room.

  And before he stole my thoughts.

  I swallow, realizing at the last moment that the song’s chorus is beginning. I drop my gaze and sing, “I’ve found a new baby, a sweet honey boy.”

  When I look back up, I train my eyes toward the bar. Roy is still clapping, and I remind myself how good it is that he’s here and that we’re working toward the life I’ve always wanted. I smile at Roy, and belt out, “His new kind of lovin’ has made me his slave.”

  Blanche appears behind Roy, working the bar, and Buck and Clyde saddle up to bar stools beside him. I can’t help myself from sneaking a peek at Clyde. He’s turned just like Roy, with his back to the bar, watching me perform.

  I grasp the microphone with both hands. “His sweet turtle-dovin’ is all that I crave.”

  For the rest of the song, I engage with the dancers, gesturing and smiling and shimmying, and I fight the fear that if I were to glance again at the bar, my gaze would fall on Clyde before Roy.

  When it’s time to step away from the microphone and into the cheering crowd, I delay my return to the bar by gathering glasses from the poker tables. With my arms full, I use my shoulder to wipe a loose strand of hair from my face and slowly breathe out. That’s when I see Roy and Clyde talking.

  I don’t know why i
t sets me on edge, like I’ve gone and done something wrong, but my palms grow sweaty against the glass surfaces. I duck beneath the bar’s partition.

  “Bonn!” Blanche shouts. “That was fantastic, as usual.”

  I smile, pausing a heartbeat before focusing on Roy. “Seriously, Bonn,” he says. “That sure takes it up a notch from what you do on Sundays.”

  As I stare straight at Roy, an out-of-focus Clyde sits next to him, dimples I didn’t notice before still recognizable on either side of a sly smile.

  I don’t acknowledge Clyde. It’s stupid of me. There’s no reason not to introduce myself. He’s Buck’s brother, not some random fella. Technically, we’ve already met, and in a life-and-death situation, no less. But instead of being sane and extending my hand and offering Clyde a friendly smile, I say, “I got to get these glasses clean,” and turn on my heel.

  With each step into the back room, past the bathtubs, to the sink, I mentally chastise myself for being so rude.

  “Bonn?” Blanche says, behind me, and I jump, nearly dropping the glasses.

  “Blanche, don’t you sneak up on me like that.”

  She raises her hands. “Blanche ain’t sneaking. I just wanted to come see how things are going with your ma, with Roy, and um, maybe see why you ran away like a bat out of hell. I was going to introduce you to Buck’s brother, then wham, no more Bonn.”

  I concentrate more than needed on setting the glasses down next to the sink, flip on the water. “My ma is doing okay. Still waiting on an update from Doc Peterson. It’s fine, though; she’s obsessed with planning the wedding.” I keep on talking, staring at the wall, barely taking a breath. “Roy is good—surprisingly, really good. He seems like a natural. Here at Doc’s, I mean. And he’s been treating me like a doll. Been working on the house…” I trail off, knowing I’m babbling.

  “That all sounds nifty, Bonn,” she says, and I startle again. Blanche is now standing beside me. “But that water’s been running for a while and all those glasses are still dirty. So—and I’m no genius—I think something else is clogging up your pretty li’l brain. Does it have anything to do with how your eyes quit working and couldn’t turn in Clyde’s direction?”

  “You ain’t as dumb as you think you are.”