Becoming Bonnie

by Jenni L. Walsh

  I thumb through the stack of photos from the school bonfire last year. A pirate, a court jester, and a sassy feline. Though the element that stands out most to me is not my costume but the apprehension disguised by my forced smile.

  Blanche pushes another photo toward me. I’m walking down the aisle in my ma’s wedding gown. My smile isn’t what I’d call forced, but there’s a similar apprehension, as if I knew the day—and Roy—would unravel.

  When I went back to school, we held hands, I showed off my ring, and the satisfaction of working toward my dreams swelled inside of me, but the moment didn’t gleam as much as I hoped it would. Maybe I’ll get a do-over when school starts again in a few weeks.

  I pick up another pile of pictures to distract myself from the lingering disappointment, and then another. Blanche stands in front of a Christmas tree with someone I can only assume is Buck’s ma. Buck naps beside a picnic basket, the trees budding with signs of new life. I flip through one camera angle after another, with some shots way too close to poor Buck’s face. There’s Buck swinging from the rope at the river. And Blanche standing in Big Bertha, arms raised, head back, Buck at the wheel.

  Happy … they look genuinely happy.

  Blanche says something. My gaze falls on a picture of Clyde, and her voice becomes background noise. He’s sitting on the edge of a shiny car, arms crossed, his own tattoo, too small to make out, peeking out from beneath his short-sleeve shirt. I can’t help wondering ’bout the story behind it. I can’t help wondering ’bout Clyde’s story and the secrets he’s hiding in his hazel eyes, squinting against the sun.

  My cheeks flush. I’ve pulled the color of his eyes from a long-ago memory, not from this black-and-white photo.

  “You’ve gotten close with Buck’s family,” I say. Not a statement but a question.

  Blanche stops talking, begins again. “Sure, I’ll answer that, being you ain’t interested in the story I was trying to tell.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She waves me off, grabs the photo of Clyde. I hold on a second too long, snapping my hand back when I realize, and there my cheeks go, flushing more. Blanche stares at the photo and shakes her head, as if she’s remembering something, and I widen my eyes at her—a silent Tell me that she doesn’t see.

  “I took this photo before one of his trips.”

  I wait—one, two, three seconds—as not to appear too eager. “To go where?”

  She uses the photo to fan herself. “Ain’t really my story to tell.”

  I laugh. “Since when has that stopped you?”

  “Now I certainly won’t be spilling the beans.”

  I roll my eyes. “Just to prove me wrong?”

  “You got it. All I’ll say,” she continues, and I hide a grin, “is this car got Clyde into heaps of trouble. It was a rental, and the funny thing ’bout rentals is that you got to return ’em. Clyde didn’t, so the joke was on him. Cops busted him, locked him up for a few days.”

  “Was he going to return it?”

  “With Clyde, who knows? That boy’s got sticky fingers.”

  “That ain’t good.” Not good at all. Says the girl who once rode shotgun in a stolen car. But I had no part in stealing it, and Buck told me the car was returned safe and sound. That is, after the scratches I put on her were buffed out.

  “What’s it matter to you, Bonn?”

  That question stops me. It shouldn’t matter to me. And it doesn’t.

  Blanche continues, “Thought you were keeping those fingers away from Clyde?”

  “I am.”

  “Uh-huh. But I’d be careful letting your voice get high-pitched at the mention of Clyde’s name when you’re ’round Roy. This heat is enough to turn a fella rabid, and Roy don’t need no help to foam at the mouth.”

  I get to my feet and, before I can stop myself, glance again at the photo of Clyde. His expression is proud, like he’s ’bout to do something big.

  Probably something hugely illegal. Maybe that’s why I’m walking toward the door. The word illegal seems to go hand in hand with that boy, Blanche mentioning his antics as if she’s describing the weather. “We should get downstairs,” I say.

  * * *

  Down at Doc’s, the door swings open—every hour at thirteen and thirty-three—letting in four more eager patrons. By midnight, we’re at full capacity, and it’s turned into one of those electric nights where a buzz fills the air. And people are generous with their money, have been for the past few months. My bank account is fattening, has been for the past few months, ’specially with Ma back working and her medical debts nearly paid off. Buster, on the other hand … He’s struggling to get clients, but he even has clams trickling in. It’s nice not to be the only one helping out our ma.

  The door swings open once more, and in walks Roy. The clock reads half past twelve, and I reposition my weight.

  Blanche pauses from her conversation with Mr. Champagne Cocktail to nudge me. “Looks like Mr. Bonnelyn Parker doesn’t follow the rules of Doc’s no more.”

  “Well, it appears Mr. Blanche Caldwell has no problem letting him in,” I rebut.

  “Did you know he was coming tonight?”

  I catch Roy’s eye, wave. “He had off from the plant, so he said he was going to work on the house all night. Reckon he needed a break, yet again. Or he decided our kitchen was better unfinished.”

  “Or he got thirsty.”

  Roy settles at a poker table.

  “Or,” Blanche amends, “he got the urge to gamble.”

  “But not say hi to his wife first.”

  She whispers into my ear, “The heat making you rabid, too?”

  I playfully snap my teeth and her face lights up with amusement. I wish I were half as amused. I didn’t put his name on my bank account so he could use our money so frivolously and so often at the poker table. Even if he says he’s winning, I imagine there’s a better use of his time.

  I glance again at Roy, aggravated. And, as the night progresses, I only grow more so. Somehow he has a drink in his hand. I go up to perform onstage, and although Roy waggles his eyebrows toward me, then casts a glare at a man who whistles at me, that’s the extent of our interaction.

  I’m tempted to wrap my arms ’round his neck, a little more tightly than usual, and kiss his cheek, but he angrily slams down a hand of cards. I keep walking toward the bar. Between mixing drinks, I keep an eye on Roy. Each time, his hair is a bit more mussed, and the knot in my stomach pulls tighter. Blanche has called Roy hot and cold, but right now he only seems hotheaded.

  “What can I get ya?” I ask a man with red hair. He’s got a smart look. Hat, cane, pocket watch, bow tie, fitted vest—he has it all. And I bet his clothing is tailored, too. That costs a pretty penny.

  A burst of movement ’cross the room startles me, and I knock a glass onto its side. A man has his arms ’round Roy’s neck, bending Roy at the waist, screaming at him. My hand flies to my mouth. With the music, their voices are lost; a chair falling onto its side is noiseless. It’s like watching one man pummel another in a silent film, ’til Rosie stops singing and the instruments trail off. The roar of the brawl envelops the room.

  “Roy!” I shout, adding my voice fruitlessly to the mix. Rushing from behind the bar, I seize shoulders, waists, arms to create a path through the crowd that blocks my vision from Roy.

  Breathless, I break through and act on impulse to separate them, grabbing the other man’s shirt, as if my five-feet-nothin’ strength could do an ounce of good.

  Roy’s elbow juts out, and a flare of pain shoots into my jaw and ear. I don’t realize ’til after it’s happened, but I’m on the wet floor, face stinging. Blurred voices hang on top of me, asking if I’m okay.

  I mumble a response, more concerned with Roy than my throbbing head. Buck has Roy’s arms behind his back. Raymond has the other man pinned against the ground.

  “Roy,” I say, this time a whisper.

  Blood trails from his lip. His shirt is torn. But the thing I
observe most clearly is how he looks like a crazed animal, his head twitching toward the door.

  Buck leads him in that direction, and I follow close behind. My thoughts are as twitchy as his movements: who and why and what on earth just happened?

  He’s never gotten into a fight at Doc’s before, even with his smart mouth.

  Once outside, Buck pulls open a car door. “I’ll take you home, Roy.”

  “I’m going too,” I say.

  “No,” Roy says.

  I raise my chin and, for good measure, put one foot inside the car. “I’m going too.”

  “Best to listen to the lass,” Buck says.

  I climb in. Roy stares straight ahead and doesn’t say a word as he settles beside me. I dig my fingertips into the seat’s leather and steady my breathing, trying to ignore how the side of my face pulsates.

  Besides the rumble of the car’s engine, there ain’t a lick of noise, and I watch Roy from the corner of my eye. He wrings his bloodstained hands, every once in a while dabbing his lip, and stares out the window as Dallas turns to Cement City.

  Give him a few minutes, I tell myself, and probably what my ma would say to do. All I want to do, however, is pummel him with questions. I want to take his hand. I want to protect him.

  “End of the road,” Buck says, and pulls the parking brake into place outside our little house. He twists backwards, one arm over his seat. “You two going to be all right?”

  Before I can answer, Roy is out of the car and striding into the house. My voice comes out exasperated at his behavior, at not thanking Buck. “Yeah. Thank you. Tell Blanche I’ll talk to her in the morning.”

  When I go inside, a crashing noise comes from another room of the house. I sigh, grabbing a wet rag from the kitchen to clean Roy’s lip. Then I hesitantly step into our bedroom. “What’re you doing?”

  Roy yanks open a dresser drawer; it nearly falls out. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

  “It looks like you’re packing a bag.”

  He doesn’t bother to face me. “Then there’s your answer.”

  Anger courses through me. I throw the rag at him with as much force as I can muster. The rag hits his back, leaving a wet splotch on his dirty shirt.

  “What the hell, Bonnelyn,” he says, his voice stilted by alcohol.

  “Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to have a drunken bar fight. You don’t get to storm into the house, act like a lunatic, and then yell at me.” I bite my lip, then very deliberately say the words, “What happened tonight?”

  Roy freezes, a shirt in hand. He drops to his knees, his head falling against our bed. “I messed up.”

  I kneel beside him and touch his back. He doesn’t flinch this time; his elbows just sink deeper into the bed. “How?”

  “I wanted to blow off some steam. I’ve been working so hard, we’ve both been working so hard on the house, and nonstop at our jobs and…” He trails off.

  “We have,” I say.

  “I thought the hand was in the bag. At the table, I mean. I was wrong. Jenkins had a better hand. Jenkins always has the better hand. This wasn’t the first time I couldn’t pay up. And he ain’t okay with that.”

  The groan of our ancient fridge from the kitchen is all that passes between us for a few moments. “What are you sayin’, Roy? I thought you’ve been winning. You told me you’ve been winning.”

  “Not enough. I owe him. And this bloody lip doesn’t cover it.” For the first time, he looks at me. There’s fear in his eyes. “I got to go.”

  He stands, and my hand falls off his back.

  “What?”

  “I’m leaving. I have to.”

  “None of this is making sense. Where are you going?”

  He bends to kiss my forehead. “Listen, Bonnelyn. Don’t open the door for anyone you don’t know. Don’t leave this house.”

  “Roy,” I say, my voice shrill, panicked. “You’re scaring me. This is all insane.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, picks up his bag, then he’s gone.

  Roy’s gone.

  23

  I scan the street and trees, my fingers drumming against my knees, searching for Roy through Big Bertha’s windows. Though I know it’s hopeless, scanning for my runaway husband is a routine I’ve fallen into over the past ten days, no matter where I go. Now it doubles as a way to pass time while I wait for Blanche to return to her car. I peer again at Roy’s parents’ house. Blanche is walking back down their front path.

  Once in the car, she shoves a bucket of brushes into the backseat, then a broom. Buck protests at the new additions to the backseat. She turns on me in the front seat. “God, that was embarrassing.”

  I don’t care. “What did you find out?”

  “A few things.” She sighs and holds up her pointer finger. “First, Mrs. Thornton ain’t interested in buying anything. But”—she holds up a second finger—“Mrs. Malone next door may want a broom, ’cause she was outside the other day whacking a stray cat and the broom looked like threads were holding it together. Or something. Third, Mrs. Thornton thinks it’s so nice I’ve found something valuable to do with my time. Like I’d actually sell crap door to door for real. And, lastly, she hasn’t seen or heard from Roy in days.”

  “So she knows he’s missing?”

  “No. I worded it carefully.” Blanche puts the car into gear, pulls away from Roy’s childhood house. “But she said she’s been meaning to stop by to see you both.”

  I sigh. “Great.”

  Buck sighs too. “Ah, some air. Thank Jesus we’re moving again. It’s hot as Hades back here.”

  “Hey,” Blanche says, and taps the underside of my chin. “We’ll find him. This is Roy we’re talking ’bout. Not Al Capone.”

  “I’m pretty sure Al Capone does his fair share of gambling,” Buck chimes in.

  I ignore him. I ignore the swirling, opposing feelings of fear and annoyance that Roy’s disappearance has caused.

  “Maybe it’s time we go to the police,” Blanche says.

  Buck leans forward. “Nope. Not smart.”

  I rub my forehead. It’s not smart. They’ll ask questions, and they’ll want to know where Roy was gambling. “Let me go back to Doc’s. Maybe he’ll see me and he’ll come in.”

  “Roy?” Blanche asks.

  “No, Jenkins. I don’t know how much he’s after, but I got money in the bank.”

  “Does Roy have access to that money?” Buck asks.

  “Of course,” I say, irritation slipping into my voice.

  Buck whistles. I look over my shoulder, and his head is shaking slowly side to side. “Ain’t good, Bonn. Think ’bout it. Why didn’t he pay off Jenkins from your account to begin with? That lad dug himself too big a hole. Again, not smart.”

  “Shut your trap,” Blanche says to Buck. Then to me: “Using yourself as bait to get to Jenkins is what’s stupid. We’ll keep looking, okay? I know you’re probably sick of me by now, but I ain’t leaving your side. Roy left to protect you, and you’re doing a poor job of protecting yourself.”

  “That’s why you lassies got me. I’m the muscle.”

  “Buck,” Blanche barks, “you ain’t helping, with all your backseat yapping.”

  He leans back, crosses his arms.

  “Where haven’t we looked?” she asks me.

  I bite my lip, thinking. But the only image my brain produces is of Roy’s face, his lip bloody, his hair stuck together in clumps. Besides, we’ve already checked the plant, the river, his parents’ house, school, and Doc’s. It’s not like Roy goes much place else or has many friends to turn to. He’s always been attached to my family and me and, reluctantly, to Blanche. His lack of connections hasn’t stopped us from endlessly driving ’round Dallas, though. And Roy’s on foot. He doesn’t have a car. He didn’t take his bike. My heart tells me he’s still close by. He’s got to be. But, right now, I also don’t trust my heart. One second it’s bursting with anger that he’s run away, that he’s left me. The next sec
ond, I’m pulsating with fear that the man I married is hurt, or worse.

  I count to five to calm my racing heartbeat. “There’s nowhere else to look,” I say. “Can you take me home?”

  “We’ve got another hour or so of daylight. Are ya sure?” Buck asks.

  I keep my voice even. “Yes.” I just want to be alone, to struggle with my thoughts in private.

  Blanche steers Big Bertha into a U-turn. I allow my mind to go blank and stare at the nothingness outside the car’s window.

  “Slow ’er down.”

  Buck’s urgent voice dissolves my daze, and I sit up straighter.

  “What?” Blanche asks.

  “Stop the car.”

  Blanche slams on Big Bertha’s brakes. I lurch forward, both hands slapping against the dashboard.

  “Up ahead,” he says.

  My eyes jump from spot to spot, the tenseness in Buck’s voice making it hard for me to focus. I grip Blanche’s arm, now seeing what Bucks sees. Seeing that the door to my house is ajar.

  “The wind,” Blanche says. “The wind must’ve pushed it open.”

  I don’t need to be a mind reader to know that no one in the car believes that statement, Blanche included.

  “There a phone ’round here?” Buck asks.

  “The library,” I stutter.

  “Both of yous, stay here. I mean it, Blanche.”

  She must’ve started to rebut, but I don’t hear it. I’m unable to break my gaze from the darkness between the door of my house and its frame. Could Jenkins lurk in that darkness? Could Roy, forgetting to shut the door in a drunken stupor?

  Minutes pass and shadows fall ’round us. The sun drops, drops, drops ’til it’s gone, taking some of the heat with it. The entirety of my house is dark now. The only movement comes from Buck, pacing outside Big Bertha, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief every few steps.

  Two pinpricks of light appear down Cemetery Road. The car stops beside ours. Out gets a man. Side by side, Buck and the other fella hold themselves in similar ways: feet wide apart, shoulders back, heads up.