His tramp gives me a Huh expression. I rip off my fake hair, pin her with the coldest glare I can muster. “I’m his wife. Who might you be?”
Roy grabs my elbow, drags me toward the room’s outskirts.
“What the hell are you doing here, Bonnelyn?”
“Me?” I shout. “I could ask you the same. Though I think it’s quite obvious.”
“I ain’t doing nothin’.”
I bunch my dress in either hand, fighting for composure. “I find that hard to believe.”
He shrugs. “Fine, I ain’t doing nothin’ you haven’t already done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, and mimic his shrug, exaggerating it.
“That you’ve made it easy.”
“I made it easy?”
“Yes, you.” Roy’s lips curl into something resembling a smug, vindictive smile. “You’re the one who dragged me into this world of sin. You’re the one who got caught first.” He crosses his arms, as if he’s just made a monumental point.
He hasn’t. I throw up my hands, let them slap against my thighs. Though I should be slapping him ’cross his conceited face. “This isn’t a tit-for-tat situation, Roy. You don’t get a free pass to cheat ’cause of something stupid I did over a year ago—something I apologized for; something you said you forgave me for. Something that happened before we were married.”
Roy doesn’t say a thing, his arms still tightly crossed, so I say, “You know what, I always thought you were oblivious to how other girls fancied you.” Hazel’s ongoing attempts to steal Roy flash through my mind. “But now I’m thinkin’ you knew, and you liked the attention.” I shake my head, furious, disgusted. “You were only pretending to be a good guy.”
“Look at yourself.” He takes a step closer, and I retreat a step, my back hitting the brick wall. “You’re up onstage, wearing practically nothin’, getting pure joy out of the way men drool over you. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. And I don’t like it one bit, Saint Bonnelyn.”
I swallow. His words are hurtful; this whole situation is hurtful. But I force myself to keep it together, raising my voice. “I like who I am. But you”—I wave my hand in his general direction—“are a disgrace, Roy, coming here behind my back to gamble and do God knows what with other women!”
My shout catches the attention of those ’round us. Roy leans close, and I smell the alcohol on his breath. “Like I said, you make it easy.”
“No, Roy. None of this is my fault.” I hate how my voice hitches, giving away that my heart is pounding from both anger and pain. I raise my chin. “Now, get out of my face.”
Roy falters, taking a step away. He turns back, eyes narrowing, lips parting.
I’m ready for whatever he’s ’bout to say. I’m ready to tell him how he’s stomped all over our dreams. Then he closes his mouth, leaves, nothin’ more than a coward.
Part of me still wants to sling those words at his back, but instead, a cry bubbles up my throat.
My knees give way. Blanche is there to catch me.
* * *
Blanche paces ’cross the living room. “I’ll kill him.”
I take a sip of hot chocolate. The heat soaks into my hands and soothes my throat. I wish I could lose myself in Buck’s couch, just disappear into it.
“You’re obviously staying here tonight,” she adds.
“Just give me the word, Bonn,” Buck says. “I’ll beat that moron senseless.”
“Thanks, but it wouldn’t do any good.” I squeeze my hands, my skin growing hotter. “I’m okay.”
Blanche growls. “The hell you are. How could he do something like that to you?”
Buck shakes his head. “I’ve only known the lad a short time. And I’ll tell ya what—that kid is different now than that first night he came into Doc’s.”
“Maybe I broke him,” I say, and put down my mug, afraid I’ll spill it. He’s been distant, focused on himself more than us. His anger’s been quick to spike; he’s been quick to give me the cold shoulder. “Is he this way ’cause of me?”
Blanche takes my hand. “You may’ve introduced Roy to this world, but you certainly didn’t put that blonde on his arm.”
“I keep thinkin’ ’bout Henry’s wife, when she caught us together. Then there I was, the wife that caught her husband with a pretty li’l thing. Poetic justice, no?”
“That ain’t poetic, Bonn. That’s life being cruel.”
“Whatever it is, it feels like everything is falling apart. First Roy drops out of school, then he goes behind my back…”
“Maybe all that’s falling apart is Roy-related,” Blanche says. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
“I don’t know.” My skin itches. “I guess I need to figure that out.”
“Give yourself a few days. Let the dust settle, Bonn.”
“No.” Roy may’ve lashed out at the club, but that’s his style. Strike first, coddle later. “It needs to be now, not later. Besides, we’re supposed to have dinner with his parents tomorrow.”
“Charming,” Blanche says sarcastically.
As she drives me home, my foot taps like a jackrabbit, ticking down the seconds ’til I confront my husband. My anger has led to nothin’ but uncertainty, and I’ve still no idea what to do with Roy. Hold on to him, hold on to what I know? Or walk away, into the unknown?
Only moments before seeing him at the Supper Club with another girl, I was musing ’bout Roy and me being meant to be. I’ve been so focused on holding on to my dreams, convincing myself that Roy belonged in them, even if it felt like I was the only one still working toward them. Did I pull the wool over my own eyes?
I blow out a slow breath, and realize that I’m lost.
“Do you want me to come inside with you?” Blanche asks.
I shake my head.
Blanche blindly digs through the bag on her lap as she drives. “Okay, here.” She hands me a key. “This is to Buck’s apartment. Let yourself in if you need to, anytime of night, it doesn’t matter.”
I nod, wordlessly thanking her. We turn onto Cemetery Road. Roy’s and my house is dark. Not even the porch light is on. I get out of Big Bertha, the slam of the door sounding too loud for this time of night. I wave at Blanche and try my best to smile reassuringly as I scurry up the path to the house. Key ready, I slip quickly into our too-quiet house, uncertainty giving me the fuel I’ll need to yank Roy out of bed and grill him for answers: How often? How far? With who? What next? What now? Why bother?
I ain’t sure if hearing Roy utter that information will make me more or less sure of what I want, but I need to know. I go straight to our bedroom, flick on the light.
“Wake up, R—”
The bed is empty, untouched. My pace and my breath quicken as I go from room to room, finding each one vacant. Royless.
Hand over my mouth, I drag my feet back to the bedroom, plop down on the bed, the weight of my emotions pulling me down like an anchor.
I kick off my shoes, and one hits our bureau. I notice a drawer ajar. I instantly know something is off, wrong. As I pull open the drawer, my eyebrows scrunch. All his union suits are gone, even the sleeveless ones. My hand falls off the drawer’s knob. He only wears those in the summer months.
In a frenzy, I yank out the rest of Roy’s drawers, the final drawer crashing to the floor, only a ratty old belt that no longer fits him falling out.
In a matter of steps, I stand in front of our closet, heaving in air. I crack it open and release a sob. Half the closet is bare. His slacks, his button-down shirts, his flight jacket, they’re all gone. Sinking to the ground, I hug my knees and rock back and forth. But no, I can’t—I won’t—allow myself to cry.
The idle purr of Big Bertha’s engine seeps through the walls of my empty home. I listen to the comforting sound for what feels like forever, ’til the car’s gears click into place and the engine slowly fades away.
27
The banging on my door is incessant. I know who it is. It’s been the
same person for the past week. Not Roy, but Roy’s daddy, with his ma right beside him.
And for the past week, ever since missing dinner at their house, I’ve hidden out of sight in the hallway, peeking ’round the corner ’til they gave up and left.
I curse. This time, the damn pounding won’t stop, and I’m afraid my ma will hear, a few houses down. I swallow my pride and open the door.
“Where is he?” Mr. Thornton slurs. The shape of a bottle is noticeable beneath his heavy blazer.
I want to throw up my hands. I don’t have the slightest clue, didn’t look for him this time.
Instead, I recite the simple words I’ve practiced in my head but haven’t yet said aloud: “Roy left me.”
Mrs. Thornton lets out a wail, her scarf shielding her face as she turns into her husband. He demands more answers from me.
“I don’t have any,” I deadpan.
And, frankly, they’re lucky I don’t say what I’m really thinkin’: their son is a cheating, lying, alcoholic bastard—exactly the reason why I cut him off, if he goes sniffing ’round the bank.
I’ll save them from that description, though, and I know why. Guilt.
Roy’s ma blames me for his leaving.
Roy’s daddy says his son’s been acting foolish from the moment he bought me this damned house.
I reckon a portion of what they’re sayin’ is the truth. Ever since Roy bought me this house, pushing his dreams on me before I was ready for them—or him—I’ve started questioning things. Did we have enough passion? Would being Mrs. Roy Thornton hinder my dreams? Was something missing with Roy that made Henry, then Clyde Barrow, slip into my mind so readily?
So I stomach the accusations from Roy’s parents ’til Mr. Thornton yanks on his mustache in frustration, whips out his bottle in plain sight, and eventually leads a hysterical Mrs. Thornton away from my doorstep.
After facing Roy’s family, I know it’s time to face my own.
* * *
Buster paces ’cross our living room. “I’ll kill him.”
My ma sits quietly in her favorite chair, knitting. I glance at her before saying to my brother, “You sound like Blanche.”
“Fine. Blanche and I will kill him. That bastard did more than only lie to you.”
I raise an eyebrow, wondering what reason Roy told Buster ’bout his skipping town, but Billie chimes in, “I know how to use a shotgun now.”
I force a smile, and I work up the courage—and the resolution—to say, “I’m not going back to school after winter break.” I eye my ma and quickly add, “For now.” But I know that addition is for me—a promise that I will go back. I may’ve lost my husband, but I can’t lose that piece of myself. “With Roy gone, and with seeing everyone at school … I just can’t—”
Ma shushes me. She puts down her needles. She gets out of her chair. She wraps her arms ’round me. Her actions and her silence speak volumes. She doesn’t tell me that Roy will find me again, or that everything will be okay. Or that taking time off from school is a bad idea. Ma only comforts me the best way a ma knows how.
Things are different for me, after that moment.
I stop thinkin’ I’ll walk into the house and find Roy with a big gesture and an even bigger apology. Once I accept that, it’s easier to accept that Roy only continued from my childhood into my almost-adulthood ’cause he was safe, familiar, undisturbed.
Our Mason jar of doodles goes into the very back of our half-empty closet. Roy’s name remains on my upper thigh. There, always there.
I no longer go to the library; the idea of reading someone else’s romantic happy ending has lost its appeal.
Instead, I throw myself into Doc’s, relishing every moment onstage, where I feel whole.
When the clock strikes twelve on New Year’s Eve, I swallow the last of one drink and pour another, loathing the happy couples ’round me in Doc’s who kiss and clink glasses and cheer.
1928 is gone, and my heart has gone with it. In between sips, I swear off all men, vocally, to anyone who will listen, while knowing deep inside I still crave finding and having an enduring, endless love. I spend the first half of 1929 that way: in between sips, drowning my sorrows in bottled hell.
Whiskey is today’s drink of choice, while I watch a representative from the bank suffer through the summer heat to put up a FOR SALE sign in my front yard. My senses may be dull, but I saw this coming. I couldn’t afford the payments with my tips, and I wasn’t willing to watch my bank account dwindle for a house that never truly became a home.
What’s worse, when this house sells to a young, perky couple with nothin’ but stars in their eyes, I won’t see a single clam. That’s something else to hate Roy for: never putting my name on the mortgage. And now I’ll move back into a tiny room with my thirteen-year-old sister.
It’s amazing how life passes: one hour at a time, yet each day bleeds into the next. At the kitchen table, one morning, I eye the newspaper ’cross the table, curious of today’s showtimes. Recently, I spend my days sitting in the dark at picture houses. The Night of Love. Framed. Afraid to Love. Marriage. The Primrose Path. There’s something peaceful ’bout silent films, ’bout imagining the music that could accompany each scene.
Buster shakes his head. “I can feel you staring at me to get those times. Give me a second, would ya?”
My brother’s response cracks a slight smile on my face. “What ya reading, anyway?”
He flips the paper ’round for me to see the headline.
WALL STREET RECOVERS FROM PANIC AFTER STOCKS CRASH.
“I thought the stock market was booming?”
“Has been. Ya see that vacuum I bought Ma?” Buster turns the page. “That drop was just a false alarm, ’cause stock prices plummeted the other day.”
“Why?”
He shrugs, but says, “Bunch of people got spooked and sold their shares, but then, that afternoon, this fancy New York City banker insisted that banks were still lending, and he invested a huge chunk of his own money. Some of his banker friends did, too. People started to relax a bit.” He gives the newspaper a shake, settling into his new page. “Now things are recovering, prices are going back up. It was crazy, though; a bunch of Wall Street folks committed suicide when they first heard the news.”
“God, that’s lousy, and depressing.” Depressing ain’t what I need right now. “You ain’t scared that this type of thing is going to happen again?”
“I reckon if the big-dog brokers say the market is safe, then it must be, right?”
“I don’t know.” And I’m happy my money is no longer in the game.
“Regardless, I want to chat with some of my clients and assure ’em all is well. You working tonight? Bet ya a couple of ’em will be at Doc’s, but it’s hard as hell to get in there.”
“I’ll tell Buck to keep an eye out for you.”
He smiles, then flips a few pages of his newspaper to yank out today’s showtimes for me.
* * *
By the time Doc’s is at full capacity, I’ve watched Buster talk to two clients, and now he’s eyeing up Mr. Champagne Cocktail at the bar.
I admire that ’bout my brother, picking himself up after Kenney Rogers crushed his dreams between two slabs of cement. Took him some time—too much time, in my opinion. But here he is, with a full client roster, and in the midst of a very animated conversation with Mr. Champagne Cocktail.
Buster moved on. He’s making something of himself, just as our daddy hoped for us.
On the way to the back room, carrying an armful of glasses, I give Buster an awkward thumbs-up and make the decision: I’m going back to school. I’m still going to stand in front of a classroom.
I need to keep that promise to myself, even if I am a year behind in getting my diploma. Being older than my classmates will give ’em something else to gawk at me for. But at least Hazel’s smirk won’t be among ’em, her having graduated.
Blanche follows me into the back room. “I saw that.”
She mimics the thumbs-up I gave Buster. “That positivity. I thought you forgot how to be that way.”
“Funny,” I say dryly.
“No, but seriously, it’s good to see you a little more upbeat. I know the past few months have been”—she makes a clicking noise—“rough.”
I press my lips together, thinking. “A year … It’s been nearly a year since Roy up and left,” I say, more so to myself, that length of time fully sinking in. “And ya know what? That’s long enough.”
A hint of a smile creeps onto Blanche’s face. “Yeah?”
I let out a breath, flick on the faucet. “Yeah. I’m going to make some changes, get myself back on track, starting with school. Tomorrow.” It feels good to say it out loud, even if it reminds me ’bout what I’ve lost: someone to come home to after a long day of teaching. “You know what’s sad, though?”
Blanche strokes my hair. “What’s that?”
I turn my back to her, begin washing the glasses. “I was so high and mighty when you were talking ’bout that tooth analogy and Roy and me.”
“My what analogy?”
I roll my eyes. “You were sayin’ how you wish your relationship with Buck was like mine with Roy: my first and only boyfriend. Like my first and only tooth, since we’re not sharks and we only get one set of ’em.”
“I’m confused.”
I roll my eyes again. “Imagine that.” I set aside a clean glass. “In the end, you were all happy ’cause you said that Buck is your adult tooth and all the other boys you’ve been with were your baby teeth—the ones you’re supposed to lose.”
She laughs. “Okay, now that makes sense. Blanche is pretty smart.”
Suds drip onto my feet. “I want an adult tooth.”
I want someone to share my dreams with, a hand to hold as I take my first steps onto a sandy beach.
“Does this mean you’re done swearing off men?” Blanche asks with a sheepish grin. “I believe your exact words were how they’re the devil and they can all burn in hell.”
Becoming Bonnie Page 23
