The navy? I blink, remembering the naval officer who knocked on our door all those years ago, derailing our whole lives. “You served?” I manage to ask.
“Wanted to.” He rubs his mouth. “Got this here tattoo, rented a car, drove for hours, got turned away.”
I step closer to Clyde, letting a couple pass us more easily on the sidewalk. “They wouldn’t let you enlist?”
“A medical rejection. I had malaria as a boy. Almost took my life, but”—he taps his right ear—“ended up only taking a bit of my hearing.”
I wrap my arms ’round myself, as much for warmth as to keep from touching him. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Clyde sucks on a tooth, and I’m even more sorry I’m making him relive an unhappy memory. “Shouted real good. Punched a wall. Neither did me any good. So I left, kept driving after that,” he says. “Nowhere in particular. Just knew I needed to put miles between me and that moment.”
I cock my head to the side. “You got arrested, didn’t you, for not returning that car?”
Clyde laughs, and I startle at the noise. “Buck told ya ’bout that, did he?”
I shake my head. “I saw that photo Blanche took of you”—the one where you looked so proud, capturing the moments before you set out to enlist—“but Buck did tell me ’bout stealing those turkeys to give your ma Thanksgiving dinner.”
Clyde’s dimples appear. “Reckon you know all my secrets, Bonnie.” He pauses. “’Cept for where I want to take you right now. We got to hurry, though.”
I twist my lips. It’s not that I ain’t curious where; it’s that Clyde’s all shiny. Even in his casual tee and pants, he’s polished, practiced. Ain’t that exactly the type of boy I should be taking a wide berth ’round? I heard, one time, how the most poisonous of animals ain’t the dull ones but the ones that catch your eye.
“Bonnie, you know what I learned from both those experiences?” Clyde touches his tattoo.
“What’s that?”
“Sometimes ya got to take what you want.”
My lips start to curl into a smile, liking the boldness of the sentiment, even if I ain’t sure what he means. I’m jolted forward with Clyde’s sudden strides, trailing behind him, my hand in his.
29
“Well, ain’t this cozy,” Clyde whispers, the soundless opening credits casting a light glow on his face. He rocks his shoulders against his plush, red seat, getting comfortable. “Glad you could join me.”
I bite back a smile, flipping my ticket stub for Broadway Melody forward and back. The chilled air still labors in my lungs from racing down the street to the Melba Theater. “You think you’re something, don’t you?”
Clyde crosses his ankles. “Not sure I know what you mean, Bonnie.”
I cross my arms. “Ironic, how you already had two tickets.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, dancing ain’t my thing.”
“But films are?”
“Nope.” He prolongs the word into two parts. “Not really. But you like ’em.”
At a loss for how to reply, I scratch my non-itchy nose. Eventually, I say, “How do you know that?”
He smirks. “Blanche showed me a photograph.”
“Funny,” I whisper.
He points to the front of the theater, lowers his voice further. “It’s starting.”
I’m left staring at his silhouette as the opening chorus drowns out any lingering conversations in the room. This boy is definitely shiny. Confident. Smooth. Like now, leaned back in his seat, arms relaxed on either armrest, not a dark hair out of place, grinning.
Lord help me, I’m grinning too. I slouch into my seat, also getting comfortable, ready to enjoy the vaudeville sister act of Anita Page and Bessie Love. I won’t tell Clyde I saw this film last week. Then, I sat alone, wishing someone filled the seat beside me.
My eyes flick to the screen, where I recognize New York City’s skyline, then back to Clyde. The lines of his cheekbones cast shadows on his cheeks. A scar on his temple, similar to one Roy has, catches the dim light.
I sit up straighter. That half-inch blemish is sobering.
I was with Roy when that branch scratched his face. His scar was harmless, a mistake. Clyde’s could be from anything. A brawl. Some petty theft. One of those moments where he felt the need to take what he wanted.
Though it didn’t do me much good to marry a man I knew my whole life. Does knowing Clyde’s nothin’ but trouble make it better—going in eyes open? Even if what I know ’bout him only dusts the bottom of the barrel?
On-screen, the actors’ voices boom. That’s what should be capturing my attention. Yet, it’s not. I strain to study Clyde from the corner of my eye, wondering if I’m foolish for each moment I spend with him.
Clyde doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t angle toward me, yet his lips move. “I like music.”
“Huh?” I say to him.
Clyde twists, his hazel eyes glistening from the screen’s hue. “I ain’t much for dancing or films, but I like music.”
He begins to return his focus to Queenie Mahoney on-screen, but I stop him with my question. “What kind of music?”
“Strummin’.”
“You play the guitar?” I ask loudly. The man in the row behind us shushes me. I don’t care. The idea of Clyde playing music, something that makes me feel alive, has me sitting even straighter in my seat.
Clyde nods. “With a few words thrown in.”
I wouldn’t have pegged Clyde as someone to cradle a guitar in his lap.
“Well, don’t go looking so stunned, or whatever that face is, Bonnie.”
Buck said Clyde fancies himself a poet, and now I want nothin’ more than to hear him sing. God knows I’ve already witnessed how clever his words can be. “Will you play for me?”
He twists his lips.
“Clyde,” I press.
His response sounds like Lazy and Exasperated went and had a baby when he says, “All right.”
We’re shushed again, and I turn my attention to the screen, where it doesn’t stay long. The idea of Clyde playing music is too intriguing. I’d guess his singing voice is even lower than his usual voice. I see the song’s melody, slow, steady. I wonder how well he can carry a tune. A few long minutes pass before I give in and ask, “I’d like you to play for me, now.”
Judging by the quickness of his snort, I’d wager the reaction slipped out before Clyde could stop it. He studies me a heartbeat longer. “All right.”
The response is bookended by his adorable dimples.
* * *
Clyde says he doesn’t live far, yet, in a matter of blocks Dallas flip-flops from affluent to penniless. Wood fills windows instead of glass. Debris clogs the gutters. Graffiti covers beaten-down fences.
Cement City may be humble, but it’s a pocket full of good. Here, I’m wary of what folks are hiding in their pockets. I squint through the setting sun, pleading with it to stay in the sky a little longer, and scan the street for any unseemly characters.
A man ’cross the road fits the bill. He whistles provocatively, and my stomach tightens.
“Don’t mind Old Jed,” Clyde assures me. He raises his voice. “Whistlin’ hasn’t gotten him nowhere in years.”
Old Jed grumbles, and I sidle closer to Clyde, nearly bumping him with my elbow, my arms tightly crossed. Each rhythmic click-clack of my Mary Janes sets me more on edge, sounding like a plea for me to go back.
I’m ’bout to listen. I’m hard-pressed to believe I got caught up in what Clyde’s singing would be like. Now I’m traipsing ’round town with a boy I hardly know, ’bout to step foot into his home.
By myself.
With no one knowing where I am.
Go back, go back, go back.
Clyde’s pace slows, the demands of my heels slowing, ’til all is quiet.
“Well,” he says, “here we are.”
I chew on my lip, finally asking, “A service station?”
“Home sweet home.” Clyde’s vo
ice is dry, deadpan. “Guitar’s inside,” he says, as if reminding me why I’m here.
Wishing for more is a feeling I’m quite familiar with, a kick to my butt that gets my feet moving. I follow Clyde, navigating a boneyard of cars, and we enter through a side door. The scent of cinnamon wraps ’round me in the darkened room.
“Let me just get the…,” Clyde says. A dim light flickers on a moment later, and the corners of a narrow room take form. “Ain’t much.”
There’s a touch of shame to his voice again, but I can’t reckon as to why. I ain’t in any position to judge the fact his home is tacked onto the back of a service station. And really, it’s quite homely, with the touch of a woman: fresh-picked flowers, framed photographs, a shawl thrown over the back of a chair, and stacks of books on the fireplace’s mantel. The apartment is neat and tidy, even if the room is miniature size.
Clyde takes a large, demonstrative step forward, now standing in front of a worn, brown couch. “Welcome to my room.”
I join him, my hand dropping to a folded blanket and pillow. My response comes out whispered. “You sleep on the couch?”
“Yeah, I don’t need much in life, and I’m in and out of town so much and all.”
Doing what? I want to ask, but Clyde’s already saying, “This is my parents’ place.”
I glance toward the hall, a new wave of nerves coursing through me that I’m ’bout to meet them.
“They’re down by the tracks. They’re there every Saturday ’round this time.”
“I see.” I bite my bottom lip. I don’t see, but I’m relieved they ain’t home.
He runs a hand over the slight stubble on his chin and cheeks, and I scan the room further to distract myself. My gaze stops on the spine of a poetry book, then his guitar.
“You going to make good on your word and play for me?”
Clyde settles himself on the couch, then the instrument on his knee. He pats the spot beside him, pauses with his fingers ready to strum. I sit and fold my hands in my lap, watching as he clears his throat, swallows, clears his throat again. Clyde’s head tilts down, and he looks up at me from under his lashes.
“I started this here song a while ago, but she ain’t done,” he says. “Was hoping you’d help me finish her.”
“Me?”
His fingertips slide down the strings once, letting the soft sound vibrate ’round us. “You’ll see.”
He goes back for more, a dark melody forming with each stroke, and moistens his lips. Clyde says, more than sings, “Death is a five-letter word, with a five-finger clutch.”
His head stays down, his jaw relaxed, eyes closed. “It cornered him, pitting him against the bigger man … By the throat, edging closer, nearing Death’s final touch.”
The rhythm quickens, the beat an unexpected surprise.
“Then there she was, light in the dark, defying Death’s plan … She stared it down, held on tight, fired off a shot all her own … Ohh”—he draws out the word, as if taunting Death—“Oh, oh, oh, death for the boy has been postponed.”
Clyde’s fingers shift to a higher pitch on the guitar. He smirks and sings from the corner of his mouth, “’Cause lean closer, listen close … How the story ends, no one knows … But one thing’s clear, you’ll see … Bonnie and Clyde, meant to be, alive and free.”
That last line, that last note hangs between us.
I forget how to breathe.
“That’s all I got for now,” Clyde says softly. “Thought maybe we could do the next verse together.”
“Together?” I wring my hands, staring into the eyes of Clyde Barrow, the criminal, the charmer, the … boy who wrote me a doggone song to show me how he cares.
“Yeah, Bonnie. You and me. What do you say?”
30
“You ran away?” Blanche’s mouth hangs open.
Beside her, I tap my heels off the base of the bar, gripping the mahogany ledge with my fingertips. “No, I walked away and got a bus home.”
“Same thing.” The sound of Blanche’s heels against the bar add to mine; only her bouncing is more energetic. “So, let me get this straight. That lad wrote you a song … with verses and everything … before you ever really met?”
“Well, one verse. But that’s so far.” I take a long, deep breath. “He asked me to finish it with him.”
“And that’s when you ran away?”
“I didn’t…” I rub my face. “Fine, maybe my pace was brisk, but before I left I said I’d think ’bout him and me.”
As Bonnie and Clyde, meant to be, alive and free.
Blanche’s head bobs. “You told him you had to think about it?”
I nod.
“See, that’s where you two are different. Clyde wasn’t thinkin’ with his head.”
“Blanche,” I say, my legs no longer swinging, “don’t be crude.”
“Bonnelyn Parker, I was referring to his heart. If Clyde was using his noggin, he’d have realized it was too soon to put an and between your names. But I’m personally glad he sang you that song.”
“I know, I know, you’ve been wanting us together all along.”
“Well, yes.” Blanche bumps my shoulder with hers. “But part of me was curious why someone like Clyde Barrow has pined for you for so long when he’s only known you through occasional glances. I mean, you’re foxy and all, but it makes sense now. He thinks you saved his life.”
I frown. “Glad that’s all cleared up for you.” I can’t say I didn’t question what made Clyde gooey-eyed for me, but it stings when your best friend was temple-tapping too.
Saving his life, though … That’s loaded, heavy. And the way he depicted us, alive and free—why wouldn’t we be?
I’ve never stood behind bars. I kick my feet. Guess I came close, if that raid were real, since this place is illegal. Question is … is being here, is going on alcohol runs and riding in stolen cars more or less illegal than how Clyde breaks the law? I ain’t even sure I know the full extent of how he has, but could it be the same? Could our intentions?
I subtly shake my head. Doesn’t matter. I’m more than a life of crime, with dreams for myself. Now I shift my weight, sliding my hands beneath my dangling legs, the bar smooth under my palms. Reckon Clyde could have dreams; he dreamed once, after all. Before it was ripped away. What’s he hope for now? A boy who thinks with his heart must have something new to hold on to.
Something more than simply me, the girl who stared down Death, who took matters into her own hands.
I smile.
“All right,” Blanche says. “Don’t keep Blanche in the dark. Bad enough you kept me waiting all day to tell me ’bout last night.”
I shrug. “Shouldn’t have skipped school.”
She stares me down, her eyebrows raised for added effect. “Well? Yes or no to Clyde? What’s the verdict?”
“Don’t have one,” I say. Besides how I like his perception of me. It’s my perception of him that’s wishy-washy.
Blanche bangs her heels against the bar. “Is it the whole no church, no school thing? Or more than that?” Her mouth forms an O, drawing out a similar sound. “Is it his elephant ears?”
“Look alive, ladies,” Mary says, coming in from Doc’s back room, her arms full of bottles. “First patrons should be arriving in three, two, one…”
Four men burst through the door and, on cue, Rosie’s voice booms from the stage. All at once, Doc’s comes to life with music and laughter. Blanche and I hop down from where we’re perched on the bar top, Blanche complaining that her gams are too tired from dancing to stand.
No surprise, Mr. Champagne Cocktail sidles up to the bar. Blanche gets to fixin’ him his drink. The night gets busy, the door swinging open to let more people in, again and again, right on schedule.
“Blanche,” I say, looking up from where I kneel, putting some new bottles beneath the bar.
“Yes’m.”
“Elephant ears?” I prod as I stand.
She laughs. “Forgot I said
that. So, those, they’re huge, ain’t they? Like two car doors on either side of Clyde’s head.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be silly. His ears are fine.”
“If you like ’em big. Though what ain’t big is that boy’s height. No sirree. Sure glad Buck got different genes.”
I narrow my eyes. “Clyde ain’t short, Blanche. He’s taller than me.”
“There!” Blanche smiles smugly. “You did it again. It’s curious you’re defending a fella you ain’t interested in.”
“What’s curious is, A, how you’re picking out the flaws of a boy you want me to fancy, and B”—I allow my irritation toward Blanche to get a bit catty, wanting to get under her skin—“how you’ve been with Buck all this time, yet he still hasn’t told you his real name.”
Now Blanche is the one to narrow her eyes. But considering she doesn’t fire back at me, I don’t know if I’m the one she’s irritated with.
I let her stew, pouring a tumbler of whiskey to busy myself so my mind doesn’t drift back to Clyde. I take a small mouthful before turning my attention to Mr. Champagne Cocktail. “How those stocks of yours doing? Buster make you rich yet?”
He takes a sip of his drink, runs his tongue over his lips. “That dip in the market left many scared; I’m no exception. The weekend showed some promise, even if there were some happenings yesterday that got people panicking again. I’ve got all my money in her, save what’s in my pocket, and I intend to use it so pretty girls can serve me drinks. Best distraction, if you ask me.” He winks.
I shake my head at his flattery and raise my glass. “To your prosperity.”
We clink, but he doesn’t lower his glass, keeping it pressed against mine.
“What’re your dreams, sweet Bonnelyn?”
His question catches me off guard. Teaching, sure. But I clear my throat, the last few years running through my head, days where my dreams involving Roy, involving companionship, took a dip—a big one—and never recovered. I still want that. My daddy would want me to have that partner in life.
The door to Doc’s opens, and a prick of excitement stirs in my belly as I watch a boy who has perfect-sized ears—and perfect timing—walk in.
Becoming Bonnie Page 25
