When I wake, my head is on Blanche’s shoulder and we’ve stopped. I lift my head and Blanche dabs her sleeve.
“Thank goodness you’re up. You’ve been drooling on me like that dog of yours.”
I wipe my chin, pull my collar higher to shield more of my neck from the too-cold air. “What’re we doing?”
“Just filling up the tank.”
“Where’s Clyde?”
“Inside, getting some grub.”
I spot him through the service station window. Buck is chattin’ it up with the gasoline attendant. “Buck can yap with anyone, can’t he?”
Blanche nods. “Probably talking business. His family owns a service station back in Dallas.”
“They own it?”
“Yeah, fooled me. I saw dollar signs when I learned that. But it ain’t like that. They’re making enough to get by. Buck told me they lived under their wagon when they first moved to Dallas.”
“Why’d they come to Dallas?”
“They were farmers.”
“Oh,” I say, not needing more of an explanation. I know the war led to a rise in farming, all those mouths to feed in Europe. But with the war over, those countries didn’t need our farms anymore. Lots of families here had to pack up and head toward cities to afford putting food on their own tables. Ironic, really. “Well, Clyde’s got a hankering to move back. He told me he’s been looking for land.”
“Yeah.” The humor vanishes from her voice. “Dallas has some bad memories for their family.”
“What do you mean?”
Buck’s whistle announces his return, and Blanche clamps her mouth shut.
“All ready to go,” Buck says, and hops into the driver’s seat. Blanche leans forward in her seat, wrapping her arms ’round Buck’s neck. “Where’s Clyde?” he asks us. “The lad tire of ya already, Bonn?”
I narrow my eyes, earning a boisterous laugh out of Buck.
Clyde returns, and we’re on our way. In less than an hour, we’ve left behind any type of civilization, and Big Bertha bounces down a rocky dirt road. Blanche and I exchange This car better not get a flat looks. On either side of us, wildflowers form a path in one direction: toward the sea. Though, ahead of us, a dune, speckled with sea grass, blocks any glimpse of the waves.
“We’re here!” Buck proclaims.
Blanche squeals and ushers the boys out of the car so we can put the roof up and change into something more suitable for the Gulf—not that either of us will go in the freezing water.
The boys scoff at Blanche’s silly desire to wear bathing suits, and I don’t blame them.
We emerge, beach shoes on our feet, stockings to our knees, shorts—cut higher than I’d like—covered by a one-piece top. Skintight, all of it. I pull my jacket tighter against the cold as the boys whistle, no longer scoffing.
Blanche shimmies her shoulders, not bothering to button her coat, then jumps into Buck’s arms, wrapping her legs ’round him and nearly whacking him upside the head with her parasol. Buck carries her up the dune, laughing at her antics.
Clyde holds out his hand. “Truth be told, I wish it was warmer so you didn’t have to wear that coat.”
I blush but swag my hips a bit more than usual as I walk toward Clyde. He takes my hand, and we trek up the sand mound together, the sun setting on our backs.
This is exactly how I wanted seeing the Gulf for the first time to be: seagulls chirping in disjointed melodies, my feet sinking into the sand, and sea grass swaying gently in the breeze, whispering to us.
The dune makes me work for each step, ’til there it is.
Freeze.
I want to commit every moment of this to memory. Me. Clyde. The sea. I knew it’d be vast—Ishmael said as much in Moby-Dick—but, my God, I feel like the blueness could swallow me from a hundred feet away. What I didn’t know, and what I want to remember forever, is the security Clyde’s hand brings me. Somehow, it makes the Gulf—hell, maybe even the world—more approachable.
“Let’s go,” Clyde says with a grin.
Buck is already running toward the water, Blanche still in his arms, her parasol and coat left behind in the sand. He bounds into the water, pants and all, his laughter deep and mischievous. Blanche screams at him, trying to shimmy up him like a tree while Buck dips, the waves catching her butt.
“You’d be smart not to try that with me,” I warn Clyde.
“I know better than to cross my lady.” Dimples appear. “Come on.” He tugs my arm and we slip down the other side of the dune’s bank, the sand giving way ’til we reach the bottom.
I tilt my head back and breathe in the salt air. “I feel so insignificant.”
Clyde pulls me closer. “Not to me.”
It’s one of his cheesy lines, but it still makes me swoon, and it’s something else I’m eager to stow away to always remember.
I squeeze Clyde’s hand. “I ain’t sure I’ll be able to go back to reality after this trip.”
He stretches out our arms as we pass on opposite sides of a large piece of driftwood. “I always believed it’s best to take life one day at a time. There ain’t ever any promise of a tomorrow.”
I sigh. “Well, if tomorrow comes, I’m going to need to find myself another job to get by. Doc’s is slow, got nothin’ in the bank—”
Clyde brings us back together, the driftwood behind us. “Then we’ll make the most of it tomorrow. We both will.”
“I’m … I’m okay with that.”
I spent enough time planning out my life, worrying too much ’bout having it all figured out. But I’ll make it work, taking it as it comes. I’ll still be there to help my ma. Little by little, I’ll rebuild again. The waves crash beside us, coming inches from our feet, receding at a slower pace. I smile.
We find ourselves stretched out on the sand, blankets wrapped ’round us, the sun fading behind the dunes, the waves becoming lost in the darkness. With a fire crackling at our feet, we pass ’round that dinner Clyde promised me, along with some brown.
“I’ve an idea!” Blanche announces.
I pause, the bottle nearly touching my lips. “Uh-oh,” I say, my voice a higher pitch than usual from the giggle juice.
Blanche snatches the bottle from me. “Let’s play a game.” She looks over the fire, focusing on each of us. Once satisfied with our accepting expressions, she goes on, “It’s called Sip or Swear It. Someone says a statement. If it’s something you’ve done, naughty friends, you sip.” She holds up the bottle. “If not, you have to swear on your mama’s grave you haven’t.”
I put both hands to my cheeks, my lips squishing.
“Bonnelyn looks nervous,” Buck says.
Clyde chuckles, but he shifts uncomfortably, too.
“I’ll go first,” Buck says. “Sip if you’ve ever snuck out of your parents’ house.”
“Child’s play,” Blanche says, and swipes the brown.
“Give me that back.” Buck takes a mouthful. “Someone had to lead, as an example for Clyde.”
“Exactly,” Clyde says, and snatches the bottle next.
I sit there, unmoving.
“Ya got to swear it, Bonn,” Blanche says. “Say, ‘I swear on my mama’s grave that I’ve never snuck out of the house.’”
I do.
“Louder,” she says.
I raise my voice.
“Louder! Make me believe it.”
I scream, then add, “But, in my defense, I’ve snuck in plenty of times.”
“Semantics,” Blanche says. “How ’bout this: sip if you’ve ever”—her brows dance—“in a church.”
No one moves to claim the bottle, ’cept Blanche.
“Baby,” Buck says, and shakes his head at her, “I do believe you’re going to hell.”
“I’ll save you a place,” she says back, and climbs into his lap, leaving her blanket behind. Buck envelops her in his. “Bonn, it’s your turn.”
I lick my lips, try to think of something wicked I’ve done. Determined, and driven
by the warmth from the hooch, I rack my brain, my lips pursing as something comes to me. I wiggle my fingers for the bottle and Blanche hands it over. “Sip if you’ve ever seen Blanche Iva Caldwell’s boobs.”
I throw back a gulp.
Buck doesn’t say a thing, just holds out his hand, reaching ’round an openmouthed Blanche in his lap.
Blanche shrugs. “I reckon I’ve seen ’em plenty of times.” Buck messily pours whiskey into her mouth.
Clyde waves his hand, gesturing toward himself. “Sorry, Buck, but your girl wasn’t exactly discreet when she was changing in the car.”
Blanche bursts into laughter and holds the blanket tight ’round Buck as he tries to shimmy out from under her. Clyde jumps up from the sand, palms out, but he’s laughing like a goon.
“Aw,” Blanche says, giggles again. “Would you look at that? My bubs bring us all together, make us a gang.”
“Oh, we’re a gang now?” Buck says.
“Yes,” I say. Clyde settles next to me again, and I lean into him, the fire flickering in front of us. “I like that. We’re the Barrow Gang.”
33
My hand dangling over the couch’s edge feels empty, vacant. I struggle to open my eyes. My first fear is that someone came for Clyde, nailed him to one of his crimes. But his pillow and blanket are stacked neatly on the floor of Blanche and Buck’s apartment, and I relax back into the couch.
“Did I wake you?” I hear.
A smile pulls at my lips even before I turn my head. There he is, the signs of sleep still in his hair, perched on the armchair, pulling on his second boot. A little sand from the Gulf has slipped out of his shoes.
“Tell me that clock ain’t right and we’ve only been back for two hours.” I push to a sit and yawn. “What are you doing up?”
Clyde shrugs. “It’s tomorrow, ain’t it? I’m going to make good on my promise to ya.”
This boy is something, off again to find a job, to do right by me. But I laugh, saying, “I don’t know if the birds are even awake.”
A mischievous look ’crosses his face. “How ’bout I go find out?”
After a soft kiss on my forehead, he’s out the door, pounding the pavement, and I sink back into the couch. I should be out there, too. I pull my blanket up to my chin. But, right now, I can’t help wanting reality to wait a few more hours, like as soon as I start looking for that job, I’m officially replacing my teaching dreams.
The door flies open.
“Bonnie!” Clyde calls, breathless, as if he just took three flights of stairs two steps at a time.
He says a bunch more. All my tired brain deciphers is how I need to hurry. Lassies are swarming, whatever that means.
Clyde barely gives me the opportunity to use the restroom, swish some water ’round my mouth, and throw a coat over my shoulders before we’re out the door.
“Where’re we going?” I grip the stair’s railing, happy that Clyde’s pace has slowed, but he only tells me again to hurry.
He whisks me onto Elm Street and points. “See all ’em down there?”
I squint. “Yeah?”
“Those lassies are outside Marco’s Café.”
“Okay?”
“Marco’s has got a spot open for a waitress.”
Clyde drags me again, my mind still playing catch-up. There’s got to be twenty, no, at least thirty women crowding the entrance to the café, all of ’em hollering ’bout being picked for the job.
I laugh. “How do you reckon I’ll be the one to get it?”
He half turns toward me, winks, pulls me faster.
“How is there even a job up for grabs?” I ask, between ragged breaths.
Clyde taps his noggin. “Marco’s being smart, gonna stay open twenty-four hours a day, hoping to become the spot where everyone goes for gossip ’bout our damned country. He needs one more lassie to add to his rotation.”
My stomach hitches with excitement. Marco’s Café is in the heart of Dallas. That means one thing: it pays well, much more than my old diner did. I’d be stupid to pass this up.
Within steps, we’re at the back of the crowd, the very overwhelming crowd of women, all with their claws out. The door to the café opens and out walks Marco—or a man I assume to be Marco. The volume of pitched voices rises. He points to a woman, asks her if she’s ever waitressed before. He waves her off, points to another. Women jockey for Marco’s attention. Elbows jab. Hats fall.
I bite my lip. Going up on my tiptoes does nothin’, and it ain’t looking good for me, way back here. I shoot Clyde a panicked look.
“Get up on my shoulders,” he yells over the roar.
“What? No. I’ll crush you.”
“Please, you could fit in my pocket.”
“If you had a bigger pocket.”
His eyes shine with amusement, but also earnestness, as he motions to the frenzy of women in front of us. “It’s now or never, Bonnie. What did I say before, ’bout sometimes having to pry open that door of opportunity? Uncle Sam certainly won’t do it for you.”
I groan. That’s for damn sure. Clyde drops to one knee, and I climb onto his shoulders. We wobble—once, twice—’til he’s steady on his feet. I fling my arms into the air, waving my hands. My coat slips off my shoulders and Clyde tightens his grips on my thighs.
I feel like a loon, but I also feel good, determined, as adrenaline courses through my body. I match the other women’s screams for attention, and then it happens: Marco points directly at me, up here on Clyde’s shoulders, taller than the rest.
* * *
Blanche spoons some cheese grits into her mouth, making a very satisfied-sounding moan.
On my feet, I glance ’round, shushing her. A man and woman at the adjacent table lift their brows, though the husband’s expression differs from his wife’s. His is nonchastising.
“These here grits are to die for.” Blanche licks her spoon, and I refrain from peeking again at the man. “Much more suitable to Blanche’s standards than your old diner’s.”
I refill her coffee, my head bobbing. “Pay’s much better, too.”
Blanche drops a sugar cube into her coffee, eyeing me. “Does that mean you’re going to get off my couch soon? Can’t blame you for not wanting to share a room with Billie no more, but I’ve lost track of how many nights you’ve stayed with us.”
Nine, starting the night we got back from the Gulf.
Three nights with Clyde on the floor, me on the couch, arm dangling over the edge, not wanting to let go of his hand.
Six nights with Clyde on the couch, me in his arms, holding me against him, the warmth of his breath caressing the back of my neck, heating my entire body.
I don’t plan on stopping now. “Now we’re even, after you stayed at my ma’s house all those nights.”
Blanche presses her lips together. “I wasn’t doing any funny business on your couch.”
I laugh. “Well, I don’t got enough for my own place. And Clyde’s had no luck finding another job.”
Blanche’s eyebrow arches. “You ain’t going to deny necking with him?”
I hold up my pointer finger, telling her to give me a second, and slip away, leaving Blanche with her mouth hanging open. I go from table to table, refilling coffee, checking on orders, pleased the morning rush has been busy. Between here and Doc’s, I’m busy enough to help Ma pay our bills. I’m thankful she’s still at the factory, and with only a slight dip in her hours. With Buster striking out at finding something new, my tips wouldn’t be enough by themselves.
Blanche’s booth is in the corner, always giving her a clear view of me. I chuckle to myself—even more when I walk back toward her and her stern face.
“Well?” she says.
Wiping my hands down my apron, I say, “This is me, not denying that”—I lower my voice—“necking.”
Blanche’s face lights up. “Petting, too?”
“I ain’t going to answer that.”
Blanche’s interest finds its way back to her
bowl, and I think to myself, Petting, too. But no more than that. I finger my wedding band, not certain why I keep this thing on. Another reminder, to go along with my tattoo, perhaps? Maybe I’ll toss aside the silver band once I finally make something of myself. Not as a teacher. I ain’t trying for that right now. Not only has life stood in the way but also that wound feels too fresh, too painful to push on right now. So I’m doing as Clyde suggested, taking every day as it comes but keeping my sights set on the big things that await us. “Anything,” he said. Anything could await us.
“Wouldn’t it be amazing,” I say to Blanche, “to make it big, to see your name in lights one day? Clyde and I could do it together. He’ll play. I’ll sing.”
Blanche smirks, a spoonful of grits halfway to her mouth. “I reckon Clyde’s more likely to see his name in black and white than in lights.”
“Nope.” I let the end of the word pop. “Not anymore. He’s given that all up.”
“So I’ve seen.” She taps her spoon on the edge of her bowl. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind if Buck did, too.”
I let out an exaggerated gasp. “I thought the fact he’s been arrested was scandalous and delicious?”
“Clyde’s idea of a quiet life on the farm don’t seem half bad. Buck in overalls, nothin’ underneath, sounds mighty scandalous and delicious to me.”
I glance over my shoulder. A few people are doing that thing where they nonchalantly raise their chins to look ’round, for me. “I worry ’bout that.”
“Buck in overalls?”
“No, farming. It ain’t an easy way to make a living.” Though I could see myself in that life with Clyde. Really, any life with Clyde.
Blanche shrugs. “Not sure there’s an easy way for anybody nowadays.” She points to her empty bowl. “Can I get more of this?”
I leave to put in Blanche’s order and begin my loop of the room, beginning with the round tables by the windows.
In between What can I get ya? and Would ya like me to top you off?, I keep an ear to the gossip, still mostly ’bout what’s being called Black Tuesday, the day the market fell apart. Most say it started falling apart with the opening bell. Like madmen, people were shouting, “Sell! Sell! Sell!” It’s no surprise over sixteen million shares switched hands. One woman, caught up in the drama, claims it took fifteen thousand miles of paper to record it all. When another woman starts yapping ’bout the investors who jumped from windows, I turn away, and the table in the corner catches my eye.
Becoming Bonnie Page 28
