I shift uncomfortably in the hard chair and eye the other visitors. Some try to quiet their young children. Others look worn down, as if a strong breeze could knock ’em over.
I’ve chatted with a few of ’em. Many of their men fell apart after the crash, either committing robbery after losing their money or simply having too much time to find trouble after losing their jobs. Unemployment is up, along with aggression. Both are the highest ever.
Of course, there’s the other half of the men, like Clyde—and his cellmate, says his wife—who were on a path to these cells long before the stock market took a nosedive.
The old Bonnelyn wouldn’t be okay with a man stealing to give himself a leg up, but Bonnie, she’s a different story. Clyde picked me up when I was at my lowest point, ironically giving me what I’ve desired all my life: love and stability. Just not in the way I expected. I couldn’t ever feel poor with Clyde by my side.
I’ve had plenty of time to come to that conclusion, plenty of time to think ’bout a life without Clyde. And I’m still here, staring down the barrel of his five-year sentence, ’cause of the thefts he committed over the past few years. After he was sentenced, my ma said, “It’s time to let him go. Clyde ain’t the right boy for you.”
But I told her, “We thought Roy was, and look how he turned out. With Clyde, I know exactly what I’m getting, and that’s a man who’ll always be good to me.”
That’s stability. Clyde’s words, and more so his actions, prove to me that we can have the kind of love that’s long-lasting and enduring.
The doors to the visitation room click open, and I sit up straighter, eager to see my man. A parade of inmates walks through, in their white prison garb, followed by armed guards. Clyde’s cellmate settles at a table ’cross the room, visiting with his wife, Olive. Nice girl.
Scruff hides Clyde’s face, but it can’t hide his happiness when he sees me. My stomach flutters with excitement and desire, but also with apprehension, as I scan his body for signs of the other inmates and those damn guards roughing him up. In prison, Clyde’s smaller size makes him the runt of the litter.
His limp is improving. But a new gash cuts ’cross his forearm. There’s always something new.
He sits opposite me, and I stretch my hands over the table, stopping an inch from his skin, yearning to touch him. I tried that once, and a guard wagged his gun at me a second later.
“How are you?” I ask him.
One, then two dimples show. “Better, now that you’re here.”
I smile, too. “You say that every time I come.”
“It’s true today, will be true the next time you’re here.”
“I hate to think ’bout you here another day.”
“Bonnie, it’d be okay if you didn’t come. You shouldn’t be spending your days off at a place like this.”
“Nonsense.” But I think ’bout his sentence and nearly shudder at what all that time could do to both of us. Clyde stuck in here. Me, stuck in my static life, waiting for it to begin again with him.
He moves his hands closer to mine as we talk, as each precious minute passes us by. When the guard yells that time is up, it takes all my strength not to leap ’cross the table and cling to Clyde’s neck.
“No,” I say, breathless. “It’s too hard to leave you.”
Clyde licks his lips. “I’ll be okay, Bonnie.”
“Will you?” I ask. Will Clyde’s carefree demeanor survive five years in this place?
He stands, offering me a single nod. It’s clear, even in his baggy clothing, that he’s lost a few pounds. I bite my lip, stifling a cry, as Clyde shuffles back through the door with the other inmates.
Later, at Doc’s, it’s no surprise that Clyde is all I can think ’bout. Five years—five years without him, besides a couple measly minutes, and only on the days where work ain’t standing in the way. I shake my head. That’s not okay. So much wasted time, when we could be creating verse after verse in our song.
Our song. In between mixing drinks, I do my best to write down the lyrics on a napkin, needing to see the words, to imagine the melody, to reread the lyrics again and again.
Blanche banters with a new patron, but I don’t have the heart to get to know the random faces that replace our regulars. Regulars are a thing of the past, no one having enough money to let off steam more than once in a while.
I should be happy the dance floor is half filled tonight, that, despite all those empty pockets, people still come to drown their doubts in our bathtub gin, but I keep thinkin’ how Clyde once wanted something so badly he had it inked on his body. Yet it was ripped away from him, unfairly, against his control.
And me, I’ll have three letters forever etched on my skin, now nothin’ more than a reminder of a dream that chipped into pieces. I thought I’d lost it all. Then Clyde helped me find myself again. He opened my eyes to a different kind of life, a blank page to fill, a song to finish. I can’t let the possibility of that happiness be taken from me.
And that’s what’s happening. The world today ain’t giving Clyde and me a fighting chance. It’s backing me against a wall: I can not see Clyde for five years, let those four walls confine him, break him, change him.
Or I can take matters into my own hands.
Isn’t that what I told Clyde, that there comes a point when you got to push back, make things happen for yourself?
I thumb the napkin, brushing over the words Bonnie and Clyde, meant to be, alive and free.
I’d gladly turn the guards’ guns on them, demanding they let Clyde go, if I could end that five years right this second. I can feel that gun in my hand. I’d do it. I’d do it for Clyde—and me.
I bite my lip. Even if I got him out, our lives wouldn’t be the same. The name Clyde Barrow would be equivalent to “fugitive.” But I’d still be saving him, even if he’d have to lie low. Lower than before.
It’d be a new way of living. Together. That’s what’s important.
Pressing my lips together, I release a Hmm from deep in my throat. An idea forms. I peer ’cross the room, note how Buck is manning the poker tables.
“Blanche!” I shout over Rosie’s singing. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you going?”
“Just need a minute.” I snatch my bag from beneath the bar.
I push through the sweaty bodies and cigarette smoke, also pushing away any thoughts that I could be losing my mind, and make my way to Buck’s apartment. Pulling out the key that Blanche gave me, I let myself inside.
It’s dark, eerie. But it’s probably only eerie ’cause I’m sneaking ’round like a lovesick fool. Honestly, I don’t doubt that Blanche and Buck would support the crazy plan bouncing ’round my head, but the fewer people involved, the less that could go wrong.
I risk turning on a light and begin to scrutinize Buck’s apartment, opening drawers, peeking beneath cushions, scouring closets. With a smile, I find what I’m looking for, beneath his mattress: a pistol.
It’s heavy in my hand, it feels heavier than the gun I fired in that alleyway. Maybe it’s the implications behind the gun’s purpose.
I won’t be firing at a wall this time.
* * *
My palms are sweaty. My heart thumps so loud I hear it in my ears. I was unable to sleep last night, telling myself again and again that my crazy plan will work, and, today, tiredness weighs me down. Still, I urge my legs faster toward the jail’s entrance, afraid that, if I slow, I’ll lose my nerve. I’ll start thinkin’ ’bout what’ll happen if things go sour. I could end up in a cell, more fragile than Clyde. Clyde’s sentence could get doubled. The wrong kind of shots might be fired.
Hell, I realize how loose my plan actually is. But I can’t turn back now.
Stopping in front of a prison guard, I hand over my bag to a second one, spread my legs, extend my arms to the sides.
The first man palms my waist, his fingers firmly pressing into my dress. He slides his hands lower, bending as he goes. The top of hi
s head brushes against my breasts. His hands wrap ’round my outer thighs and I gasp, my heart skipping a beat. I force breath back into my lungs and say, “You go any farther inside my legs and I’ll report you for lewd behavior.”
He chuckles to himself, as if it’s a game, then moves his hands lower, down the outsides of my legs, ’round my ankles. I will my pulse to slow as he runs a hand along my neckline, taking care when examining my breastbone. His hot breath hits my face as he drags his fingers through my hair, way too close for comfort.
Finally, he’s done. Disgusted, I yank my bag from the second guard, who is now finished with his search, and head toward the visiting room. When I’m sure no one is watching me, I slip inside the restroom and kick open the doors to empty stalls. With my skirt hiked up, I tear the tape from my inner thigh, from right over Roy’s name, and carefully remove Buck’s pistol.
In the mirror, I watch my chest rise, fall. I’ve done it; I’ve smuggled a gun into the prison. A new wave of panic hits me, centered on the fact that, after I do this, after I pass it to Clyde, I could be sending him to his death. He could get caught—I rub my mouth—but he could also escape. I remind myself of a simple truth: we can be together, now, not five years from now.
When life closes one door, another opens, or you can pry it open. Right?
The chance of being with Clyde now is worth it all.
I take one final look at myself in the mirror—lips thin, cheeks rosy, eyes vibrant—and I’m ready. In the visitation room, I slink into a seat at the table farthest from the guards and lay my bag on its side, the opening facing the wall. I subtly glance at Olive, who is also waiting for her man.
When Clyde comes into the room, I fluff my hair, smiling pleasantly. “How are you?” I ask him in a sugary voice.
As if he’s gauging my odd behavior, his response comes out slower than usual. “Better, now that you’re here.”
“I’ve decided that I ain’t coming no more.”
Clyde’s head twitches, like he heard me wrong.
I smile at his reaction. Before he can truly be let down, I extend a shaky hand and tap the inside of my bag, momentarily revealing the gun.
“Bonnie,” Clyde says between his teeth.
“Yes?”
He presses his hand so hard, so long, against the table that his fingertips turn white. His eyes scan the room, though his head remains still. “I reckon you’re a better actress than you give yourself credit for.”
“Why, thank you,” I say.
“And mighty proud of yourself.” He chuckles. “My God, Bonnie, what am I going to do with you?”
I shrug. “Someone once told me that big things await us.” I lower my voice. “But not in here.”
He glances again at the bag, and my smugness begins to wane, nerves setting back in. It’s almost time.
Clyde must notice the change in my demeanor, and he shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with not knowing my plan.
I rack my brain for a way to fill the void in our conversation, so we don’t raise suspicion, but then the commotion begins.
Olive has her man, William, in an embrace. The guards yell at them. She only holds on tighter. Guns raised, the guards stomp ’cross the room toward them.
I shove my hand into my bag, thrust the gun toward Clyde. The scraping sound it makes against the table seems like the loudest thing I’ve ever heard, despite the uproar in the room.
He fumbles with the gun—the first time I’ve ever seen him panic—but quickly recovers, bending to put the gun under his pant leg.
When he straightens, heaven help me, there’s amusement in his eyes.
“Bonnie Parker, you’re going to be the death of me.”
“Me? I thought I was the one who defies Death’s plans?” I ask, referencing a line in our song.
The guards yell, at last gaining order, and they demand that all inmates vacate the room.
“Tonight,” Clyde whispers. “By the river.”
I subtly nod. I have to clasp my hands together to stop from touching him; I’m hungry to feel the softness of his lips. As he walks away, a deep sadness comes over me, my body feeling heavy at the realization that the last time I did feel his touch was when he moved me aside to surrender to the officer.
That won’t be—can’t be—the last time.
36
Palm facing up, I extend my hand, and wait.
Blanche twists her lips, one hand on the doorframe of her apartment. “You expect me to give you Big Bertha’s keys without knowing why?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to hide my annoyance and worry and fear. “I will tell you all ’bout it after I get back.”
“Which will be when?”
“By the morning.” I let out a controlled breath. “Blanche, come on. This is important.”
“But then—”
“Listen, Buck will be very happy when I return. Give me your keys for him.”
“You mean Freddy?”
I shake my head in confusion, irritation. “What?”
“I’m calling him Freddy ’til he tells me his real name.”
“Your daddy’s name?” I squeeze my eyes closed, searching for more patience, continuing before Blanche can respond. “Please, this is important. I need your keys.”
She sighs. “Fine. You know, you’re becoming the dramatic one.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, and snatch the keys she dangles in front of me.
Once in Big Bertha, my foot itches to press the pedal to the ground. I arrive faster than the bus normally takes, much faster, then loop ’round to the back of the prison grounds. An old dirt road lies beyond the fenced exercise yard and a row of trees, parallel with the river.
I park, hidden by the trees, but, second-guessing myself, I drive more—then a little more—searching for the best cover. I reverse one, two, three trees.
Get it together, Bonnie.
I cut Big Bertha’s lights and engine and force my hands into my lap.
The breath I let out is slow, almost as slow as the setting sun. I’m not sure what time Clyde plans to make his escape. But I’m here.
I roll down the window, shiver, and promptly put the window back up. ’Cept, I realize I can’t hear as well, and what if Clyde calls my name? The glass goes down again and I peer out into the darkness.
Just as promptly, the trees play with my eyes, branches becoming limbs, the trunks becoming Clyde’s torso. Worse yet, my mind wanders again, to dangerous places, places where Clyde gets caught, his jail sentence gets longer, or—I shudder—he finally succumbs to Death’s plan.
No. I pull the napkin from my pocket and squint, barely making out our song in the darkness, but needing to hear Clyde’s voice: Death is a five-letter word, with a five-finger clutch … It cornered him, pitting him against the bigger man … By the throat, edging closer, nearing Death’s final touch … 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, oh, oh, oh, death for the boy has been postponed.
Those words, those positive words, are what I need right now, even if only in my head. They remind me how I’ve never truly told Clyde how I feel ’bout him. Studying the cadence, the sequence of rhymes, the rhythm of Clyde’s lyrics, I flip over the napkin.
The first line comes to me in an instant.
Dreams can be forgiving, with second chances to strive.
I scribble it down, now unable to see the ink on the napkin. I place my finger on the last mark of the pen, so I know where to write again, and compose the next line in my head, making it personal, using she, the way Clyde used he.
But only if—she says from the heart—dreams are big enough.
No. I clear my mind, rejiggering the sentiment, pulling from how I felt right before I’d met Clyde.
But only if—she says from the heart—all is truly lost.
Yes. The next words fall into place, as I imagine myself at that breaking point.
Love has failed, ho
pe is gone, feeling no need to survive.
I pause and imagine the guitar’s beats. This is where the rhythm quickens; this is where it all changed for me.
Then there he was, after all this time, saving her, no matter the cost … He looked into her eyes, held on tight, told her he’d never let go … Ohh—I draw out the word in my head—oh, oh, oh, hope for her future has been restored.
I put down my pen. I smile, despite how my heart aches for Clyde. It’s too dark to read the lyrics back to myself, and I hold ’em against my chest. That helps.
This is going to work. It has to.
But, with each passing minute, I fall victim to thoughts of everything that could go wrong. I light one cigarette after another and jump at every delicate sound outside the car.
It’s not Clyde. It’s never Clyde.
My fingers tap faster. My knee bobs up and down.
This ain’t going to work. Too much time has passed. He’s been caught. The confidence I’ve forced into existence wanes. That limp, those bruises … they’ll be child’s play compared to how Clyde is punished ’cause of my foolish, love-struck plan.
I hear a burst of noise—the clattering of a chain-link fence. Then voices, two male voices. I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry, and my mind buzzes with activity. Prime the engine? Shout Clyde’s name? Hope it’s him?
It’s got to be him, and every second I’m doing nothin’ is another second Clyde can be caught. I flick the headlights, hold my breath, and pray it’s Clyde’s eyes that see the burst of light.
It’s sickly quiet. My chest burns for air. Two figures creep ’round a tree, and I exhale.
Clyde. I know it’s him.
A sob escapes me. I’m running toward him before I even knew I left the car. Jumping on him, I wrap both my legs ’round him, nuzzling into his neck. Cinnamon and nicotine. That scent somehow still remains, after all this time locked in a cell. Or maybe it’s my mind once again willing what I want into existence.
Clyde holds me with one hand, strokes my hair with the other, whispering my name into my ear. I was worried he wouldn’t survive, but it’s not ’til this moment that I truly grasp the danger he’s put himself in, that I’ve put him in, by giving him that gun.
Becoming Bonnie Page 30
