She playfully slaps my knee. “Don’t go making a big deal ’bout it.”
“I’m glad your boyfriend is okay, Blanche.”
“He will be,” she says confidently. “Doc Peterson almost had to take him to the hospital. But he finally got the bleeding to stop and stitched him up good as new.”
“Good as new.” I finally loosen my grip on my book and let my shoulders relax. Buck is fine. I’m fine. Last night is over.
“He’s all loopy on painkillers, though. Looser in the mouth. I almost got him to tell me his real name. It ain’t Buck, ya know. ’Cept he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Bothers you, huh?”
Blanche sighs. “Don’t you know it.” I see the moment she moves on, humor filling her eyes. “So,” she says, drawing out the word, “I heard you almost shot someone, Bonn. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that thou shall not kill?”
I hide my smile. “I fired at the wall. On purpose.”
“Uh-huh,” Blanch teases. “You’re turning into quite the moll.”
“Thanks to you.” I roll my eyes, lower my voice. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that car was hot.”
She cringes. “I did it for you, ya know. I didn’t want you backing out. I know you need Doc’s.”
I nod my head, both of us knowing it’s true and that, despite last night, it’ll continue to be true. It has to be. Ma hasn’t mentioned my late-night outings again, even with school starting the day after tomorrow. For lack of a better plan, I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing, then work extra hard to bring home good grades. Though, lately, with Ma going to bed right after supper, I ain’t sure she’ll even notice I’m gone.
“Besides,” Blanche continues, “I didn’t tell ya ’cause I knew you’d be in good hands with Buck and his brother.”
Clyde.
Casually, I flip through the pages of Jane Eyre, then pop my head up, as if a question just came to me. “What’s the deal with Buck’s brother, anyway?”
“Ooh.” Blanche clasps her hands together. “You interested in Clyde? Could you imagine: me with Buck, you with Clyde? How grand would that be?”
I move to the shelf and say, “No.” I add a shake of my head, thankful my back is to her. “No, Blanche.” Though, if I’m being honest with myself, if she didn’t make that leap, I may’ve tried to learn more ’bout the mysterious boy. But no, of course Blanche went there, and now I bite my lip, thinking of a follow-up to my question. “I mean, why did Clyde warn you that I was on my way with Buck and then leave? I thought he’d stay to make sure his brother was okay.”
“I asked Buck the same thing. They have this rule. They call it their ‘heat rule.’”
“Which means…” I ask, facing her again.
“Let me finish.” She feigns exasperation in her own headshake. “If they ever get in a situation where things get a little hot, they separate. Even in life-or-death situations. That way, if someone gets caught, it won’t be both of ’em.”
I nod. There was a time that the idea of being in a life-or-death situation and getting pinched by the police would be outside the realm of possibilities. That time has passed.
Over the next couple of nights, that thought becomes even more apparent, ’specially after four large bathtubs are rolled into the back room of Doc’s so we can brew our own hooch. No more alcohol runs for us.
That makes me happy. At the bar, I look down at my hands and notice how the cherries, other garnishes, and bottles are now all lined up in the way I’ve come to prefer it. After spending so much time here, and after putting my life—Buck’s life—on the line for this place, Doc’s has become familiar. It’s become mine.
My eyes wander the room. Rosie is fidgeting with the height of her microphone, getting ready to sing her first song. Mary is skirting ’round the room, doing last-minute preparations. Blanche is double-checking she has everything she needs. Raymond is pulling out a seat at one of the poker tables, ready to carouse with the men who join him.
And me, I don’t feel like I’m pretending anymore to be somebody I’m not.
The first group of patrons will walk through the door any minute now. Rosie or whatever band is playing always catches their attention first. People peer through the smoky room, shoulders already starting to shimmy, trying to find the source of the music. Or perhaps that’s only how I enter.
I wonder how Roy would enter. He’s home tonight, having a rare night off. Maybe I could slip out, finally bring him here—to my place. Shouldn’t I be sharing this with him?
“Bonnelyn,” Blanche says, and smacks her hands against the bar top. “I’ve a feeling tonight is going to be epic.”
I smile. “Is that so?”
“Uh-huh. Doesn’t hurt I’m going to end the night playing nurse to Buck. I even got myself a li’l outfit to look the part.”
“Of course you did.”
“Ya always got to leave ’em wanting more.”
She winks, I shake my head, then our night begins. Four men flow into the room, none of which are Henry. I reckon that’s good. Four women are next. The cycle continues—men then women, men then women—’til the roar of Doc’s curls my lips into a smile. I lose track of what time it is, but I know hours must’ve passed, by the amount of people who now dance, giggle, tease, sling back drinks, and gamble their money away. I wipe the back of my arm ’cross my forehead, trying to keep up, and realize I never did put any more thought into sharing my world with Roy.
Blanche nods toward Mr. Champagne Cocktail. I’ve his drink made even before he can tear his eyes away from Blanche to ask me for it.
“First one’s free,” she says, with a smile that rivals a film star’s. Then Blanche takes a sip of her own drink.
I watch her a moment. Like so many times before, I envy Blanche’s easiness at being herself, free. Perhaps part of that is ’cause she goes with the flow, accepting life with open arms. That could be me.
There’s a lull in the music, and I look at the stage, all the while twisting a dishrag, ’cause I can’t stop thinkin’, I wish it were me up there.
And then I’m opening my arms and throwing down the rag. I leave the bar. My eyes are trained to the left of Rosie, on a vacant microphone.
The dance floor may as well be the Red Sea, with how people separate to form a path. Rosie smiles, her black dress shimmering in the light. I wonder if she’s seen the way I’ve longingly set my eyes on the stage, watching her sing. I wonder if she knew it was only a matter of time before I found myself under the lights. Rosie gestures, extending a hand to the microphone beside her. She lowers it to my level, as if sayin’, Join me.
A high-pitch piano note begins the song, and my step falters. I twist, trying to see Blanche, but hands are on my back, my shoulders, pushing me forward again. I swear I hear someone say, “Sing, Saint Bonnelyn.”