“Ma, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I’m so sorry, Bonnelyn. It was selfish of me, and careless. That place is dangerous, and you shouldn’t be working there. Every day, I’ve hoped you’d stop going. But with Buster still out of work, I’m scared, so scared. I can’t die and leave you, your brother, and sister without any parents. So I’ve been taking your money for myself.”
“I don’t care,” I say quickly. “I have more money. I started a bank account. You can have it. All of it.”
“No, I’ve already taken too much from you. You’re not mad, Bonnelyn?”
“Of course not. I want you to be better. I’ll do whatever I need to do to make sure you get better.”
Anything, I think to myself, and hug her. It’s the God’s honest truth.
17
Sunday morning I go to church with my family, something I still do every week. So does Roy—or at least I hope he’ll be here today. From the choir box, I wring my hands and study every face that walks through the chapel’s arched entrance.
Then there he is: his golden hair, his handsome face, coming in behind his parents.
Roy’s eyes dance everywhere in the room, ’cept for on me.
I go through the motions of the service, standing when I’m supposed to stand, singing when I’m supposed to sing, pressing my hands together when I’m supposed to pray. All the while, I try to gauge what it means when Roy shifts from foot to foot, when he continually runs his fingers through his hair. Or, more importantly, why he’s wearing the flight jacket I got him.
He knows I saved months and months for it. He knows I bought it ’cause it reminds me of my daddy’s, which Ma still keeps in her closet. Why would Roy wear it if he were truly and fully done with me? Or do boys not think the same way as girls? What if his wearing it means nothin’, if he put it on this morning ’cause there was a chill in the air?
Remind him, my ma said.
I bite my lip, pretending to listen to Pastor Frank’s sermon, and rack my brain on how to fix things with Roy. An apology seems inadequate. But a promise, that could work. A reminder of the life Roy doodled for us.
A buzz runs through me. I open my hymnbook, flip from page to page ’til I find one that’s mostly white. Old Woman Myers shushes me. I tear the page out, and she gasps.
Because I’m determined, it’s easy to ignore her as I grab a pen from the pew. It’s crude, my drawing skills leave much to be desired, but Roy’s and my house takes form on the page, and then a sun. Birds speckle the sky. On the porch, we sit in rocking chairs, holding hands, smiling. I angle the paper away from Old Woman Myers, the next part too private for her prying eyes. Coming from my stick figure’s head, I sketch a thought bubble: Grow old with me.
I neatly fold the drawing, hold it between my palms, and pray I won’t lose my nerve. As soon as Pastor Frank is done with the closing prayer, I’m on my feet, out of the choir box, rushing down a less-crowded side aisle, the sanctuary resembling a hive of bees.
There’s a line at the door by the time I get there, Roy three people ahead of me.
I tap my foot, urging everyone to shake our pastor’s hand faster, to stop their mindless small talk.
Pastor Frank smiles when he sees me. I give his hand a firm shake and flutter past him. The late morning sun is blinding, and I shield my eyes, finding Roy halfway down the stairs.
My heart pounds. My legs feel like rubber as I follow him.
“Roy.”
I swallow, nearly losing my nerve as he turns, not quite looking at me, but past me.
Like a schoolgirl, I shove the drawing at him. “This is for you.”
*
Over the next few hours, every time I think of something better I could have said in that note, I rub my eyes, my forehead, my lips.
Like a caged animal, I pace my bedroom. Each lap, my eye catches on my Mason jar. Part of me wants to fling it against the wall. The other half of me is still hopeful Roy will accept my apology and we’ll add the doodle to the rest.
Little Billie stays on her side of the room, like she’s expecting I could have a breakdown any moment.
It’s possible.
And I need out. I need to be somewhere that I feel free. Within minutes, I’m dressed and out the door, heading toward Dallas. In my haste, I nearly stumble down the stairs to Doc’s.
Empty … so different than at night. My gaze lands on the piano. I walk toward it as if it’s calling my name. I settle onto the bench, my feet barely touching the pedals, fluff out my skirt, and straighten my back. There’s something ’bout sitting before a piano that requires being proper.
I start slow, my fingers lazily hitting each key. Graceful, even. But this type of piano playing is a lie. Blanche’s words and accusatory glare replay in my head. I press more firmly on the keys. The cowardly way I shoved a note into Roy’s hand slams into me like one of those new wrecking balls. Not knowing if he’ll read it, if he’ll forgive me, hits me on the backswing. I move my hands left, away from the high-pitched keys, needing the lower, bass-filled sounds. Hazel’s smug expression hits me again, pulling me deeper into my own gloom. The visual of Ma struggling to stand from her chair adds to it all, another blow.
I close my eyes and let my fingers bring my feelings—so raw, so real—to life against the keys. My face becomes lax. I’m letting the music move me, but my arms remain stiff and in control.
“Whoa.”
I rip my hands from the piano. The melody abruptly cuts off. Mary stands by the door.
“That’s some dark stuff,” she adds. “But don’t let me stop you.”
“No,” I say, not even sure if that’s an appropriate response. I rub the back of my neck, trying to bring myself out of a moment that was meant to be private, personal, intimate. “No,” I repeat, and avert my eyes. “I’m done.”
“Perfect,” Mary says, looking a bit uncomfortable, too. “You can help me stock the bar.”
So I do.
And I wait, and wait, for Blanche to strut in with her chin raised.
Only, she doesn’t.
Mr. Champagne Cocktail and his friends come waltzing in first. I check the door repeatedly, wondering why Blanche hasn’t paraded through. The minutes tick by, and I shred a napkin to pieces. Another hour mark nears, and I grab a sturdier dishrag instead, becoming more irked at Blanche for making me wait to face her.
“Careful,” Mary says, snagging a bottle. “You’re destroying this place. You’ve already left two piles of glass in the back room. And at the rate you’re going, you’ll scrub right through the bar.”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Mary starts to turn, then stops. For once, her detached and unruffled facade is softer. “I heard ’bout what happened with that fella, with your boy—”
“What?” I ask, my nostrils flaring. I know it’s Blanche’s big mouth that blabbed, probably to make herself look better.