Becoming Bonnie

“It ain’t like things stay a secret ’round here. Honestly, I’m surprised you lasted weeks without your boy finding out ’bout all your dirty little secrets.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, scrubbing the bar top even harder. I don’t need Mary’s voice to add to the one already in my head, ’bout how Roy’s and my ailing relationship was never really Blanche’s fault.

Mary shrugs. Over her shoulder, the door to Doc’s slowly opens. Four men walk in, and I gasp. I know them well. Charles, George, and Edward, from the cement plant. The final man: none other than my brother.

“Buster,” I say under my breath. Someone else who’s ’bout to unravel my secret. I brush past Mary, pushing the dishrag into her stomach.

I know I could hide from him, but I won’t, and I fight my way ’cross the dance floor, carelessly knocking into people. The entire time, my mind races ’bout what I’ll say to my brother. The moment he sees me, recognition lights up his narrow eyes.

His friends flank him on either side, his group lingering inside the door as if they don’t know which direction to go next.

“So this is where you go every night?” Buster shouts over the noise. Not even a hello.

I examine his face, but I don’t know if he’s angry or not. “Yeah, guess it was only a matter of time before you found out.” I scan the familiar room. “It’s a good place.”

Buster’s expression is impossible to read as he says, “It was hell getting in. Bouncer only agreed ’cause I told him that you’re my sister.”

I raise my brows at how he knew I’d be here.

“Roy told me.”

His name is a punch to my gut.

“Wow, Bonnelyn,” George says. “This place is amazing.”

“Thank you?” I reply, not sure if that’s the right answer. Doesn’t matter; a girl on the dance floor has already stolen Buster’s friends’ attention.

I roll onto my tiptoes to talk into my brother’s ear. “Ma knows ’bout this place, Buster. So don’t go thinkin’ you’re going to tattle on me. She’s already got enough going on.”

He studies me before he says, “She’s sick.” When I don’t act surprised, he goes on, “Having surgery soon.”

“So she told you?”

He nods.

“Does Little Billie know too?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Good.

“This place pays well?”

I raise a brow. “Yeah.”

He bobs his head. “Ma told me she’s got to stop working to get her strength up. She’s been ’fraid to tell you. Says she’s doesn’t want to put any more pressure on you.”

I swallow, already feeling the weight of being the family’s only breadwinner, and turn toward Rosie onstage. Our conversation feels too heavy for Doc’s. I come here to feel free, but my real life keeps tailing me.

Buster’s eyes follow my line of sight to Rosie. She motions for me to join her. “You get up there and sing?” he asks.

I smile. “Yeah. It makes me happy.”

“I reckon if it makes you happy, this place can’t be all that bad.”

“So you ain’t going to hog-tie me and carry me out of here?”

“Nah. We need the money. Besides, that’d be hard with only one hand,” he says. “But I don’t need two hands to have myself a drink.”

I should’ve known Buster and his wild ways would like Doc’s. His friends certainly do, having already disappeared onto the dance floor. I smile, and pride that Doc’s is mine flows through me. “Follow me.”

Mary snickers at me when I return behind the bar, Buster grabbing a seat on the other side. “Sheesh, Saint Bonnelyn, how many men do you have? You’re going to need a new nickname.”

“Funny,” I say dryly. Then I turn to my brother. “She’s only razzing me.”

He gives me a Better be expression.

“Mary,” I continue, “this is Buster—my brother.”

She accepts his handshake but addresses me. “I reckon that look in your eye means he’s off-limits.”

I nod, and Buster laughs.

“Just as well,” Mary says, and points to Raymond at a poker table. “I’ve got that buffoon over there. He’s enough work as it is. Now, how ’bout some brown.”

Mary grabs a bottle of whiskey and sets out two small glasses, fills ’em, pushes one to Buster, keeps one for herself. “Shall I pour another?” she asks me.

Buster hoots. “You’re telling me that you’ve been here all these weeks, Bonn, and you haven’t had any?”

Mary rocks her head back and forth, answering for me, and I shoot her a glare. My brother beams proudly at me, then he gets this flicker in his eyes. It’s a tiny ache in my heart, with how much it resembles our daddy’s mischievousness.

“Well then, let’s add some hair to your chest,” he says.

A third glass is set in front of me, and I blow out a breath.

“Bottoms up.” Mary slings back her brown. Buster drinks his, grimaces.

I hesitate. “Oh, what the hell,” I say, figuring the alcohol may ease my Blanche-related anxiety.

I grab the glass, spilling some. I take a mouthful, swallow it down, cough, my throat feeling as if it’s on fire. I open my mouth, hoping some of the heat will escape, and cough again.

“Tickles, doesn’t it?” Mary says, smiling.

I breathe out, hoping no one realizes there’s still a little whiskey left in my glass. “Something like that.” My torso and limbs feel warm.

Buster asks me if I want another, and I feverishly decline. I fix him another drink, though, along with the other men and women who stumble up to the bar. It’s nice, spending time with my brother. In between patrons, we talk. I actually laugh. He doesn’t utter Roy’s name, and I’m thankful for that. Neither of us mentions our ma or our money situation again. I don’t think he wants to face it, either.

“How ’bout one more?” Buster asks.

“Mary ain’t going to like I’m giving away all her juice.” But I’ve already got the gin in the glass and I’m working on adding the soda.

Buster grins, turning in his seat and propping his elbows against the bar. Leaned back, that boy doesn’t look like he’s got a care in the world. Or maybe he’s just got himself a real good buzz, this being his third drink in less than an hour.

“Bonn.” With his back to me, he turns his head. “Bonn,” he says again.

I drop beneath the bar to grab a new bottle. “Yeah?”

When I stand, Buster is facing me again, his shoulders no longer relaxed. “Who’s that guy?”

“Which guy?” I ask, and imagine Mr. Champagne Cocktail doing something stupid again. Just last week he used his pants like a cape on the dance floor.

But, no, Buster is acting every part of a protective big brother, the way he’s shifting his chair farther to the right, blocking where I stand.

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at you,” he says.

I lean to the side and heat stabs me in the stomach.

Mary comes up beside me. “No way. Never thought I’d see him again.”

Me either.

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