“Bonnelyn, honey…” Ma gestures down the hall.
I push back from the table, rustling Little Billie’s hair as I pass her, and meet my ma in her bedroom.
She pats the bed beside her. “I have something to tell you, but I wanted to tell you privately, as not to steal any attention from your big day.” I start to laugh, but her tone is serious, if not giddy. She grips my hands together in her lap. “Dr. Peterson said I’ve got a clean bill of health.”
“No more cancer?”
“He’s going to keep an eye on it, but he says I’m okay. We’re okay. Once these stitches are out, I’ll be back to work. And now, with Buster getting that job … I’m just feeling so relieved. Everything will go back to normal.”
Happy tears form, and I squeeze my ma’s hand.
“Which,” she adds, “includes you going back to school, Bonnelyn.”
School. I’ve been avoiding it while I’ve cared for my ma, and, ultimately, ’cause of Hazel and her gossip hags. But now I smile at the idea of Hazel seeing me prance down the hall with Roy’s ring on my finger.
Ma kisses me good night before shooing me out of her room, encouraging me to enjoy the rest of my night.
Back in the living room, Roy’s stack of poker chips is higher than anyone else’s.
“Y’all,” he says, his voice booming from the hooch, “this is getting embarrassing—for y’all.”
I shush him.
Blanche objects, “That’s only ’cause none of us know how to play. Your pile would look like mine against a real shark.”
He shrugs. “Well, I reckon it’s time for the real celebration to begin, anyway. Think you can get all of us into Doc’s tonight?” Roy asks Buck.
Buck sips from his flask, passes it to me. “Yeah, I can make that happen.”
I take a mouthful of brown, dulling the itchiness of the gown’s fabric, and watch Little Billie straighten, all her tiredness gone.
“Billie, we need you to stay here,” I say. Her pout isn’t unexpected, but she doesn’t put up a stink. Billie just gives Blanche a hug and disappears into her bedroom.
“Poor li’l thing,” Blanche says, her eyes trailing Billie. Then she turns those eyes on me, excitement making the greenness of ’em brighter. “Your ma and I made you something. Well, it was more your ma than me. I can’t sew a lick.” She gives Buck a Sorry look, and he laughs. She pulls a box out from under the sofa. “I wanted to take you out yesterday to celebrate your last night as a free woman, but your ma didn’t want you hungover on your wedding day. Go on, open it,” she says.
Roy’s hoot overpowers my awestruck gasp. I dangle the thin, white fabric, embellished with pearls and diamonds.
“Them gems ain’t real,” Blanche says with a wave. “But I reckon this is more fitting for dancing than that bulky gown you’re wearing.”
Truth be told, I can’t wait to get the gown off. I love my ma for keeping her dress for me, and hope to pass it on to Billie and then my daughter one day, but, my Lord, it’s heavy.
In no time, we’re climbing out of Big Bertha and slipping through the apartment-side door into the physician’s office. Raymond quickly greets us at the top of the stairs, a cheek kiss for me and a shoulder slap for Roy, then ushers our group down the stairs, not wanting us to linger on the main floor.
Being at Doc’s after the wonderful day I’ve had couldn’t seem more right. Rosie is onstage, belting out a tune. The dance floor is packed. Mary is running up and down the bar, serving drinks. I don’t even feel bad that that snarky gal is manning it alone.
Blanche clearly doesn’t, either. She’s got Buck by the hand, dragging him out to dance. Roy takes my arm, leading me, and my mind flashes to weeks ago, when I daydreamed ’bout Roy swinging me ’round on this very dance floor.
He twists me toward him, and I slam into his chest. We burst into laughter, the sounds getting lost in the volume of Doc’s. Apparently, I never fully imagined the extent of dancing with a very clumsy and slightly intoxicated Roy. But a smile never leaves my lips, and we don’t stop dancing ’til our clothes are soaked through with perspiration.
“I didn’t think I’d get you this sweaty ’til later,” I say, and I mean it. I’m done saving my love; no more leaving Roy wanting more.
“Does that mean I’ll finally get another—more intimate—look at that tattoo of yours?”
“And then some.”
His jaw nearly hits the floor. “I’ll drink to that, Mrs. Thornton.”
*
I open my eyes once, twice, straining to keep ’em open the third time. Sleep clings to me, and I groan. As I roll over and see my husband, disappointment only makes me groan again. Even with my nerves at becoming Mrs. Thornton, yesterday had gone wonderfully—’til the whiskey flowed too smoothly.
Last night, there was no carrying me over the threshold. Supporting Roy’s weight as he drunkenly stumbled into our house was more like it. My sexy dress wasn’t crumpled on the floor ’cause Roy haphazardly threw it there in the heat of the moment. I tossed it to the ground after slipping into a long nightgown, covering up Roy’s name.
My wedding night hadn’t gone like it does for the lovey-dovey couples in my books or films.
I turn my back to Roy. He stirs, the mattress dipping as he moves closer. I pretend to be asleep. His fingertips brush against my neck, moving aside my hair. His lips touch my skin, gentle. Roy shifts, his hand moving to knead my stomach. Slowly, his palm drifts up ’til he cups my breast. He tightens his hold, and that’s when I’ve had enough.
“No, Roy.”
The bed shifts again. I turn onto my back. Roy is propped on his elbow. “What?”
“If you think this is the backdrop for my first time making love, you’re sorely mistaken, ’specially after how you acted last night.”
He runs a hand through his greasy hair, now sticking together in clumps. “I’m sorry. I guess I got caught up in everything. You looked so good in that dress.”
“Stop. You got caught up in whiskey, not in me. The dancing part was fun. The many shots that followed, not as much.” I sit up, pulling the covers with me. “Buck had to carry you out of there.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he grumbles, but it almost sounds like it’s more in annoyance than regret.
“Are you, Roy? Do you know how embarrassing that was for me?”
Roy runs a hand down my cheek. “Let me make it up to you.”
I can forgive Roy for last night. Lord knows he’s forgiven me for worse. But the fact his breath smells like a possum died of alcohol poisoning leads me to swing my legs off the mattress, which is still lying directly on the floor, and say, “No.”
I storm away, not sure where I’m headed.
PART II
A BONNY LASS
22
Blanche sits with her legs crossed, a slew of photos surrounding her. On Buck’s coffee table, a shoebox is filled with even more.
I lean back against Buck’s couch, unable to help the smile that creeps onto my face. “Blanche Caldwell.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, creating another stack of photos.