“When did you become so sentimental?”
She holds up a photo. In it, my elbows are on the bar top, my feet on the ground, my back arched. Roy leans over me and my sparkly dress, our faces barely touching. We counted down from ten after that, bringing in 1928. That was nearly half a year ago, only weeks after we said “I do.” An attempt to start the new year on a good note.
“When did you become such a vixen?” Blanche asks.
I snort. “Tell Roy that. He says we don’t do it enough. He wasn’t complaining that night, though.” I wasn’t, either. I slip off the couch, tug on my sweaty dress, and sit beside her on the floor. “Here, let me see some of those.”
I thumb through the stack of photos from the school bonfire last year. A pirate, a court jester, and a sassy feline. Though the element that stands out most to me is not my costume but the apprehension disguised by my forced smile.
Blanche pushes another photo toward me. I’m walking down the aisle in my ma’s wedding gown. My smile isn’t what I’d call forced, but there’s a similar apprehension, as if I knew the day—and Roy—would unravel.
When I went back to school, we held hands, I showed off my ring, and the satisfaction of working toward my dreams swelled inside of me, but the moment didn’t gleam as much as I hoped it would. Maybe I’ll get a do-over when school starts again in a few weeks.
I pick up another pile of pictures to distract myself from the lingering disappointment, and then another. Blanche stands in front of a Christmas tree with someone I can only assume is Buck’s ma. Buck naps beside a picnic basket, the trees budding with signs of new life. I flip through one camera angle after another, with some shots way too close to poor Buck’s face. There’s Buck swinging from the rope at the river. And Blanche standing in Big Bertha, arms raised, head back, Buck at the wheel.
Happy … they look genuinely happy.
Blanche says something. My gaze falls on a picture of Clyde, and her voice becomes background noise. He’s sitting on the edge of a shiny car, arms crossed, his own tattoo, too small to make out, peeking out from beneath his short-sleeve shirt. I can’t help wondering ’bout the story behind it. I can’t help wondering ’bout Clyde’s story and the secrets he’s hiding in his hazel eyes, squinting against the sun.
My cheeks flush. I’ve pulled the color of his eyes from a long-ago memory, not from this black-and-white photo.
“You’ve gotten close with Buck’s family,” I say. Not a statement but a question.
Blanche stops talking, begins again. “Sure, I’ll answer that, being you ain’t interested in the story I was trying to tell.”
“Sorry,” I say.
She waves me off, grabs the photo of Clyde. I hold on a second too long, snapping my hand back when I realize, and there my cheeks go, flushing more. Blanche stares at the photo and shakes her head, as if she’s remembering something, and I widen my eyes at her—a silent Tell me that she doesn’t see.
“I took this photo before one of his trips.”
I wait—one, two, three seconds—as not to appear too eager. “To go where?”
She uses the photo to fan herself. “Ain’t really my story to tell.”
I laugh. “Since when has that stopped you?”
“Now I certainly won’t be spilling the beans.”
I roll my eyes. “Just to prove me wrong?”
“You got it. All I’ll say,” she continues, and I hide a grin, “is this car got Clyde into heaps of trouble. It was a rental, and the funny thing ’bout rentals is that you got to return ’em. Clyde didn’t, so the joke was on him. Cops busted him, locked him up for a few days.”
“Was he going to return it?”
“With Clyde, who knows? That boy’s got sticky fingers.”
“That ain’t good.” Not good at all. Says the girl who once rode shotgun in a stolen car. But I had no part in stealing it, and Buck told me the car was returned safe and sound. That is, after the scratches I put on her were buffed out.
“What’s it matter to you, Bonn?”
That question stops me. It shouldn’t matter to me. And it doesn’t.
Blanche continues, “Thought you were keeping those fingers away from Clyde?”
“I am.”
“Uh-huh. But I’d be careful letting your voice get high-pitched at the mention of Clyde’s name when you’re ’round Roy. This heat is enough to turn a fella rabid, and Roy don’t need no help to foam at the mouth.”
I get to my feet and, before I can stop myself, glance again at the photo of Clyde. His expression is proud, like he’s ’bout to do something big.
Probably something hugely illegal. Maybe that’s why I’m walking toward the door. The word illegal seems to go hand in hand with that boy, Blanche mentioning his antics as if she’s describing the weather. “We should get downstairs,” I say.
*
Down at Doc’s, the door swings open—every hour at thirteen and thirty-three—letting in four more eager patrons. By midnight, we’re at full capacity, and it’s turned into one of those electric nights where a buzz fills the air. And people are generous with their money, have been for the past few months. My bank account is fattening, has been for the past few months, ’specially with Ma back working and her medical debts nearly paid off. Buster, on the other hand … He’s struggling to get clients, but he even has clams trickling in. It’s nice not to be the only one helping out our ma.
The door swings open once more, and in walks Roy. The clock reads half past twelve, and I reposition my weight.
Blanche pauses from her conversation with Mr. Champagne Cocktail to nudge me. “Looks like Mr. Bonnelyn Parker doesn’t follow the rules of Doc’s no more.”
“Well, it appears Mr. Blanche Caldwell has no problem letting him in,” I rebut.
“Did you know he was coming tonight?”
I catch Roy’s eye, wave. “He had off from the plant, so he said he was going to work on the house all night. Reckon he needed a break, yet again. Or he decided our kitchen was better unfinished.”
“Or he got thirsty.”
Roy settles at a poker table.
“Or,” Blanche amends, “he got the urge to gamble.”
“But not say hi to his wife first.”
She whispers into my ear, “The heat making you rabid, too?”
I playfully snap my teeth and her face lights up with amusement. I wish I were half as amused. I didn’t put his name on my bank account so he could use our money so frivolously and so often at the poker table. Even if he says he’s winning, I imagine there’s a better use of his time.