Roy’s ma blames me for his leaving.
Roy’s daddy says his son’s been acting foolish from the moment he bought me this damned house.
I reckon a portion of what they’re sayin’ is the truth. Ever since Roy bought me this house, pushing his dreams on me before I was ready for them—or him—I’ve started questioning things. Did we have enough passion? Would being Mrs. Roy Thornton hinder my dreams? Was something missing with Roy that made Henry, then Clyde Barrow, slip into my mind so readily?
So I stomach the accusations from Roy’s parents ’til Mr. Thornton yanks on his mustache in frustration, whips out his bottle in plain sight, and eventually leads a hysterical Mrs. Thornton away from my doorstep.
After facing Roy’s family, I know it’s time to face my own.
*
Buster paces ’cross our living room. “I’ll kill him.”
My ma sits quietly in her favorite chair, knitting. I glance at her before saying to my brother, “You sound like Blanche.”
“Fine. Blanche and I will kill him. That bastard did more than only lie to you.”
I raise an eyebrow, wondering what reason Roy told Buster ’bout his skipping town, but Billie chimes in, “I know how to use a shotgun now.”
I force a smile, and I work up the courage—and the resolution—to say, “I’m not going back to school after winter break.” I eye my ma and quickly add, “For now.” But I know that addition is for me—a promise that I will go back. I may’ve lost my husband, but I can’t lose that piece of myself. “With Roy gone, and with seeing everyone at school … I just can’t—”
Ma shushes me. She puts down her needles. She gets out of her chair. She wraps her arms ’round me. Her actions and her silence speak volumes. She doesn’t tell me that Roy will find me again, or that everything will be okay. Or that taking time off from school is a bad idea. Ma only comforts me the best way a ma knows how.
Things are different for me, after that moment.
I stop thinkin’ I’ll walk into the house and find Roy with a big gesture and an even bigger apology. Once I accept that, it’s easier to accept that Roy only continued from my childhood into my almost-adulthood ’cause he was safe, familiar, undisturbed.
Our Mason jar of doodles goes into the very back of our half-empty closet. Roy’s name remains on my upper thigh. There, always there.
I no longer go to the library; the idea of reading someone else’s romantic happy ending has lost its appeal.
Instead, I throw myself into Doc’s, relishing every moment onstage, where I feel whole.
When the clock strikes twelve on New Year’s Eve, I swallow the last of one drink and pour another, loathing the happy couples ’round me in Doc’s who kiss and clink glasses and cheer.
1928 is gone, and my heart has gone with it. In between sips, I swear off all men, vocally, to anyone who will listen, while knowing deep inside I still crave finding and having an enduring, endless love. I spend the first half of 1929 that way: in between sips, drowning my sorrows in bottled hell.
Whiskey is today’s drink of choice, while I watch a representative from the bank suffer through the summer heat to put up a FOR SALE sign in my front yard. My senses may be dull, but I saw this coming. I couldn’t afford the payments with my tips, and I wasn’t willing to watch my bank account dwindle for a house that never truly became a home.
What’s worse, when this house sells to a young, perky couple with nothin’ but stars in their eyes, I won’t see a single clam. That’s something else to hate Roy for: never putting my name on the mortgage. And now I’ll move back into a tiny room with my thirteen-year-old sister.
It’s amazing how life passes: one hour at a time, yet each day bleeds into the next. At the kitchen table, one morning, I eye the newspaper ’cross the table, curious of today’s showtimes. Recently, I spend my days sitting in the dark at picture houses. The Night of Love. Framed. Afraid to Love. Marriage. The Primrose Path. There’s something peaceful ’bout silent films, ’bout imagining the music that could accompany each scene.
Buster shakes his head. “I can feel you staring at me to get those times. Give me a second, would ya?”
My brother’s response cracks a slight smile on my face. “What ya reading, anyway?”
He flips the paper ’round for me to see the headline.
WALL STREET RECOVERS FROM PANIC AFTER STOCKS CRASH.
“I thought the stock market was booming?”
“Has been. Ya see that vacuum I bought Ma?” Buster turns the page. “That drop was just a false alarm, ’cause stock prices plummeted the other day.”
“Why?”
He shrugs, but says, “Bunch of people got spooked and sold their shares, but then, that afternoon, this fancy New York City banker insisted that banks were still lending, and he invested a huge chunk of his own money. Some of his banker friends did, too. People started to relax a bit.” He gives the newspaper a shake, settling into his new page. “Now things are recovering, prices are going back up. It was crazy, though; a bunch of Wall Street folks committed suicide when they first heard the news.”
“God, that’s lousy, and depressing.” Depressing ain’t what I need right now. “You ain’t scared that this type of thing is going to happen again?”
“I reckon if the big-dog brokers say the market is safe, then it must be, right?”
“I don’t know.” And I’m happy my money is no longer in the game.
“Regardless, I want to chat with some of my clients and assure ’em all is well. You working tonight? Bet ya a couple of ’em will be at Doc’s, but it’s hard as hell to get in there.”
“I’ll tell Buck to keep an eye out for you.”
He smiles, then flips a few pages of his newspaper to yank out today’s showtimes for me.
*
By the time Doc’s is at full capacity, I’ve watched Buster talk to two clients, and now he’s eyeing up Mr. Champagne Cocktail at the bar.
I admire that ’bout my brother, picking himself up after Kenney Rogers crushed his dreams between two slabs of cement. Took him some time—too much time, in my opinion. But here he is, with a full client roster, and in the midst of a very animated conversation with Mr. Champagne Cocktail.
Buster moved on. He’s making something of himself, just as our daddy hoped for us.
On the way to the back room, carrying an armful of glasses, I give Buster an awkward thumbs-up and make the decision: I’m going back to school. I’m still going to stand in front of a classroom.
I need to keep that promise to myself, even if I am a year behind in getting my diploma. Being older than my classmates will give ’em something else to gawk at me for. But at least Hazel’s smirk won’t be among ’em, her having graduated.
Blanche follows me into the back room. “I saw that.”
“Saw what?”
She mimics the thumbs-up I gave Buster. “That positivity. I thought you forgot how to be that way.”
“Funny,” I say dryly.