I shake my head. “I saw that photo Blanche took of you”—the one where you looked so proud, capturing the moments before you set out to enlist—“but Buck did tell me ’bout stealing those turkeys to give your ma Thanksgiving dinner.”
Clyde’s dimples appear. “Reckon you know all my secrets, Bonnie.” He pauses. “’Cept for where I want to take you right now. We got to hurry, though.”
I twist my lips. It’s not that I ain’t curious where; it’s that Clyde’s all shiny. Even in his casual tee and pants, he’s polished, practiced. Ain’t that exactly the type of boy I should be taking a wide berth ’round? I heard, one time, how the most poisonous of animals ain’t the dull ones but the ones that catch your eye.
“Bonnie, you know what I learned from both those experiences?” Clyde touches his tattoo.
“What’s that?”
“Sometimes ya got to take what you want.”
My lips start to curl into a smile, liking the boldness of the sentiment, even if I ain’t sure what he means. I’m jolted forward with Clyde’s sudden strides, trailing behind him, my hand in his.
29
“Well, ain’t this cozy,” Clyde whispers, the soundless opening credits casting a light glow on his face. He rocks his shoulders against his plush, red seat, getting comfortable. “Glad you could join me.”
I bite back a smile, flipping my ticket stub for Broadway Melody forward and back. The chilled air still labors in my lungs from racing down the street to the Melba Theater. “You think you’re something, don’t you?”
Clyde crosses his ankles. “Not sure I know what you mean, Bonnie.”
I cross my arms. “Ironic, how you already had two tickets.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, dancing ain’t my thing.”
“But films are?”
“Nope.” He prolongs the word into two parts. “Not really. But you like ’em.”
At a loss for how to reply, I scratch my non-itchy nose. Eventually, I say, “How do you know that?”
He smirks. “Blanche showed me a photograph.”
“Funny,” I whisper.
He points to the front of the theater, lowers his voice further. “It’s starting.”
I’m left staring at his silhouette as the opening chorus drowns out any lingering conversations in the room. This boy is definitely shiny. Confident. Smooth. Like now, leaned back in his seat, arms relaxed on either armrest, not a dark hair out of place, grinning.
Lord help me, I’m grinning too. I slouch into my seat, also getting comfortable, ready to enjoy the vaudeville sister act of Anita Page and Bessie Love. I won’t tell Clyde I saw this film last week. Then, I sat alone, wishing someone filled the seat beside me.
My eyes flick to the screen, where I recognize New York City’s skyline, then back to Clyde. The lines of his cheekbones cast shadows on his cheeks. A scar on his temple, similar to one Roy has, catches the dim light.
I sit up straighter. That half-inch blemish is sobering.
I was with Roy when that branch scratched his face. His scar was harmless, a mistake. Clyde’s could be from anything. A brawl. Some petty theft. One of those moments where he felt the need to take what he wanted.
Though it didn’t do me much good to marry a man I knew my whole life. Does knowing Clyde’s nothin’ but trouble make it better—going in eyes open? Even if what I know ’bout him only dusts the bottom of the barrel?
On-screen, the actors’ voices boom. That’s what should be capturing my attention. Yet, it’s not. I strain to study Clyde from the corner of my eye, wondering if I’m foolish for each moment I spend with him.
Clyde doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t angle toward me, yet his lips move. “I like music.”
“Huh?” I say to him.
Clyde twists, his hazel eyes glistening from the screen’s hue. “I ain’t much for dancing or films, but I like music.”
He begins to return his focus to Queenie Mahoney on-screen, but I stop him with my question. “What kind of music?”
“Strummin’.”
“You play the guitar?” I ask loudly. The man in the row behind us shushes me. I don’t care. The idea of Clyde playing music, something that makes me feel alive, has me sitting even straighter in my seat.
Clyde nods. “With a few words thrown in.”
I wouldn’t have pegged Clyde as someone to cradle a guitar in his lap.
“Well, don’t go looking so stunned, or whatever that face is, Bonnie.”
Buck said Clyde fancies himself a poet, and now I want nothin’ more than to hear him sing. God knows I’ve already witnessed how clever his words can be. “Will you play for me?”
He twists his lips.
“Clyde,” I press.
His response sounds like Lazy and Exasperated went and had a baby when he says, “All right.”
We’re shushed again, and I turn my attention to the screen, where it doesn’t stay long. The idea of Clyde playing music is too intriguing. I’d guess his singing voice is even lower than his usual voice. I see the song’s melody, slow, steady. I wonder how well he can carry a tune. A few long minutes pass before I give in and ask, “I’d like you to play for me, now.”
Judging by the quickness of his snort, I’d wager the reaction slipped out before Clyde could stop it. He studies me a heartbeat longer. “All right.”
The response is bookended by his adorable dimples.
*
Clyde says he doesn’t live far, yet, in a matter of blocks Dallas flip-flops from affluent to penniless. Wood fills windows instead of glass. Debris clogs the gutters. Graffiti covers beaten-down fences.
Cement City may be humble, but it’s a pocket full of good. Here, I’m wary of what folks are hiding in their pockets. I squint through the setting sun, pleading with it to stay in the sky a little longer, and scan the street for any unseemly characters.
A man ’cross the road fits the bill. He whistles provocatively, and my stomach tightens.
“Don’t mind Old Jed,” Clyde assures me. He raises his voice. “Whistlin’ hasn’t gotten him nowhere in years.”
Old Jed grumbles, and I sidle closer to Clyde, nearly bumping him with my elbow, my arms tightly crossed. Each rhythmic click-clack of my Mary Janes sets me more on edge, sounding like a plea for me to go back.
I’m ’bout to listen. I’m hard-pressed to believe I got caught up in what Clyde’s singing would be like. Now I’m traipsing ’round town with a boy I hardly know, ’bout to step foot into his home.
By myself.
With no one knowing where I am.
Go back, go back, go back.
Clyde’s pace slows, the demands of my heels slowing, ’til all is quiet.
“Well,” he says, “here we are.”
I chew on my lip, finally asking, “A service station?”
“Home sweet home.” Clyde’s voice is dry, deadpan. “Guitar’s inside,” he says, as if reminding me why I’m here.
Wishing for more is a feeling I’m quite familiar with, a kick to my butt that gets my feet moving. I follow Clyde, navigating a boneyard of cars, and we enter through a side door. The scent of cinnamon wraps ’round me in the darkened room.