“Let me just get the…,” Clyde says. A dim light flickers on a moment later, and the corners of a narrow room take form. “Ain’t much.”
There’s a touch of shame to his voice again, but I can’t reckon as to why. I ain’t in any position to judge the fact his home is tacked onto the back of a service station. And really, it’s quite homely, with the touch of a woman: fresh-picked flowers, framed photographs, a shawl thrown over the back of a chair, and stacks of books on the fireplace’s mantel. The apartment is neat and tidy, even if the room is miniature size.
Clyde takes a large, demonstrative step forward, now standing in front of a worn, brown couch. “Welcome to my room.”
I join him, my hand dropping to a folded blanket and pillow. My response comes out whispered. “You sleep on the couch?”
“Yeah, I don’t need much in life, and I’m in and out of town so much and all.”
Doing what? I want to ask, but Clyde’s already saying, “This is my parents’ place.”
I glance toward the hall, a new wave of nerves coursing through me that I’m ’bout to meet them.
“They’re down by the tracks. They’re there every Saturday ’round this time.”
“I see.” I bite my bottom lip. I don’t see, but I’m relieved they ain’t home.
He runs a hand over the slight stubble on his chin and cheeks, and I scan the room further to distract myself. My gaze stops on the spine of a poetry book, then his guitar.
“You going to make good on your word and play for me?”
Clyde settles himself on the couch, then the instrument on his knee. He pats the spot beside him, pauses with his fingers ready to strum. I sit and fold my hands in my lap, watching as he clears his throat, swallows, clears his throat again. Clyde’s head tilts down, and he looks up at me from under his lashes.
“I started this here song a while ago, but she ain’t done,” he says. “Was hoping you’d help me finish her.”
“Me?”
His fingertips slide down the strings once, letting the soft sound vibrate ’round us. “You’ll see.”
He goes back for more, a dark melody forming with each stroke, and moistens his lips. Clyde says, more than sings, “Death is a five-letter word, with a five-finger clutch.”
His head stays down, his jaw relaxed, eyes closed. “It cornered him, pitting him against the bigger man … By the throat, edging closer, nearing Death’s final touch.”
The rhythm quickens, the beat an unexpected surprise.
“Then there she was, light in the dark, defying Death’s plan … She stared it down, held on tight, fired off a shot all her own … Ohh”—he draws out the word, as if taunting Death—“Oh, oh, oh, death for the boy has been postponed.”
Clyde’s fingers shift to a higher pitch on the guitar. He smirks and sings from the corner of his mouth, “’Cause lean closer, listen close … How the story ends, no one knows … But one thing’s clear, you’ll see … Bonnie and Clyde, meant to be, alive and free.”
That last line, that last note hangs between us.
I forget how to breathe.
“That’s all I got for now,” Clyde says softly. “Thought maybe we could do the next verse together.”
“Together?” I wring my hands, staring into the eyes of Clyde Barrow, the criminal, the charmer, the … boy who wrote me a doggone song to show me how he cares.
“Yeah, Bonnie. You and me. What do you say?”
30
“You ran away?” Blanche’s mouth hangs open.
Beside her, I tap my heels off the base of the bar, gripping the mahogany ledge with my fingertips. “No, I walked away and got a bus home.”
“Same thing.” The sound of Blanche’s heels against the bar add to mine; only her bouncing is more energetic. “So, let me get this straight. That lad wrote you a song … with verses and everything … before you ever really met?”
“Well, one verse. But that’s so far.” I take a long, deep breath. “He asked me to finish it with him.”
“And that’s when you ran away?”
“I didn’t…” I rub my face. “Fine, maybe my pace was brisk, but before I left I said I’d think ’bout him and me.”
As Bonnie and Clyde, meant to be, alive and free.
Blanche’s head bobs. “You told him you had to think about it?”
I nod.
“See, that’s where you two are different. Clyde wasn’t thinkin’ with his head.”
“Blanche,” I say, my legs no longer swinging, “don’t be crude.”
“Bonnelyn Parker, I was referring to his heart. If Clyde was using his noggin, he’d have realized it was too soon to put an and between your names. But I’m personally glad he sang you that song.”
“I know, I know, you’ve been wanting us together all along.”
“Well, yes.” Blanche bumps my shoulder with hers. “But part of me was curious why someone like Clyde Barrow has pined for you for so long when he’s only known you through occasional glances. I mean, you’re foxy and all, but it makes sense now. He thinks you saved his life.”
I frown. “Glad that’s all cleared up for you.” I can’t say I didn’t question what made Clyde gooey-eyed for me, but it stings when your best friend was temple-tapping too.
Saving his life, though … That’s loaded, heavy. And the way he depicted us, alive and free—why wouldn’t we be?
I’ve never stood behind bars. I kick my feet. Guess I came close, if that raid were real, since this place is illegal. Question is … is being here, is going on alcohol runs and riding in stolen cars more or less illegal than how Clyde breaks the law? I ain’t even sure I know the full extent of how he has, but could it be the same? Could our intentions?
I subtly shake my head. Doesn’t matter. I’m more than a life of crime, with dreams for myself. Now I shift my weight, sliding my hands beneath my dangling legs, the bar smooth under my palms. Reckon Clyde could have dreams; he dreamed once, after all. Before it was ripped away. What’s he hope for now? A boy who thinks with his heart must have something new to hold on to.
Something more than simply me, the girl who stared down Death, who took matters into her own hands.
I smile.
“All right,” Blanche says. “Don’t keep Blanche in the dark. Bad enough you kept me waiting all day to tell me ’bout last night.”
I shrug. “Shouldn’t have skipped school.”
She stares me down, her eyebrows raised for added effect. “Well? Yes or no to Clyde? What’s the verdict?”
“Don’t have one,” I say. Besides how I like his perception of me. It’s my perception of him that’s wishy-washy.
Blanche bangs her heels against the bar. “Is it the whole no church, no school thing? Or more than that?” Her mouth forms an O, drawing out a similar sound. “Is it his elephant ears?”
“Look alive, ladies,” Mary says, coming in from Doc’s back room, her arms full of bottles. “First patrons should be arriving in three, two, one…”