“Hello, Bonnie.”
I glance ’round, as if answers are hanging in the air. But it’s the same setting as always: a few trees, a few classmates, a laundry service and shoe store ’cross the street. “What are you doing here?”
Clyde angles himself in front of me.
Roy’s once handsome eyes penetrate into me. “Him? You went from me to this lowlife?”
My mind races to keep up, not knowing how Roy recognizes Clyde, ’til I remember them sitting side by side, both watching me sing.
“I don’t think who Bonnie spends her time with concerns you anymore,” Clyde says, his tone even, dangerously even.
Before I can pin Roy with another question, he’s got his hands on Clyde’s chest. I stumble backwards, toppling onto the grass on my bottom. Their shoving throws them onto the promenade, against the school’s steps. Roy lands on top of Clyde. His fist connects with Clyde’s cheek.
“Stop!” I scurry back to my feet, standing over them, and try to pull Roy off Clyde.
He knocks me away as if I were nothin’ more than a gnat, and I clutch the railing to keep from tumbling down the stairs.
I wipe the hair free from my face, backpedaling ’til I’m off the steps, disbelief still clouding my head. Roy’s here. But why? Why’s he back? Where’s he been?
Though the most important question right now is how I’m going to get Roy off Clyde. I call for help. Again and again. Only a few of my classmates remain, all keeping a safe distance away on the promenade, backing farther away when the fight moves to level ground.
“Stay away from her,” Clyde says, between his teeth.
“She’s my wife.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Roy growls, lunging at Clyde. Clyde twists, grabbing Roy’s coattails and throwing him to the ground. No hesitation, Roy is back on his feet, using the back of his hand to wipe blood from his lip. They circle each other, collide, arms intertwining like two bears in a fight.
“Enough!” I cry.
Neither of them pays me any mind. I run both hands through my hair, frantically look … scream … for help. No one ’round us does a thing. My heart leaps when I see two men jogging toward us. The sheen of their buttons and an emblem on their hats catches the afternoon light. I squint, cursing, realizing too late it’s the police responding to my calls.
“Clyde,” I whisper, panicked. “It’s the law.”
I’ve been a dumb Dora, screaming my head off when the police station is only a few blocks away.
Clyde’s head pops up, the skin ’round his eye already blue. His grip on Roy loosens. Roy punches him again, connecting with Clyde’s jaw. With my own fists, I pound on Roy’s back, my voice turning to sobs. “Stop it, Roy. You’ll hurt him.”
Two hands yank me back. The policeman releases me, grabs Roy. The other officer has Clyde’s arms behind his back before I can blink.
“Are you okay, miss?” the officer asks me.
“Yes,” I say, and once again wipe my hair from my face. I run my hands down my coat. “This man,” I say, and point to Roy, “attacked us.”
The officer tightens his grip on Roy. The other policeman releases Clyde, who immediately backs toward the grass.
Roy spares me the slightest of glances. It ain’t remorse I see. It’s calculation, as if Roy knows more ’bout Clyde than he’s let on.
“It ain’t me you want,” he says.
No. Every inch of me tenses.
“This here is Clyde Barrow.”
“Clyde Barrow?” parrots the officer who released him. He yanks a weapon from his belt.
Clyde merely holds up his hands.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the officer says. “Jacobs has been looking for you for quite some time.” He turns to his partner. “It’s always the women that lure ’em out of hiding.”
“No.” I quicken my steps toward Clyde.
“Stay where you are, miss,” the officer says to me.
I stop, though every part of me wants to latch on to Clyde’s hand again.
Run, I think.
Run, Clyde.
But he doesn’t. He stands there, his eyes on me, as the policeman cuffs him.
32
Under my covers, I stare through the darkness, the memory of the police hauling away Clyde stuck in my mind. He didn’t resist. He stayed, those hazel eyes trained on me. Yet—I roll onto my side, a sliver of the morning light seeping above the covers—Buck told me how Clyde put up a fight when he was arrested for stealing turkeys.
That arrest has stuck with him, Clyde said as much, but it can’t be why that officer has it out for him. It’s got to be bigger than that.
And all these thoughts and unknowns equate to me staying in bed, feeling up and down ’bout Clyde, when I should be out looking for a job. Ain’t that why I gave up school?
Buster’s sudden voice fills the house—an outburst. I slowly get out of bed, find Billie still sound asleep, Duke Dog curled in a ball at the bottom of her bed. I stretch my arms ’cross my body, feeling a tug of pain where my tailbone met the ground.
My feet bare, I pad into the living room to investigate. Buster runs his hand through his hair. The radio is angled toward him, the volume low.
“Buster, what’s wrong?”
An agonized-sounding growl escapes from my brother. “Do you even have to ask?” He heaves a sigh. “I got to stop listening, but I can’t. So many people are now in debt ’cause of me, ’cause the ‘powers that be’”—he mimes quotations in the air ’round the phrase—“told me the market was a sure thing.”
Our beat-up couch cushion sinks, angling me toward my brother as I sit beside him.
“I’d paint a pretty picture, sayin’ how investing was the key to wealth. Hate your factory job? No problem. Invest, and it’ll save you from your miserable lot.”
He slams his fist down, and I cover his hand with my own. But I’m angry, too—more than angry. Sullen. Roy went to Buster. He begged Buster for that pretty picture. Somehow, I’m the one left with all the broken pieces, when Roy’s been God knows where, doing God knows what. Is it wrong that I took pleasure in seeing Roy hauled away by the police yesterday?
“Buster, what are you—what are we—going to do now?”
His fist tightens. “Shit, I don’t know.”
A new worry surfaces, one beyond concerns for my own future. “Are you in danger? Are your clients going to come after you?”
“They’d be stupid to come anywhere near me. Most of my clients borrowed money from the bank to invest.” He gets up, starts pacing, eyes falling on the radio every few steps. “They come after me, they better come with a pocketful of cash to pay back the bank. I reckon their pockets are empty.”
I hear a knock on the door, and we both startle. My heart rate quickens at the possibility that it’s Clyde, or Blanche. Blanche said she’d let me know as soon as she heard anything ’bout Clyde from Buck.
“Sorry,” I say to Buster, and motion toward the door.
He nods, his attention returning to the radio.