Freeze.
I want to commit every moment of this to memory. Me. Clyde. The sea. I knew it’d be vast—Ishmael said as much in Moby-Dick—but, my God, I feel like the blueness could swallow me from a hundred feet away. What I didn’t know, and what I want to remember forever, is the security Clyde’s hand brings me. Somehow, it makes the Gulf—hell, maybe even the world—more approachable.
“Let’s go,” Clyde says with a grin.
Buck is already running toward the water, Blanche still in his arms, her parasol and coat left behind in the sand. He bounds into the water, pants and all, his laughter deep and mischievous. Blanche screams at him, trying to shimmy up him like a tree while Buck dips, the waves catching her butt.
“You’d be smart not to try that with me,” I warn Clyde.
“I know better than to cross my lady.” Dimples appear. “Come on.” He tugs my arm and we slip down the other side of the dune’s bank, the sand giving way ’til we reach the bottom.
I tilt my head back and breathe in the salt air. “I feel so insignificant.”
Clyde pulls me closer. “Not to me.”
It’s one of his cheesy lines, but it still makes me swoon, and it’s something else I’m eager to stow away to always remember.
I squeeze Clyde’s hand. “I ain’t sure I’ll be able to go back to reality after this trip.”
He stretches out our arms as we pass on opposite sides of a large piece of driftwood. “I always believed it’s best to take life one day at a time. There ain’t ever any promise of a tomorrow.”
I sigh. “Well, if tomorrow comes, I’m going to need to find myself another job to get by. Doc’s is slow, got nothin’ in the bank—”
Clyde brings us back together, the driftwood behind us. “Then we’ll make the most of it tomorrow. We both will.”
“I’m … I’m okay with that.”
I spent enough time planning out my life, worrying too much ’bout having it all figured out. But I’ll make it work, taking it as it comes. I’ll still be there to help my ma. Little by little, I’ll rebuild again. The waves crash beside us, coming inches from our feet, receding at a slower pace. I smile.
We find ourselves stretched out on the sand, blankets wrapped ’round us, the sun fading behind the dunes, the waves becoming lost in the darkness. With a fire crackling at our feet, we pass ’round that dinner Clyde promised me, along with some brown.
“I’ve an idea!” Blanche announces.
I pause, the bottle nearly touching my lips. “Uh-oh,” I say, my voice a higher pitch than usual from the giggle juice.
Blanche snatches the bottle from me. “Let’s play a game.” She looks over the fire, focusing on each of us. Once satisfied with our accepting expressions, she goes on, “It’s called Sip or Swear It. Someone says a statement. If it’s something you’ve done, naughty friends, you sip.” She holds up the bottle. “If not, you have to swear on your mama’s grave you haven’t.”
I put both hands to my cheeks, my lips squishing.
“Bonnelyn looks nervous,” Buck says.
Clyde chuckles, but he shifts uncomfortably, too.
“I’ll go first,” Buck says. “Sip if you’ve ever snuck out of your parents’ house.”
“Child’s play,” Blanche says, and swipes the brown.
“Give me that back.” Buck takes a mouthful. “Someone had to lead, as an example for Clyde.”
“Exactly,” Clyde says, and snatches the bottle next.
I sit there, unmoving.
“Ya got to swear it, Bonn,” Blanche says. “Say, ‘I swear on my mama’s grave that I’ve never snuck out of the house.’”
I do.
“Louder,” she says.
I raise my voice.
“Louder! Make me believe it.”
I scream, then add, “But, in my defense, I’ve snuck in plenty of times.”
“Semantics,” Blanche says. “How ’bout this: sip if you’ve ever”—her brows dance—“in a church.”
No one moves to claim the bottle, ’cept Blanche.
“Baby,” Buck says, and shakes his head at her, “I do believe you’re going to hell.”
“I’ll save you a place,” she says back, and climbs into his lap, leaving her blanket behind. Buck envelops her in his. “Bonn, it’s your turn.”
I lick my lips, try to think of something wicked I’ve done. Determined, and driven by the warmth from the hooch, I rack my brain, my lips pursing as something comes to me. I wiggle my fingers for the bottle and Blanche hands it over. “Sip if you’ve ever seen Blanche Iva Caldwell’s boobs.”
I throw back a gulp.
Buck doesn’t say a thing, just holds out his hand, reaching ’round an openmouthed Blanche in his lap.
Blanche shrugs. “I reckon I’ve seen ’em plenty of times.” Buck messily pours whiskey into her mouth.
Clyde waves his hand, gesturing toward himself. “Sorry, Buck, but your girl wasn’t exactly discreet when she was changing in the car.”
Blanche bursts into laughter and holds the blanket tight ’round Buck as he tries to shimmy out from under her. Clyde jumps up from the sand, palms out, but he’s laughing like a goon.
“Aw,” Blanche says, giggles again. “Would you look at that? My bubs bring us all together, make us a gang.”
“Oh, we’re a gang now?” Buck says.
“Yes,” I say. Clyde settles next to me again, and I lean into him, the fire flickering in front of us. “I like that. We’re the Barrow Gang.”
33
My hand dangling over the couch’s edge feels empty, vacant. I struggle to open my eyes. My first fear is that someone came for Clyde, nailed him to one of his crimes. But his pillow and blanket are stacked neatly on the floor of Blanche and Buck’s apartment, and I relax back into the couch.
“Did I wake you?” I hear.
A smile pulls at my lips even before I turn my head. There he is, the signs of sleep still in his hair, perched on the armchair, pulling on his second boot. A little sand from the Gulf has slipped out of his shoes.
“Tell me that clock ain’t right and we’ve only been back for two hours.” I push to a sit and yawn. “What are you doing up?”
Clyde shrugs. “It’s tomorrow, ain’t it? I’m going to make good on my promise to ya.”
This boy is something, off again to find a job, to do right by me. But I laugh, saying, “I don’t know if the birds are even awake.”
A mischievous look ’crosses his face. “How ’bout I go find out?”
After a soft kiss on my forehead, he’s out the door, pounding the pavement, and I sink back into the couch. I should be out there, too. I pull my blanket up to my chin. But, right now, I can’t help wanting reality to wait a few more hours, like as soon as I start looking for that job, I’m officially replacing my teaching dreams.
The door flies open.
“Bonnie!” Clyde calls, breathless, as if he just took three flights of stairs two steps at a time.
He says a bunch more. All my tired brain deciphers is how I need to hurry. Lassies are swarming, whatever that means.
Clyde barely gives me the opportunity to use the restroom, swish some water ’round my mouth, and throw a coat over my shoulders before we’re out the door.