She pulls back, eyes bright, even brighter smile. “Tweed kettle and grilled tomatoes, how’s that sound?” she asks.
No one objects—I don’t even know what it is—and Mrs. Barrow claps her hands together.
Clyde strides in through a back door, arms full of tomatoes, a few large raindrops staining his shirt. Nerves speckle my stomach, unsure how he’ll react when he sees me.
“Oh, good!” Mrs. Barrow inspects the tomatoes he plops onto the counter. “Reckon this will be the last batch we get before winter comes. Now out, out.” She ushers us from her kitchen.
I’m the first one to stumble into the living room, and I’m inclined to keep walking right out the door, into the rain.
Clyde grabs my arm and whispers, “I was hoping they’d bring you, despite everything. How you holdin’ up?”
“Me?” Truly baffled, I study his face for any sign of the pain I saw down by the river. “I should be asking you that. But you look okay. Everyone seems fine.”
He aimlessly plucks a chord on his guitar, which leans against the couch. “Situation is a wee bit strange, huh?”
“Yes, a wee bit.”
“Come on,” he says, and leads me out the side door, the rain pummeling the tin awning above us. Clyde slides his hands ’cross my belly, propping his chin on my shoulder. “That, inside,” he goes on, “is how my ma copes, one extreme to the other. She grieves at the tracks. But when she’s within those four walls, it’s as if she pretends her life is different. Like if she scrubs a little harder, cooks fish that’s perfectly pink, fluffs the pillows just so, it’ll make our family whole again.”
“Oh, Clyde.” I face him, wrapping my arms ’round his narrow waist, at a loss for words. His heart thumps under my ear, and it’s one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard. Strong. Resilient. Fearless.
“I’m afraid I don’t believe it, though. We’re born whole, then life takes a little more from ya each day, each experience, each loss. It ain’t something you can get back.”
“But it’s okay, I think … to pretend.” I tilt my head to see his face, not disagreeing with him, but understanding that’s how his ma gets by. At seeing the slight curl of his lips, I smile coyly. This boy sees through my words. He knows I ain’t only referring to his ma. Here I am, spending my days in between daydreams and Clyde’s arms.
“There’s nothin’ wrong with pretending while you mend, Bonnie. But my ma’s been doing it for years now. Breaks my heart. Why I’m going to get her out of here.”
I sigh and rest my head again, staring out into the rain. “You’re a good man, Clyde Barrow, and here I am, tying your hands behind your back.”
“That ain’t true.”
“But it is.” Guilt forces my eyes closed. “The work’s not coming, and you’re barely putting anything away for that land. You ain’t even going out to look for it. All ’cause of me.”
“Hey, Bonnie?”
The rain may sound angry ’round us, but when I look up, Clyde’s got an understanding look in his eyes, and I talk first. “Clyde, I’m starting to think that you had it right all along.” I’m starting to fully realize what Blanche said forever ago, ’bout life needing elbow grease, ’cause right now I’ve got a B version of Doc’s and I’m working a dead-end waitress job. That ain’t how I pictured myself thriving. But Clyde has it worse—doesn’t have a real job at all, no way to save for what he wants. A thought comes to me, and I say it aloud. “Life will do what it wants with you, huh? Eat you up, spit you out. Comes a point when you got to push back, make things happen for yourself.”
“I don’t like hearing ya say it, Bonnie.” But he nods, keeps nodding. “It ain’t fair, though.”
“It’s not,” I say into his chest.
He puts space between us, ’til I see his out-of-place smirk. “So you are in agreement, then, that I should meet your ma as soon as possible?”
“Huh?”
“It’s not fair you met my family but I haven’t met yours. So I’m going to make that happen.”
I laugh, and, honestly, this has been one of the most backwards afternoons of my life.
“So, tomorrow then?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, and throw up my arms. “Seems I’m agreeing to everything nowadays.”
Clyde laughs. I do, too. But I also swallow, nervous ’bout two things: basically telling Clyde he’s free to run amok, and how my ma will react to me bringing home a convicted felon—on a Sunday, no less.
34
It’s been forty-seven, -eight, -nine seconds of silence ’round our dinner table. Clyde sits in Daddy’s old seat, which probably ain’t winning him any points, ’specially since the last boy who sat there was Roy.
I chew my chicken more thoroughly than need be, willing Billie to say something. But for once, the cat has my sister’s tongue. At least Buster has stopped glancing at his shotgun, which he specifically spiffed up earlier and conveniently left leaning against a cabinet. The only one who’s fine with Clyde being here is old Duke Dog, snoring at Billie’s feet.
Clyde doesn’t seem to mind my family’s cold shoulder. He’s a proper gentleman, complimenting my ma on her lemon chicken and asking Billie ’bout school. With Buster, I told Clyde to mind his own, unsure of a safe topic for him to talk ’bout with my brother. Clyde’s done good. Still, I’m seconds away from leaping out of my chair and turning on the radio for background noise.
Ma clears her throat.
“So, Clyde, do you have any hobbies?”
He wipes his mouth with his napkin, and I pray to God an illegal activity doesn’t come out when he pulls that napkin away.
“I like to tinker with cars. My family owns the Star Service Station over on Eagle Ford Road, so I get my hands dirty now and again.”
Tension eases from my shoulders. “Clyde also reads quite a bit of poetry.”
“Is that so?” Ma says, her voice even.
“Yes,” I answer for him. “William Butler Yeats.”
“My ma and I like to read it together,” Clyde says.
“And he plays the guitar.”
“Oh?” my ma says, but she doesn’t direct the question at Clyde. “Anything else you’d like to tell me ’bout Clyde, Bonnelyn?”
Billie chuckles, and my cheeks flush. Ma’s pointed look doesn’t help matters, either, probably questioning how much time I’m spending with this boy, ’specially with me not biking home ’til after the sun comes up, to bathe and change clothes.
Clyde jumps in, saying, “I taught myself to play the guitar a few years ago. I’m not very good and can’t read the music, but for me, it’s all ’bout how the music vibrates through my bones. It’s beautiful, makes me feel alive.”
Ma nods, softly chewing her chicken, and I let out a small breath.
“Your daughter and I actually started a song together, but we have a few more verses to go.”
“Do you now?”
I subtly shake my head at him, a plea not to elaborate on the song, even if my ma is finally showing interest. I’m rather confident she won’t want to hear ’bout how I saved him from a hooligan trying to kill him while he was bootlegging liquor.
“Your daughter’s been a great inspiration,” Clyde says, with an impish grin.