“Growing up, I used to sing in the church choir,” Ma says in a gentler tone, and sets down her fork.
I smile; the first glimpse of the real Emma Parker is shining through.
“Say, that must be where Bonnelyn gets her voice.”
Ma chuckles. “I’m flattered.”
Billie says, “She’s going to be famous one day. Did Bonnelyn tell you how she wanted to be an actress when she was little?”
“’Til,” I say, “I realized I wasn’t any good. I’m plenty fine with simply going to films.”
“Yeah, best to stick with singing, Bonn,” Buster says, rocking back on the chair’s back legs.
“Don’t listen to your brother,” Ma says, and motions for Buster to lean his chair forward. “You never know what the future will bring, sweetie.”
I don’t, but I’m relieved to know that, after winning over my family, Clyde will be part of that future, without us having to go behind my ma’s back.
Someone knocks on the door, and Duke Dog shoots to his feet, barking incessantly.
“It’s probably Blanche,” I say, talking over the noise. “You know how nosy she is; probably wanted to see if Clyde would crash and burn.”
As I walk to the door, Clyde says to my family, “I ain’t much for fire.”
I smile to myself, and pull open the door. “Blanche Cald—”
“Good evening, ma’am,” an older fella says in a flat voice. He tips his hat, covering his overgrown brows. A shiny emblem catches my eye as he returns his hat to his head.
“Yes?” I throw my weight to one side, keeping a hold on the door. If he’s here for Roy, this conversation won’t take long.
“I’m Officer Jacobs.”
And, just like that, my heart could dislodge from my chest.
“I have reason to believe that Clyde Barrow is inside your residence. And this here”—he holds up a paper—“is a warrant for his arrest.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, my brain rushing to think of something to say. I land on, “Who?”
“Clyde Barrow, the man who was arrested a few weeks ago with your husband. That name doesn’t ring a bell?”
I swallow. “Not a lick.”
“Mrs. Thornton…”
I grimace at the use of Roy’s surname.
“It’ll be unfortunate if I have to arrest you for obstructing justice.”
Officer Jacobs drops his hand to his cuffs. Mine tightens on the door. “Don’t come to my house and threaten me. Now, if that’s all—”
He exhales, then shouts, “You hear that, Clyde Barrow? We know you hit up Buell Lumber. Someone came forward. Claimed they saw ya. I’ve got enough to put you away now, and if you don’t show yourself, I’m going to haul this young lady down to the station for questioning.”
I move to shut the door, but Jacobs slides his foot into the doorway. I’m left counting the beats of silence, willing Clyde to keep his butt in my daddy’s chair, hoping I’m a better actress than I think, and praying for the stalemate to be over, for the officer to give up and leave. But footsteps grow louder behind me, and I curse under my breath. Eyes trained on the officer, I keep my feet where they are.
Two hands touch my shoulders, gently moving me aside, and I want to cry out for Clyde not to hand himself over. But he will; he already proved that once.
Clyde holds out his arms, and my eyes blur as I watch him get cuffed for a second time. The officer yanks him forward and Clyde resists, straining to turn to see me.
“I ain’t leaving you, Bonnie. I’ll be back for you.”
The officer snorts. “Not for a long time.”
Inside, I’m screaming with every ounce I’ve got for that pig to take his hands off Clyde. He saves me. I save him. That’s how this is supposed to work.
I take a step forward, stop. I know getting myself arrested will do neither of us any good. I need to be strong for Clyde—for myself—to give us a chance. So I raise my chin and say, “I ain’t going anywhere.”
35
After a few weeks of visiting Clyde, I know the routine. Get the bus at ten. Check in at McLennan County Jail’s front desk. Let an overweight, underloved guard frisk me with lingering, probing hands. Then wait in the cold, sterile, cement-walled room ’til the clock strikes eleven and the inmates all file in.
I shift uncomfortably in the hard chair and eye the other visitors. Some try to quiet their young children. Others look worn down, as if a strong breeze could knock ’em over.
I’ve chatted with a few of ’em. Many of their men fell apart after the crash, either committing robbery after losing their money or simply having too much time to find trouble after losing their jobs. Unemployment is up, along with aggression. Both are the highest ever.
Of course, there’s the other half of the men, like Clyde—and his cellmate, says his wife—who were on a path to these cells long before the stock market took a nosedive.
The old Bonnelyn wouldn’t be okay with a man stealing to give himself a leg up, but Bonnie, she’s a different story. Clyde picked me up when I was at my lowest point, ironically giving me what I’ve desired all my life: love and stability. Just not in the way I expected. I couldn’t ever feel poor with Clyde by my side.
I’ve had plenty of time to come to that conclusion, plenty of time to think ’bout a life without Clyde. And I’m still here, staring down the barrel of his five-year sentence, ’cause of the thefts he committed over the past few years. After he was sentenced, my ma said, “It’s time to let him go. Clyde ain’t the right boy for you.”
But I told her, “We thought Roy was, and look how he turned out. With Clyde, I know exactly what I’m getting, and that’s a man who’ll always be good to me.”
That’s stability. Clyde’s words, and more so his actions, prove to me that we can have the kind of love that’s long-lasting and enduring.
The doors to the visitation room click open, and I sit up straighter, eager to see my man. A parade of inmates walks through, in their white prison garb, followed by armed guards. Clyde’s cellmate settles at a table ’cross the room, visiting with his wife, Olive. Nice girl.
Scruff hides Clyde’s face, but it can’t hide his happiness when he sees me. My stomach flutters with excitement and desire, but also with apprehension, as I scan his body for signs of the other inmates and those damn guards roughing him up. In prison, Clyde’s smaller size makes him the runt of the litter.
His limp is improving. But a new gash cuts ’cross his forearm. There’s always something new.
He sits opposite me, and I stretch my hands over the table, stopping an inch from his skin, yearning to touch him. I tried that once, and a guard wagged his gun at me a second later.
“How are you?” I ask him.
One, then two dimples show. “Better, now that you’re here.”
I smile, too. “You say that every time I come.”
“It’s true today, will be true the next time you’re here.”
“I hate to think ’bout you here another day.”
“Bonnie, it’d be okay if you didn’t come. You shouldn’t be spending your days off at a place like this.”