“Nonsense.” But I think ’bout his sentence and nearly shudder at what all that time could do to both of us. Clyde stuck in here. Me, stuck in my static life, waiting for it to begin again with him.
He moves his hands closer to mine as we talk, as each precious minute passes us by. When the guard yells that time is up, it takes all my strength not to leap ’cross the table and cling to Clyde’s neck.
“No,” I say, breathless. “It’s too hard to leave you.”
Clyde licks his lips. “I’ll be okay, Bonnie.”
“Will you?” I ask. Will Clyde’s carefree demeanor survive five years in this place?
He stands, offering me a single nod. It’s clear, even in his baggy clothing, that he’s lost a few pounds. I bite my lip, stifling a cry, as Clyde shuffles back through the door with the other inmates.
Later, at Doc’s, it’s no surprise that Clyde is all I can think ’bout. Five years—five years without him, besides a couple measly minutes, and only on the days where work ain’t standing in the way. I shake my head. That’s not okay. So much wasted time, when we could be creating verse after verse in our song.
Our song. In between mixing drinks, I do my best to write down the lyrics on a napkin, needing to see the words, to imagine the melody, to reread the lyrics again and again.
Blanche banters with a new patron, but I don’t have the heart to get to know the random faces that replace our regulars. Regulars are a thing of the past, no one having enough money to let off steam more than once in a while.
I should be happy the dance floor is half filled tonight, that, despite all those empty pockets, people still come to drown their doubts in our bathtub gin, but I keep thinkin’ how Clyde once wanted something so badly he had it inked on his body. Yet it was ripped away from him, unfairly, against his control.
And me, I’ll have three letters forever etched on my skin, now nothin’ more than a reminder of a dream that chipped into pieces. I thought I’d lost it all. Then Clyde helped me find myself again. He opened my eyes to a different kind of life, a blank page to fill, a song to finish. I can’t let the possibility of that happiness be taken from me.
And that’s what’s happening. The world today ain’t giving Clyde and me a fighting chance. It’s backing me against a wall: I can not see Clyde for five years, let those four walls confine him, break him, change him.
Or I can take matters into my own hands.
Isn’t that what I told Clyde, that there comes a point when you got to push back, make things happen for yourself?
I thumb the napkin, brushing over the words Bonnie and Clyde, meant to be, alive and free.
I’d gladly turn the guards’ guns on them, demanding they let Clyde go, if I could end that five years right this second. I can feel that gun in my hand. I’d do it. I’d do it for Clyde—and me.
I bite my lip. Even if I got him out, our lives wouldn’t be the same. The name Clyde Barrow would be equivalent to “fugitive.” But I’d still be saving him, even if he’d have to lie low. Lower than before.
It’d be a new way of living. Together. That’s what’s important.
Pressing my lips together, I release a Hmm from deep in my throat. An idea forms. I peer ’cross the room, note how Buck is manning the poker tables.
“Blanche!” I shout over Rosie’s singing. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you going?”
“Just need a minute.” I snatch my bag from beneath the bar.
I push through the sweaty bodies and cigarette smoke, also pushing away any thoughts that I could be losing my mind, and make my way to Buck’s apartment. Pulling out the key that Blanche gave me, I let myself inside.
It’s dark, eerie. But it’s probably only eerie ’cause I’m sneaking ’round like a lovesick fool. Honestly, I don’t doubt that Blanche and Buck would support the crazy plan bouncing ’round my head, but the fewer people involved, the less that could go wrong.
I risk turning on a light and begin to scrutinize Buck’s apartment, opening drawers, peeking beneath cushions, scouring closets. With a smile, I find what I’m looking for, beneath his mattress: a pistol.
It’s heavy in my hand, it feels heavier than the gun I fired in that alleyway. Maybe it’s the implications behind the gun’s purpose.
I won’t be firing at a wall this time.
*
My palms are sweaty. My heart thumps so loud I hear it in my ears. I was unable to sleep last night, telling myself again and again that my crazy plan will work, and, today, tiredness weighs me down. Still, I urge my legs faster toward the jail’s entrance, afraid that, if I slow, I’ll lose my nerve. I’ll start thinkin’ ’bout what’ll happen if things go sour. I could end up in a cell, more fragile than Clyde. Clyde’s sentence could get doubled. The wrong kind of shots might be fired.
Hell, I realize how loose my plan actually is. But I can’t turn back now.
Stopping in front of a prison guard, I hand over my bag to a second one, spread my legs, extend my arms to the sides.
The first man palms my waist, his fingers firmly pressing into my dress. He slides his hands lower, bending as he goes. The top of his head brushes against my breasts. His hands wrap ’round my outer thighs and I gasp, my heart skipping a beat. I force breath back into my lungs and say, “You go any farther inside my legs and I’ll report you for lewd behavior.”
He chuckles to himself, as if it’s a game, then moves his hands lower, down the outsides of my legs, ’round my ankles. I will my pulse to slow as he runs a hand along my neckline, taking care when examining my breastbone. His hot breath hits my face as he drags his fingers through my hair, way too close for comfort.
Finally, he’s done. Disgusted, I yank my bag from the second guard, who is now finished with his search, and head toward the visiting room. When I’m sure no one is watching me, I slip inside the restroom and kick open the doors to empty stalls. With my skirt hiked up, I tear the tape from my inner thigh, from right over Roy’s name, and carefully remove Buck’s pistol.
In the mirror, I watch my chest rise, fall. I’ve done it; I’ve smuggled a gun into the prison. A new wave of panic hits me, centered on the fact that, after I do this, after I pass it to Clyde, I could be sending him to his death. He could get caught—I rub my mouth—but he could also escape. I remind myself of a simple truth: we can be together, now, not five years from now.
When life closes one door, another opens, or you can pry it open. Right?
The chance of being with Clyde now is worth it all.
I take one final look at myself in the mirror—lips thin, cheeks rosy, eyes vibrant—and I’m ready. In the visitation room, I slink into a seat at the table farthest from the guards and lay my bag on its side, the opening facing the wall. I subtly glance at Olive, who is also waiting for her man.
When Clyde comes into the room, I fluff my hair, smiling pleasantly. “How are you?” I ask him in a sugary voice.
As if he’s gauging my odd behavior, his response comes out slower than usual. “Better, now that you’re here.”
“I’ve decided that I ain’t coming no more.”