Clyde’s head twitches, like he heard me wrong.
I smile at his reaction. Before he can truly be let down, I extend a shaky hand and tap the inside of my bag, momentarily revealing the gun.
“Bonnie,” Clyde says between his teeth.
“Yes?”
He presses his hand so hard, so long, against the table that his fingertips turn white. His eyes scan the room, though his head remains still. “I reckon you’re a better actress than you give yourself credit for.”
“Why, thank you,” I say.
“And mighty proud of yourself.” He chuckles. “My God, Bonnie, what am I going to do with you?”
I shrug. “Someone once told me that big things await us.” I lower my voice. “But not in here.”
He glances again at the bag, and my smugness begins to wane, nerves setting back in. It’s almost time.
Clyde must notice the change in my demeanor, and he shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with not knowing my plan.
I rack my brain for a way to fill the void in our conversation, so we don’t raise suspicion, but then the commotion begins.
Olive has her man, William, in an embrace. The guards yell at them. She only holds on tighter. Guns raised, the guards stomp ’cross the room toward them.
I shove my hand into my bag, thrust the gun toward Clyde. The scraping sound it makes against the table seems like the loudest thing I’ve ever heard, despite the uproar in the room.
He fumbles with the gun—the first time I’ve ever seen him panic—but quickly recovers, bending to put the gun under his pant leg.
When he straightens, heaven help me, there’s amusement in his eyes.
“Bonnie Parker, you’re going to be the death of me.”
“Me? I thought I was the one who defies Death’s plans?” I ask, referencing a line in our song.
The guards yell, at last gaining order, and they demand that all inmates vacate the room.
“Tonight,” Clyde whispers. “By the river.”
I subtly nod. I have to clasp my hands together to stop from touching him; I’m hungry to feel the softness of his lips. As he walks away, a deep sadness comes over me, my body feeling heavy at the realization that the last time I did feel his touch was when he moved me aside to surrender to the officer.
That won’t be—can’t be—the last time.
36
Palm facing up, I extend my hand, and wait.
Blanche twists her lips, one hand on the doorframe of her apartment. “You expect me to give you Big Bertha’s keys without knowing why?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to hide my annoyance and worry and fear. “I will tell you all ’bout it after I get back.”
“Which will be when?”
“By the morning.” I let out a controlled breath. “Blanche, come on. This is important.”
“But then—”
“Listen, Buck will be very happy when I return. Give me your keys for him.”
“You mean Freddy?”
I shake my head in confusion, irritation. “What?”
“I’m calling him Freddy ’til he tells me his real name.”
“Your daddy’s name?” I squeeze my eyes closed, searching for more patience, continuing before Blanche can respond. “Please, this is important. I need your keys.”
She sighs. “Fine. You know, you’re becoming the dramatic one.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, and snatch the keys she dangles in front of me.
Once in Big Bertha, my foot itches to press the pedal to the ground. I arrive faster than the bus normally takes, much faster, then loop ’round to the back of the prison grounds. An old dirt road lies beyond the fenced exercise yard and a row of trees, parallel with the river.
I park, hidden by the trees, but, second-guessing myself, I drive more—then a little more—searching for the best cover. I reverse one, two, three trees.
Get it together, Bonnie.
I cut Big Bertha’s lights and engine and force my hands into my lap.
The breath I let out is slow, almost as slow as the setting sun. I’m not sure what time Clyde plans to make his escape. But I’m here.
I roll down the window, shiver, and promptly put the window back up. ’Cept, I realize I can’t hear as well, and what if Clyde calls my name? The glass goes down again and I peer out into the darkness.
Just as promptly, the trees play with my eyes, branches becoming limbs, the trunks becoming Clyde’s torso. Worse yet, my mind wanders again, to dangerous places, places where Clyde gets caught, his jail sentence gets longer, or—I shudder—he finally succumbs to Death’s plan.
No. I pull the napkin from my pocket and squint, barely making out our song in the darkness, but needing to hear Clyde’s voice: Death is a five-letter word, with a five-finger clutch … It cornered him, pitting him against the bigger man … By the throat, edging closer, nearing Death’s final touch … Then there she was, light in the dark, defying Death’s plan … She stared it down, held on tight, fired off a shot all her own … Ohh, oh, oh, oh, death for the boy has been postponed.
Those words, those positive words, are what I need right now, even if only in my head. They remind me how I’ve never truly told Clyde how I feel ’bout him. Studying the cadence, the sequence of rhymes, the rhythm of Clyde’s lyrics, I flip over the napkin.
The first line comes to me in an instant.
Dreams can be forgiving, with second chances to strive.
I scribble it down, now unable to see the ink on the napkin. I place my finger on the last mark of the pen, so I know where to write again, and compose the next line in my head, making it personal, using she, the way Clyde used he.
But only if—she says from the heart—dreams are big enough.
No. I clear my mind, rejiggering the sentiment, pulling from how I felt right before I’d met Clyde.
But only if—she says from the heart—all is truly lost.
Yes. The next words fall into place, as I imagine myself at that breaking point.
Love has failed, hope is gone, feeling no need to survive.
I pause and imagine the guitar’s beats. This is where the rhythm quickens; this is where it all changed for me.
Then there he was, after all this time, saving her, no matter the cost … He looked into her eyes, held on tight, told her he’d never let go … Ohh—I draw out the word in my head—oh, oh, oh, hope for her future has been restored.
I put down my pen. I smile, despite how my heart aches for Clyde. It’s too dark to read the lyrics back to myself, and I hold ’em against my chest. That helps.
This is going to work. It has to.
But, with each passing minute, I fall victim to thoughts of everything that could go wrong. I light one cigarette after another and jump at every delicate sound outside the car.
It’s not Clyde. It’s never Clyde.
My fingers tap faster. My knee bobs up and down.
This ain’t going to work. Too much time has passed. He’s been caught. The confidence I’ve forced into existence wanes. That limp, those bruises … they’ll be child’s play compared to how Clyde is punished ’cause of my foolish, love-struck plan.