“Is the throttle. We want it up, but not all the way—as Blanche here said.”
I’m not sure it’s possible to press any harder against my seat. When Buck’s limbs aren’t inappropriately positioned in my personal space any longer, I relax.
He points to the dash. “Key goes there.”
That I know, but I keep my mouth shut.
“Turn it left,” he adds.
I do, and Big Bertha’s coil box starts buzzing. I hope the annoying sound will startle Blanche awake. No such luck.
“Back in a jiffy.” Buck winks.
I hate that he winks.
With one hand on the front bumper, the rest of him disappears behind the front of the car to turn the crank again. Always use your left hand, never your right. If the car backfires, and you’re using your right, it’ll go and break your wrist. I remember Blanche sayin’ this before, in her know-it-all voice. Buck’s head bobs into view as he gives the crank a yank, and the sound of Big Bertha’s engine roars to life.
I jolt from the sudden rumble. The car shakes as if it’s fighting back. Beside me, Blanche stirs, her foggy eyes peering ’round. A smile stretches ’cross her face momentarily before she drifts back off. I confuse her smile as being for me, ’til I catch Buck from the corner of my eye. His hand is reaching into the car again. He pushes the left lever down, and Big Bertha’s angry rumble smoothes to a soft purr.
“Good girl,” Blanche says, awake again, and she strokes the dashboard.
Buck looks at her with—what is it? Lust? Intrigue?
Whatever it is, it’s enough to make me blush. After a lifetime of looks from Roy, none has ever been as heated as what I just witnessed. But just ’cause Roy and I aren’t throwing ourselves at each other, it doesn’t mean we’re lacking lust, right? I lust plenty, deep down inside.
I shake my head, clearing the thought. “What’s next?” I grudgingly ask Buck.
He flicks on the headlights. “You drive.”
While he shows me how to use the clutch, reverse, and work the brake pedals, I release a slow, controlled breath.
“You’ll be fine,” Buck says.
“Yes,” Blanche agrees. “No crashing, though.”
I glare at her before following Buck’s directions. Big Bertha bumps forward and Blanche whoops, pressing her hands against the vinyl roof for support. “Bye-bye, Buck, I want to fu—”
“Blanche!” I scold, tightening my grip on the wheel. She giggles. Buck laughs more heartily outside the car, a few feet back.
I slide the right lever down and our speed accelerates, faster, faster. Big Bertha sputters, and stalls.
My pulse spikes, and I mentally go through the steps again, flying through the directions in my mind, afraid I’ll be too slow and Buck will be at my window again.
Big Bertha lurches forward. Slow but steady, I get her moving. I risk a prolonged blink, relieved to be leaving Buck, his speakeasy, and the threat of a raid in the dust. Never again, I tell myself.
Double-checking my surroundings, my gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, and there stands Buck, waving.
“That was fast,” I say under my breath, while I maneuver a right-hand turn.
“What was?” Blanche slurs.
“You hooking Buck. You’re normally fast, but that boy—”
A car’s horn erupts in front of us and I swerve, nearly clipping Big Bertha’s side mirror.
Blanche slaps her hands against the dash. She screams. I scream. My heart pounds and I mix up my hands and feet, pulling and pushing anything I can find.
Big Bertha groans in protest. Then the car’s quiet. Perfectly quiet. I’ve stalled again.
Blanche bursts into laughter. “Well, that was close,” she says, and playfully slaps my arm. “Oh, Bonn, this adds to an already exciting night. Did you know Buck’s been arrested before?”
My head snaps toward her. “What?”
“How scandalous and delicious.”
“No, Blanche. Not scandalous or delicious. That’s bad. He’s bad.”
“He’s sexy. Oh, and you know what? He has a brother.” She winks.
I shake my head. How dare she suggest such a thing mere hours after I told her ’bout Roy and me?
“The brother’s been arrested too,” Blanche says. “He could be as equally scandalous and delicious as Buck.”
“Blanche, just stop.”
She snickers, and then goes on rambling ’bout Buck and the juice joint. I half listen, trying to get the car started again, trying to will my erratic heartbeat to calm, trying not to get caught up in her excitement of the lights, the energy, the music, the—
“The music?” I parrot. The mere thought makes me want to touch the ivory of a piano.
The car’s engine begins to purr. Blanche puckers her lips and wiggles her fingers, making short, chopped noises.
“What’re you doing?”
“Well, I’m a trumpeter. Ain’t it obvious?”
I chuckle, despite the stern response Blanche deserves for her drunken antics.
“Perhaps this is more obvious to understand.” Blanche leans forward, shakes out the bust of her dress, each bill falling into her lap. She grabs a handful. “I made a lot of dough tonight.”
My eyes lock on the fistful of green in her hand. “You made all that in a couple hours?”
Blanche nods proudly, though her head wobbles. “My pa problem is no more.”
I shove Big Bertha into a lower gear, the car moaning. We’re silent for a few seconds while my brain tosses ’round thoughts. Having that money could do a world of good, taking care of our electric bill and then some, but …
“What’d you have to do to get it?” I ask her.
Blanche whips toward me, no doubt to lash out at the implication. She straightens, going stiff. “Bonnelyn, you’re going the wrong way.”
“No, I’m not,” I say firmly. “I’m taking you home. I’ll walk to mine.” I don’t care it’ll take me all night and end in nothing but blisters.
“Nope, my pa can’t see me like this. We’re going to yours.” She grabs the wheel, and my heart skips a beat.
“Blanche!” I knock her hand away, righting the wheel. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”
Her eyes may be cloudy, but they hold venom. “Bonnelyn, I’m getting fed up with you and your Bible-thumping ways. All your life you’ve judged me. You know what? Sometimes part of growing up is doing what ya got to do to survive.”
I shake my head, puzzled. “What does nearly driving us off the road have to do with God?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure you can twist it somehow to make it ’bout Him.”
“You ain’t even making sense. What’d you do in that club tonight, Blanche? What are you doing to survive?”
“Oh, get over yourself. All I did was mix a few drinks. Much better than marrying a man ’cause I got nothin’ else and ’cause I’m desperate to be with someone like my daddy.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You got a daddy complex.”
“What’s that sayin’”—my fingertips go white on the wheel—“’bout opinions being buttholes? Everyone has one, most of ’em stink, and no one wants to hear yours.”
“Well, lookie here. I got Mrs. Grundy to say ‘butthole.’”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not even a real curse.”