Becoming Bonnie Read online

  “We’ll finish school,” Roy says.

  I force my smile wider.

  “I’ll get a good-paying job as a reporter,” he goes on. “You can become a teacher, like you’ve always wanted. You can lead the drama club, be onstage, do pageants with our little girls.”

  Now my grin is genuine. “We’re going to have little girls?”

  “Of course. A little fella, too. ’Til then, I’ll fix this house up. She’ll be spiffy when I’m done with her, white picket fence and everything.”

  “You think?”

  “I know it.” He dips to my eye level. “You’re happy, right?”

  Am I happy? I roll those five letters ’round my head. Yes, I’ve been stuck on Roy for ages. He made me happy when we were seven and he picked me dandelions, when we were ten and he stopped Buster from making me kiss a frog, when we were thirteen and he patched up my knee after I fell off my bike. The memories keep on coming, and I don’t want that happiness to stop. His proposal caught me off guard, that’s all. But, yes, we’ll make something of ourselves, and we’ll do it together.

  I lean onto my tiptoes and peck his lips with a kiss. “Roy Thornton, I’d be honored to be your wife one day.”

  He hoots, swooping his arms under me. Before I know it, I’m cradled against his chest and we’re swinging in a circle.

  I scream, but it’s playful. “You better not drop me, you clumsy fool.”

  He answers me with a kiss on the side of my head, and then another and another, as he carries me toward my ma’s house.

  Freeze, I think. I don’t want the secure way he holds me, the way the air catches my skirt, the hope for what’s to come, to stop, ever.

  2

  Yesterday the excitement of Roy’s proposal followed me home, Little Billie wanting to know every last detail, and today the hullabaloo stays with me as I slip into my corner of the library, my little nook where I disappear into the pages of a book. I love them all: stories of war, where passion and desire still bloom; tales of wild inhibitions and reckless romances; and one of my favorites, a novel of how a sultan’s daughter leaves her life behind in pursuit of true love, of her soul mate.

  I hold the worn copy over my heart and stretch my numb legs out from under me. Between high rows of books, there’s no better place to daydream—’bout Roy. I’m surprised I didn’t think much ’bout being his wife before yesterday. Maybe ’cause things have always been comfortable, moving ahead one day at a time, never disturbed. I figured I’d get to being his wife at some point in time. That doodle sure did the trick to hurry it up. I smile, I do, ’cause this is a good thing, marrying someone I’ve known my whole life. No surprises. Safety. Always there for each other, like the time Roy got his first scar.

  We were down by the river, Roy swinging on a rope. He shouldn’t have been. Roy is as nimble as a bull. A branch sliced him, without him even knowing it at the time. When Roy surfaced, a trail of red ran over his jaw, down his neck. The water was cold that day and I refused to go in. But when I thought he was hurt, I splashed in, fully dressed.

  No point marrying a man you wouldn’t catch a cold for.

  I peer through a gap in the bookcase at the wall clock and sigh, disappointed it’s time for work but also anxious to get there. During the week, Mr. Banks normally lets me work a twelve, but not today. The diner being slow means he needs fewer girls on the floor, which means coming in late morning, and that’s costing me tips. Money I could be putting toward our overdue electric bill.

  I drag my feet as I make my way to the door and wave to Mrs. Davis, who’s bent over her desk reading a book, her oversize eyeglasses low on her nose.

  Next door to the library, my bike leans against our shabby fence. Fixing my ankle-length skirt, I settle on the seat. It’s not even noon and heat is pooling on the dirt road. The sun beats down on my shoulders and the hot dust kicks up each time my feet go ’round.

  After I get going, though, the breeze feels nice. I lean my head back, letting the air cool my neck, letting my thoughts drift here and there. At the old tracks, I’m careful to look both ways before I cross. A little girl was struck here, not more than a few years ago. She was from the other side, Dallas, so our little town didn’t know her from Jane. It’s still plenty sad though.

  Dallas is a lot more bustling than Cement City, with a population three hundred times our own. It’s got big ol’ billboards, buildings more than two stories high, banks, clothing shops, a theater, and more.

  But us, we’ve got a physician’s office, general store, and telephone connections building. Though that last one doesn’t do my family a lick of good since we can’t afford a phone. But that’s it. That’s Cement City. We don’t even have a school. We go into Dallas for that.

  The diner comes into view and I raise a brow. My best friend loiters outside the diner’s alley door, smoking a cigarette. That’s a first—Blanche being ’round back, not her dirty habit of Lucky Strikes.

  “Blanche. What ya doing here?” I ask her, amused that she’s standing among the trash cans in her fancy knee-high dress.

  “Waiting for you.” She puffs from her cig before flicking it, then scans her surroundings with a wrinkled nose. “Been here a whole hour. I can practically smell that old dusty book on you. Bet that’s why you’re late.”

  “You cannot. Besides, I ain’t late.” I slide off my bike. “Mr. Banks cut down my hours.”

  Hand on hip, she says, “Should’ve told me.”

  I ignore her and pull open the door to the diner, knowing the ever-determined Blanche will be on my heels and that my boss won’t care. Mr. Banks waves hello from one of the kitchen’s sinks, his expression lighting up like it does every time Blanche comes in. Although expected, I narrow my eyes at him; he must’ve forgotten again ’bout his wife and three kids at home.

  Grabbing my apron from a peg on the wall, I get right to work. Blanche follows me into the dining room like a lost puppy.

  “Okay, Blanche, what’s going on?” I ask as I scour the row of tables by the window, all mostly empty.

  “I need your help,” Blanche whispers. “My pa’s demanding that I start paying my own way. Or find myself a man to do it for me.”

  Well, I got myself a man. My news ’bout Roy bubbles up inside of me.

  “But,” Blanche continues, her nose scrunched up like there’s a skunk nearby, “I ain’t ’bout to narrow down my list of suitors.”

  I nod, expecting her to say something like that, and keep my mouth closed ’bout Roy.

  Blanche bumps my shoulder with hers. “So I got to figure something out. Or rather, you’ll figure something out.”

  Oh, Blanche. Ma always says Blanche runs wild ’cause she doesn’t have a ma of her own. Ma also says I should show her the ways of a woman, which is probably the only reason why we’re allowed to be friends. And probably why Blanche has come to rely on me so much.

  “So what do ya say, Bonn? You’re the brains. What’s the solution?”

  “Get a job,” I say in a rushed whisper. I turn my attention to a couple settling at a discolored booth. “What can I get y’all today?”

  I jot down their order: two Cubans, a Coca-Cola, a lemonade, and a side of fries.

  Blanche doesn’t stop her yammering. “Don’t think a job and I would get along.” She looks ’round the diner, with its checkered floor and mismatched chairs, with a cringe.

  I smile to the customers before I leave their table. “Fine, then,” I say to Blanche as I—we—walk toward the kitchen, “find yourself a sugar daddy.”

  Really, it’s meant as a joke. Using a man like that is wrong. But Blanche nods, taking me seriously. “Thought ’bout it. I did. More trouble than it’s worth. In fact, I reckon it’s more work than a real job.”

  I scan the tables to see if anyone is low on drinks. “How so?” I ask, sincerely curious.

  “I’d have to go juggling ’em. Playing house with only one man is nothin’ more than a death trap.”

  And that, right ther
e, solidifies why I haven’t told Blanche ’bout Roy and me. I should want to tell her, but I’m not sure she wants to hear it. I sigh. “So, how is having a few sugar daddies different than having a few fellas?”

  “Plain and simple, a daddy pays my way, even if I don’t have his ring on my finger. And if I got more than one boy, I got to keep ’em straight and away from each other. Don’t want to find myself in a middle of a brawl, now do I? Besides, I don’t fancy being called a gold digger. So let’s hear how you’re going to fix this for me.”

  A man at a far table raises his pointer finger to catch my attention.

  “Bonnelyn, focus.” Blanche steps in front of me, her eyes huge. “On me,” she adds.

  I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “That customer needs my help more.”

  She looks over her shoulder at the man, says to me, “Wait here.”

  Blanche saunters toward Mr. Banks at the register, flipping open the top button of her blouse. Then she goes and props her elbows on the counter, leaning forward so her bosoms show.

  I roll my eyes before grabbing a coffeepot and heading toward the patron’s table. I’ve just filled his cup when Blanche grabs the pot from my hand, puts it down with a bang.

  “Got ya a five-minute break,” she says.

  “A break? I only got here.”

  Blanche grins, pulling me away from the table. And really, there’s no use resisting. No matter what way it’s spun, Blanche always wins, and time and time again I’m left thinkin’, Oh that’s just Blanche. Blanche is going to be Blanche. There’s nothin’ to be done.

  I reach for the coffeepot and apologize to the man for Blanche’s rudeness. She sits down at an empty booth, gesturing for me to do the same. I hesitate. Mr. Banks is cashing someone out, so I slink down onto the bench, hoping he won’t mind me taking my five in the dining room.

  “So what do I do?” Blanche asks.

  “Like I said, get a job. I could see if Mr. Banks needs another waitress.”

  “First, no. Second, he cut your hours. I reckon he ain’t hiring. Third, this place is in the butt crack of Dallas. No wonder it’s slow.”

  “Good point … points.” I hate it when Blanche is right. “There’s got to be a job more suitable for Blanche Caldwell.”

  Her lips narrow into a circle. “I’ve an idea! Let’s go on the road, start our own act. You’ll sing with that pretty li’l voice of yours. I’ll dance with this fine body.” She shimmies in her seat. “Money problem: solved.”

  “You can dance?”

  She snarls.

  I laugh, and I’m ’bout to crush her dreams ’bout skipping town, when a boy—a couple years older than us, nineteen or twenty maybe, figuring by his grown-up suit—tilts his chair toward us from his table, his voice low. “Hello there, lassie.”

  Between Blanche and me, furrowed brows and subtle headshakes say a mouthful.

  You know him?

  Nope. You?

  Can’t say I do.

  Damn. He’s a sheik.

  The last nod toward his sex appeal comes from Blanche, punctuated by a raised eyebrow.

  The boy leans a hairsbreadth closer to Blanche, spinning a pocket watch between his fingers. “You looking for work, baby?”

  He’s lucky God’s gone and blessed him with good looks. Otherwise, Blanche would’ve whacked him on the kisser for calling her that. Not that baby is derogatory, but it’s something ya call a girlfriend, and Blanche Caldwell doesn’t belong to no one.

  She bats her lashes. I avoid eye contact, not certain this character is a good one to talk to.

  “Depends what type of work you’re offering,” Blanche says, her voice a purr.

  “I may know of something for the right lass, or lassies,” he says, his regard jumping to me at the end.

  I frantically shake my head, wanting zero parts of a conversation with a fella who looks like he rubs elbows with the likes of Al Capone.

  “Go on,” Blanche says, not sharing the same conviction.

  He gets up, slips into my booth. I scoot away, distancing myself.

  Lowering his voice, he says, “A new juice joint opened ’cross town, ya know? Been getting busy and the owner is looking for more dolls to serve drinks and entertain.”

  “A juice joint?” I ask.

  Blanche’s eyes go wide. “Shh.” She returns her focus to this unseemly fella. “Bonnelyn here lives under a rock. Rather, cement.”

  He moves closer, his breath warming my face. “A speakeasy.”

  I gasp, from the fact those places are illegal, from the slickness of his voice, but Blanche rolls her eyes. “Bonnelyn here also has the morality of a saint.”

  “Well,” the boy says, scribbling onto a napkin, “if you and Saint Bonnelyn are interested, I’ll be at this address tomorrow night. Come at 6:23, sharp. Ask for Buck.”

  “That your name?” Blanche asks.

  “No.” He stands, throws a handful of money onto his table. I can’t help gawking at how much he overpays for an egg salad sandwich. “But,” he continues, “it’s what my friends call me.”

  With that, Buck walks away, each step confident, as he tosses his pocket watch into the air, snatching it again.

  Blanche’s hand shoots out, grabs the napkin. She kisses it. “That boy has just solved my problems, unlike you.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I say.

  She looks up from ogling the address. “Jeepers creepers, I ain’t joking. Why wouldn’t I go?”

  I can’t believe she’s even asking. The nation’s ban on alcohol is in full effect, has been for years. I answer, despite the ridiculousness of her question. “You get caught and you get pinched. Then your daddy will be bailing you out of jail.”

  “He could get me off with his lawyer-y ways if he wanted to.” She slides the napkin under her brassiere strap and claps once. “Oh, Bonn, this is like from a film, or that book you read by that Fitzherald man.”

  “Fitzgerald,” I correct.

  She waves me off. “It’s ’bout time Dallas caught up to all the excitement of the big cities. We’ll be flappers.” Her eyes grow bigger. “We’ll be vixens.”

  “No, we won’t,” I say. “’Cause, we ain’t going.”

  “Six o’clock works, yeah? To pick you up?”

  My ears must’ve quit working. I ignore her, the same way she ignored me. “Your five minutes are up.” I start to stand from the booth.

  She grabs my hands, holding me in place. “Bonnelyn, everything will be copacetic. Blanche promises.”

  “I ain’t going. What part of ‘illegal, underground establishment’ do you reckon sounds like something I’d do?”

  She’s quiet a moment, and I wait for her to agree, to admit this is crazy. “How ’bout this?” A wicked smile spreads ’cross her face—the kind that makes my lungs ache for air. “I’m coming to your house tomorrow night. If you’re there, great. If not, I may just see if Buster Boy wants to take a quick spin.”

  I rip my arm from her grasp. “You stay away from my brother. You hear? He ain’t a toy.”

  She pats my cheek. “That spitfire can take care of himself. He finds fun well enough on his own. But it’s ’bout time we found it together.”

  And she’s right. I know Buster would happily be her plaything.

  “Out,” I say, pointing demonstratively to the door.

  She backpedals. “Fine. But I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Bonn. You can count on that.”

  Blanche slips through the door, but not before blowing me a kiss.

  3

  With Blanche’s threat looming over my head, today’s been one of those days where everything goes wrong. I caught Ma pouring water into the milk jugs to make ’em last longer; it was Roy’s turn to work a double at the cement plant, so I didn’t get to see him; Mr. Banks sent me home early from work; and then, when all I wanted to do was read a gossip magazine I borrowed from Blanche, Billie’s hound was barking incessantly, wanting to get out of the heat. I hollered at ol
d Duke to be quiet; then, not even ten minutes later, I found the mutt in the bathtub, with my sister pouring cold water over him.

  Now Ma finally rushes into the house, frenzied, her cheeks almost as red as her Ruby Lipstick lips, grumbling under her breath how the factory kept her late with no overtime pay and how the bus was running behind. I’m ’bout to offer to help her with supper, but she pins me with a Why aren’t you working? look. So I sit right back down and pick up my magazine. Go figure, the ink is smeared from the dog shaking off excess water all ’round the house.

  For once, Buster is home, not scheduled ’til tonight at the plant so he can get the extra midnight-shift money. Him and Billie are playing Checkered Game of Life, looking carefree. Not me. My foot is tapping a mile a minute while I stare at the front door—waiting for the dreadful sound of Big Bertha’s engine, of Blanche’s car. Blanche showing up is inevitable, but I ain’t going inside that place with her. Not going to happen. Those places are illegal. I shiver. Hotbeds for raids.

  Ma calls into the room for us to get washed up for supper. Not long after I shove a spoonful of lukewarm Van Camp’s pork and beans in my mouth, Billie goes off, proclaiming how excited she is for Roy and me. She keeps doing that and, each time, she makes me smile. Billie has an infectious way ’bout her.

  “Your daddy would like how that boy turned out,” Ma says, much more pleasant than earlier.

  Daddy’s chair sits empty next to me. Always five seats ’round the table, never four.

  “Is Roy a lot like Daddy was?” I ask her.

  Ma smiles, a distant look in her tired eyes, as if she’s remembering. “Your daddy had a lot of spunk. Always after bigger and better.”

  Billie giggles, and I can’t help thinkin’ that sounds a bit like me. “Daddy was a hooligan?” my sister asks.

  “Now, I didn’t say that.” But Ma has a grin on her face, like she doesn’t mind his once rebellious ways. I’m grinning too, liking that Daddy pushed the limits now and again, keeping Ma on her toes. “Your father was a good Christian man after he got the rest out of his system. The gentlest man who’s ever gone and held a shotgun.”