Becoming Bonnie Read online

  “Your friend there,” he says, pointing to Blanche, “had a bit of giggle water.”

  His voice sounds as if he whispered it into a megaphone, coming out dangerously loud. I gasp, peering up and down the remarkably empty and darkened street, expecting those police to materialize and apprehend her … us.

  But Blanche falling into Buck’s arms is all that happens. Scandalously, she wraps her leg ’round him. Buck grabs the bare skin of her upper thigh and nuzzles into her neck. A high-pitched yelp escapes from Blanche and she pushes him back. I avert my eyes but still hear her say, “Watch yourself now. Better not leave a mark or my pa will have your hide.”

  “Blanche.” I stare at the dash, dim under the streetlight’s glow. “I think it’s time for us to go.”

  I feel for the handle, intending to help her into the car, when her face is suddenly next to mine, leaning into Big Bertha.

  “Not yet,” she whispers.

  “Now,” I say, and wait for her backlash.

  For once, it doesn’t come. She turns into Buck’s chest. “Saint Bonnelyn is making me leave.” I don’t have to see her face to know a pout accompanies her words.

  Buck winks at me, and an uncomfortable heat surges into my belly. “Hopefully I’ll see both of you tomorrow.”

  I shake my head no, but he’s too busy giving Blanche’s rear end a pat to notice. She giggles, laying another kiss on him before opening the door.

  “Scooch over.”

  “To the driver’s seat? You know I’ve never driven before.”

  She rolls her eyes, all the answer I’m going to get. It ain’t illegal, I don’t need a license, so I move over, despite my lack of know-how, desperate to escape. I swallow down my nerves and lay my hands on a steering wheel for the first time.

  Blanche’s words slur as she climbs into Big Bertha, right on through the window, and drops the key in my lap. “Ishkabibble. It’s easy. Just pull out the ring thingy, turn the crank, retard the spark, push up the throttle, but,” she says loudly, “not all the way up. Then, crank again, advance the spark, push the hand lever, more throttle, stomp the clutch, and go.” She yawns and mimics rocking the wheel back and forth. “Easy as pie.”

  “Helpful,” I mumble, and survey the shadowed levers and pedals, trying to ignore the drip of sweat trickling down my back.

  Blanche smiles, but her gaze misses me, and her “Mm-hmm” response is delayed.

  I jump at Buck’s amused voice next to me. “I’ll handle the ‘ring thingy’ and the crank.”

  He strides to the front of the car, laughing, no doubt from my reaction to him, and I like him even less.

  He bends out of my line of sight. I’ve seen this part done before and can picture him giving the handle three swift turns. Priming the engine, it’s called.

  Buck comes back to me. “Shall I walk you through the rest, Saint Bonnelyn?”

  I steal a glance at an unconscious Blanche and nod briskly, despite the nickname, despite not wanting his help.

  “All right. This lever goes up into the retard position,” he says, reaching for the closest one. “And this…”

  I bite my bottom lip. His arm stretches ’cross me, dangerously close to my chest.

  “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 l
ips 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.”

  “Well ain’t that big of you, finding a proper way to insult me.”

  Blanche, I start, rehearsing in my head how I’m going to respond, you listen here. You listen good. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with marrying a Christian man and making a household together. And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with wanting someone like my daddy. You talk ’bout surviving? Well, this is how I want—no, need—to survive.

  I press my lips together, the words slipping away. All I ever do with Blanche is rehearse, never truly standing up to her. I turn onto my street, exactly as she’d instructed me to do, and let out a long, low growl, Blanche’s snore eating it right up.

  4

  Morning comes. So does the distant sound of heaving, and the memories of last night. Buck’s wink. Blanche’s outburst. My lack of an outburst.

  But also the money that came tumbling out of Blanche’s bust. The allure of the music …

  I roll over, trying to leave the thoughts behind, but don’t go far. I open my eyes to slits and stroke my little sister’s dark hair.

  “Blanche kicked me out of my bed last night,” Billie mumbles into my shoulder.

  I vaguely remember Billie climbing into bed with me. But last I thought, Blanche agreed to sleep on the couch. I lift my head, seeing Billie’s rumpled sheets but no Blanche.

  She’s too busy getting sick.

  “Better get her before she wakes up Mama,” Billie says.

  I groan. She’s right. For being so young, Billie’s often right.

  I’m relieved Ma’s door is closed when I pad into the hall. I tiptoe into the washroom and roll my eyes. Blanche is hugging the John like they’re going steady. No doubt the longest any John has kept her fancy.

  She rocks her head up, her face seeming as if it’s melting off, from her smeared makeup. “I wake you?”

  Hand on my hip, I add sternness to my voice. “What do you think?”

  She cringes, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “At least I feel better now, right?”

  I rip a towel from the rack, but hand it to her more gently. “Get yourself cleaned up.”

  A voice seeps into the hall from the living room, stopping me from flopping back into bed.

  “Buster?” I shield my eyes from the sunlight streaming in through our picture window. “What’re you doing awake?”

  My brother normally sleeps all day after working the night shift at the cement plant. But no, he’s sitting on the couch, muttering to himself, a scowl on his face.

  “Can’t sleep.” Buster shifts, wincing. The arm of the couch no longer blocks half his body. His arm is barely visible beneath a bag of ice.

  I gasp. “What happened to you?”

  “That dimwit Kenney Rogers happened, on my shift last night; could barely keep his eyes open.” Buster’s forehead creases in anger, or pain, or both. “End result was my hand stuck between two slabs of cement.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “How long do you think ’til you’re back at work?”

  Buster shakes his head. “Thanks for the concern, Bonn. I was on my way to manager.”

  “Sorry. I am concerned.” But ’cause the bold red text from our electric bill flashes through my mind, not ’cause Buster’s promotion will be delayed. I don’t think bringing up our overdue bill will help matters, so I say, “But we need you bringing in money.”

  “No shit. But what can I do? Foreman says I’m no use to him ’til it heals. Won’t promote me, either. Says I need more time under my belt on the floor first.” Buster mutters a curse, shakes his head again. “Ma went into the factory early to see if they have any extra sewing for her. I could kill Rogers; she already works herself too thin.”

  We all do. But we’ll barely be able to get by on just Ma’s and my salaries, even if she works more, and ’specially if Mr. Banks keeps taking hours from me.

  “I’m having my hand looked at tomorrow,” Buster says. “Should know more then. Here, open this. I sure as hell can’t.” Buster tosses a pill bottle, the rattling sound stopping as I catch it. “At least Rogers was kind enough to give me these beauties after bashing me up.” He rolls his eyes, his last comment obviously sarcastic.

  I turn, go to the kitchen to get him water so he can take what I assume is pain medicine. My voice cracks, and I’m relieved my back is to Buster to hide the fear on my face, when I say, “We’ll be okay.”

  I lift the faucet handle and my mind rushes, like the water into the glass, ’bout how that may be nothin’ more than wishful thinking. How long before the lights turn off? How long before the pantry’s bone dry? Do we have a month, a week, a day?

  I hand Buster the water and a pill and slump down on the sofa next to him. At least I’m due at the diner later, and I’ll be sure to bring my best smile to get my tips up.

  “Roy stopped by,” Buster says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

  I take the glass from him before it spills and raise an eyebrow at the fact Roy ain’t sleeping either, after working all night. “How long ago?”

  “Just a few minutes. He’s down the street at that old house he bought. Said to tell you to also come down, after you woke up.”

  “What’s he doing there?” He mentioned he was going to start fixin’ up the house, but right away? We still got a couple more years of school.

  Buster opens one eye. “I had other things on my mind, so you’ll have to forgive me for not playing secretary.” He smirks. “Go see for
yourself. I’m good here.”

  “Where we going?” Blanche struts into the room in one of my nightgowns, way too short on her. She’s got gams as long as an old tale. Somehow, she’s also perky as ever. “Hey there, Buster Boy,” she adds.

  Both of Buster’s eyes are now wide open. He nods hello like a cool cat.

  Blanche’s hand flies to her chest. “Oh my, Buster, are you oka—”

  I shove her down the hallway, trying to keep the lingering scent of alcohol that wafts ’round her away from my brother. “Buster will be fine,” I say, tired of her antics. “Now, I’m off to see my fiancé, and you’re going home.”

  Blanche frowns, pouts, stops short of stomping her foot. But she eventually heads on back to Dallas, not bothering to apologize for last night.

  I quickly clean myself up, irked by Blanche on many levels. The secret drinking, the way she wrapped herself ’round a boy she barely knew, the openly mean way she spoke to me. My poor face is nearly rubbed raw by the time I’m done fuming and ready to leave the house.

  Roy is leaning against the rickety fence of our new home when I spot him down the tree-lined road, his face pensive. Simply seeing him washes away some of my Blanche-fueled anger.

  “There you are, sleepyhead,” he calls.

  “Sorry. Blanche kept me out late.”

  “Yeah, figured. Saw her car out front. What were you two—”

  “What’re you still doing up?” I ask first, and cringe internally at the bowling ball–size heaviness in my stomach. He’s already got suspicion in his eyes, and I’m sure he’d be surprised—and not so jazzed—by where Blanche took me last night, even though I stayed in Big Bertha.

  “Wanted to start on the house,” he says.

  “So soon?”

  “Once summer’s over, we won’t have as much time.” He pauses. “Ain’t getting cold feet already, are ya?”

  I force a laugh. “With this weather? Don’t think that’s possible.” I jog the last few steps to him, wrap my arms ’round his waist, and press my lips firmly against his, willing passion like Blanche and Buck had last night to create a charge between us, to overwhelm me.