Becoming Bonnie Read online

  Buck grins and swings the door open.

  Energy crashes into me. Over the roar of music and voices, I manage to hear Blanche squeal. She grabs the hand that’s covering my chest and pulls me into the juice joint.

  My gaze sweeps the cloudy room, and, at first, the details are lost on me. Cigarette smoke hangs in the hot air, stinging my eyes. I cough and wave my hand, straining to see a blur of faces and tables, a dance floor. Chaotic motion catches my eye before a hue of red lights, beaming onto a stage, steals my attention. Three girls wearing mini top hats and equally mini silver dresses sing, the hypnotic music everywhere.

  I spot the long bar as we come to it, as if it materializes from thin air.

  “Here we are,” Buck says, leaning too close to my ear. “I got to get back upstairs. Blanche, show her the ropes?”

  Blanche swings a fake rope, her hip moving with the motion. On anyone else, it’d look embarrassingly pathetic. On Blanche, it’s sexy. Buck eats it right up, whistling.

  My head swirls as Buck returns to the door. I’m still not sure how I got from there to here.

  “Isn’t this the bee’s knees?” Blanche asks.

  “The bee’s knees…” I repeat, fully knowing and understanding the expression, but too befuddled to do anything but repeat the sayin’.

  “Hey!”

  I jolt toward the sound. A girl with dark, short hair mans the bar. She drops below it, straightens again, holding a deep green bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  “You here to work? Or gawk?”

  “Work!” Blanche trots toward her, lifting a partition in the bar’s tabletop, which stands in her way.

  I pass through, grab it from her, holding my breath and closing my burning eyes as I slowly lower the partition. What am I doing here?

  I open my eyes and am met with a sly, cool smile from the other side of the bar. It belongs to a boy with slicked-back hair, wearing suspenders over a light-blue shirt that brings out his eyes. Not high school age, but he can’t be much older, by the looks of him. Handsome.

  He smirks. “Say—”

  I flee, not allowing myself to fall victim to what he says next, and rush to Blanche’s side.

  “Like you did last night,” the dark-haired girl says, midsentence, to Blanche. “And you…” She surveys me, taking a puff from her cig. “You’re no better than furniture right now. Why don’t you start by clearing the tables?”

  I stare at her like she has multiple heads.

  “You go out there.” She points with her cigarette-wielding hand to the cluster of four or five tables. “You bring the glasses back here. Think you can handle that?”

  I nod.

  “Good,” she says, gently patting my cheek, the red tip of her cig coming dangerously close to my face.

  “What’s your name?” I blurt out, already knowing the answer. But it’s like when I have a bruise. Sometimes I press it to make sure it’s still there.

  “Mary,” she says, and I swallow again, already doing a poor job of impressing the boss. “Can you go get those glasses now…” She gestures toward me.

  I say, “Bonnelyn.”

  “Ain’t that cute. Now, go.”

  Mary is gone before I can say okay.

  I exhale, trying to regain my composure. It helps that the boy with the confident smile is nowhere to be seen. I duck beneath the bar’s partition, then hesitate outside of it. The room is more than a bit intimidating.

  A grand chandelier hovers over the dance floor. It casts winks of light onto the wooden bar. I hold my hands out, turning ’em front and back, examining how shimmers of color dance over my skin. The red neon sign, spelling out DOC’S, acts as a backdrop for the stage. There, a man sits at a piano, his hands banging into the ivory.

  The sudden high notes of a trumpet erupt in the room. A dark-skinned man breathes into the instrument, bending at the waist, a mirror image of another man with a saxophone. Front and center, the three girls croon into microphones, each swaying to the beat. For a second, I forget where I am and how the police could come barging through the door at any time. I softly rock from foot to foot. What a thrill it’d be to be onstage, creating the sounds that fill this room. Extraordinary, breathtaking. Sensuous.

  My cheeks blush.

  The dancing, if that’s what it can be called, reddens my cheeks further and stops my feet from swaying. In front of me, arms and legs flail wildly. And no, it doesn’t matter I’m not partaking; the act of watching feels sinful enough. Suffice it to say, there are certain places better fit for such half-dressed movements, and the government closed those houses down along with the bars.

  The sweaty smell of sex—or how I’d imagine nookie would smell—wafts over me. I blow the thick air from my nose, but the perfumed, musky scent goes nowhere.

  Me, on the other hand … I could escape upstairs. I’ll run home, crawl under my covers, pretend this night never happened. Tomorrow, Roy will hold me, tell me the paint color he prefers for our walls, and I’ll push away any thoughts of the betrayal in coming here.

  Over my shoulder, I search for Blanche’s familiar face behind the illicit bar. Only Mary’s wide eyes stare back. She signals with those eyes and a quick tilt of her head toward the tables. Her simple command to get the glasses shouldn’t be so scary. For years, I’ve been clearing tables at the diner—a job I no longer have.

  Income I no longer have.

  In time with the saxophone’s roar, I shuffle forward, keeping to the outskirts of the room. A woman nearly knocks into me and I risk glancing at her. She flings her head back and her partner buries his face into her neck, kissing her.

  I steady myself against the wall. The brick is cool to the touch, and I want nothin’ more than to press my face against it, letting the coldness seep into me and numb the guilt swarming my insides.

  But I keep moving forward, doing as I’m told. With each step, laughter and booming voices and music swirl together in the room, surrounding me.

  I stop at the first table I come to, hesitating before I reach for a glass. A man drapes himself over the table, arms folding ’round a pile of poker chips. I’m sure they clink together as he drags ’em toward himself, but the room swallows the sound. Only his smug laugh and the other men’s boisterous groans cut through the noise.

  Quickly gathering glasses, I fill my arms and scurry to the bar.

  Back and forth I go, in barely more than a daze, the hours ticking by. And ’cause I’m technically not the one mixing or serving the drinks, I try to convince myself being here ain’t wrong. It helps I don’t see that boy again, the one who smirked at me when I first arrived, part of me wondering what he was ’bout to say.

  Each time I return to the bar, Blanche flicks her attention to me, beaming widely. This time she fills a glass, slamming the now empty bottle hard against the table. The men lined up at the bar raise their glasses and cheer.

  The man Blanche serves next is a gross type—slick and gross. Wearing a fancy three-piece suit don’t make you fancy—or at least that’s what Ma says.

  He reaches up, wraps a wisp of Blanche’s blonde hair ’round his finger, but Blanche is acting cool as a cat, giggling and leaning closer. It’s the tapping of her foot that broadcasts, to me, that she’s unhappy with how he fondles her.

  I avert my eyes, too uncomfortable to watch.

  When I turn back, Blanche is pouring a shot of liquor. One is already filled, in front of me.

  She nudges me with her elbow. “This here gentleman bought us some drinks.” The shake of my head is automatic, and Blanche might as well be speaking French when she whispers, “Stop staring at it like I’ve gone and poured you poison.”

  A hand shoots out, grabbing the small glass.

  Mary slams it down, empty. She puffs from her cigarette, scrutinizing me, blowing the smoke toward my face. “Take them glasses into the kitchen to wash ’em.”

  I oblige, going quickly, without another glance at Blanche or the disgusting man.

 
; The back room is quieter and I release a breath. It’s easy to lose myself in the simple motion of cleaning and rinsing the glasses, and I don’t realize ’til a few minutes later that my hands move to the beat of the muted music, my fingers tapping against the glass as if against the piano’s keys. My shoulders, though—they stay rigid.

  “What are you doing here?” a sultry voice says.

  I whip toward her, suds dripping onto the floor.

  Mary steps closer, slipping her cigarette between her lips. The way she moves somehow seems seductive. Her clothing, her bobbed hairstyle, the tilt of her hip—everything suggests she has it.

  Sex appeal.

  Self-consciously, I brush aside my hair with my wrist, leaving soap on my cheek. I lift my shoulder to dab away the residue, feeling like a child.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she asks me.

  “I, um, Blanche brought me.”

  “Yes, but why are you here?”

  I think of our unpaid bills. But I can’t help thinkin’ further off, picturing a life that’d make my daddy proud. I think of Roy’s doodles and the need to support my ma. This here could pad my way, but now that I’m hiding out in the back room, thankful to be washing dishes …

  “I…” I stumble over my words, not sure how to answer, not sure those reasons are enough to keep me here.

  “In over your head,” Mary says, reading me perfectly.

  I nod, and honesty slips out. “I’m not sure this is the right place for me.”

  Mary releases a slow stream of smoke. “But it’s right for me?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “So you didn’t mean to judge me?”

  Judge her. The conversation is moving too fast, my mind too slow. I squeeze the slick glass tighter.

  Mary leans against a table, locking her gaze on me. “So what’s so wrong with being here?”

  Now my mind races and I try to figure out whether or not the question is a trick. My voice shakes and I fall back on familiar words, reciting, “God says not to—”

  “Let me stop you there. Instead of thinkin’ ’bout what God says not to do, I reckon it makes more sense to focus on what he says to do. Ya know, like forgive and forget when naïve girls insult you.”

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I should stop now. I’m that naïve girl, flinging insults, but I keep babbling. “Well, God says to follow the laws of the land. Being that this place is illegal, you certainly ain’t doing that.”

  She stares at me blankly, as if disinterested.

  And my mouth goes on moving. “For there is no authority ’cept from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. And therefore…”

  I can’t remember the therefore. This place, this girl, has me all shook up. My nervous ranting comes to a close. I stand here awkwardly, still squeezing the wet glass.

  “I ain’t much for authority.” Mary shrugs, yawns, takes a drag from her cigarette. “Besides, you seem to be picking and choosing what you follow, too.” She pushes off the table, sashays toward me, stopping inches from my face. “For tonight,” she says, and slams a handful of bills onto the counter beside me. “But let me be clear. We don’t need you. Plenty of pretty girls out there. I get the sense you need us, though. Let me know what the Man Upstairs says ’bout that.”

  Then she’s gone, the volume of the music growing louder as she slips through the door.

  6

  I open my hand, where a few coins and a crumpled bill are left in my palm. In front of me, in all its pathetic glory, is my one-day home. At my feet, two paint cans sit unopened, ready to nice up our porch and fence. A few houses down, our pantry’s stocked a mile high and a lamp shines in Ma’s picture window—and will keep shining, for this month at least, now that our electric’s been paid.

  But what ’bout next month?

  Taking a deep breath, I slump down, using the paint buckets as an uncomfortable seat.

  Perhaps that’s why uncomfortable thoughts—rather, Mary’s voice from last night—gather like ants on a crumb. She’s right ’bout me. I mixed right and wrong together ’til I found a comfy spot in the middle.

  I lied to my ma, to Roy. I spent last night at the juice joint, telling myself it was fine ’cause I wasn’t the one serving drinks, dancing, or letting men fondle my hair. I scratch my neck and along my collarbone. Then, today, I had no problem sneaking ’round while Ma’s at the factory and Roy’s sleeping off work, spending the money I made from an illicit juice joint, and now—I’ll admit—I wish there was more of it.

  No matter how bad Buster’s hand turns out to be, I imagine what working another night, two nights, or more could do for us.

  I could buy Little Billie new clothes so she doesn’t get picked on.

  I could ensure the lamp in our picture window stays on.

  I won’t have to drop out of school.

  Only two days ago I asked Blanche, What part of “illegal, underground establishment” do you reckon sounds like something I’d do?

  The answer to that question is suddenly a bit fuzzy, even if the idea of Doc’s and of getting locked up behind bars still gives me the shakes.

  With an unsteady hand, I pick two pennies out of my hand. Next door, at the library, I slip ’em into the public phone. There’s that same nasally voice, that same hello from Blanche.

  No sooner have I hung up the phone, it seems, than Big Bertha sits idle at my curb, and then I’m back in front of the physician’s office, acting like Duke Dog chasing his tail. What am I doing? What am I doing? That same question circles in my mind, always coming back to how Mary was right ’bout something else: I do need Doc’s.

  “Don’t be having a panic attack on me.” Blanche inhales, blows out a puff of smoke. “I’ll give you two more minutes.”

  ’Til we go inside.

  Blanche filled me in on how staff can enter at any time through a special door—the entrance for the apartments upstairs. For everyone else, there’re rules.

  Men and women can never enter together.

  Never in groups more than two.

  Only two groups at a time.

  Only between the hours of five and eleven, unless you work at Doc’s, then being there before five is preferred.

  Men on the thirteens and fifty-threes.

  Women on the twenty-threes and forty-threes.

  That’s a selective total of ninety-six people a night, not counting us staff. Us staff. I shake my head, not believing I’ve gone and referred to myself that way, yet hoping it can stay that way and Mary won’t make me leave.

  “God, Bonnelyn,” Blanche says, with humor in her eyes. “Don’t look so guilty, like we’re ’bout to rob a bank.”

  Not looking guilty: an unspoken rule I keep breaking.

  “Okay, let’s go,” she all but sings. “You’ve delayed enough, and I want to get inside before the next group arrives.”

  She takes a final drag from her cig. My wristwatch says 5:12.

  If it weren’t for the rules, and for Blanche, I’d hesitate. But she’s already upset it’s after five. I don’t want to make us later or disrupt this well-oiled machine called Doc’s. A layer of uneasiness already lines my stomach at the thought of seeing Mary again.

  Of course, it had to be not only the boss but also the doctor’s niece who I insulted last night with my high-hat morals. Something Blanche hooted ’bout on the car ride here. “High-hat” was her word, not mine. I’m going to have to do some major butt kissing tonight to get back into Mary’s good graces and prove to her my worth.

  For once, I welcome Blanche’s vise grip on my hand, ’cause I’m not too sure I’d be able to move on my own. She yanks me toward Doc’s. With the week halfway gone, throngs of adults crowd the sidewalk, looking to reenergize. And with summer dwindling down, normal kids—the ones not sneaking into a speakeasy—hover outside the soda shop, wanting to enjoy every last minute of freedom. One of those normal kids calls Blanche’s name.

  Blanche looks over her shoulder, wa
ving wildly back. “Hi there, darling! Sorry, running late! Save me a soda.”

  Those few seconds are all Blanche spends on a girl named Hazel I ain’t too fond of, from school. Two men pull open the door to the physician’s office. We slip through the adjacent apartment door.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I ask Blanche, eyeing the staircase leading to the second floor, and, off to the side, a single door.

  “There’re three or four apartments upstairs. But this door”—she knocks—“is a back entrance into the office.”

  The door creaks open and a boy’s face stares back. It takes everything not to gawk at the huge mole on his forehead.

  “Buck’s girl?” he asks Blanche.

  Considering I only see the back of her head, I miss her expression, but I’d say this fella should be counting his blessings that Blanche lets his greeting slide.

  “And Saint Bonnelyn,” the boy says, noticing me.

  I want to shrink away. Nothin’ in his voice is hard, but he comes off as a rough-and-tough bimbo. Even though he doesn’t make me as nervous as Buck, his tone is enough for me to nod and not show any distaste toward the spreading nickname.

  “I’m Raymond,” he says, opening the door wider. “Ah, hold on.”

  He turns his attention to the two men we saw outside, positioning himself so he’s blocking them from the basement door to Doc’s. Blanche pulls me from the hall into the physician’s office, and I press myself against the wallpapered wall.

  “Here to see the doctor?” Raymond asks the men. Two more walk up behind ’em; 5:13’s four-man quota has been met.

  “Think we may have colds,” one with graying temples remarks.

  “The doc does honest work,” Raymond says. “I assume you plan to be honest, too?”

  The other man steps forward, keeping his voice soft. “We ain’t pigs, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Raymond stares at him, his face unflinching. His lips curl into a grin and he slaps the man’s shoulder. “First ones here. Got the place to yourselves. Go on down.”

  After Raymond opens the basement door, the men gesture for Blanche and me to go first.

  My second trip down the stairs is a different experience than the first. I smooth my already-tucked hair behind my ears and take a step down on my own accord. Last time, coming here could be rationalized away as a one-and-done thing. Now I’m choosing to go back. Choosing.