I sigh, still not happy with her, with this, with everything. But an idea pops into my head. From my pocket, I take the red lipstick my ma gave me and tell Blanche to pucker up.
She doesn’t say thanks when I’m done, but she looks at me—really looks at me—how she does every time I mimic my ma and do something maternal, something Blanche’s own ma would do, if she had one.
Blanche steps from the car.
“Be careful,” I plead.
“Always.” She winks before skipping off toward Buck, his fancy suit, and the physician’s office, her heels clicking against the street.
I’m left in the passenger’s seat, praying to our Lord God I haven’t made a mistake by letting her go.
*
Day turns to night as I sit here in Blanche’s soft-top breezer while God only knows what goes on inside that physician’s office. At first, the three-story building ’cross the street casts a shadow over me. As time passes, the square of darkness creeps away, inch by inch, with the retreating sun. Streetlights flicker on above my head, and tiny spotlights line the sidewalks.
People wander the street, in and out of the lights. I scrutinize them, my eyes playing tricks on me. A belt buckle becomes a policeman’s badge. In the shadows, umbrellas become guns. A shout becomes a threat of a raid. Each time, I grip the door handle. But I know, pathetically, that’s as far as I’ll go.
Fortunately, the only folks actually out and about are plain ol’ men, and kids ’round my age.
A few people come and go from the physician’s office—a group of men, a group of women. But never men and women together. Most women are at home, tending to their families. I reckon that’ll be me, after I become Mrs. Roy Thornton.
I startle, that being the first time I’ve referred to myself that way. The title causes mixed feelings, as if I’ve put being a wife above all my other dreams. But that can’t be true. Roy doesn’t even know I’m here, can’t know I even thought about coming here. He’s ready to settle down, not saddle up to a bar, ’specially with his daddy’s alcoholic ways. I got to imagine the idea of me being ’round giggle juice would leave a bad taste in his mouth.
I close the roof of the car, needing something to do to busy myself. For the seemingly millionth time, I wish I’d brought something to read—not that I’d even be able to read the darkened pages. But holding a book always puts me at ease, knowing a happy ending is in between my fingertips.
Movement catches my eye, and I hold my breath. Buck takes another step out of the physician’s office. I slink down in my seat, afraid he’ll spot me. He scans, sees me through the car’s open window. There’s a jump in his step as he approaches, lighting a ciggy by the time he gets here.
“Well now, Blanche said you’d be hiding out in … Big Bertha.” He says “Big Bertha” as if it’s a question. “She’s just using the li’l girls’ room. Figured I’d come see your bonny face in the meantime.”
I swallow, not having much experience with boys who ain’t Roy, and certainly not with boys with red lipstick staining their collars. I settle for a nervous nod, leaning away as much as the seat will allow.
“Harmless inside the office, ya know.” He blows a puff of smoke.
“I’ll take your word for that,” I say, finding my voice, albeit an uncomfortable-sounding one.
He laughs, a mix of nicotine and booze on his breath. “You are reserved. And that friend of yours is a bearcat. How’d the likes of you become friends?”
I shrug, feeling like a na?ve little girl in comparison to my bearcat friend. Not sure why that bothers me a smidge. Her wild ways with boys—and life in general—shouldn’t be something that sparks even the slightest bit of curiosity within me.
As if Blanche’s ears are ringing from my thoughts, she stumbles out from the physician’s office. I’m relieved to see her, even if she can’t walk straight.
“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.