Spring 1932
Crime was everywhere. The newspapers. The movies. The radio. There were entire magazines devoted to outlaws and bandits, both real and imaginary. Half the country wanted to see them punished, while the other half cheered hem on. They shot and robbed their way from place to place, never stopping for long. Their numbers seemed to increase every day. The whole situation made Rose's stomach turn.
We aren't like them, she told herself. The morality, or lack thereof, as some might say, of their life wasn't the problem. It never had been. Some part of her still responded like a well-brought up girl, even after all these years. She recoiled from their fellow outlaws because of their vulgarity. She never would have admitted it, but that was how she saw them, with their guns and expensive clothes and wild lifestyles.
She and Jack were different. They did business, sure, but they went about it correctly. They didn't draw attention to themselves. They didn't pull guns on people. They didn't take hostages. She looked over at Jack as he finished checking his gun. The clip went back in with a sharp click. Yes, he carried a gun, but that was different. It was for protection. He would never shoot anyone. He'd aimed it at a few men, but she doubted whether he would really pull the trigger. Jack simply wasn't that kind of man.
He held the gun for a moment before putting it away. He was that kind of man, and he knew it. If the situation called for it, he would be.
…
"Do you want to do any business today?" Rose asked. They had been driving around aimlessly for two hours.
"Not really," Jack said honestly. He looked at her for a reaction. She almost looked relieved.
"Are you sure?" she said.
"Yeah. Unless you want to?"
"No," she replied. "I don't want to."
They were thinking the same thing, only neither of them could say it. It had been this way for weeks. They pulled small jobs here and there, but they didn't have any passion for it anymore. They barely tried. They both wanted the other one to bring it up first.
"What do you want to do then?" Rose asked.
"I wanna live there," Jack said, pointing at a house. He brought the car to a stop. It was a bungalow with an orange tree in the front yard.
"It's nice," she said. "Just big enough."
"You and me and…." He trailed off.
"And?" she prompted.
"Nothing. I don't know what I meant."
A baby, he was going to say. Rose knew it, but she wanted to hear it from him. She wasn't sure what she would do if he did bring it up. The memory kept getting closer. It pressed down on her, sharp as a knife.
Jack didn't know. He couldn't know. She never said anything about it. She had been sick; that was all he knew. He hadn't asked too many questions at the time, accepting it was some kind of womanly ailment. He was always understanding when it came to that sort of thing, more so than Rose expected.
He didn't know, and he would never know.
Fall 1924
Jack knew. Not at first, but after a few days he figured it out. Something clicked, and he realized Rose was suffering more than she let on. Whatever was wrong, it was much worse than she wanted him to see. The physical side of it was very real. She was in pain. She was weak and bleeding. That couldn't be hidden. He did his best to care for her, tucking her into bed, bringing her food, books, tea, and flowers. She responded to none of it. The only time she seemed to care about anything was when he held her.
She slept curled up against him. Jack watched her, his arms tight around her. She whimpered. It sounded like she was crying. In that moment, he knew. There was nothing he could do about it. Mentioning it just seemed cruel. She didn't want to talk about it, clearly.
He wondered what it would have been like, having a child. Would it look more like Rose or more like him? If they had one, would more come later? Jack tried not to think about it. Rose was trying to forget. He should too. He couldn't, though. Briefly he considered the possibility of doing business with a child along. It wouldn't be impossible—difficult, yes, but not impossible. They could teach their child all their tricks. He or she would grow up with a natural aptitude for the trade. Would that be so bad?
The answer was yes, and Jack knew it. They couldn't travel constantly with a baby. Babies needed a routine, stability. They couldn't sleep in cold cars. They couldn't sleep outside on damp nights.
After about a week Rose began coming around. She still wasn't herself, but she was eating without prompting from Jack. She was out of bed and dressed. Her eyes were heavy; her voice hadn't lost its hollowness, but Jack remained optimistic. She would be alright, eventually.
Summer 1932
They recognized them immediately. The group walked into the diner—or rather, strode into it—as if they owned it. The men wore well-cut suits and hats. The women were clad in silk dresses, their hair freshly set. They all had an air of frivolity and affluence, though anyone who looked closely could see it was a mask. Their eyes were anxious. They never stopped looking over their shoulders.
Rose tensed when they passed. "Don't worry," Jack said quietly. "They won't do anything."
"I don't like them being so close."
"I know. I don't either," he said.
"Do you think everyone else can tell?" she asked.
"Maybe. They may just think they're movie people, silly kids with too much money."
Rose's tone was sardonic. "What's too much money?"
"I'll let you know when we've got it," he replied.
"Jack, if we can tell about them, do you think—"
"No," he said quickly. "They can't tell about us."
"How can you be sure?"
"We're not like them. You know that," Jack said.
"What if we are?"
"We aren't," he said.
"Jack."
He met her eyes. "What is it, Rose-Petal?" He wanted her to say it. All he needed was for her to say it. This would all be over if she would just say the words.
"Nothing," Rose said, shaking her head.
"Right."
They passed the group on their way to the car. One of the women looked at Rose. Her gaze was intense, as if she recognized her. Rose tried to look away, but something drew her to this girl. She was tiny; she looked like a doll next to the others. One of the men, the leader from what Rose could tell, was nearly as short. When they stood next to each other, they didn't look so short; they looked normal. The others, two more couples, dwarfed them.
Rose saw longing in the girl's eyes, and a kind of desperation she'd felt herself. It was the desperation that sent her to Jack and then sent her off with him. Underneath that, Rose saw resignation. This girl knew what her life was, what it would always be now.
"C'mon, Bonnie." It came from the leader. He spoke with a syrupy Texas drawl. "We're leavin, honey." Bonnie frowned. He'd used her real name, and that was dangerous. Intuitively Rose understood this. She wanted to say something, but what?
Rose would read about their deaths, later, this couple, and remember seeing them. She would remember Bonnie's eyes, so like her own, and hold tightly to Jack, shielding him against the bullets she feared lay in their future.
…
"Were you serious about that house?" Rose asked.
Jack looked at her. "What?"
"The one we saw earlier. Did you mean what you said about it?"
His heart beat faster. Was she finally going to say it? "If I did?"
"I was just curious," she said.
"No reason?"
They looked at each other. The silence was thick. Don't make me, Rose pleaded silently, as he pleaded for her to. "If you did," she said, unable to bear it any longer. "I—" The words wouldn't come out.
"Rose, do you want me to mean it?" he asked.
"If I did?" she said.
"Then I would." Jack touched her hand. "Do you want me to?"
Rose nodded. Relief washed over her.
Fall 1924
"We don't hafta leave," Jack said. "We can stay a few more days."
"We should go," Rose said. "I want to. We've been here too long already."
"Alright."
They packed their things, and when they were gone, no-one could tell they had ever been there. Rose was glad about that. She was glad to be leaving. As they drove out of town she felt herself getting lighter. She rolled down her window; the cool air rushed in over her face. She closed her eyes and leaned into it. This was more cleansing than a dozen hot baths.
When they hit the country roads Jack sped up. He wasn't worried about being stopped. Cops never came this far out unless they had to, and besides, they hadn't done anything. The gun he carried was perfectly legal.
He leaned back. The world was red and gold. All around them leaves blazed, neatly painted for the fall. Rose half-smiled as she drank it in. Jack let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"It's gorgeous, isn't it?" he said.
"Yes." Was it his imagination, or was her voice brighter than it had been? "I wish it wasn't too cold to sleep outside," she added.
"That'd be nice," he agreed. "Where, uh, where do you wanna go now?"
"It doesn't matter," she said. "Anywhere, as long as it's away from where we were. Far away."
"I can do that."
Summer 1932
It had been said, but now they didn't know what to do. They were awkward with one another. For the rest of the day they barely spoke. What they managed to say was overly polite and superficial. They avoided each other's eyes. Rose felt guilty for what she said. Jack's guilt came from pushing her to say it. They couldn't just be happy it was out there. They wouldn't let themselves; that would have been a betrayal of everything they'd lived by for twenty years—even longer, in Jack's case. They both feared it was too late for a change, no matter how badly they wanted it.
"Thank you," Rose said, as he set her bag down.
"You're welcome."
She brushed her hair even though it didn't need it. It was better than doing nothing. Across the room, Jack was taking his clothes out of the suitcase and hanging them in the closet. "I'll do that," she offered.
"You don't have to."
"I don't mind," she said.
"I know."
Rose stepped toward him. "Jack." She held out her hands. "What's happening?"
"I don't know," he answered. "We—We can't live like this anymore, can we?"
"I don't know why we can't," she said half-heartedly. "Nothing has changed." Except it had. The world had changed, and they had changed along with it.
"I never thought…I didn't expect this to happen," Jack said. "I didn't want it to happen. I liked things the way they were."
"So did I."
"Ever since I died—" Rose winced at that word. "I haven't been the same," he said. "I thought I was at first, but I'm not. Rose, I don't want this anymore."
His words chilled her. "Does that include me?"
"What?" he said incredulously. "Why would you ask that? You're the only thing I do want."
"I'm part of this life, Jack. You've been living it with me for twenty years. You may not want me along when you go straight. I might be a reminder."
"You can't really believe that," he said. "Rose, if you don't know how much I love you—"
"I don't know anything anymore. I'm sorry. I wish I did."
"Neither do I."
"Is that what you want, for us to find a house somewhere and settle down?" she asked. "Retire from our life of crime?"
"I don't know," Jack replied. "Maybe. Yes. Do you want that?"
"I want to be still for a while," Rose said. She spoke slowly, the realization fully hitting her. "I want to unpack our things and leave them that way. I want a corner to read in and another for you to draw in. I want you to draw as much as you used to."
"That sounds nice."
"Do you think we can have peace somewhere? Do you really think we won't always worry about being recognized?"
"Why should we be? We've never done anything that big," he said. "We've never made headlines. We never hurt anyone, and we drift from town to town. No-one's ever noticed us. Who's gonna care if we stop a little earlier than we planned?"
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Rose looked into his eyes. "You won't regret it in a month?"
"I might, but you might too. Maybe we'll realize it was a mistake, pack up, and head out again." Jack answered. He shrugged. "What'll it hurt to find out?"
"Nothing, I suppose."
"It'll be a whole new kind of adventure for us," he said.
…..
They didn't do anything at first. They waited for the other to change their mind. The future had always been a page waiting to be filled in, but this was different. This uncertainty was overwhelming. Jack didn't know how they would fill the rest of their lives. What would they do all day?
"We don't need to work," he said.
"Jack, we haven't needed to work for a long time," Rose reminded him. "We've done it anyway."
"That was different."
"Was it?"
"You think we should anyway?" he asked.
"I don't know. It might look suspicious if we don't. How will we explain where our money comes from?" she said.
"We'll say we inherited it."
"Do you think people will believe that?" she said.
"Why not? People've been believing us for years."
"We'll use our real names?" she said.
"Do you think we shouldn't?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"We never used them when we did business," Jack said.
"But it's a lot of exposure," Rose pointed out. "We'll be traceable."
"Only if we want to be, and who's gonna come looking for us?"
They didn't get the house Jack wanted, but they found a similar one. The neighborhood was quiet and near the beach. Most of the residents were young couples or families. The real estate agent mistook them for newlyweds; their ages were so difficult to read. "This is a perfect choice for a couple just starting out," he explained. "You'll have plenty of room for children."
"That's good to know," Jack said.
"Yes, it is," Rose agreed.
There were two peach trees in the backyard. They looked at each other and laughed when they saw them. Jack plucked an early peach and handed it to Rose with a flourish. "For you," he said.
She laughed again. "Thank you."
"If that's not a sign, I don't know what is," he said. "We can sell peaches again, legitimately this time."
"I doubt we'll have enough to make it worthwhile." Rose bit into it. "It's good," she said brightly. "That's another sign." She offered it to him. "Try it."
"You're right," he said. "It is good. Add that to the signs."
They bought the house. No mortgage, no loans, just cash. The agent and the bank were so delighted the price was lowered slightly.
They unpacked the car completely. It was an odd sight once it was finally empty. There was more room than they remembered. Everything they owned was in a pile in the living room. It hardly took up any space at all.
"Is this everything?" Rose said.
"That's everything," Jack replied.
Jack's art supplies. Full sketchbooks. A box of books. A few magazines, a newspaper. Blankets. A lantern. Matches. Candle stubs. A basket with books supplies. Three suitcases. A toiletry case. Twelve "Deluxe Edition" Bibles and a set of engraving plates. A stack of maps. A portable radio. A gun. A sewing kit.
Rose wondered how they would ever fill an entire house.
"We don't have anywhere to sleep," Jack said. "I hadn't thought about that."
"We—" Rose stopped. Beds weren't something they were worried about. Every room had one already. They weren't always the best, but they were there. During the summer they often camped out, making a bed even less important. "We could sleep in the car," she said.
"That might not be a good idea. We'd have to drive out to keep people from seeing."
"Do you care if they see?" she asked.
"I don't want to do this the wrong way," Jack said. "We shouldn't draw attention to ourselves."
"What should we do then?"
Going to a hotel didn't seem right. That was their old way of living. If they went, they might stay.
"What if we slept outside?" Rose suggested. "In the backyard? There's a fence. Who will see us?"
"That's not a bad idea, Rose."
The stars burned brightly above them. They lay in each other's arms, dreaming of the life they would have. Bringing it into reality, however, wouldn't so that simple.