Triangular Nightmare

With July’s rising temperatures and high humidity Wilma sat in the kitchen nook with a bottle of Coke. Wearing nylons and her ankle-length nursing gown she was over-heated and dehydrated.  Throughout the day the heat upstairs was unbearable. Every window was open in the mansion, but with no breeze, the oscillating fans in the residents’ rooms were only blowing hot air.  

           She removed the stethoscope from around her neck and took off her white nursing cap from her limp finger-waved hair. She hadn’t been to a beauty parlor since the day she bought the mansion. She needed a permanent and a manicure, but with the cost of utilities and the price of groceries for the nursing home residents, she was reluctant to spend the money. 

           As she drank the Coke she opened the newspaper and flipped the pages of the Des Moines Register. President Roosevelt was pouring billions of dollars into the homeless population and the unemployed. Hitler had been chancellor for six months, and the notorious Burrow gang was on the run. People were losing their homes to foreclosure, and many farmers were shooting their livestock because they couldn’t afford to plant the grain to feed them.  It was a dire situation, and Wilma was thankful she had the money to make the mortgage and pay the utilities. 

           As she tossed the paper into the trash the back screen door banged shut. She thought it was Grace and got up to greet her, but what she found on the porch was not her best friend, but a queer looking fellow wearing a wig and holding a sawed-off shotgun slung over his shoulder. He wore a baggy feed-sack dress splattered with blood and mud, and he was barefoot.  He was unshaven, but he was a handsome man with fair skin and hazel eyes. When he opened the door a young woman came in, wearing muddy shoes and a flowered feed-sack dress saturated with blood. Her black mascara and red lipstick were smeared across her dirty face and her knitted cap was cocked haphazardly to one side. 

           Wilma stared at them in disbelief. She had dealt with gangsters and gunshot wounds when she was running bootleg whiskey during prohibition, but she never dreamed of dealing with a dizzy dame and an armed gay guy during this Great Depression.  “Are you related to one of the residents living upstairs?” She asked, thinking they looked familiar. “Are you looking for directions to a hospital? There’s one not far from here.”

           They both shook their heads.

           The guy sneezed and blew his nose into a handkerchief. “No, we don’t know anyone here. When we were in Polk City today we saw a poster on a bank’s window with a picture of you. It said you were a nurse and had recently opened a nursing home in a mansion here in Des Moines.”

           The young woman spoke in a strained voice, holding her bleeding belly with blood-stained hands. “Please help us. We’ve both been shot and we need medical care.”

           “I’m not a doctor. You need to go to a hospital.”

           The guy spoke. “We can’t. We’re on the run. We’ve got the law after us.”

           Wilma now remembered reading about the Burrow gang in the Des Moines Register and seeing their picture. They were wanted in connection with assault and murder to police officers. If they were seen or apprehended the Division of Investigation wanted to be notified.

           Clyde Barrow pushed his pinstripe jacket to the side, exposing his holster with a Colt 45. “Lady, we need your help. We’re hurt real bad. I was shot three times, and Bonnie has buckshot pellets in her belly.”    

           The bulge in his right pocket told Wilma he was harboring a handgun or had a wiener the size of a banana. “I don’t want any trouble,” Wilma said, fearing for her safety and the life of the residents. “If you leave now, I won’t notify the authorities. I’m not equipped to remove bullets or do surgery. You need to go to a hospital.” 

           “Lady, we have no other choice,” Clyde said, reaching into his pocket. “After a brutal shootout at the Raccoon River we skipped the town of Dexter and headed east. We’ve got to lay low.”

           The fear of him drawing out a weapon petrified Wilma, and when he pulled out a bottle of Pepsi she sighed with relief. As they climbed the steps to the kitchen she observed the back of them. Bonnie Parker had a peculiar way of climbing the steps. She was bowlegged and with both knees slightly buckled she hopped and hobbled up the three steps to the kitchen. She looked to be about five and a half feet and weighted about one-hundred pounds.  Clyde was tall and skinny. With his bare feet covered with black mud he looked like he had been wading in cow manure.  He didn’t smell much better either. He appeared over six feet tall and weighed about a hundred and fifty. When he ascended the steps he didn’t walk quite right. She assumed it was the result of him missing a big toe. 

           As they entered the kitchen, she stepped quietly back onto the porch and grabbed the knob on the screen door.  She glanced outside.  Parked in her driveway was a black two-door Model A Ford. She couldn’t see the license plate clearly but by the size of the front-end it appeared to be a V-8.  For fear they’d spot her looking out she quickly tiptoed back into the entryway and climbed the steps to the kitchen. In the middle of the room she lit a cigarette and eyeballed them. Bonnie’s fair complexion appeared a little sunburned, and her crocheted purse hung from the crook of her bloody arm. She wore a vest over her dress and her straight hair was colored black with blond roots showing through. Her jagged fingernails were partially covered with red polish and the half-moons were unpainted.

           When Clyde removed his Fedora hat and blond wig he had the kind of wavy brown locks that any woman would love to comb her fingers through.      

           “Would you like something to eat?”  Wilma offered, thinking that they might be hungry and hoping she could think of a way to get rid of them.

           “Yes, mam,” Clyde said. “We haven’t eaten since the shootout this morning.”

           Bonnie spoke to Clyde. “Honey, I ain’t hungry. I’m in a lot of pain. Wilma needs to remove the bullets and sew me up before I lose more blood.”

           Clyde spoke without empathy. “Stop whining Baby. I’d rather bleed to death than die of hunger.”

           Tears welled up in Bonnie’s eyes. “Daddy, that’s not funny! Stop thinking about your belly! It’s my stomach that’s been shot.” 

           Feeling sorry for her, Wilma went to the sink and wet a washcloth. After wiping blood from Bonnie’s hands Wilma placed a clean dishtowel over Bonnie’s blood-soaked belly. “Press it against your wound. It will help stop the bleeding.”

           As Wilma vigorously disinfected her hands at the kitchen sink with Lifebuoy soap she felt great sorrow for the dizzy dame. She was probably just another floozy who fell in love with the wrong man. She never understood why any wife or girlfriend in their right mind would call their boyfriend Daddy. Maybe it had something to do with being submissive to men because they felt inferior. Perhaps it was because Bonnie had no father figure. Whatever her reason, Clyde was obviously the leader of the Burrow gang.  His actions proved it. He was standing guard over his sawed off shot gun propped against the south windowsill. As he smoked a Camel cigarette his one arm appeared to be dangling lifelessly at his side. 

           When Wilma questioned them about their injuries, Mumsie appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was holding a cane with her right hand and staring at everyone with disdain. Her long white hair was braided and wrapped around her head like a halo. She wore a flowered gunny sack dress stained with urine.  With an angry face she pounded her cane against the floor. “Wilma, what the hell is going on? Who the hell are these people? Don’t we have enough mouths to feed without taking in more?”

           I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want her to know they were notorious outlaws who robbed banks and shot cops.

           Clyde held out his hand to Julia. “Sorry to drop by unannounced, but my wife and I are here to recuperate.”

           Mother glanced at the shotgun propped against the windowsill and suspiciously glared at Clyde. “You’re both too young to be in a nursing home. Why are you wearing a dirty dress? Are you one of those sissy homosexuals who loves dressing in women’s clothing? Your hairy legs don’t do you any justice. And what’s that weapon doing over there?”

           He pulled off the dress and underneath was a pinstripe suit. As he rolled down his sleeves and his pant legs he told the wildest story Wilma had ever heard. “I’m an undercover cop from Polk County. Today I took a slug from Bonnie and Clyde. My wife is an FBI agent. We’re dedicated to protecting the public from serious crimes.”

           Mumsie stared in disbelief at the sight of Bonnie’s gunshot wound. “What the hell happened? You need to get medical attention.”

           Clyde answered. “We were at Mercy Hospital and the doctor sent us here. He said their hospital beds were filled up. He referred us to Wilma. He said since she was just getting her nursing home started that maybe she’d take us in for a while until our wounds healed.”

           Wilma almost laughed at his preposterous lies. Instead of hating Clyde she almost liked him. He was certainly full of bullshit with his quick wit and sense of humor. Everyone knew that most hospital beds were empty. Since the beginning of the depression in 1929 patients could no longer afford two weeks of hospitalization. Therefore bills were unpaid and charitable contributions fell. It was a known fact that the leading causes of death since 1930 were not gangster related. It was heart disease, cancer, pneumonia, parasitic diseases, influenza, tuberculosis and syphilis. 

           Mumsie continued. “You look like a couple of hooligans to me. Do you have credentials?”

           As Clyde reached in his back pocket Wilma feared he’d pull out a gun. Instead he brought out a wallet and handed her something. “It’s my badge,” he said, winking at Bonnie. “Show them yours too, Honey.”

           “Mine’s in the car,” she said, holding the bloody towel against her wound. “Can I get it later?”

           Mumsie took his gold-colored badge shaped like a star. “It sure looks real,” she said, sliding her arthritic fingers across the smooth finish. “How long did it take you to earn it?”

           “Never mind about all that,” Clyde said, relieved that the mouthy old bag fell for his bullshit. “I want to hear about you. What’s your name and how long have you lived here?”

           “Julia,” she said with narrowed eyes. “My name’s Julia. What’s yours?”

           “Bud,” he said. “Let’s sit down for a meal and get acquainted.”

           While Clyde humored Julia in the kitchen nook, Wilma again vigorously scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink. She felt like she was in the midst of a triangular nightmare. Three dirty feed sack dresses on three oddballs in less than an hour and the day had barely begun. What were the chances of that ever happening again? God only knew! And that wasn’t all. What kind of deadly germs or contagious diseases might the couple have.  With Clyde’s cough he could have pneumonia, tuberculosis or an influenza that could kill her mother and the patients. 

           After drying her hands Wilma scooped Maxwell House Coffee into her electric Art Deco Coffee Pot with a maple wood handle. As it perked she scrubbed a pan and listened to the radio on a shelf above the sink. With the volume turned way down a special broadcast came on about the Burrow gang. Wilma leaned towards the radio to hear it. “Be on the lookout for Bonnie and Clyde. Today during a shootout at an abandoned amusement park they escaped across the South Raccoon River. If you see them notify the U. S. Department of Justice or the Division of Investigation near your city.”

           To prevent getting caught listening to the newscast Wilma shut off the radio and began cooking. With a lit cigarette dangling from my trembling lips she fried bacon with a shaky hand and scrabbled two dozen eggs in bacon grease on her new Roper gas stove with five burners and three ovens. As she prepared the food for everyone she turned on an oven to keep food warm for the patients upstairs.  She tried not to worry and forced herself to fret about her tight budget and the cost of rationed groceries. My God, the whole damn meal was costing her a buck if not more! A pound of coffee was 19 cents. The bacon wasn’t cheap either at 38 cents a pound, and a loaf of bread was now seven cents. Normally she saved money ordering dairy product from a farmer, but because of the farmers’ milk strike in Sioux City last February a bottle of milk was now at an all-time high of 25 cents a quart. A pound of butter was 24 cents. A dozen of eggs increased to 18 cents, and no telling how long her commodities might last if the outlaws refused to leave and kept pigging out at her expense. 

           While making toast in her nickel-plated flopper toaster Wilma debated on setting out her 15 cent Ann Page Strawberry preserves but decided against it. The gangsters could eat lard on their toast or they could choke to death at her expense. In fact she needed to contact the authorities, but her telephone was on the kitchen wall and cranking it would make noise. If she got caught calling an operator she could get a bullet in her back.  If she escaped the mobsters might bump off everyone. If she helped them they might let everyone live. If she didn’t help them they might go on a killing spree.

           After cooking she scooped a heap of scrambled eggs and bacon onto a platter. As she put the residents’ food into the oven she listened to her mother rattling around in her antique hutch for dishes and silverware. With her poor sight and arthritic hands Wilma worried that her mother could accidentally break the china that presumably came over on the Mayflower. To prevent any mishaps from happening Wilma grabbed the skillet and the coffee pot. In the kitchen nook the china was still in the hutch and everyone was sitting around the table with plates and silverware. She poured coffee into cups and sat beside her mother sitting across the table from Bonnie and Clyde. As the four of them ate Wilma again contemplated the situation. What would Bonnie and Clyde do if she refused to help them? If they shot and killed her, who would take care of her mother? If they murdered all of them would the law suspect Bonnie and Clyde? If Wilma turned them in, would there be a reward? If she nursed them back to health could she go to prison for harboring fugitives?

           Clyde spoke. “I need to hit the hay. I ain’t had no sleep in two days, but I got to eat some grub too. Are the eggs fresh from a local farmer?”

           “Yes,” Wilma said, not mentioning Abe’s chickens. “I need to take food to my patients upstairs and give them something to drink. During hot summer days like this they’re more susceptible to dehydration and heat stroke.”

           Bonnie bit into her toast and shoveled a forkful of eggs into her mouth.   “What about me? I’m more important. I’m hurting real bad and my belly won’t stop bleeding.” She swallowed. “Do you have any jam for the toast and how about some milk to wash it down with?”

           “What little milk I have is for my patients, and I don’t have any preserves.”  

           There was cherry pie sitting on the table and Clyde stuck his fingers in and shoved the filling into Bonnie’s mouth. “Now Pussycat, just finish your meal and don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s not good table manners.”

           Wilma cringed at Clyde’s bazar behavior. They were wounded badly and Clyde was acting like a wild animal and talking etiquette. “I really need to tend to my residents. They need to be fed, changed and repositioned. Without something to eat and drink they could develop medical problems.”

           Clyde spoke. “Bonnie and I were shot and you’re worried about some old folks with their feet in the ground.” He thumped the butt of the shotgun on the floor. “How about I just put them out of their misery?”

           Mumsie swung her cane at him. “Don’t disrespect the elderly or I’ll kick both of you assholes out the door! I’m not putting up with childish behaviors at my table.”

           Clyde grabbed her cane. “You got spunk you washed up old hag.”

           She threw a forkful of eggs at him. “Don’t call me names. I listen to the radio.  I know who you are. You’re those gangsters who rob banks and kill people.”

           The back door slammed and in walked a handsome fella carrying a feed sack dress stained with blood and splattered with mud.”