. . . jump off, maybe. Even Bonnie and Clyde hit the end of the road down there in Louisiana, when the cops ambushed and filled their Ford Deluxe with bullets until it was more hole than car. Bonnie and Clyde got it. They were poets, Eddie said, and they wrote with bullets.
All of this planning went into Francis’s diary: possible routes, homemade explosives, tricks she learned from reading true-crime magazines.
On this April afternoon, Francis and Eddie had come down into their secret place once more. Eddie set up a ring of candles on the ground and drew a pentagram in the dirt. He was always doing things like that—playing at paganism. This affectation annoyed Francis; this was a hideout, not some kind of subterranean temple. But Eddie had to have his fun if she wanted to have hers, so she tolerated it.
“Today,” she said, setting down a bag of supplies, “we play.”
“Oh. I like that.” Eddie rolled himself flat on the ground in the circle and pulled up his shirt a bit. “What game did you have in mind?”
“Today we’re playing Let’s Scare Albert Ellingham.”
“Oh?” Eddie pushed up to his elbows. “Not what I was expecting, but I’m listening.”
“He was rude to me,” Francis said. “When he showed me the dynamite. He laughed at me, as if I couldn’t handle explosives because I’m a girl. So we’re going to have a little fun with him. We’ll make him a riddle. He likes riddles. Only one like this.”
Francis reached into the bag and produced a pile of magazines. She pulled one off the top called Real Detective Stories and opened to a page with a folded corner with a picture of a ransom note made of cutout letters. Eddie rolled onto his stomach to examine the magazine.
“A poem,” he said.
“A warning in the form of a poem.”
“All good poems are warnings,” he said. (Francis resisted an eyeroll.) “We could start it, Riddle, riddle, time for fun . . .”
Francis got out her notebook and wrote this down. Riddle, riddle, time for fun. A perfect start. Eddie was good at this sort of thing.
“Then we could do something like Dorothy Parker’s poem ‘Resumé,’” Eddie went on. “It’s a list of ways to die. We could do ways to kill.”
“Shall we use a rope or gun?” Francis offered.
Lines were added . . . Knives are sharp and gleam so pretty . . . Poison’s slow, which is a pity . . . Ropes, car crashes, broken heads . . . The signature: Truly, Devious, that was both of them.
Then the second part began. She spread out the magazines and newspapers on the ground. She had collected them for weeks, pulling things out of the garbage, taking items from the library, snatching them from Gertie—Photoplay, Movie News, the Times, Life, the New Yorker. She removed the sewing scissors she had stolen from her mother’s maid while she was home at Christmas and a pair of tweezers. The paper and the envelope were from Woolworth. Magazines, scissors, paper, glue. Such simple, benign things.
They worked carefully, clipping each letter and word, dabbing it with glue, placing it just so on the page. It took several hours to find the right letters, to place them at the right angles. Francis insisted they wear gloves. It was unlikely the letter would be fingerprinted, but it was sensible to take precautions.
When it was done, they left it to dry and harden, and they busied themselves with each other, the thrill of the work pushing them on. There were certainly other couples who had had sex on the Ellingham campus—one or two. Those people did it giddy, bashfully, and wracked with terror. Eddie and Francis came to each other without fear or hesitation. When your future plan is a crime spree, getting caught together is of no concern, and the hideout was literally underground, under a rock. There was nowhere more private.
When they were finished and sweating, Francis picked up her clothes and shook them out before dressing.
“It’s time to go,” she said.
“I refuse.”
“Get up.”
Eddie got up. He was reluctant, but he did as Francis said.
When she was finished dressing, Francis repacked the supplies. Then, after putting on gloves, she folded the piece of paper.
“I have someone to mail it for us,” she said, lowering it gingerly into the envelope. “It will be postmarked from Burlington.”
“How will we know he got it?”
“He’ll probably tell Nelson. He tells her everything. Speaking of, I have to get back now. Nelson always has her eyes on me. She doesn’t trust me.”
“She’s right not to.”
The pair reemerged into the daylight. Francis blinked and looked at her watch.
“We’re late,” she said. “Nelson will be after me. We’d better hurry.”
“Once more,” Eddie said, grabbing her at the waist, “up against the tree, like an animal.”
“Eddie . . .” It was tempting, but Francis pushed him back. He growled a bit and gave play chase. Francis rushed ahead, laughing, gripping her supplies tight under her arm. The air was full and fresh. Everything was coming together. Soon they would be gone from here, she and Eddie, on their adventure. Away from New York, away from society—toward the road, toward freedom, toward madness and passion, where the kissing would never stop and the guns would blaze.
Once they were back in the more populated part of the campus, Eddie peeled off to greet some boys from his house. Francis continued on to Minerva. While there was more equality here at Ellingham than most places, there were still more rules for the girls. They had to come back earlier to rest, to read, to prepare themselves for dinner.
Francis pushed open the house door and found Miss Nelson sitting primly on the sofa, a large book on her lap. Gertie van Coevorden was there as well, smiling her idiotic smile and reading a movie magazine, the only reading she ever seemed to do. If Gertie van Coevorden had two brain cells, each would be amazed to know of the other’s existence. She did, however, have an uncanny sense of when someone else was going to get in trouble, and she made sure to be there to see.
“You’re a bit late, aren’t you, Francis?” Miss Nelson said as a greeting.
“Sorry, Miss Nelson,” Francis said, sounding not sorry at all. She was physically incapable of sounding sorry about anything. “I lost track of time at the library.”
“The library is a much dirtier place than I recall. You have leaves in your hair.”
“I read outside for a bit,” Francis said, brushing her hand lightly over her head. “I’ll go wash up for dinner.”
She shot Gertie a look as she passed, one that suggested that Gertie better wipe that smirk off her face if she wanted to keep all of her glossy blond hair. Gertie immediately turned back to her magazine.
In the safety of her room, Francis set her things down on her bed. While Albert Ellingham had furnished the rooms well, the furniture was plain. Francis’s family had sent her to school with an entire van of personal furnishings—bedding from Bergdorf, a silk dressing screen, fur rugs, tall mirrors, a French chifforobe, a small glass-and-walnut cabinet for makeup and bath oil, a silver dresser set and a dresser to go under it. Her curtains were handmade, as was the lace bed ruffle. She pulled off her coat and tossed it onto her rocking chair and regarded herself in the mirror. Sweaty. Dirty. Her blouse creased all over and the buttons all wrong. It could not have been clearer what she had been doing.