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September 1965
Sodapop couldn’t handle it anymore.
Darry’s shuffling footsteps had been pacing back and forth across the hallway for nearly twenty minutes, and it was slowly but surely driving him insane.
It wasn’t like he’d be able to sleep, anyway — not with the other half of the bed glaringly empty. For the past two nights, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears had kept him awake, and with every pulsing beat, his brother’s name echoed in his mind: Pony. Pony. Pony.
There was no sleeping through that. But some peace and quiet sure wouldn’t hurt.
“Dar? What’s up?” he asked the next time his brother passed the half-open door.
Darry poked his head in and sighed, his silhouetted figure slumping in defeat. “I just…couldn’t sleep. You know how it is.”
“I bet it would help if you laid down in your bed and closed your eyes.”
He huffed out a monosyllabic laugh, the corner of his mouth turning up. “You’re prob’ly right.”
“Wanna come in?” he offered. “There’s plenty of room.”
Soda expected him to refuse, to make some excuse to retreat. But Darry surprised him by saying, “Yeah. Okay.”
Sensing their conversation was just beginning, Soda sat up and patted the empty space on the bed, the space where Ponyboy should be. Darry collapsed on the mattress next to him, his bones creaking nearly as much as the old bedframe.
As he settled in, Darry’s gaze wandered around the room, taking in the stacks of books on the floor and the pile of laundry shoved in the corner. The pale light of the moon gave everything an otherworldly quality, almost like time and space would bend and Ponyboy would be back any minute to finish the homework assignment on the desk or grab his jacket off the chair. Soda wished more than anything that it was true.
“Have you slept at all?” Soda asked, taking note of the dark, bruise-like circles under Darry’s eyes. Somehow, he looked even more exhausted than normal.
He had a feeling he already knew the answer. Darry had hardly even been home in the past forty-eight hours, much less had time to sleep. When he wasn’t distracting himself with work, he was patrolling the town in his truck, looking for clues the police had missed. When the truck ran out of gas, he was shaking down every greaser in town for any scrap of information about what had happened two nights ago at the fountain. And when he was home, he refused to step out of earshot of the telephone, forever waiting for the call that his brother had been found.
“Slept?” Darry chuckled humorlessly, like the idea of sleeping at a time like this was unthinkable. “Not really. Have you?”
He gave Darry a weak smile in return. “Me neither.”
With that out of the way, Soda didn’t quite know what else to say to him. Since Ponyboy had run out the front door, red handprint on his cheek, things between them had been… strained, to say the least. They hadn’t spoken much outside of telling each other what time they’d be home from work and asking whether there was any news.
Thankfully, Darry took the lead, asking, “How’ve you been holdin’ up?”
Soda hummed, stalling for time while he figured out what to say. He didn’t quite have the words for what was going on inside his mind. It reminded him of grief, in a way, but what exactly was he grieving? The way things used to be? The past they could never return to?
All he was sure of was that not knowing anything was killing him. It was the worst kind of torture to be suspended in this in-between state, the questions swirling constantly in his mind: Did Johnny kill someone? Did Ponyboy? Where are they now? Are they hurt? Are they gonna end up in jail? Will they get the electric chair? Will my brothers ever forgive each other? Will I be caught between them forever, forced to pick sides?
He was so anxious he could hardly eat, his usual frenetic energy becoming an uncomfortable, live-wire buzzing under his skin. He’d considered asking Tim Shepard for some grass to take the edge off, but he figured it wasn’t the best idea with the fuzz keeping such a close eye on them. Plus, he wanted to be fully there in case something happened or someone needed him; he couldn’t afford to float away in a drug-induced haze. So there he stayed, the worry never letting up for a minute.
All that to say, he was not holding up very well.
“To be honest,” he began, shifting his weight on the bed, “I’m scared. We dunno where he is, or if he’s hurt, or if he’s….” Dead. He wouldn’t allow himself to think it, let alone speak it.
“Same here.” Darry scrubbed a hand over his face, calluses rasping against the stubble on his cheeks.
“And I’m mad, too,” Soda continued. He counted off the sources of his anger on his fingers: “At those socs for attackin’ two innocent kids; at Dally for not sayin’ what he knows; at Pony for thinkin’ he couldn’t turn to us when things went sideways.”
There was a small, secret part of Soda that was angry with himself for what happened. If he’d been a better peacemaker, maybe things wouldn’t have escalated. But he hadn’t yet been brave enough to shine a light on that part of his subconscious and examine what it meant, so it went unmentioned.
Darry’s voice was carefully measured when he asked, “And at me?”
Soda couldn’t deny it. “Yeah,” he admitted, adding a fourth finger to the count. “And I’m mad at you.”
“I’m mad at me, too.” The back of Darry’s head hit the wall behind him with a resigned thunk. A moment later, he added, “Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”
That was the big question, wasn’t it? Soda tried his best not to blame Darry for Ponyboy running away, but that little voice in the back of his head kept telling him that none of this would have happened if Darry had been able to control his anger. If he’d kept his hands to himself, their baby brother would still be here.
He hated it.
Sodapop didn’t like grudges. He preferred the freedom of forgiveness, of letting go of the hurt. That’s why he was constantly reminding himself to have compassion for his older brother. Darry had been under a truly inhumane amount of stress since their parents died; he was bound to snap at some point. He knew Darry hadn’t meant any of it — not the hollering or the fighting or even the slap.
“You’re my brother, and I love you. Of course I can forgive you.” He knocked his elbow into Darry’s. “I’m halfway there already.”
Darry paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. “But what about Pony? Can he forgive me for doing something so — so terrible?”
“That’s up to him, but…yeah. I think so. You’ve just gotta apologize to him. Own up to it.”
A bit of tension melted from Darry’s body, as if Soda’s reassurance had taken some of the weight off his back. Still, Soda could sense some lingering guilt. The promise of his brothers’ forgiveness wasn’t the only thing Darry needed.
Softly, he asked, “Do you think you’ll be able to forgive yourself?”
“I dunno.” He thunked his head on the wall a couple more times for good measure. “I messed up real bad this time.”
“Yeah, you did. I ain’t gonna lie. But nobody’s perfect. You don’t deserve to be miserable ‘bout it forever.”
“But what if I do?” Darry wouldn’t look at him, instead staring straight ahead at the sketch of a cowboy Pony had taped to the wall. “It’s not just the…y’know, the slap. I’ve been awful to him for months. Since Mom and Dad died.”
It’s not that Darry was doing a bad job. He was a pretty good guardian, all things considered. But his temper and control issues got in the way more often than not, especially when it came to Ponyboy. Those two sure knew how to get under each other’s skin.
“I wouldn’t say you’ve been awful,” Soda hedged. “But….” He turned to face his brother. “I say this with love, okay? But you definitely coulda been better.”
He threw a hand up in the air. “I know I coulda. That ain’t a secret,” he said. “But I’m flyin’ blind here, Soda. I ain’t never had to raise a fourteen-year-old before.”
Darry turned to him then, expression pleading. “You’re so good with him. He trusts you more than anyone. I know he talks to you when things get bad, so tell me: What am I doin’ wrong? What does he need from me?”
“Well….” Soda blew out a slow breath through his mouth. There were a lot of things Ponyboy needed from his guardian: Someone to turn to for advice. Someone to help him fix his mistakes. Someone to hold him close when he got hurt and kiss it better.
Soda knew Darry didn’t want him to grow up too fast, but at the same time, he relied on Soda for a lot — probably more than he realized. While Darry took on the role of provider, Soda had assumed a lot of the emotional responsibility, and for a while, that had worked well enough. Soda was the one who comforted Pony after he’d had a nightmare and gave him advice for surviving high school and helped him rush to finish the chores he’d forgotten about before Darry got home. But Soda wasn’t Ponyboy’s parent or guardian; he was his brother. There was only so much he could do. The rest needed to come from Darry.
“I — I think he needs someone who tries hard to understand him,” Soda explained. “He’s special, Darry. He feels things different than we do. He tries to hide it, but that ain’t an excuse. He needs you to… make more of an effort, I guess.”
“I am makin’ an effort,” Darry said, becoming defensive. “That’s why I work sixty hours a week and do the laundry and pay the mortgage and make him finish his homework. I dunno why he can’t see that.”
“He does see it. We both do,” Soda placated. “But those ain’t the only things he needs from a — from a parent. He ain’t nearly as grown-up as he thinks he is. He’s still just a little kid.”
“So then what do I do? I ain’t ever been good at the… y’know, the emotional stuff, the feelings.” Darry waved a hand vaguely in the air. “I ain’t like you and Dad.”
Soda shrugged. “It’s nothin’ too complicated. Just notice him. Talk to him about what he’s feelin’ and help him try to make sense of it if he don’t understand it. And even when he pushes you away, you’ve still gotta let him know you care.”
“But how do I figure out what he needs or how he’s feelin’ if he won’t tell me? I can’t read his mind.”
“You’ve known him since the day he was born,” Soda reminded him. “I mean, yeah, things are different now, but he’s still the same boy he’s always been. You’ve just gotta stop bein’ so — so afraid of him and start lovin’ him the way he needs to be loved.”
A grin slowly crept onto Darry’s face — a real, genuine smile, not one of the fake ones he’d been sporting recently. “You’re gonna be a great dad one day,” he told him.
Soda smiled back. “So are you.”
“So, that’s it, then?” he asked, a hopeful note in his voice. “Just… show him I care?”
Pursing his lips, Soda replied, “It’s a start. But it’s not all.”
Darry looked at him, expectant. It was time for Soda to tell him something he’d been keeping inside for months now, something Darry wasn’t gonna want to hear. But their lives had blown up already; what was a bit of hurt pride on top of all of that?
Trying his best to keep his voice level, Soda told him, “You’ve gotta start cuttin’ him some slack. He hates it when you get onto him for every little thing. Breakin’ a rule every once in a while ain’t the end of the world, y’know.”
Despite his trepidation, it was definitely a relief to get it out in the open. For months, Sodapop had avoided taking sides in his brothers’ never-ending war, afraid to make things worse.
His relief was short-lived, however. Just as he expected, Darry’s smile had disappeared, a look of frustration taking its place. “I’m just tryin’ to keep him safe, keep him outta trouble,” he insisted.
“But, Dar, with the way things’ve been goin’, he feels like he’ll never be enough for you no matter what he does,” Soda explained. “You put way too much pressure on him with school and track and chores and everythin’.”
He could tell Darry was hurt by this. “I just want what’s best for him, y’know?” he explained, desperation seeping into his voice. “He’s the best of all of us. He deserves more than the east side can give him.”
“He is the best. But he’s just a kid,” Soda argued. “A kid whose parents died less than a year ago.”
It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Darry’s eyes looked shinier than they had a moment ago. “So am I,” he replied, barely above a whisper.
At the sight of his older brother looking so small, so scared, most of Soda’s residual anger melted away. The Darry in front of him wasn’t the invincible Superman; he was as clueless and broken and scared as Soda.
“C’mere,” he said, placing a hand on the back of Darry’s neck and pulling him in. He came without a fight, burying his face in Soda’s chest.
“I’m just afraid I ain’t gonna get the chance to make things right,” came Darry’s muffled voice. To Soda’s surprise, he was properly crying now, his tears quickly soaking through Soda’s sweatshirt. “What if he don’t ever get to come home?”
“Don’t talk like that,” Soda begged, wrapping his arms around Darry’s shoulders. “I can’t bear it.”
“But what if it’s true? What if he never knows how much I love him?” Darry clutched the back of Soda’s shirt, grabbing fistfuls of fabric. The sheer anguish of it brought tears to Soda’s eyes.
No matter what Soda said to him, Ponyboy would still be an accessory to murder, a fugitive on the run from the law. He’d still be in danger of being thrown in jail or a boys’ home or never being found at all. He’d still carry the trauma of seeing a boy stabbed to death, blood creating a crimson pool on the ground.
No matter what empty assurances Soda whispered, Darry would still be crushed under the weight of everything he had — and hadn’t — done. He’d still bear the guilt of raising a hand against his brother. He’d still be barely treading water, seconds away from drowning in debt and responsibility and grief.
So Soda simply hugged Darry close and kissed the top of his head, wishing he could hold their family together with nothing but sheer will and determination. And together they wept — for themselves, for each other, and for the little brother who was so far from home.
Once they’d cried themselves out, Soda pulled away, holding Darry at arm’s length and studying his face. He was strangely comforted seeing his own pain reflected in Darry’s eyes. It made him feel stronger, somehow, to know he wasn’t the only one struggling.
“Thanks, Pepsi,” he said sheepishly, wiping his eyes with the back of his forearm.
Soda wiped his own tears on his sleeve. “Cryin’ together sure beats cryin’ alone.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He said it in an off-handed way, like it didn’t really mean anything, but Soda was left wondering how many nights Darry had spent stifling his sobs with a pillow so his brothers wouldn’t hear.
There was a lot still to talk about. There were a thousand more things they needed to say to each other. But it was nearing two in the morning, and for once, Soda’s anxiety had calmed enough for drowsiness to kick in.
“It’s late,” he said with a yawn, laying down and pulling the covers up. “We can talk more in the mornin’.”
“I’d like that,” Darry replied, and he sounded like he meant it. “Try to get some sleep, ‘kay?” After placing a kiss on Soda’s tear-stained cheek, he moved to climb off the bed, but Soda grabbed his hand before he could get too far.
“Stay.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh. It’s less lonely when you’re here.”
Darry hesitated, glancing through the doorway in the direction of the kitchen, where the telephone remained stubbornly silent.
“The door’s open,” Soda murmured, reading his mind. “We’ll hear it from here.”
“Okay.” He slipped under the covers and pressed his face into Ponyboy’s pillow, taking a deep inhale.
The gibbous moon shone through the window, one-third short of whole. Soda hoped that wherever Ponyboy was, he was looking at it, too.
“‘Night, little buddy.”
“‘Night, big buddy,” Soda responded, closing his eyes at last.
Darry’s hand remained clasped in one of his all night long, and if he focused hard enough, he could almost feel Ponyboy holding the other.