You're A Good Man, Darrel Curtis

by AndThatWasEnough

{"Comics is the only part of the paper worth a damn," Darrel Senior once said to his wife. "That, and the help wanted ads."} At the end of the day, he was the only father the seven of them had really ever had. But now he was gone, and all that was left to do was sit around eating funeral food and talk about him. {One-shot.}

Author's Note: I decided Mr. Curtis needed some exploring. This will be a one-shot.

I do not own any bit of Charles Schulz's "Peanuts" comic strip, or anything associated with it – that's where all the quotes are from. And I certainly don't own "The Outsiders." However, I do hope I do each of the following characters their due justice. This was a bit tricky – seven POVs? Am I nuts? Probably.

Happy reading!

XXXXX

When the boys were young – all of them, all seven of them, because really, none of the other "fathers" were worth a damn – they would sometimes all be gathered together, and Darrel Senior would be reading the paper, and he would read aloud to them. But not the news, no.

"Comics is the only part of the paper worth a damn," Darrel Senior once said to his wife. "That, and the help wanted ads."

"You have a job," his wife reminded him. "A decent one."

Darrel Senior waved her off. "Right, right. But still! – comics are the only good part of any newspaper, no matter what part of the country you're in. News is different everywhere you go. But comics? I know I can count on Blondie and Peanuts anywhere and everywhere, and in color on Sundays."

The boys were partial to comic books – Superman and Batman and Robin – but that didn't mean they minded when Mr. Curtis – or, Dad – read the funnies aloud. It's possible that this nearly daily reading was a contributing factor to Sodapop and Two-Bit's scatter-brained senses of humor, being able to see a grown man laugh at some silly cartoon. That happiness was the norm, not beatings and abandonment. Perhaps it made them all a bit bitter, too, but it was too soon to judge. But it was something to leave them with before they all ran out the door – a quip, a punchline here and there to make 'em laugh in the face of the oncoming day.

It was one of the few tangible things Darrel Senior left them with when he passed.

"Boys," he told his sons – his biological ones this time – once, "don't tell your mother this, cuz we all know she's the one drags us to church every Sunday. But you ain't gonna learn any more from the Bible than 'be good to your fellow man.' Only other thing you gotta know is that if you have a good sense of humor, you're set. You can face anything."

It was a nice thought (wasn't it though? A bit too hopeful, a bit too…something, but still a nice thought), one Darrel Senior cultivated in his boys not just by reading them the comics in the morning paper, but by playing, and being good-hearted towards them. Darrel Senior never was much of a disciplinarian – that he left to Mrs. Curtis. But he had his own ways of making sure his boys were on a path to becoming good men, or, as good as he could make them. He knew Dallas was never going to be a saint. He knew Steve would always be surly. Knew Two-Bit would always be marred by his own father's doings. Knew Johnny would be physically and mentally scarred for life. And he knew his boys were lucky that none of those things were happening to them, and that was his choice. He chose to face each day – for the most part – no matter how hard things got, knowing that he was well-equipped. Or, at least believing that he was, even if he really wasn't, because sometimes, just thinking you are is enough. He wanted those boys to think they were enough.

Sitting around the Curtis' kitchen table, eating funeral potatoes and chicken and greens, Mrs. Mathews lingering in the kitchen with her daughter, loading the refrigerator, those seven boys that used to listen to Mr. Curtis with rapt attention as he rattled off box scores and the newest happenings in Riverdale instead listened to each other with rapt attention – even jaded ol' Dallas – as they spoke of the only father any of them ever really knew.

"Life is just too much for me. I've been confused right from the day I was born. I think the whole trouble is that we're thrown into life too fast…we're not really prepared."

"Darry Curtis!" They chanted, over and over in my ear. And it makes me smile. Yeah, I threw the winning pass. But didn't Paul catch it? Run into the endzone with it? Sure, it's cause and effect, and hearing the cheers of my buddies is nice, but I'm also a little uncomfortable with all the attention.

"Fellas, fellas!" I call over the din of the crowd. "That's enough now!" I allow myself to smile. "Well, maybe not." They all laugh. I look at each of my teammates, trying to remember this moment. To make sure I remember it the rest of my life. I don't know how well I remember it now, but I still remember Dad's face.

"Nice work, Junior. State title!" He was grinning like it was going out of style. So was I.

"Yessir, state title," I repeated. "Whaddya make of that?"

Dad laughed and put a hand on my shoulder as he led me to the truck. "I think it's mighty impressive work. That last pass-"

"I know-"

"Paul was right there-"

"It was set up perfect, wasn't it?"

"Hell yeah, it was!"

I could relive that game for the rest of my life. Up to that point, it was the most important thing I'd ever accomplished. And I'd made my old man proud to boot – but, not to sound like an ass, that wasn't hard to do. A lot of things impressed him. The car ride home was all talk between the five of us, us guys trying to explain to Mom all the technicalities of football, which she sorta got. Sodapop had ingested a bit too much of his namesake, and was jumping up and down in his seat – "I was hollering like a wild animal when that asshole sacked you with two minutes to go. Guy had some nerve!" – and Ponyboy was watching us all with wide eyes and a wide smile.

"Hope you don't let all this get to your head," Dad told me when we got home, and he and I were alone in the living room. I laughed a bit.

"Right," I agreed. "Am I?" I asked, already worried that I was, now that he put the thought in my head.

"Course not," Dad said, sounding tired. "Just…I need to be honest with you for a moment, Junior."

"What, Dad?"

"Tonight was…great. Had a lot of scouts come up to me, asking if I was your dad."

I sat up, my heart pounding. "Really? You're serious?"

Dad nodded. "Lot of 'em. Talkin' scholarships. But I need you to know something."

"What?" I asked, getting impatient. Dad sucked in a breath.

"Even with the scholarships, Dare, it probably won't be enough."

My heart sank. I knew what he meant, but I still asked, "Won't be enough for what?"

"To send you to college. On time, that is."

If I remember right, I cried myself to sleep that night.

"I have affixed to me the dust and dirt of countless ages…who am I to disturb history?"

I'm starting to wish this spring would last forever. It's been comfortable, and not too rainy, so there's been plenty of time for playing ball. Can't play baseball in the rain. A baseball field don't look good muddy, neither. No – if you ain't covered head-to-toe in the dirt and dust of that diamond, you ain't doing it right! It's funny – my old man was the one who taught me everything he knew about baseball. He'd been the washed-up ballplayer. He was a bum, and he was gone. But I still liked baseball, even though I hated his guts. Good game.

Too bad it wasn't gonna last much longer.

I had gone home with Darry, cuz he had stayed after to talk to his coach or something, so he gave me a lift from practice. I was sweatin' like a whore in church cuz I'd been in my damn catcher's gear almost the whole time, so Darry started complaining about how I was getting the truck all sweaty and gross, but I just ignored him by turning up the radio. When we got to his place, his old man was sitting on the front porch with a baseball glove in hand. I turned on Darry.

"You told him, didn't ya?" I asked. Darry sighed.

"Man, you're good-"

"It don't matter, Darrel. Mom needs the extra money."

"Just hear him out, would ya?"

"Hear him out about what?" I asked, but Darry ignored me and got instead, and I followed him. I tried to get past his dad to get inside, but the old Texan held me up at the door.

"Wasn't this yours?" He asked, shoving the glove at me. I took it and raised an eyebrow at him. I inspected it, and sure enough, it had been.

"One I used in little league. Like Darry's."

"You used to play on a team together. I remember that."

"Yeah. Good times."

"They were. Your old man was there sometimes, when you were real young." I stiffened at the mention of my own father, who had been at games a helluva lot less than Darrel Senior, who had shown up to almost every single one of me and Darry's little league games. "Junior tells me you're quittin'. Why's that?"

I got the feeling he already knew, he just wanted to hear me say it. "Ma can't keep payin' for me to play no more. It's a burden on her. It's cool."

"Not when you love it."

"Yeah, but it's okay. She needs the extra money."

"Two-Bit," the old man sighed. "Mrs. Curtis and I…we care about all you boys. And I know your mother is having a rough go of it. But that doesn't mean I want you to give up something you love doing."

The only thing I loved doing. Swiping stuff was fun, and so were parties and all that, but it was the one thing I loved doing most. Because I ain't that smart. It's all I've got. But I'm smart enough to know what I am – who I am – and I know that no matter how good I am, the other guys wouldn't give a hang about me. I was just some poor kid from the wrong side of town. And I think I regret sayin' this now, but I told Darrel Senior, "No, sir. I don't want you to do that."

"Two-Bit, it'd be no trouble-"

I grinned. "That ain't true. You already got three boys – one'a which is Darry, and you know he's loose with his dough" – He laughed cuz he knew it wasn't true – "so I don't wanna put you out. It'll be okay. Really!" He didn't look sure, so I kept talking. Like I do. "And 'sides, I don't wanna be in debt to you or anything. Your my buddy's old man, it'd be awkward, ya dig?"

"Um. I 'dig.'"

I laughed. "Man, don't say that! That don't sound right comin' from you."

"Alright, alright. You sure you're okay with this?"

"Yeah, Mr. C. I'm okay with it."

He smiled at me one last time and led me inside. I held onto the glove, but wondered why – how – he'd kept it all these years.

"These five fingers: individually they're nothing, but when I curl them together like this into a single unit, they form a weapon that is terrible to behold!"

Usually, it's Mrs. Curtis I found waiting up for me. No one had ever waited up for me before. Which was fine, it was great. I don't mind nobody waiting up for me. But Mrs. C makes a mean cup of coffee, and she don't yell at me, she just talks. I don't even like coffee that much, but I know hers is good, so I drink it anyway just cuz she offers it.

But there's none of that tonight. Just Mr. Curtis, sitting in his chair in the living room – the chair I had planned to crash in – reading the fucking comics. Again. He must read those strips ten times before he goes to bed. No use being quiet now. I just let myself in, like usual.

"Hello, Dallas," Mr. Curtis greeted. "Good night?"

I shrugged, indifferent. "You could say that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I said, trying not to seem impatient. Old Man Curtis was a good guy, I wasn't gonna make him put up with too much of my shit. Not when Mrs. Curtis is nicer to me than I deserve.

He folded up his paper and put it on the coffee table. "Alright then. Night, Dallas."

That was it? That was it. He left his chair and I stole it, and slept there until Mrs. C woke me up and told me that I was eating breakfast with them, no buts. Which was fine. Mrs. C made a good breakfast – made a good everything. Two-Bit's old lady was a damn good cook, too, but she mostly made Italian food. My head kinda hurt from the pounding I took the night before, but I wasn't gonna tell the guys to shut up with Maggie right there. When I sat down – Soda and Ponyboy were talkin' a mile a minute, and Darry was wolfin' down his food like he'd never eaten a day in his life – I saw a couple aspirin by the plate Maggie had put out for me. I looked across from me and yeah, there was Darrel Senior, reading the latest edition of the paper. Comics were in Soda's hands for the moment.

"Good night?" He said, like last night, but he sounded like he knew I'd been fighting, knew it hurt. I dry swallowed the aspirin.

"Good night," I repeated, lifting the glass of orange juice and making sure he could see my busted-up knuckles. The old man grinned.

He knew the score.

"I hate myself for not having enough nerve to talk to her! Well, that's not exactly true…I hate myself for a lot of other reasons."

"Dad."

"Soda, stop."

"Dad."

"Soda, I'm serious."

"Dad."

"Are you deaf?"

"Dad!"

"What?"

Soda finally had his old man's attention. But I didn't have Soda's. My fists were clenched, I was biting down hard enough on my tongue to draw blood, but there was Soda, bouncing on his heels and grinning like a maniac. "Steve's in love."

"Is he!"

"I'm not!" I ground out. "Sodapop, man!"

"Well, congratulations, Steven. You're on your way to becoming a man."

"Steve is a man. He had his bar mitzvah already."

"Yeah, I'm already a man, Mr. C. And I ain't in love."

"The fact that you're denying it so much seems to prove that you are. Who's the lucky gal?"

"Evelyn Martin!" Soda crowed, answering for me. "You know – her mom owns the beauty parlor that Ma goes to."

"Oh, yeah," Mr. C drawled. He considered me and nodded his head. "Nice work, boy."

"She ain't my girlfriend," I sighed, flopping my ass down on the couch, next to where Mr. C was sitting in his armchair. "Soda's got it all wrong – as usual."

"You mean she ain't your girlfriend yet," Darrel Senior said, leaning forward in his chair, smiling. Sodapop was about to explode. "You gotta ask."

"That's what I told 'im! He just got pissed."

"She don't wanna go out with me."

"How do you know that?"

"Yeah, Steven, how do you know that?"

I glared at Sodapop. He was having way too much fun with this.

"Steven."

"Yeah, Mr. C."

"Any gal would be lucky to have you ask her out. And I ain't kiddin' ya."

Old Man Curtis was always believing in us and shit. My pop never would've been all encouraging like this. We barely talked since mom died, anyways. I had no business asking anyone as pretty as Evie out. But Mr. Curtis and Sodapop told me to get in the goddamn truck and drove me over to her ma's beauty parlor and looked on as I did it.

Stood right outside the window, noses practically pressed to the glass.

Like father, like son(s).

"What do you mean I have to be good all the time?! Don't I get weekends off?!"

"He's a…handful."

Yeah, that's one word for me. Ma and Dad were reading over my final report card, and I was listening in – can't say it was going well. They'd been murmuring until they'd come to the part about me being a handful. That was such a kindergarten word. Not saying it's not true, but I ain't five. Might be dumb as a five-year-old, but still.

"You're passing two classes."

"Yessir."

"Two."

"Yes."

Dad shook his head. It was later that night, after a pretty awkward dinner, and he had me cornered. And he didn't look mad, exactly, but he didn't look happy. "Sodapop."

"Yessir?"

"That's horrible."

I sighed. Closed my eyes. Fuck school. "I know it is, sir."

"Are you even trying?"

My eyes started to well up. Yeah, yeah. I'm a crybaby. The thing was, I was trying. I was. "Yeah, Dad. I'm tryin'. I am."

"Then how come the only classes you're passing are" – he looked at my first semester report card – "auto mechanics and gym?"

"Cuz I'm a dumbass, that's how come! I don't get any of that shit they're tellin' me. Man, I can't even spell all that good."

"Sodapop-"

"And the math don't make any sense, either! And the teachers treat me like I'm dumb, anyways. You remember what Mr. Skinner said to you and Ma at the beginning of the year."

"Well, yes, I do-"

"He was right. I'm a fucking lost cause."

Dad sighed and ran a hand down his face. "You should watch your mouth, Sodapop Patrick."

"Sorry, sir."

"And you're not a lost cause. You just gotta…you just gotta try somethin' different. Gotta find a way to make it all make sense. Ask your brothers. Darry can help with the math, and you know Pony loves readin'-"

I scowled, and the tears started running at the thought of having to ask my little brother to help me with my English homework. "I ain't askin' Ponyboy for help. He's s'posed to be askin' me for help."

"Oh, Sodapop…"

But Dad just left it there, and I just sat on my bed and cried while he stood and stared at me in the doorway. I hoped neither of my brothers would walk by, cuz this was fucking humiliating. Why'd they have to be so damn smart, anyways? I can fix cars, but so can Darry. I can make Mom's chocolate cake from memory, but so can Pony. I ain't got nothing. Not a damn thing. I heard Dad sigh again and felt him put his hand down heavy on my shoulder.

"C'mon, kid. I think the Peanuts Christmas special is on the set. Let's go."

I looked up at him. Was he serious? We still had to talk about what a dummy I am. How I was gonna have to get a bunch of tutors. And then I'd yell back that all I wanted was to just drop out, and he'd yell back at me and ground me, or something. But he was smiling a bit, so I smiled a watery smile back and followed him out to the living room, where we watched the special and got excited each time they used a line from one of the strips – the same strips we'd read in the paper here in Tulsa, Oklahoma. And we forgot about school cuz right then, all we cared about was that stupid little cartoon tree.

"I was a victim of a false doctrine."

"It ain't your fault, Johnnycakes."

I nod. Pony tries. It's nice and all, but I don't think he's right. That don't mean I ain't sick of getting my ass handed to me by my old man every other day. I keep the ice pressed to my right eye, afraid to let anyone see how it looks now because I know it'll be black and blue, like the bruises on my leg, some of which are fading to an ugly yellow by now. Mr. Curtis comes into the kitchen where me and Pony are sitting – it had been just the two of us because when the guys had seen me, they all went out to blow some steam. I understand that, too, but I sorta wish they'd stayed.

"How's the eye?" Mr. Curtis asked me.

"Fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Pony looked up at his dad. "What did they say?"

Mr. Curtis sighed. "What they always say. That they'll look into it."

"No they won't," Pony said, looking like he was about to start bawling. I nudged his knee and he looked down at the ground.

"We gotta hope they will, kid. Johnny?"

"Yessir?"

"We'll keep trying, Johnny."

"Okay."

"I mean that. We'll keep callin'."

And they did, for a while, until they realized it was useless. I don't blame them for giving up. Social services ain't exactly kind to the people on this side of the tracks. I understand. It was nice that they tried.

"Happiness is having your own library card."

"Alright, son. Listen to me carefully."

"Yessir."

Dad placed a hand on my shoulder and started leading me up to the doors of the library. This was probably the biggest day of my life. "That card is a big responsibility."

"It is?"

"It sure is. You gotta guard that thing with your life, kid."

I looked at him reverently. Dad knew everything. "I will, Dad. I promise."

He smiled down at me. Dad and I never got to spend much time together. Darry and Sodapop always had his attention. Darry, because they were just close anyways, and they talked football and work together. And Soda, because they were just cut from the same cloth – same goofy sense of humor, same demeanor and they both loved the funny pages. Dad and I didn't have a lot in common. The closest we got was that I was a good shot, but I wasn't much for hunting like he and Darry and Soda were. I was usually in Mom's charge. I don't know if Dad got me. "Good."

"And I can check out as many books as I want?"

"As many as you want."

Well, that was that! Three hours and ten books later, I found my old man asleep at one of the tables, snoring, the librarians frowning at him. He'd fallen asleep with a copy of the Sunday comics under his head.

"Life is like an all-day sucker...here today and gone tomorrow!"

"Your dad was a good guy, Darry."

Two-Bit watched his friend closely. It hurt a little bit. Darry wouldn't look at him. But if he had been, Two-Bit knew he'd be seeing Darrel Senior. Everyone knew that the father and son duo looked as if they could be brothers. And they certainly had been close enough.

"Yeah. He was," Darry agreed. His voice was soft and quiet, like he was struggling a bit to speak.

The funeral was over. Long over. It was just the seven boys now – in more ways than one – inside the house. Mrs. Mathews had left not too long ago. She was one of the many who'd brought over food, had stayed with the Curtises during the process. She knew a few things about loss and death – they all did. For some of them, the loss wasn't exactly a death. It was just the absence of someone. All of them knew now what that felt like.

"You wanna head back inside yet?" Two-Bit asked.

"No. It's fine out here." He finally turned to his buddy. "Stay?"

Two-Bit smiled, a bit grim. "Course, man."

It was cold. Cold. The two of them were standing on the back porch, looking up at the dark January sky, hands in pockets, wiggling around awkwardly in an attempt to distract themselves from the fact that it was cold. Two-Bit hadn't cried at the funeral, but his eyes were watering they were so dried out. Darry hadn't cried, either. Sodapop and Ponyboy were the ones who had bawled their way through the whole thing. But Two-Bit understood. He understood why Darry hadn't cried. It was a lesson Two-Bit had learned for himself almost ten years ago: there comes a moment when you gotta step up, in some way. Two-Bit was a bum, but at least he drove his mother and sister wherever they wanted and took his sister trick-or-treating and gave them most of the money he won in poker games and billiards and even occasionally went to church when his mother really nagged him to. Dallas stepped up for himself when he realized he couldn't count on his old man for anything, but Steve made the mistake of sometimes going back to his father. Johnny was tuff, and he was sick to death of 'em, but he couldn't find a way to really escape his parents. Sometimes, there just isn't a way.

Funny – though, not really – how Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were the last people who deserved to be taken away, but they're the ones that were.

"Was it nice?"

Two-Bit raised an eyebrow. Darry was almost comforted at such a familiar sight. "Was what nice?"

"The funeral. Was it…nice?" Darry finished lamely.

Two-Bit was sort of floored by the question. Was it nice? It was a funeral. People had died. Were funeral supposed to be nice? Weren't they s'posed to be sad? Two-Bit was floundering at first, but as always, he managed to recover. "Course it was, Dare. I mean, Father Ross had some real nice things to say – I know he knew your mom real well."

Darry smirked. "Yeah. She was real involved there. Dad…not so much."

Two-Bit shrugged. "All the same. He knew he was a good guy, and you guys went often enough. My mother has to drag me out the door to get me to go with her and Sadie."

"Don't we know it. By the way – make sure to tell your mom thanks for dinner. She brought over all that food…it was too kind."

"You're family, man. She cares about y'all. Hope you like pasta."

Darry laughed a bit. Or, it wasn't so much a laugh as it was an amused huff of air. But it was a start. "Pasta's great. Hey – your story you were telling about Dad earlier at dinner…I didn't know that."

"Oh, yeah? Yeah, he offered to pay to let me keep playin'. Feels like a long time ago, don't it? That I was playing baseball?" Two-Bit shook his head, nostalgic. "Man. It wouldn't have worked out anyways."

Darry shrugged. "You don't know that."

"Sure I do. Steve's story was good, too. About him and Evie. Did you see Evie there today?"

"Yeah, I did. She brought by a chocolate pie. She's a pretty good cook."

"Damn straight she is. She's too good for Steve."

"Amen, Mathews." He swallowed roughly. "I remember the whole library thing, with Ponyboy. The two of them went out, and poor Dad was probably at the library with the kid for three hours. Pony was all over the place."

"Sounds about right, the li'l bookworm." Two-Bit sighed, but it sounded more fond than sad. "Good times."

"Good times," Darry repeated. "Remember how he used to read all of the comics out loud if we were around? You and I used to sit at his feet when we were kids and make him show us all the pictures. Remember?"

"Hell yeah, I remember! Archie, Peanuts, Beetle Bailey, Dennis the Menace –"

"Flash Gordon, Family Circus." Darry smiled, remembering. Just remembering. It was just the other day that Dad had read aloud the last one.

"Here, listen to this – Charlie Brown is getting a bunch of snowballs thrown at 'im, but they keep missing, so he says, 'Ha, you missed again! You guys aren't organized! You have no teamwork! You'll never hit me because you can't all throw together!' And then whaddya know, seven snowballs come at him in a straight line! Hey – think you and your buddies could manage something like that?"

"How am I s'posed to do this?" Darry mumbled. "There's no way in hell I'm not gonna fuck Sodapop and Pony up in the process. Dad made this shit look easy. God, Two-Bit. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Two-Bit's frown was deep. It was like it was tugging his whole face down. "I don't know, Darry," he admitted. "I'm sorry. But, uh, we're all here to help you. Not just my mom, all of us. You did the right thing, takin' them in. You're a good man, Darry."

"I ain't a man."

Two-Bit clapped his best friend on the back. "You are now, Darrel. Sucks, don't it?"

"It sure as shit does."

Two-Bit chuckled. "Got that right. C'mon – let's go tear into that pie Evie brought over. It's cold out here."

The two boys – or, maybe they were men, they didn't really know – headed back in, Two-Bit's hand still on Darry's back, guiding him inside, where it was warmer (how much longer would Darry be able to keep paying to keep it that way?) and there was company, miserable company, but ain't that the saying? At least they were together. The five that had stayed inside had saved some pie for the oldest in their group. All seven of them sat around the kitchen table in the yellow light. Nobody spoke, but at one point, Soda shoved whatever it was he had been reading at Darry. The brothers shared a sad, knowing smile.

It was the comics page.

XXXXX

AN: The last comic Darrel Senior read aloud is a Peanuts strip from Friday, January 14th, 1966. Just in case you were curious! The title of this story is a play on the title of the hit 1969 musical You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown. Highly suggest you check it out.

Obviously, I don't own Archie, Superman, Batman, Beetle Bailey, Dennis the Menace, Flash Gordon, or Family Circus, either. I own zilch.

Hope you enjoyed! I had fun writing this. If you had fun reading it, be sure to let me know with a fave or review! I love hearing from you guys. And be sure to check out my current novel-length story, Sins of the Saints, especially if you're looking for something that shines a light on gang members other than the Curtis Bros., you like Tim Shepard, and a dash of romance just for good measure.

See ya in the funny pages!