April 1967
The golf course stretched green and new before them, and Mr. Sheldon neatly lined up his shot. His friend and colleague Stan whistled in approval when the ball rounded the edge of the hole.
"You been practicing in your off hours, John?" Stan said, still shaking his head at the shot.
"I wish," John Sheldon said, laughing. He squinted up into the sun, and his look darkened.
"Stan, look, I know your kids are off to college now-"
"Yeah, and my wallet knows it, too," Stan said, but it was only a joke. He could afford college for his two kids. He could afford anything.
John laughed, but his look was still dark.
"Yeah, well, listen. My boy, Bob, he's, sometimes I think he's out of control. He'll get into college alright, despite his slipping grades, but I'm wondering if he'll be able to stay,"
"What's going on, John?" Stan said, and John outlined it for him, the drinking, the wild nights, the beer blasts on the river bottom, the staying out all night, the fights.
"He's actually come home falling down drunk, and me and my wife just blame ourselves-"
Stan looked at his old friend with concern.
"John, he needs limits. That's the danger of being so privileged. Kids need to know where the limits are. You've got to set them. Set boundaries. Lay down the law. You're his father. It's what you're there for,"
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Driving home, John mulled over what Stan had said. It felt good. That was what he should do. Bob could appear very mature. He looked mature, polished, well-spoken. But he was still little more than a child. A child going wrong. John gripped the steering wheel and resolved to set the limits his son was lacking.
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Across town, in a house that was little more than four rooms and a roof, Johnny cowered in the corner. His father was drunk and angry, and he was standing over him with his leather belt raised high. Johnny's life was limits.
"No, dad, I'm sorry-" he didn't even know what he was apologizing for, he just hoped it might help, lessen the blows. It was possible his father didn't even hear him through his drunken haze, and he brought the belt down hard.
When it was over Johnny took off, wiping the tears from his eyes. He wouldn't cry in front of anyone, including his drunk parents. So he cried in the dark hallways and the deserted strips of road. He saw the fire in the vacant lot and the shadows of people gathered around it, and he quit crying. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, and calmed down as he smoked it.
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His wife noticed the change in John, the resolve, but she couldn't account for it. She sat at the bar in the corner of their living room, her evening gown draping over one leg, the Manhatten with southern comfort in one hand, every finger dressed in a diamond ring.
"How was work, dear? Vodka gimlet?"
John loosened his tie and nodded at her offer of the drink, and she set to making it with the expert little twists of the wrist that made him fall in love with her all those years ago.
"Work was fine," he said, taking his drink and sipping it. He waited for Bob to arrive home in whatever state it may be.
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Ponyboy stood by the fire, watching Johnny from the corner of his eye. Quiet like always, but he knew he must have had some run in with his old man. He could tell by the way he wouldn't look at anyone, at the redness in his eyes like he'd been crying. Ponyboy sucked on his cigarette, feeling the nicotine rush, and he looked away from Johnny at the fire.