1978

"You excited?" I glance over at my hubby, he's sitting in the passenger's seat, his legs are crossed and his hands are drumming out a rhythm on his thighs. He's bouncing around so much; I swear he's making the car bounce with him.

And I swear, I'm this close to hurling my damn burger right onto his can't-sit-still-for-one-damn-moment lap.

I love my man more than anyone or anything, but sometimes he reminds me of a little kid.

A little kid who ate too much cake and ice cream at the birthday party, and who still manages to steal the extra frosting from everyone else's plate, because he's still hungry.

I don't know how his Mama, bless her soul, didn't lose her shit with him.

He flashes me a bashful grin, "now, what tipped you off?"

That's what I love about Soda, he don't hide his emotions or his feelings. When he's happy, you'll know it, when he's excited, you'll know it, when he's pissed off, baby, believe you me, you'll know it.

He places his hand on my shoulder, "how are you doing?"

He's stopped bouncing around and if I look at him, I'll know his chestnut brown eyes are imploring and full of empathy.

So, I don't look. Because if I do, I might start crying, because I know I don't deserve him. Plus, I promised myself, no crying. Not today.

With my eyes straight on the road, I try to smile, "I'm real excited, can't wait to see her."

Some people can lie real well. You know the type, the kind of people who tell you that your hair and makeup look fabulous even when they clearly think you look like Frankenstein's mother. I work at a beauty salon, so I know that type all too well.

But I can't lie. When I lie my voice gets high pitched and cracks and my face freezes; which is the complete opposite from my normal voice which is raspy and guttural like a Janis Joplin song, and my face which flashes my inner thoughts out to the entire world.

Soda, he doesn't say nothing. He knows when to press me and when to let it go.

Instead he just squeezes my shoulder, his warm hands lying there for five seconds or so before he lets go.

"Mary, you think I can take a spin?" He eyes the odometer.

"Oh, I get it, you're all sweet talk so you can get a chance to drive…" I burst out laughing. It's taken Soda a while to get use to my humor. Not that I'm a comedienne or nothing, I ain't exactly Gilda Radner. But, I got my moments.

Even a year ago if I had said something like that, he would of gotten real pissed off and hurt. He gets angry when you accuse him of not being on the level. Yeah, my man can be pretty sensitive at times.

Sometimes I joke that I don't know who's on the rag more often, me or him.

But now, he just gives as good as he gets it. "Baby, if I wanted you to let me drive I'm going to have to offer you more than just my shoulder."

He winks at me, and if you don't think his wink and his grin still don't melt me, well, you're one dumb fuck.

"Would that have worked on you?"

I take a sigh, like I'm pondering his question.

"Nope," I say with a loud laugh.

Soda places his head on my shoulder. He's a bit taller than I am, okay, a lot taller, so it's sorta awkward looking. But, he hums softly and for that minute, just feeling him against me, makes me feel better.

He sits back up and adjusts the radio. Here's the thing about sharing a ride with Soda Curtis, you ain't ever gonna get a chance to touch that radio dial as long as he's in the car, and he's gonna change stations about every two miles, trying to find the 'perfect' song.

And if you drive down a stretch of country road without radio service, never fear, because Soda will start singing at the top of his lungs, badly.

My husband is good at so many things, especially in the bedroom, if you get my drift; but honey, he can't sing worth SHIT.

I continue to step on the accelerator.

I look outside my window and watch the highways of America zoom by us.

My wife presses her foot on the accelerator and I cringe with the jerk of the car. I hope there ain't a cop hiding in the bushes nearby, would be just our luck.

I roll my eyes, man, when did I get so old? Next thing you know, I'm gonna be yelling at kids to get off my lawn.

Not that this would be our first run-in with the law, and we've both gotten in trouble for things far more serious than just 'speeding' but still, I don't need that shit today.

Not when we're driving all the way up to Vancouver to visit Pony, his wife Aimee and their new baby girl, Paige.

Yup, my kid brother is now a daddy. Wow. You know, it don't matter how many times I say that to people, and you better believe I've already been bragging about Paige to everyone; it still feels so wild and unbelievable.

I now have four nieces and nephews on my side of the family. Darry and his wife Cathy have three kids, Karen, Carlson-Darrel, who we all call C.D., and Billy. I adore Darry & Cathy's kids like you wouldn't believe, especially Karen, who is the oldest and always keeps me on my toes.

But that ain't nothing compared to how excited I am about seeing Paige. When Pony told us that Aimee was pregnant, I don't know who was happier, me or him.

There's something just wild about the kid that I use to hold awkwardly on my lap for family pictures, with Darry sitting on the side holding up his head, with a kid of his own.

But I look at Mary in her black leggings and large purple sweatshirt that rides just off her shoulder and makes her look like an aerobics coach, and not my big hearted, but hard-ass biker chick; and not even the thought of seeing Paige for the first time can ease the gnawing feeling of melancholy that swirls inside of me.

We've been trying to get pregnant for year, but nothing's worked. We've tried everything. I mean, I ain't gonna go into all the details; but for the first time sex, at least for me, has become an exhausting chore that has nothing to do with love or passion.

I don't tell her that though, because she wants a baby more than anything.

And still, she's not pregnant.

And every time she gets her period she falls apart a little bit. Mary is a strong woman, the strongest person I know, and at first when she got her period, she would make a joke, but be more determined than ever to get pregnant by the next month. And, month after month she would get her period.

It didn't help that everyone around us was getting pregnant. Pony and Aimee were expecting Paige, Darry and Cathy just had Billy the year before, Mary's brother, Enrique and his wife LaDonna had twin girls, Sierra and Nevada, earlier this year, and that was just in our immediate families.

Two of the girls at the salon Mary works at also had kids within the last two years.

About four months ago, it got too much for her. We just returned from California seeing Rick, LaDonna and their brood of five (all girls, which gotta be a bitch on wheels for a super macho tough guy like Rick Hernandez), so she was already pretty emotionally exhausted when she got her period again.

She went into our bathroom and started to cry her heart out. I don't have Pony's way with words, but all of her emotion and pain erupted like a volcano, that's the only way I can put it, but instead of giving her that release that comes with a good cry, it just never ended.

Her wails gave way to short, racking sobs, which quieted down for a few moments, before starting over again.

It scared me. Mary, like I said before, has a big heart, too big actually, she'll do anything for someone in trouble; but she also has a temper and I've seen her get in fights with people on more than one occasion.

Word of advice: never bet against my girl. She's tiny, but does she know how to land a punch. And she ain't afraid to kick either.

But to hear her in our bathroom; not angry, not fighting, not swearing, not even joking, or praying; but wailing out her pain, hurt me to the core of my being.

I opened the door; she had the fan running to muffle the sound of her crying. She sat with her back against the wall and a roll of toilet paper in her lap. She was bleeding a bit through her underwear.

I told her how much I loved her, which was truer than true, but I knew that my words were like pinpricks right now to her.

It was like the well-intentioned but empty phrases our neighbors gave us after our folks were killed.

So, I did the only thing I could. I sat down next to her and held her hand. If I couldn't give her a baby or make her feel better, at least I could share her pain with her.

"It's a lot to handle, isn't it?" I said softly.

She stopped crying and looked embarrassed, "I'm so sorry Soda. I thought I was doing good, but seeing Sierra and Nevada and the other girls, and getting my period. I can't do this anymore. I can't take it."

She let out a harsh chuckle with a snort at the end, "you must think I'm one crazy bitch."

She crossed her arms and she glared at me, like she was DARING me to contradict her. I knew that she was testing me. She does this a lot, and it annoys the hell out of me. It's really the only thing she does that drives me up the fucking wall.

She doesn't believe me when I tell her that she's my world, that I would never leave her.

I mean, I stayed with her, when, high on angel dust, she tried to claw me like a tiger. If you don't think hurt like a mother…

I stayed with her when she was arrested for possession. She's mine for life. And yet, she still don't believe me. As much as I love her, that pisses me off, because what else do I need to do to convince her?

Sometimes, she'll even just say point-blank, "I don't know why you stay with me, you deserve better. You should just leave. You know you want to." Which is the biggest bunch of bullshit I've ever heard, because I ain't gonna get any woman better than Mary Curtis.

Hell, any woman who can put up with me and who can make me laugh and cry (often at the same time) and give me a run for my money out on the dance floor and on a horse, has got to be someone special.

We've known each other since 1969 and I can honestly say, I'm never bored when I'm with her. Pissed off? Sometimes. Madly in love? Most of the time. But bored? Never.

I rubbed my hands down her arms, she's real skinny and she has this sorta 'broken glass' quality to her. She can break apart real easy, but not without causing a lot of cuts to others.

"I don't," I tell her, cupping her chin in my hand. Hoping that she can see just how much she means to me, baby or no baby.

"Mary, I got you, I don't need a baby," and I mean it.

She looks down at her lap and her face, defensive and angry just a few minutes ago, softens, "but I do," she says softly, "I do."

She lets go of my hand, but I could still feel her fingers inside my palm.

She has this door ornament of a pregnant Virgin Mary on the inside on the bathroom door. That ornament gives me the heebie jeebies. Mary is real religious, but having the Mother of God look down at you why you try to take a shit, is kind of heavy, even for her.

But, that's her bag. She digs angels and saints and God in a way that I didn't think was possible. She goes to Mass twice a week, because apparently one time ain't enough for her, and she volunteers at her church's soup kitchen. She used to volunteer at the day care, but seeing all of those babies, just got a bit much for her.

I don't know much about the afterlife or whether Mary's beliefs are true or not, I just know that being around her makes me think of God in a way I never thought of Him before. That's real nice sometimes, but also a bit scary.

But that night, holding my wife's hand, that ornament just seemed like a slap in my Mary's face.

Here was my girl, her eyes swollen red with tears, looking blankly at the bathtub, while the Mary, lookin' like she was gonna pop out Jesus any second, looked down at her with a smirk.

I was about to rip the ornament off the door, when Mary got this fiery look in her eyes, "don't you dare."

I backed away.

And this ain't right to say, but I still hate that stupid ornament and everything it represents.

We pass through these small towns that look like they're hiding a serial killer in every nook and cranny; isolated outposts and logger towns. We used to live up here in the Northwest, but I'm still not used to the chill. It's April, and it was raining hard all week, now the downpour gave way to a short drizzle.

I look at Soda and I know that he wants to jump out of the car and run around in the rain. Me? I can't believe that I only have on a pair of freakin' leggings and a thin sweatshirt on.

Welcome to Canada.

After getting lost, we finally found Pony and Aimee's house. I've never been out of the country before. Soda and me, we traveled and lived all over the United States, we only settled back in his hometown last year; but I've never been to a different country.

My daddy is Chicano, and both of his parents were born in Mexico and moved to the United States right before he was born. He was the youngest of eight, and the only one born in the United States. My grandparents never learned English, so Daddy would translate for us.

Mama was an Irish girl, born and bred in California, but with her dark hair, thick brows and dark eyes, she sorta looked Mexican and her married name, Theresa Hernandez, fooled a lot of people too.

But, we never spoke Spanish at home, never visited our cousins in Mexico and besides our names, we don't have any connection to that part of our heritage at all.

I wanted to take Spanish in high school, but Daddy made me take French instead.

Years later, I figured that the reason my Daddy didn't want us to learn Spanish, didn't want his parents to learn English, and always insisted on translating between us was because he wanted to control us.

Wanted us all to be his little puppets, always dependent on him.

I hate my Daddy. I know that ain't very Christian of me, and I pray every night for God to change my heart, because He's sure not going to change my Daddy's heart at this stage of the game; but it's hard.

Especially when I see him with my nieces. Rick and LaDonna, their oldest baby is Jessica. I don't know much about genes (too busy experimenting doing my own biology project with the star quarterback when I was supposed to be in biology class), but despite having parents with dark hair, she has this beautiful blonde hair, baby-blue eyes and real pale skin. Recessive genes? I guess that's what it called.

Well, my Daddy just spoils that girl rotten. Whatever she wants, she gets. She throws temper tantrums, and he just laughs it off. I wouldn't have a problem with it, except when it comes to Michelle. Michelle is the next oldest daughter and she looks just like him, has the same jet black hair, dark eyes and brown skin.

He practically ignores her. Once, she accidently ruined his cigar, and he whupped her with his belt. She was three. I was glad I only heard about it. Because, if I or Soda saw that, let's just say, I don't think my Daddy would be above ground today.

Soda is real sweet with all of the girls, but he goes out of his way to spend extra time with Michelle, calling her "beautiful girl", especially if my Daddy is around. It's just another reason why I hate my father love my husband in almost equal measures.

Soda honks the car, about five times.

"Stop that, you're gonna wake up the baby," I move his hand away from the steering wheel, he just flashes me a sheepish grin.

Yeah, he's sorta absent minded sometimes.

Pony comes out and before you know it, Soda has him in a bear hug and is squeezing the shit out of him. That's the thing about my husband, he doesn't hug a lot of people, but the people he does hug, you don't ever forget it.

Pony though, is used to Soda's full on hugs, cause he was pulling Soda into a bear hug of his own. Pony also has height and weight on his big brother, so he was practically lifting Soda off the ground.

I like Pony. He lived with us for a while when we traveled the country. He's quiet and nice, and I know if I was married to him, I would get bored after five minutes. I need someone with excitement, edge, someone like Sodapop.

I stand outside the car, "you two gonna keep on going, or can I get a hug too?" I cross my arms and smirk, and Pony looks kind of embarrassed. If I thought Soda was sensitive, he got nothing on his brother. Which is another reason that Pony, as sweet as he is and as much as I love him, would be fuckin' hell to be married to.

"Hey, Mary," he gives me a light hug, like he's afraid he's gonna crush me or something.

Soda is grinning from ear to ear. "Aww, man, let me get a look at you, Daddy." He grabs a hold of his brother's wrists and holds it for a second and there is just something powerful and intimate about what they have. They're closer than brothers.

Pony breaks out into a shy smile and I grin because Soda is so damn happy for him and because Pony really does look content.

Tired and disheveled too, with a bit of baby spit up on the shoulder of his University of Vancouver sweatshirt.

"I gained some weight, huh?" Pony didn't seem upset at all, and yeah, he did gain a few pounds since the last time we saw him. Wouldn't kill him to lose ten or fifteen pounds.

I've seen pictures of him when he was a little kid, and he was freakin' adorable. I mean, not as cute as Soda, but pretty damn cute with his red hair and greenish eyes. He was short too.

Not anymore, he shot up. He's gotta be at least 6'0, maybe even an inch or so taller. He's a big guy too, big boned and everything. His hair had gotten darker since he was a teenager and he now sports a rather thick beard.

But he still got a beautiful face that reminds me so much of Soda, except not quite as good looking, in my opinion. His eyes though, are these real large piercing eyes that stand out even more against his dark hair and beard.

He ain't really my type, I prefer my men more a bit leaner, but if I wasn't married, or if I wasn't totally in love with my husband, when he looks at me with those beautiful, kind eyes of his… yeah, I can see why he used to turn heads back in the day.

"Look at your beard man!" Soda chuckles and puts his arm on Pony's shoulder.

"Just tryin'to keep up with the loggers around here, am I doing a good job?" Pony smirks right back at Soda. I have a feeling he enjoys seeing his brother's reaction, and I gotta admit, he looks REAL different with his beard and hair like that.

Soda has a nice beard and a moustache, courtesy of the best hairdresser in Tulsa; but Pony's beard sorta looks like he's tryin' for the Grizzly Adams look.

"Keepin' up with loggers? You look wilder than I did when I lived in the fuckin' jungle!" Soda gives his brother a playful punch on the shoulder.

I snort, "lived in the jungle? Hell, you were in there for how many weeks before your ass went back to base?"

Soda spent a year in Vietnam, including a few week deep in the jungle in a no-man's zone where some real bad stuff happened. I don't like thinking about it though. He was sent back to Base and he told me that those few weeks changed him in ways that he still doesn't understand.

My man has never hurt me in anyway, he doesn't even yell at me, but whenever I see him erupt in anger at others, when I see his face contort into rage and pain; I wonder how much of that is due to those few weeks.

Soda just laughs, "baby, when you're drinking your own urine, and battlin' malaria and the Cong, one day feels like a century."

"Whatever, hot shot, I've seen worse during prom week at the salon."

Pony looks uncomfortable and he's making me uncomfortable. It's like he doesn't get that Soda and I joke about his time in the war, just like he doesn't get why we joke about using drugs.

It's the only way we can deal. Because if I think, if I really think of all the stuff my beautiful, wonderful husband did and had done to him, I would break down.

So, we joke.

It's either that or cry, and I ain't cryin' today.

S.E. Hinton owns

Yes, for your eagle readers, Darry ends up with THE Cathy Carlson of TWTTIN fame (also by S.E. Hinton) brawhahawa!