Things have never been right since for us in the years after Johnny's death. Bit by bit, we've drifted away over the years. Darry and I still live where we used to, but the rest are all gone. Steve was packed into jail for a couple years, having hotwired some rich Soc car. Two-Bit Matthews settled down, found himself a girl (Jess) who managed to jostle him into the right side of the law, and moved way out to New York City. I still remember our last conversation, even though it was years ago.
"I envy you, Ponyboy. You and Sodapop."
"Why?" I had asked then, leaning against the hood of Jess's tuff car. It was red and sleek, almost reminding me of a panther. It just felt like it wanted to run away, not controlled by anyone or anything.
"Because," Two-Bit answered, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. Lowering it, he said, "Darry's always been there, and you've always stuck together. Through anything. After Mam died, I've just felt, you know, like something was missing." He looked away, embarrassed to be so emotional. "Sure, you've got rough moments, but in the end, you're always together."
It was a moment that you don't ever forget. I had nodded, we had said our goodbyes, and Two-Bit and Jess had left for New York City the next day. I haven't seen him since, and I didn't give much thought to what he had said at that time. It was nice, but not too important. Until, of course, the letter came.
We hadn't heard from Sandy for ages, not since Sodapop's letter got returned to him, unopened. Sodapop was standing in the kitchen, smelling like gasoline from the station where he worked, searching through the mail, and going through his usual routine. "Junk, bills, something from the horse-track, junk—"
The letters all fell to the ground and he fell silent as he flipped over the last letter in the pile. "It's a letter from Sandy," he said finally, staring at me. I stood then, setting my math book down on the table. "It's from Louisiana."
He ran into his room, shutting the door behind him. I gave him an hour or so to read the letter, then went to knock on the door. "Soda, you okay?"
There wasn't an answer, so I tried the doorknob. It was locked. "Soda, what is it? Soda, are you okay?" When there wasn't an answer, I went around the back and tried to hit his window with a rock. Maybe he was just asleep. The rock broke the window all right, but it didn't do much else good. "Soda! Sodapop Curtis, this isn't funny!"
When there still was no answer, I ran back inside and dialed the racetrack where Darry worked. There was a woman on the other end who sounded like she had smoked one too many cigarettes and was in the middle of something important. "No, honey, I don't know about no Darrel Curtis. You wanna bet or not? Next race's in an hour."
"No!" I yelled into the phone. "This is really important. Darrel Curtis. Can't you just check the lists—"
"Hey, you bet, or you leave. Pick one, kid!"
At that point I left, dropping the phone to dangle from its tether and deciding to take one last try at the door. It was still locked, so I tried picking the lock like Two-Bit taught me. I must've done something wrong, because I was still at it when Darry came home half an hour later. "Ponyboy, what's wrong?" he had asked. "Did you get locked out of your room?"
My words came out in a big hasty rush as I explained what had happened. I don't know if Darry actually understood half of it, but he just stood up and slammed the door. The flimsy lock snapped apart with a crack under Darry's 240 pounds of pure muscle, and we ran in, stepping over the rubble of glass and rusty metal. Sodapop wasn't there. Darry swore under his breath as he picked up the piece of notebook paper lying on the bed. His expression was angry, angrier than I've ever seen him before. "Damn it!" he screamed then before dropping the letter and running out the door.
With trembling fingers I gingerly picked up the letter. Sodapop still hadn't learned to punctuate or spell that well, but the meaning was clear enough. Sandy mailed me, it began. Her grandma died of a heart attack last month and Sandys nineteen so she don't want to go back to her parents and she says the babys mine. She's in Luisiana with her brother and she wants me to go to her. It ain't that far so I'l be back in a month or so. Don't worry about me. Sodapop.
That was four years ago.
