This is a flash-forward piece. The characters of Mary, Anna and Patrick are introduced in "My Brother's War" which is about Soda's experience in Vietnam, and the after-effects. Patrick is Soda's son with Anna, a Vietnamese barmaid. Mary is Soda's current wife. After years of being separated, Patrick & Soda are finally reunited and living together as Soda helps his son prepare for the school dance...

December, 1980

Soda paced his living room, his stocking feet made indentations in the thick nude-brown carpet. A wall of family photos whizzed past his head.

Out of his left eye, a picture of the infant Jesus and Mother Mary followed him with their beatific gaze. His wife Mary's faith ran deep and wide and crucifixes, statuettes and religious paintings adorned every corner of the house.

Next to the picture of the holy family was a photo of Soda's holy place, the rodeo.

All that was left from Soda's wild rodeo days was occasional flair up of lower back pain, but something stirred within him every time he glanced at the picture of the wild, beautiful horse in mid buck.

It was December and this year the cold snap came with an unexpected fierceness. Soda glanced at the heater, it sounded like a broken engine.

Shit, he thought, gonna have to fix that pretty soon.

If he didn't, he reckoned it would almost be as cold inside as it was outside.

Soda didn't mind doing handy work around the house. It was just that this house, a small four bedroom, two bathroom bungalow built the year Darry was born, needed more work than Soda had time.

Mary Curtis bit into her orange and shook her head at her husband, "I swear; you're more excited than he is. You think he was getting married or somethin' the way you're pacin' back and forth."

Soda shot his wife a goofy grin, "aw, darlin' like you're not excited? You're the one who keeps on making sure the camera has film in it." He cocked an eyebrow up.

Mary tried her best to scowl at her husband. Eleven years ago when they first met, Mary was a cute wild-girl with a sort of sweet, elfin face and long chocolate brown hair. Time and life had given her a harsh, edgy beauty; accentuated by her pixie hair cut and generous use of eyeliner.

She looked liked the kind of woman who could give Sylvia, Angela and all of the other touch chicks Soda used to know, a run for their money.

But Soda wasn't fooled.

Soda never imagined he'd be this nervous or excited about a little junior high formal; he certainly was never this apprehensive about any dance he or his brothers went to.

But tonight Soda's son was going to his first dance.

"Sit down Soda, if he needs you, he'll ask for you. I haven't seen you this hyped up since we dropped that bad acid and snorted coke at BeBe's house."

That was another reason Soda liked Mary, she was completely honest about their past drug use. His brothers and her family veered around the topic like a cowgirl steered around the barrels, but not Mary. And why not? It was a part of them, it made them who they were today.

"That was ten years ago, how do you even remember that? Shoot, I can barely remember what I had for breakfast yesterday." Soda laughed, but it was the truth. Sometimes he wondered if his memory was screwed up from all of the drugs he took.

Not that he was a MENSA candidate before...

But then again, Mary used more than he did, and she was still pretty sharp.

Soda landed on the couch with a bounce. Although he was almost a foot taller than his wife, the messed up spring underneath his seat gave Mary the height advantage.

Another thing to add to my fix it-list.

Soda placed his head on his wife's chest, his eyes darting from the small cross tattoo above her right breast to the large tattoo of the Virgin Mary that took over her entire arm. Mary's small arm made her namesake look more like a starving drug addict than the mother of God.

Soda still thought it looked beautiful.

Soda wasn't that religious but he admired Mary's excitement and passion when it came to her faith; it was the same way he felt about the rodeo.

That why they made such a good couple, Soda thought; whether it was religion, rodeo, dancing, drinking, motorcycles or family they did and felt everything an intensity that few others understood.

Mary drew her fingers along her husband's arms. Eight years ago Soda shot up for the last time. The needle and track marks had long disappeared, but Soda still knew where each one laid.

He still carried the scars.

Every now and then Mary and Soda turned their head towards the bathroom where Patrick was getting spruced up.

The faucet turned on and off, on and off.

"He startin' a flood in there?" Soda asked good naturedly.

Mary laughed and gave her husband a playful swat on his arm. "Shh, he's gonna hear you, you know how self-conscious kids can get at age."

Soda shot his wife a sad, knowing smile. A few years ago, before the doc told them that Mary couldn't get pregnant Mary read up on all of the parenting books and child development books she could in anticipation of having a child. Neither Mary nor Soda read for fun, but Mary took to those parenting guides the way Pony took to his books.

Now they gathered dust in the attic, right next to Mary's collection of "fossils" she got from a dinosaur hunt she went on in Girl Scouts.

The faucet continued to run, "well," Soda quipped, "I always wanted an indoor swimming pool."

"You remember your first dance?" Mary asked suddenly.

Soda shrugged, "not really, how about you? Bet you were a real cutie back then too. Probably knew all of the dances before everyone else," Soda said as he did "The Monkey" with his hands.

A small smile crept on Mary's lips before she shook her head. "My daddy didn't allow me to go to dances. My brothers, they gotta go, they gotta do everything."

A rare tone of resentment and anger filled her voice.

"I'm sorry," Soda said, and he was.

"Of course, if you're up to it, I know a guy who would love to dance with you all night, can't promise he's much of a gentleman. Might wanna take you to bed before the second song."

Soda gave his wife wolfish smile.

"What, is Steve comin' over?" Mary asked brightly.

Just as soon as the words left her mouth she turned red and covered her mouth.

"I'm sorry."

Soda let out a hard chuckle, "baby it's okay, it was funny, hell, Steve would probably think it was hilarious."

He put his arms around his wife and gave her a squeeze.

Soda knew Steve wouldn't find it funny at all, but he didn't want Mary to feel bad. Even joking about a buddy having the hots for another man's wife was a major no-no in their circle.

As street smart as Mary was, she also had a tendency to speak without thinking and couldn't always read people.

Mary was the toughest chick Soda knew. It wasn't just that she rode motorcycles, could chug down a beer with the best of them, rode horses and danced with an abandonment that drew Soda to her like moth to a flame; it was also the sheer tenacity and strength she showed when battling her own addiction to drugs.

Yet, in many ways she was still the scared little girl who bristled under her father's tough discipline and control; always looking over her shoulders, never being allowed to go to the dance.

Mary and Soda kept on hearing the sounds of Patrick getting ready, punctuated every now and then by an angry grunt.

"Hey buddy, you okay in there?" Soda shouted towards the bathroom.

"Yes. Everything's fine. Thanks! Don't worry about me!" Patrick's voice reached a high pitched crescendo which did nothing to assure his father. Soda rolled his eyes.

"His English is so good now!" Mary smiled at Soda. Patrick was born in Vietnam, and only moved to the United States last year.

"Yeah, he worked so hard at it," Soda said with a proud grin.

The medicine cabinet closed with a bang, something dropped and spilled on the floor.

I hope that ain't my cologne.

"Shit," Patrick muttered, a perfect mimic of his dad's overdrawn southern drawl.

Soda couldn't help but grin, before reminding himself to talk to Patrick about cuttin' down on the swears, at least in public. Soda figured he better try to cut down on his own salty vocabulary as well. Didn't want to be a bad influence on the kid or worse, a hypocrite. But damn, if that wasn't a hell of a hard thing to remember.

Patrick poked his head from the bathroom, "Dad, I need help." His voice was anxious.

Like Superman running in to save Lois Lane, Soda ran to his son's side.

"Whatya need kiddo?"

"Can't get this stupid tie." Patrick pointed to a crumpled up black tie which sat on top of the toilet seat.

Soda did his son's tie, remembering the first time he put on a tie on someone else; helping Pony get ready the morning of their parents funeral.

The bathroom was mess. Wet paper towels filled the wastepaper basket and hair products and gels covered the entire surface of the vanity.

Mary did Patrick's hair earlier that afternoon, but Patrick decided to 'redo' his hair, turning his perfectly conditioned hair into an oily, moussed up glob of brown hair.

"Man, kiddo you are handsome!"

Patrick flashed a dimpled grin at his dad.

"So," Soda crossed his legs and took a seat on the toilet, "are you excited?" His eyes twinkled as he looked at his son's dark eyes.

Patrick shrugged, "I dunno. It's a dance."

Soda looked at his son carefully, "you do wanna go, right Patrick? Cause if you don't, you don't gotta go. We can just say inside and watch a movie on T.V. Heck, I like spendin' time with you."

Patrick sighed, "yeah."

Soda knew something was bothering his son, and it bugged him more that he couldn't figure it out on his own than the fact that Patrick wasn't spilling the beans.

Soda tried a different tact.

"You gonna ask a girl to dance?" Soda punched his son playfully on the arm. Soda figured that Patrick might be a bit self-conscious about dancing with a girl. Mary tried to teach him how to dance earlier in the week, but he burst out laughing every time.

Patrick shook his head, "They might make fun of the way I talk." Patrick looked down at his black high top sneakers that Soda bought for him.

Soda's heart cracked. Patrick's thick accent made him a bit hard to understand, especially when he was nervous. He knew kids teased each other, it wasn't good, but it was part of growing up. It was a whole different ballgame when it was your kid being made fun of.

Soda could already picture himself starting something with the fathers of these phantom girls who might make fun of his son.

Yeah, he was a bit protective of Patrick.

But Patrick was special. Patrick was born in Saigon, he survived the war, the Communist takeover, escape on a overcrowded boat, life in a refugee camp and adjusting to life in the United States. He had gone through more in twelve years than most adults did in their entire lives.

He had gone through so much in his short life that Soda would do anything to prevent him from any unnecessary pain.

Soda stood up and took gentle hold of his son's shoulders.

"Listen son, you are an amazin' kid. Do you get that? I'm just saying that because I'm your father. I mean it. You're cute and nice and any girl is gonna be real lucky if you ask them to dance.

Everyone's going to be nervous there, not just you. If a girl don't wanna dance with you, it's because she's nervous and scared, it's got nothing to do with you. And that's okay, there's nothing wrong with being nervous or scared."

"I don't want people to laugh at me. In Saigon, if guys made fun of me, I beat them up. Mama said it was okay." Patrick gave his father an anxious puppy grin.

Soda hid a grin. Patrick was a sweet kid, but even at his age he knew how to use his charm and cuteness to get what he wanted. He had a bit of temper too. That he got from both of his parents.

"I get that kiddo. Listen, I always want you to stand up for yourself. But don't be getting into fights at the dance? Okay? You could get in major trouble."

Patrick nodded glumly.

"Besides, if some guy does mess with you, get back at them on Monday after school, then they won't be expected it," Soda shot his son a conspiratorial smile.

Patrick nodded and gave his dad a small smile. Patrick seemed more at ease. Soda understood. Preparing for the worst was a survivor's tactic. Soda could have told Patrick not to worry about bullies or that no one would made fun of him, but Soda thought it was worse to humor the kid. All he could do was support him and make sure that he knew how to give and take a punch if need be.

"I'm real proud of you Patrick. It don't matter to me if you go to the dance or not. But I hope you go kiddo, cause I think you're gonna have a blast. Man, if you're anything like me, when that music starts playin' you're not gonna want to come home! 'Sides, what are they feedin' you?"

For the first time Patrick shot his dad a real grin. "They are bringing in Luigi Pizza. That's my favorite," Patrick added, as if Soda didn't know that, they practically lived at Luigi's on weekends.

"Kiddo, I'm jealous already," Soda joked.

Mary stood up and whistled when Patrick and Soda came out of the bathroom. She stopped midway through, "Patrick, baby, your hair, what the heck…" Mary looked like she swallowed a lemon.

"Yeah, don't it look good? Patrick decided to redo his hair," Soda said quickly.

Mary flashed Patrick a thumbs up sign, "looks good, sweetie," but Soda could tell she was cringing inside.

Heck, even back in his greaser days Soda never put that much product in his hair.

"Okay, we gotta take some pictures of the handsomest man in this room," Mary said, grabbing her polaroid.

They took pictures of Patrick alone, Patrick with Mary, Patrick and Soda. In every picture Patrick hid his left pinkie from view. When Patrick was an infant in Saigon a piece of shell sliced part of his pinkie off; in the grand scheme of things, Patrick lucked out. But he was a kid and his deformed finger was just another reminder of how different he was from everyone else.

It broke Soda's heart every time. He wished his son could see himself the way Soda and Mary and his Uncles saw him, as a survivor. But, he understood, at twelve years old, you just want to be one of the guys.

"Does my outfit look good?" Patrick asked Mary.

"Baby, you can't go wrong with black. You look great." Mary picked out Patrick's outfit, black jeans, black silk shirt and a black tie. Mary loved Johnny Cash.

"Aww, man kiddo," Soda was practically jumping up and down, "you are gonna have such a good time. I'm so excited for you."

"You sure you don't want us to take you?" Mary asked. The school was only two blocks away and Patrick was walking over with his group of buddies, still, Mary was a worrier.

Patrick looked horrified, "no, no, I'm good." Soda cracked up. Patrick might have survived war and refugee camps, but when it came to being embarrassed by his parents, he was no different than any other twelve year old.

Soda looked at Polaroids on top of the coffee table, "Hey Patrick, why don't you say goodbye to your Mama before you head out. I bet she'd love to see ya."

"Yeah right," Mary muttered under her breath.

Soda shot Mary a withering look.

He was glad Patrick didn't hear her.

Patrick was in Anna's room, speaking to her in fast-paced Vietnamese.

Anna answered with a few short, terse phrases.

Mary bunched up her fists, "what that woman can't even leave the bedroom? She can't even come out to the living room to say goodbye to her son?"

Soda sighed, "Anna just has a lot going on."

"I don't care!" Mary said in a loud whisper before Soda shushed her.

"I don't care," she continued in a softer tone, "that's his mother. She missed his award's ceremony last week. And, don't tell me she's gone through a lot. Bullshit, so have you, so have I, so has Patrick. She's lazy and selfish."

Mary looked near tears. She was quite taken by Patrick and very protective of him.

Soda didn't say anything. When Mary made a judgment about someone, it was hard for her to walk it back or to see shades of grey. Soda understood Mary's frustration with Anna. Hell, he felt it too. Anna lived with them, but for all purposes Mary was Patrick's mother.

But Soda also knew that Anna could take Patrick away at any moment.

He also knew that something was deeply wrong with her. Something that went way beyond being lazy or being selfish, like Mary thought.

As much as she had made his life miserable, she was Patrick's mother. She had raised him to be an awesome boy under real trying circumstances. Soda didn't think he could make any demands on her. He just wanted to help.

Patrick's buddy, Robbie knocked on the front door.

"Hey Patrick, Robbie," Soda called out from the porch as the boys headed down the street, "if you see anyone pour anything in the punch, don't drink it. Oh, and have a great time!"

With Patrick gone, Mary pulled her husband closer to her, "seems like you got firsthand knowledge of the entire spikin' the punch deal."

"Darlin' you know me too well."

"So, was it you and Steve? you and Two-Bit? Come on, what one of your boys did you spike the punch at the junior high dance with?"

Soda chuckled at the memory, "me and Dally. It was my idea, Dal just supplied the liquor."

"You're such a good influence, honey."

Soda licked his teeth with his tongue and in a low voice, "believe me you ain't gonna think that after tonight."

Mary sighed happily and let Soda lead her to their bedroom.

Anna Nguyen found herself bunched under a blue and white blanket covered with sewn on sheep. The sheep looked up at her.

She heard Soda and Mary in the room next door. They were trying to be discrete, which made it even more obvious what they were doing.

After years of being in survival mode Anna felt herself adrift in her new country. The smart, take no prisoners business woman was on the verge of homelessness when her son's father took them in.

Living in this small house in a neighborhood where the sound of police sirens were a weekly occurrence and parties broke out into fights and fights broke out into parties, she never felt more alone.

Anna didn't feel anger, or disgust, or envy or sadness, or bemusement.

Not even her son, whom she loved more than anyone, could bring her out of her funk.

She felt nothing.

S.E. Hinton owns