Author's Note: Guys, I have college essays I need to be writing. I need to be stopped. Kidding, don't stop me. This is more fun.
I've mentioned Steve's mother in a couple of my stories, what I think happened to her. This is a piece dedicated to exploring Steve, and she's a major part of it, but you don't need to read any of my other stories to understand this.
Title is a Stephen Foster song published in 1854.
Happy reading :)
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Before you grew up (and you grew up early, you had to, there was no avoiding it), everything was good. Well, maybe not everything. You knew that you didn't have as much as others, but it wasn't such a big deal back then. Because you still had a house, and your father worked, and your mother was here on this earth with you, and you had a best buddy and a lot of other buddies, too. Mom made you go to temple, but it was okay because…well, it just was.
Those were simpler days, before you became a man. In the Jewish faith, that's when you thirteen. They throw you a big party and everything. You don't love all the attention, but you like the gifts and the way your parents look at you with pride. But you weren't really a man. Not then. You were simply a man in the eyes of your religion, if you could really call it yours. Because it wasn't, not really. You didn't know if you believed it in. It was a sort of casual thing to you, but you also had a weird sort of pride in it because, well, all your other friends were Roman Catholic – the Curtises, the Mathews, even Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston were technically Catholic, even if they didn't have parents that gave enough of a hang to even pretend that they were pious.
But those were simpler days. Not always perfect, but simpler. You would go to school and traipse around town on the weekends. You'd go watch Darry and Two-Bit play baseball, or watch Darry play football. Dallas would tell you crazy stories about New York. You and Johnny would trade bubblegum cards. And then there was you and Soda, and you two would do just about everything together. Smoked your first cigarette together. Suffered through the tyranny of Mrs. Green together. Play games in the alley between your houses.
There was no war then. You couldn't remember where you were when Kennedy was shot because it hadn't happened yet. You didn't have a draft card yet. You hadn't yet seen war. You hadn't yet lost two of your closest friends.
And your mother was still alive.
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Your father was a math teacher at one of the local junior highs. Not the one you or any of your buddies went to. The two of you are nothing alike, but you still get along. Probably, for the most part, because your mother is alive.
Jeanie Randle made the best banana bread on this side of town. Blue ribbon-winning, in fact. She wore her light brown hair in the same up-do every day, expertly down. She put on her face every day and smiled through everything. She and her husband had settled here many years ago, expecting to perhaps move up a bit in the world.
But it never happened.
Jeanie Randle couldn't work. Her health was too shaky, too unreliable to make her a good employee. You don't really know what diabetes is, but you know it's the reason you don't have any siblings. Carrying and then subsequently giving birth to you was enough to almost kill her. The cost for her medication was enough to kill your family's chance at financial stability.
She had her good days and her bad days.
But she loved both of you, and gave everything she had until she had nothing left.
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By the time you were bar-mitzvah'd, Two-Bit and Darry and even Dallas already seemed like men. Darry and Two-Bit were in high school, and Dallas had already seen so much. And you knew it didn't really mean anything, so you didn't really mind when they sorta teased you about it.
"I liked that bit where they carried you around in that chair," Two-Bit laughed, snorting into his drink.
"Aw, shuddup, Two-Bit."
"Wish I was gonna get this sorta party when I turn thirteen," Soda grumbled. You weren't much older than Soda, and he was real pissed he wasn't gonna get something like this.
"It ain't all it's cracked up to be," you say, shrugging. "I don't feel any different, anyways."
"'Sides, Soda, you always have a good party at your place," Johnny says.
Johnny is the same age as you and Soda and Dally, but he seemed younger. So much younger. Maybe that's why it made sense to you that he and Ponyboy got along so well. Which was fine by you – you didn't want Pony tagging along with you and Soda. And as much as you liked Johnny, it was good he could hang around with Ponyboy.
Your mother's favorite book was Little Women. She said Johnny reminded her of Beth – good but quiet and shy. You didn't know if Johnny would like being compared to a girl.
Especially when that girl dies.
Looking back on it – even though you've never read the book, but you've seen a couple film adaptations, like that one with Winona Ryder in it, which you think your mother would've liked real well – it's really your mother who was Beth. Johnny was looking to get out. Your mother stayed close to home because that's what she could handle, besides going to the grocer and your school and temple and bridge club. And she was beautiful and kind and good, but she had a weakness and fragility to her that nothing could ever truly fix.
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"I dream of Jeanie with the light brown air/Borne, like a zephyr, on the light summer hair/I see her tripping where the bright streams play/Happy as the daisies that dance on her way…"
"Oh, John…"
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Your mother was always the most faithful of the three of you. That's probably why you and your father stopped going to temple when she died. It just didn't feel right.
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It isn't like all the people with diabetes died in those days. Look at Mary Tyler Moore.
Why couldn't your mother have been stronger?
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You started smoking when you were eleven, when your mother started to really get bad. Dallas told you it calmed the nerves – it was the closest he came to being sympathetic about all of this. Truth was, Mrs. Curtis and Mrs. Mathews were more present in all of your lives – collectively – simply because they were stronger. Your buddies liked you mom, they did, but they didn't see as much of her. Soda saw her the most because he was over the most. Because your house was a pleasant, less tense place to be when she was alive. And your parents loved each other, which was a change-up from the other households.
They had met in St. Louis when your father was nineteen and your mother was seventeen. She was better in those days, before she had you. It was some sort of love-at-first-thing at a dance. Your father was apparently a good dancer, even though he was bookish and introverted. Your mother was shy but also loved socials, and couldn't say no when he asked her to dance.
And the rest is history.
They came to Tulsa because that's where your father found work. They were a Midwestern couple through-and-through, but you were a cowboy that rode a steel horse. You started showing an interest in cars when you were young, so young that you can't remember a time when you weren't fascinated by them.
You wonder what your mother would think of your reputation as Tulsa's Hubcap King.
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You're fourteen when it happens.
You come home from school – your father isn't home yet – and the house is quiet. Your mother always greets you when you come home. But it's possible she's just in the back of the house and didn't hear you come in, so you don't freak.
"Ma?" You call, expecting an instant response, but not getting one. Now you're a bit suspicious. Granted, Jeanie Randle is a bit of a space cadet, a little more so than usual lately, and that's what leads you to believe something is wrong.
You're fourteen. You find your mother lying motionless on her bedroom floor, eyes already shut like she was saving you the heartache of having to do it for her. She was considerate like that.
You sit down beside her and check for a sign of life, any sign, but don't find one. You call an ambulance anyway. But it's hopeless.
But you already knew that when you found her.
You wondered how long she had been there, if she'd been scared, if it had hurt, or if it had just…happened. If she was mad that no one was there to save her. Or if she'd always known it would end something like this.
"You did the right thing," your father tells you later at the hospital, after he's signed all the forms.
"Doesn't matter," you grumble. You haven't cried. But you hurt. "She was already…she had already –"
"I know," he cuts in gently. "I know. But you still did the right thing."
The right thing would've been being there so you could've saved her, either of you, but there was no way you could have known, and besides – you should've seen it coming. Because no matter which version you watch, Beth always dies, every time.
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For some reason, they close your mother's casket.
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For some reason, they leave Dally's open.
Years later (but not enough years later), at Dally's funeral, they leave his casket open. Johnny's had been closed, you understood why, but why were you being forced to see Dally's lifeless body lie before you? You ran to the bathroom to vomit as soon as you saw him, Sodapop and Two-Bit trailing close behind you and staying through it, even though they don't have to. Soda soothes and Two-Bit smokes and you don't even feel embarrassed.
"It's alright, Steve. Let it out."
Soda hands you a stick of gum when you finish.
"I'm good," you breathe. "I'm good."
"You sure, man? You don't have to go back out there if you don't wanna."
"Nope. I'll be fine. Just surprised me."
"Alright. Just don't be ralphing all over the funeral home, okay?"
You just roll your eyes.
"Have any of these been open casket before?" Two-Bit suddenly asked.
"No. Mom's wasn't," you mumbled. "Neither was Mr. and Mrs. Curtis's. Or Johnny's. This is the first."
"Why didn't they show your mom?" Soda asked. "I get why they didn't show Johnny, or my parents. Why was your mom's closed?"
You can only shrug. "She didn't look too bad. Just a little thin, I guess. God, I remember what she looked like the say she died, but not what she looked like alive anymore."
"I get that," Soda sighed. "It ain't fair."
It sure as shit ain't.
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You and your father must've really needed your mom around, because without her, the two of you barely spoke. And when you spoke, you usually fought. Sometimes real bad. You'd leave for the night, crash at Soda's or Two-Bit's, and then you'd crawl back the next day and he'd give you a few bucks because that's all he knew to do.
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Pony doesn't like you, you know that, and you don't really like him. But you care about him because Soda does. But you're not sure Ponyboy cares about you. He thinks you're angry and mean and hateful. And maybe you are, a little bit.
But Pony doesn't remember. He doesn't remember that there was a time when you weren't. And he's still too young to know why.
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You met Evie around the time just before your mother died. She was nothing like her. Her hair was black and her almond-shaped and bright blue. You could've been describing Angela Shepard, but no. Evelyn Martin was tough, but she was good and smart and had a kindness to her that Angel would probably never have. Evie was an expert at cutting hair and liked to laugh and wasn't afraid to cry.
Unlike Two-Bit's girl, Evie stuck with you through the war. She stuck with you when you got back, even when you were still messed up. Your buddies weren't the least bit surprised when you showed up at the Curtis's one day and announced you were going to marry her.
You met when you were both fourteen. It was a love-at-first-sight sort of thing. You married when you were twenty-two, and you knew you'd found yourself a Jo, and not a Beth.
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Your first child is a girl. Annette. Annie. Anne. She looks like your mother, but you know that with someone like Evie as her mother, she'll be strong. She'll have to be.
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You have a sort-of nephew. Sort-of because you have no siblings, so your buddies' kids are your nieces and nephews. Well, Evie has a sister, but you know, whatever. And you actually have several sort-of nephews, but Dallas Mathews sticks out a bit. Not just because he's a lot like his father, but because, like your mother, he's diabetic, and you know what that can mean.
But times have changed.
"He's a strong kid," Two-Bit tells you guys. "Regular tough-guy. He's takin' it all in stride."
But there's a nervousness there. There should be because it would be wrong for there not to be.
Dallas shares the same burden that Pony's youngest son, Johnny, carries. But neither of them know it yet. But you watch them play together, all of them, all of your children running around Soda's too-big yard, squealing and catching fireflies. You see Annie and your twin boys, Vinny and Tommy, running around with Darry's and Pony's and Soda's and Two-Bit's, and it feels right. Your girls are inside, doing dishes and gabbing. They're an eclectic group of women. There's your Evie, of course. She gets along best with Two-Bit's wife, Bridget, which is surprising considering how different the two of them are, like Betty and Veronica. Darry's wife, Jackie, is your regular southern belle type, but she's got the gift of gab, something Darry seriously lacks. Soda's wife ran out on him almost right after Fran was born, the bitch, and was never spoken of. And Soda wasn't exactly looking for a new one. And Rose is exactly the type of woman you'd expected Pony to go for – smart and down-to-earth pretty and a Brit. Met at the University of Chicago.
There's no reason four women like that would ever be brought together under any other circumstance.
But they were a good group of women for your daughter to be lookin' up to.
"Hey, boys!" Evie poked her head out the screen door, smiling like the dickens. You all turn around. "Bee's takin' requests, if y'all are interested."
Bridget was a wonderful piano player. And probably too good for Two-Bit, but he knew that. Your buddies are quick to joke as you walk inside and find the woman seated at the piano that Soda has, for whatever reason. Not like he plays.
"'Chopsticks'," Soda crows, and everybody laughs like he's the funniest guy on the planet.
"Naw, man," Two-Bit shakes his head. "You should hear how she fucks up 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'."
"It's not fucking it up," his wife scowls. "It's a variation. It's Mozart."
"Whatever," Two-Bit laughs.
"Steve," she continues, ignoring him (smart move), "it's your party. Why don't you pick?"
"Hey, yeah!" Jackie says, looking at Bridget like she's brilliant. Then at you. "It's your birthday, Steve," she drawls.
You hate all the attention. This had all been Evie's idea – not like thirty-five was that big a deal, anyway. But then you remember that's all your mother made it to, and you're sobered. And it gives you an idea. "Alright," you give in. "I've got one. You know 'Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair'?"
"Of course," she says, and the room is quiet except her playing of the interlude. "You know the words?"
"Not really," you admit. "Haven't heard it in years. Dad used to sing it."
"To your mother," Soda says. It should be a question, but it's a statement, because that guy knows everything about you, and you'd bet your mortgage he knows why you requested it.
"Yep," you say, like it's no big deal, cuz it's not. She's been dead over two decades now and your life is good and you're in a room with women who are strong and will last for decades more. And only because you have a daughter to you think you understand why that's so important to you.
"Well," Bridget sighs, "would you like me to?"
She can play and watch you at the same time, and you say yes because she has a nice voice, but she's quickly overshadowed by the rest of them as they all join in and sing the song completely off-key and out of tune, but it makes you smile.
"I long for Jeanie with the daydawn smile!/Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile!/I hear her melodies, like joys gone by!/Sighing 'round my heart o'er the fond hopes that die!/Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain!/Wailing for the lost one that comes not again!/Oh! I long for Jeanie, and my heart bows low!/Never more to find her where the bright waters flow!..."
And they go on like that and you watch on, amused (you're not one to make a fool of yourself like this), and the somebody requests "Somewhere" from West Side Story and they start singing about there being a time and a place for us, and you can't help but think that that time is here and that place is now.
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AN: A different sort of look at Steve than I think people usually take, but I think he's much more sensitive and smarter than people sometimes portray him, so here's a bit of my take on him.
Hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading!