A/N: Hey everyone! I know today's Thanksgiving, but this is a one-shot that has been in my mind forever, and I didn't want to wait till Christmas to post it. Most of you reading this are probably expecting an update for At the End of the Road, and I promise I'm working on it. Life has been crazy with school (I'm actually really enjoying this year!) dance, piano chorus, and just life in general. I'm having a great Thanksgiving, I'm at my cousins, hope everyone else is! Enjoy the story, please review.
Ponyboy's POV
"Pony." I can feel Darry shaking me. I groan and curl up under my covers, turning away from him. "Happy Christmas Eve morning, kiddo. I gotta run to work, but I should be back by three. Stay out of trouble." I felt him leave, heard the screen door slam shut, and I drifted back to sleep.
When I woke up a couple hours later, the house was quiet. I rolled over onto Soda's side of the bed, vaguely thinking that I would roll into Soda's warm, comforting space. But in reality, his space was the way it had been for the past six months, cold and empty. I threw off the covers and padded down the hallway to the bathroom. I turned on the water to scalding hot. With Soda gone, Darry struggled to pay the heat bill, the result being that our house felt like a permenat freezer.
After showering and dressing, I sat down on the couch, my appetite gone. It didnt feel like Christmas. A shabby tree leaned tiredly up against the corner. Holly and garland decirated our mantle, and nearly all the radio stations had been playing Christmas songs nonstop for the past two months. But theres was a throbbing, painful ache inside of me, one I didn't associate with the content, happy feeling I had around the holidays. I was lonely. Darry was at work, Two-Bit and his family were visiting his cosins in Minesota for the holiday. Steve was at boot camp, he had been drafted 4 months ago. And Soda... Soda was somewhere in Vietnam, I knew that much. Swallowing hard, i flicked in the T.V., trying to distract myself. A grainy black and white image lit up the screen. It's a Wonderful Life. I haven't seen this movie since I was a kid. I curled up under a wool blanket with a plate of eggs, hoping the movie would bring back good memories and cheer me up. It didnt. If anything, it made me feel worse. I wished I could be like George Bailey, and have a guardian angel looking out for me, stopping me from doing something I'd regret. It was a childish wish, yet I still desperatly wished it could happen.
Around an hour late, the movie was over. I felt a little better, but not entirely happy. I needed some air. I pulled on Soda's old jacket, with the worn, thin cuffs, and set off down the street.
Our neighboorhood was pretty quiet. Wet sleet was falling, forming icy streaks in the wet asphalt. I hitched my thumbs in my pockets and headed into town, to the bus stop. The mood changed drastically as I headed into town. It was filled of people bustling around doing last minute Christmas shopping. People hurry past with large packages,. I see a couple guys from school, and Curly Shepard, but I don't stop to chat. I'm not feeling very talkative right now. I buy a pack of Kools from a convenience store and sit down on a bench at the bus stop to smoke a few. The sleet is wetter and colder, and I shiver violently in Soda's thin jacket. I have a thicker, warmer one back home. I don't use my head. But it's Soda's jacket.
The bus comes to a screeching halt by the bench. I stand and climb on, flipping Jermaine a ten-cent piece as I walk past.
"Hey Jermaine, what's up?"
"Hi Ponyboy." Jermaine is a old, dark skinned man, probably around 60. He's been driving this bus for as long as I can remember. He's a good guy. "Where ya headed?"
"23rd Memorial Street Graveyard," I say, with no hesitation. I'm surprised at my own words, I wasn't planning on going there.
He nods solemnly, knowing the score. We drive silently, the bus is empty except for a few faceless, nameless people who live in the shadows. People with no home,who are lost. I feel guilty, complaining about how my Christmas is going, while these people have no one.
"How's your brother?" Jermaine asks suddenly. I sit rigidly. I know hes reffering to Soda. I don't like talking about Soda very much.
"Fine." I say stiffly. Truthfully, I have no idea.
He nods slowly. "The war is a terrible thing, Ponyboy," he says solemnly. I nod mutely. Jermine's 35-year old son was killed in action, two weeks before his tour was up. For some reason, he likes to talk about his son and the war with me. I guess it's a way to clear his head, but I can barely say Soda's name, it's too painful.
We sit in silence until the bus screeches to a halt. I can see the tall iron gates, marking the entrance to the graveyard. I get off the bus.
"I'll be coming back around this way around 1:30." Jermaine say. "Take care, Ponyboy." I wave to him, and he drives off.
I slowly made my way to the entrance, and feeling of dread gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I always dread going to the graveyard, because it's hard to really open up and talk to someone. It's akward because with nearly 2,000 graves, there's always someone nearby, listening in, and keeping me from talking. It ain't so bad after awhile though, and I usually feel better when I leave.
I placed my hand on the cold metal of the gate and pulled. It stayed shut. I tried again. Nothing. I checked the bottom of the gate to see if it was stuck. Then I noticed a thick metal chain and heavy padlock weaving through the metal bars. I am stunned. Why would someone lock up a graveyard, especially at Christmas time?
An women is walking slowly through the rows of graves, picking up trash as she goes. "Excuse me!" I call out to her.
She turns around and spots me. "May I help you?"
"Yes ma'am. The gates locked. The graveyards not closed, is it?"
She smiled. "Unfortunately. No one is taking the shift tonight, and folks have been stealing things that people bring to graves when no ones on duty. A real shame, isn't it? Especially on the holidays. The nerve of some people..."
"B-but your here, aren't you?" I stammered. It hit me how despratley I wanted to talk to my parents just then. I didnt care if she was listening in.
"I'm just here cleaning up." she said. "I really am sorry."
I felt numb. "That's okay," I say blankly. It isn't. I started to walk away.
"Have a good holiday!" she called after me.
"Yeah, you too."
I walked along the gutter, angrily kicking a rock as I went along. Two-Bit stole all the time. Dallas had, too. Hell, I had even stole a couple times. But none of us had ever stolen anything important. I had only lifted packs of cigarettes, Two-Bit stole small stuff, nothing too important, and Dally swiped anything he thought might be useful. I don't think any of us would be heartless enough to steal something someone left at a grave. Probably some Socs stealing to get their kicks, I thought bitterly, as I headed deeper into town.
I spotted an old man lying huddled on a wooden bench. His clothes were ragged and stained. A large garbage bag filled with clothes lay next to him. A soggy cardboard sign was propped up next to him. It read, "Wounded veteran in need of help on Christmas, looking for job. God Bless."
I suddenly felt shaky. Wounded veteran. I remember a time when I was four and Soda was six. Mom was taking us shopping. We were in the rougher part of town, when a homeless man started chasing after Mom, and demanding for money. Mom grabbed us by the hands and ran, dragging us all the way home. I remember he kept yelling at us, "I am a U.S. marine! And want to know what it did for me? It ruined me! I ain't got no job, and I ain't got no money, and it's all thanks to that Goddamn war!" I was terrified. Dad explained to us that night that when some people come back to war, they've changed. They're in shock, or they're depressed. They can't support themselves, and many of them end up losing their jobs. Some end up homeless.
That was what worried me most when Soda was drafted. The night he got his letter, I lay in bed, imagining horrible scanarios. A few ended with Soda coming home in a box, but most ended with Soda becoming depressed. Not golden and laughing and carefree as he usually was, but moody and depressed and angry. That was the worse night of my life.
I leaned against the edge of our bed. Raw sobs tore at my throat, and salty tears streamed down my cheeks. I have not cried this much in years, nor have I felt this much grief. A cream colored letter with bold black type lay open innocently on our coffee table. It held the message I had been praying would not arrive to us. Soda had been drafted.
The Vietnam war was in full swing and was affecting everyone, Soc or Greaser alike. Guys came back changed from it. My buddy Ryan's dad was drafted, and he killed himself two months after getting home, convinced he was still on the battlefield. Buck Merrill was MIA for seven weeks, before being determined as dead. Tim Shepard, however, served a complete nine month tour and came back with a bullet wound in his shoulder, a bit more bitter, but still the same guy. I couldn't imagine my brother ending up like this, too.
Darry had locked himself in his room, trying to act tough, but I thought I could hear him crying. Two-Bit had been laying of the alcohol lately, but upon hearing the news, he got completley soused. Soda had made himself a glass of chocolate milk and sat down at the kitchen table, but had been staring into space for nearly two hours without drinking it. Steve hadn't dropped by the house yet.
Someone knocked on the door. "Pony? Can I come in?" Soda.
I hastily stood up, dragging my sleeve across my eyes. "Sure." I managed to croak out.
Soda opened the door and I stood back to let him in. He was pale and shaky. The spark in his eyes was gone, they looked dull and bleak. This scared me immensely, I had never seen him like this before. "Pone," he began.
. Tears started running down my cheeks. I was furious at myself for losing control, if anyone should be crying, it should be Soda.
"Soda," I choked out. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so, sorry. I don't want you to leave, you shouldn't have to..."
He hugged me tightly, and I hugged him back for all I was worth. He was crying too by now. "I know kid, I know." he kept saying. "It ain't fair."
Two weeks later, Soda, Darry, Steve, Two-Bit, and I were standing in front of the bus. The station was swarming with families, as men no older than twenty piled onto a bus headed for boot camp. After a few weeks of training, all of them will be shipped off to Vietnam. There are only about forty of them, yet each one has a family whose loves will be changed forever by this.
Soda is silent. He's nervous, I can tell; breathing hard, sweating, and he kept bending down to check his bag for various things. Darry is extremly wound up, pacing back and forth, asking questions, "You got everything? You know you can write to us anytime. Just follow orders, and you can't get into any trouble. Don't try to save the day, savvy? Just keep your head down and think before you act. Make sure you eat. You sure you packed everything?" I know it's his way of caring, but it's just making everyone more wound up.
Steve is keeping his cool, but he looks closer to tears then I've ever seen him. Two-Bit is looking around with a would-be calm face, but he looks devestated. And me? I'm completly numb. I am losing my brother, the one person I can complet ly trust and confide in. I'm panicked. I've managed to remain reasonably calm, but every night I've been having hideous nightmares, and for once I could remember them vividly. They didn't help any of our nerves.
An announcement came over the loudspeaker "We will be departing in ten minutes time. Please gather you belonging and say your goodbyes. Have a nice day."
A nice day? I didn't think I would ever have a nice day again. Who were they kidding?
Soda turned to us, his eyes bright. "Well, I guess this is it," he said awkwardly." Soda never doesn't know what to say. Darry made the first move. "I love you, kiddo," he says, hugging Soda hard. "You come home safely, you hear? Keep outta trouble. I love you, Pepsi."
"Love you too, Dar." Soda's voice was muffled into Darry's coat.
Steve was next. He grabbed Soda in a quick, tight hug, squeezing his shoulder. He could barely look him in the eye. "Come home soon, Soda. The DX'll go outta buisness without you." he tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace.
Two-Bit grinned, but his face was ashen. "Stevie here is right. The girls'll go crazy without you." he, too hugged Soda quickly, trying to make it as painless as possible.
Soda turned towards me, and I swallowed hard. I had been dreading this moment, and now it was here.
I hugged Soda as tightly as I could, not wanting to let go. My brother. He wastThe only one who really kept me sane after Johnny and Dally died, the one who kept peace between Darry and I, the one who was always there for me. My breaths were comingabout in short gasps, and my chest felt so tight it was painful. And before I knew it, I was crying again for what seemed like the millionth time that week.
Soda wrapped his arms around me comfortingly. "Don't cry, Pony. I'll be fine, I promise."
"You'll be careful?"
"No, I'm planning on playing practical jokes on the enemy on the battlefield," Soda's chin quivered slightly but he still grinned.
I hugged him tighter. "I'm really gonna miss you, Soda."
"I'm gonna miss you, too kiddo. You write me, okay?"
I nod. He kisses my forehead. "Love you, Pony."
"Love you, too."
He turns to Darry. "No fighting, ya dig? That goes for both of you." We both nodded again.
"Boarding now, bus 206."
Soda gives us his famous, dazzling smile and turns to walk away. Suddenly, he turns back around. His expression has completely changed, he looks helpless.
"I'm not ready," he whispered. "Shoot, I can't kill people. I can barely hold a heater. I can't do this."
The station is emptying. Nearly everyone is on the bus. Darry looks at a loss for words.
"I know, little buddy. You ain't a killer. But you gotta do this." Darry's blinking back tears.
Soda's crying by now. "Way to look tuff in front of everyone." he laughs, but it doesn't sound normal.
"Get on the bus, kid!" someone yells over to him. Soda gives us a last fleeting smile and gets on. The bus starts rolling away. I felt lost. I was still crying now, uncontrollably. Darry's tries to hide it, but he is, too. Even Steve and Two-Bit are. Two-Bit throws an arm over my shoulders, and we head back to the car.
That was six months ago. Soda has been in Vietnam for 5 months. He writes as often as he can, but the mail can take up to a month to get here, and spaces between each letter get longer and longer.
I wandered farther downtown for a little, through back alleys till I reached the railroad tracks where the Shepard's gang hung out. I then made it back to the bus stop just as Jermaine pulled in.
We were both quiet on the way home, caught up in our own thoughts I guess. Jermaine stopped by the bus stop.
"Have a good Christmas, kid."
"You, too."
He drove off, and I was left feeling more miserable than when I left the house this morning. I walked past the record store, which was playing a horrible, tinny version of White Christmas. It only added to my headache.
"This is Lt. Robert Connrad of Troop 114 wanting to wish a Merry Christmas my beautiful wife Shelly, and my new daughter, Amanda. I love you girls, I'll be home soon!"
"This is Greg Markins of Troop 114 sending a Happy Holidays to my parents, Linda and Sam, my sister Kayla, and my girlfriend Lizzy. I love you all!"
"Turn that off, would you Pone?" Darry asked, sounding irritated. I was annoyed myself. I turned the volume down low so Darry couldn't hear. "Happy?"
It was about 9:00, Christmas Eve. I was stretched out on the couch, while Darry sat in the armchair. A fire burned low in the fireplace, all that was left was burning embers. Darry was watching Miracle on 34th Street. I had switched the radio onto a channel where different troops sent home messages to their families. It was a stupid wish, but maybe, just maybe there was a chance that Soda would come on.
"This is Mason Hasworth from Troop 115, sending a shout-out to my little brother Caleb. I love you, man. Merry Christmas.
"Ponyboy!" I don't want to turn it off. I know it makes Darry mad; there are so many families ripped apart by a war that he's against anyway.
"Darry, I know you don't like it, but what if Soda came on? I don't want to miss it!"
"Really, Ponyboy? There are millions of soldiers out there. I doubt he'll come on."
Im angry. If he has no hope than fine, that's his choice. With a frustrated sigh, I slam the radio off, feeling more upset than ever. Darry suddenly looks remorseful.
"Look, Pony, I'm sorry." I look away. "We shouldn't be fighting like this on Christmas. I-I just don't want you to get your hopes up that Soda would be on. You can turn it back on."
I sighed. "I know. I'm not expecting him to come on," I lied. Darry nodded, seeming satisfied, and went back to the movie.
"This is Jake German wishing a Happy Hannaka to my brothers Josh and James, and my little sister Jamie. My tour ends in Febuary, I'll be home then. Love you!"
"This is Kyle Christand wishing a happy holidays to my parents , Kim and Jeremy. Love you both!"
"Hi,"
I knew that voice anywhere. It was barely audible through the static of the radio, but it was there. My brother.
"Darry!" I yelped. "Darry, turn of the T.V. Quick!" He turned it off quickly, and we crowded around the radio, my heart thumping loudly."
"...this is Sodapop Curtis. Merry Christmas to Darry and Ponyboy, Steve and Two-Bit. I'll be home in January. Love you!"
I can't even describe how I felt at that point. Joy, excitement, and the mostt enormous amount of relief. I havent jeard from Soda in nearly a month, mails slow, especialy around the holidays. My heart was lighter than it had been in months. The weight that had hung over me in a dark cloud was clearing up. He was coming home. He was coming home!
"Darry!" I rrepeated, not even able to control the grin spreading across my face. "Darry, he's coming home!"
"I know kiddo, I know. He's actually coming home!" Darry was laughing, his always- anxious face melting away. He looked lighter, more free than I had ever seen him. He suddenly grabbed me and swung me around. "He's coming home!"
The only word for it was a Christmas miracle. It had gone from being one of the worst days of my life to one of the best nights. It felt like Christmas.
I lay in bed that night, feeling safe. Soda's side of the bed felt less empty. As I drifted off, I saw the wet sleet that had been falling steadily throughout the day turn into heavy, fresh snow.
Money had been tight that year, so we didn't get many presents. It didn't matter. I had gotten everything I wanted.
A/N: Well, what'd ya think? Was it too cliche? Corny? Please review and let me know what you think. I'll be updating At the End of the Road ASAP. Happy Thanksgiving! Stay Gold! -Emily :)