The characters in this story are not owned by me. They are S.E.'s exclusively. This is a oneshot and I will not be continuing this particular story, though it ties in with one that I'm currently working on. Thanks as always to my wonderful beta, Hahukum Konn.
I don't own the song used in the epitaph. It is written by Nick Drake and belongs solely to his estate.
Critique is lovely! Onward!
The city clown
Will soon fall down
Without a face to hide in.
And he will lose
If he won't choose
The one he may confide in.
- Nick Drake; At the Chime of a City Clock
See the third house to the left, painted a gray blue. It's the very picture of hospitality. The word for it is quaint, laying off the beaten path on a city street. It is small and clumsily built, but it still looks well-kept, like they take pride in where they live. It's the type of house where large trees throw long shadows in the evening while you sit on the porch and drink, sipping tea and saying, "aaah," throwing your head back to see the sky at dusk.
Now see the girl exit the cab which has brought her thus far. Her skin is tanned and freckled, her hair bleached light by a distant sun. She gathers her luggage, which is surprisingly heavy, then walks to the door. Raises her fist, ready to knock. Hesitates. Withdraws, opens the door without prior warning. She is all at once all too familiar and very lost, greeted by the bark of a dog ready to find the person who dares intrude.
It is this that tells her she is in a new place, a place which has changed without her. The house is still very much the same, unchanged in the two years that she has been away. The walls are still a pale blue. The wood floor creaks in all the right places, the lights flicker like they used to. The crooked window by the stairs has been fixed and a new telephone hangs on the wall, a light pink color with a rotary that actually works.
Taking it all in, she thinks she might cry. No time, though as the dog runs up to her, tail straight back, ears up, followed by a very tall man with red hair and freckles. Lines on his face tell you he's worked long and hard for years and years and years. Smile lines tell you he's laughed long and hard for years and years and years, but not in a long while. It was a long time ago that he last threw his head back from laughing, laughing until he hurt and couldn't laugh no more.
He doesn't laugh right now and the lines on his face scrunch together, an expression of mild curiosity while he looks her up and down. After a long time, too long, the man says, "Sandra."
Sandra nods, gives a tiny smile, one that just touches her eyes. Something in them remains distracted, set on another place entirely.
There's momentary hesitation until the man with red hair steps forward and draws her into a hug, the type of embrace that long forgotten acquaintances make. He says again through watery eyes, "Sandra. Sandra, Sandra, Sandra." His mantra.
Sandra steps back and you can see she's started to cry, though she hasn't lost her smile, and she tells the man yes, it's really her. She lies when she says it's really her. Lies, lies, lies. They know it, too, though it's a conversation for another day.
And the two make small talk, avoiding the gravity of their discussion until it gets to supper time and she says to the man, "Could I borrow the car?"
The man looks surprised, but he hands her the keys. "I'll take your things to your new room. Come home soon?"
"Thanks, Daddy." Somehow what she says holds more weight than a simple thank you. It might even mean more than that.
Inside the car, which is sticky from sitting unused in the summer sun all day long, Sandy comes to a realization. This car is not the same one she drove two years ago. This is a new car, unfamiliar. This, she realizes, is just the beginning of all the unfamiliarities.
Her mind is on a destination that seems so very far away. It's only very far away if you count in minutes and it's only been a long time since she visited if you count in years.
Set toward the house, Sandra has a lot to think about. She has to think about the baby, the boy, the friends who no longer talk to her.
Yes, there's the boy who still writes letters, all full of his life. Yes ... there are the letters, which with time became more and more distant. Her head is filled with them, starting with the very first one.
Hello Sandy,
Sorry I've taken so long to write. If you want to know the truth, it's taken a while to really want to write, but I hope you get this okay and I hope you're not really mad at me for waiting so long. Is Florida is nice? Is it a good place to raise a baby? I hear it's hot there, even hotter than it gets here.
I want to ask you something about the baby. Will you keep it? Sandy, if you keep it, let me know. I want to know it, even though it's not mine. Also, if you ever need anything, write me. If you ever come home, let me know.
I hope you're in a good place that you like okay.
Sodapop Curtis
She's kept that letter and all the rest. She can tell you what they say; she remembers almost all of them. She just wants to know if they're still there, make sure, so she sets off for a destination that seems so very far away, so very unfamiliar.
Sets off in search of certainty.
She's almost there, passing by familiar neighborhoods, the homes of old friends and her old church. Is it a good idea to go back and visit? Is she even welcome there? She knows, though, that there's no need to think on it. She knows what the answer will be. There will be stares and mild whispers and people shaking their heads. She knows.
It's not their business. What should it matter to anyone around town? It doesn't matter, she knows it doesn't. That is no comfort, though, so she bites her lip and holds back a dry sob just thinking on it.
Passing the school, the gas station, the train tracks, she is there. Two cars in the driveway, one she knows, the other she can't recall. A red pickup truck, a blue Oldsmobile. The house is still the same, still white with the same two dirty lawn chairs in the front lawn.
She stops the car, parks it on the side of the road and gets out, slow steps, one after another. Slowly, as if it might not be there, Sandy reaches into her purse and feels around until she touches it. Yes, there it is, just where she left it. She pulls out the letter.
The front porch seems distant, more so than she ever remembered, but finally she reaches it. When she does, her stomach drops.
The door opens. Out comes the kid, but he's not a kid anymore. He must be about 16, she thinks. He's as handsome as his brothers and when he sees her he opens his mouth to say something, but words escape him, so she says, "Hey."
It's not the right phrase for this situation, she knows that, but still it's something.
Finally, the kid says "hey" back.
The conversation, having stopped at "hey," goes nowhere. It's a wonder that it even went that far. Reaching for words she doesn't have, Sandy hands him the letter and says, "This is supposed to go to your brother. I don't reckon he's home, is he?"
Ponyboy is giving her a weird look, scanning her up and down and it makes Sandy want to shrink back a little bit. After ages of scanning, analyzing, searching, he says, "No … he's at a friend's place. I'll give it to him, though." Scanning her for some sign of deceit, trying to find if it's really the same girl.
She nods, not finding words to articulate what she wants to say. "Thank you," though it doesn't suffice, is all that comes out in a hasty, high voice that sounds like it's on the brink of tears.
Then she backs away. Watch her look at him, scan him right back, trying to figure out what to tell him.
When she's on the steps, back turned, ready to make a run for it, he sputters out something incoherent.
"Excuse me?" Turns around to see what the problem is.
"I said, 'he liked you.' Sodapop, I mean. Sodapop really liked you. He wanted to marry you and all. But I don't think …." His voice trails off in search for the right words. Stops. Starts to go back inside the house.
"Don't think what?"
From inside, talking through the safety of a screen door, he finishes. "I don't think you should visit him." And just like that, like he never said anything, the kid turns around and leaves her out there to think on that.
After all that scanning he realized that she was the same girl. Mostly the same.
When Sandy gets in the car, she cries and cries, cries and cries like open floodgates. It rushes out and ruins her makeup, makes her eyes go red, until snot comes out her nose and she can't breathe from crying so hard. For all she knows, she could have sat there for hours just crying.
More or less gathered, though still sniffling, she begins to pull out and as she does, a car comes past and pulls into the driveway. She passes by in time to see him step out of the car with a short, dark haired girl who she recognizes very vaguely.
That is all she needs to know.
She's caged it up too long and now it's out like a monster roaring to life.
Speeds off, raises her fist, doesn't hesitate once. She punches the horn and lets it scream away. At the same time Sandy lets out a long word. So loud her voice goes hoarse. "Fffffffuuuuuuuck!"
When it's been exorcised out, she makes her way home.
Sandy never did answer Sodapop's question. No, Florida was not a nice place to raise a baby. No, she did not keep the baby. No, she would not let him be part of its life.
Sandy knows the onslaught of questions that will come her way, but she can't answer them. Certainly not now, at least.
Driving back home, she rolls down the windows and listens to the city noise. There is no certainty about what's to come. The only thing she knows for sure is that it would have been better to have never given him that letter in the first place. It's too late to take it back, though.
And like opening floodgates, it begins to rain. First light pitter patters, then heavy, heavy, heavy. Rain throws itself onto the roof of the car, onto the road and through the open windows. Sandy keeps them open as she takes her time driving in slow circles, making her way home. A story in her swells, untold for too long. Sandy has to speak somehow.