I own no characters from The Outsiders. S.E. Hinton owns them all.
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"But how can they hide? They're so big!"
I still remember Sally Anderson, in fifth grade, asking the question. We were talking about whales, the biggest damned living thing on Earth, and how people go out on boats, looking for them, hoping to see them, but sometimes they just don't- they just can't find any.
I understood her confusion- her lack of understanding of how something as big as a house, bigger than anything most kids in Tulsa could imagine (there certainly weren't any whales to be found in Oklahoma) could be so difficult to find. But I had been down to Texas- I'd seen the ocean. I'd been out on a boat past the point where no land was visible in any direction. I could appreciate the vastness, the mysteriousness of what it could conceal, of what might lay hidden below. What might choose to stay below, in the depths, just not wanting to be seen.
It can be like that with people, too, I learned later. I never really realized how much could hide- what big things could lurk underneath the relatively calm surface of a human being. But, just like those whales, as much as you can try to hide them, these things eventually have to come up to the surface for air, or I reckon they'll die, killing you in the process.
I'm the kind of person that thinks about people- I study them, without them really knowing, most of the time. My friends and family know that I like to draw them- what they don't know is that those drawings would never be possible without hours of watching, listening, and understanding- without taking the time to figure out who they really are, and working to incorporate that character into my art. I always kind of prided myself on the fact that I'm the kind of person that really tries to look past just the name and the face- I really try to know a person, but I swear, I never had an inkling of the beast living in the soul of Steve Randle.
Granted, we had never gotten along so hot to begin with, and most of my observations of his character generally ended with me concluding that the guy just plain didn't like me. He wanted Soda to himself most of the time- it pissed him off that I was around. I don't know what he really expected of me; I mean, Soda is my brother, for God's sake, and by sole virtue of that, we end up in the same place at the same time an awful lot. And hell, Soda doesn't mind me being around- can I help it if he invites me along sometimes? I always kinda felt like I was defending my right to be in my own brother's life around the guy.
That tension between us had always been there, but, for a few months, it had been getting progressively worse. Steve used to save his obvious distaste for me for the times when Soda was out of earshot, but all of a sudden he was shooting off his mouth at me as if the whole Soda-filter had disappeared. A few times, he pissed off Soda good enough that the two of them almost came to blows. It wasn't even so much like he was upset with me, as that he was just plain upset, in general, and I was a convenient target for whatever was ticking him off.
The drugs didn't help, either. He had started messing around with more serious stuff than just the weed that most all greasers smoked from time to time. I had only seen him once, really messed up, but the fight that Darry and Soda'd had afterward told me that it wasn't the first time he'd done it. Darry warned Steve that if he ever showed up like that again, in front of "the kid," as I was generally referred to in such arguments, he'd kick his ass six ways to Sunday. And he didn't. Show up like that again, I mean.
Soda and I had talked about him, a few times, lying in bed at night. He always said the same thing; that Steve's dad was an ass, that he beat him up and it pissed him off, that he just didn't have any outlet for blowing off steam unless there was some sort of organized rumble or something. So, whenever I was around, I was an easy target. The drugs were an escape for him, he said, to get his mind off all the shit that happened at home. Soda'd stick up for him, but always manage to apologize for him, a little, too, feeling bad that his best friend and his brother were, seemingly, fighting for his allegiance.
I always ended up reassuring him.
"It's no big deal, Soda." I'd say, and really, it wasn't. Steve and Soda were friends, but Soda was my brother, and that was a bond that lasts forever, come hell or high water. Our folks' dying had only served to solidify that bond. I always felt that, at the core, that was the main issue with Steve. My bond with Soda would always be that little bit stronger- we'd always share just that much more, even aside from genetics, and he was jealous.
Regardless, I don't think either of us- neither Soda nor me- had any idea of the secret he was hiding, the one that he had been living with for years, and that finally was, little by little, destroying him, eating away at him from the inside out.
Until that night.
It was a typical weeknight- Darry was on my case about homework, so I was at the kitchen table working out algebra problems, and Soda and Darry were in the living room watching the news. Dumb-ass Vietnam. We all lived in fear, all the gang that was left, that our numbers would come up. I could only hope it ended before my time came.
I'd just about had it with the homework, and I needed a break, especially after peeking my head around the corner to the footage of the goddamn bodybags arriving stateside, so I stepped outside for a smoke. It was a nice night- late May- warm, but only inching toward the oppressive heat of summer, nowhere near there yet.
I lit up and leaned back against the porch pillar, looking up at the hazy stars, thinking about school, algebra, how once I was done with high school, I'd never give a goddamned variable the time of day again, if I could help it.
I don't know what prompted me to turn around, but, for some reason, I did. That's when I saw him, though I didn't know, yet, who he was.
I looked more closely at the form, lying still just barely in the far reach of the streetlight, half on the sidewalk, half in the road. I knew, the second that I saw it, that it was a body- I just didn't want to believe it. But there was no mistaking it.
"Darry!" As close as I was to Soda, it was Darry I called for first when I was afraid. "Soda!"
They read the panic in my voice and were there immediately. They came out and I just pointed, to the person- the body- in the street.
Soda knew before he left the porch.
"Shit, Darry, it's Steve!" I threw my cigarette into the lawn and the three of us ran to him.
Soda was there first, shaking him.
"Steve? Steve!" Soda looked scared, really scared. As much as we didn't get along, I found myself praying that Steve would be okay. Soda has lost enough, I knew, he didn't need to lose anyone else.
Steve didn't respond, really. He made some noises and thrashed around a bit, but nobody was home.
"Shit, Darry, he's dying," Soda said. Darry immediately got up and ran for the house and I knew he was calling an ambulance.
Soda held onto him, talking to him, and I held on to Soda.
"It's okay," he told Steve, and I told him. I knew he was okay- as for Steve, it was anyone's guess. I was noticing, now: bruises, cuts on his face, and he seemed doubled over, like he couldn't straighten out his legs.
"Who did this?" Soda asked him.
"Bastard," Steve managed, then shrank back into himself, writhing in pain. He was bleeding from his mouth.
Darry skidded back over to us, leaning up against Soda, supporting him, but caring for Steve, as well. Darry could always manage to look out for everyone, all at the same time. He even shot a glance my way.
"Your fucking father do this to you?" Soda asked, and Steve managed the slightest of nods. His Dad could mess him up pretty good – I had only seen the guy once, and he was built like a lineman- but we had never seen anything this bad before. I actually thought Soda might be right, that he might be dying. He had that same look on his face that Dallas had after he got shot.
The ambulance arrived quickly and we all piled into the truck to follow it. By the time we parked and got inside, Steve had already been whisked away down the corridor to an exam room somewhere. Finally, a doctor emerged, reading his chart. Darry went immediately over to him.
"Can you tell us his condition?"
"Are you family?"
"Close enough," Darry said.
"I'm sorry, but we can only speak about patients' conditions with immediate family."
"Look, we're the closest thing to family this kid's got. All he has is a father, and he's the one who put him in here to begin with."
The doctor's expression changed.
"You said it's the father who did this to him?"
"That's what I said." You could tell by his tone that Darry was getting impatient with the guy.
The doctor took a deep breath, folding his hands around Steve's chart.
"Can I speak to you alone, Mr…"
"Curtis. Darrel Curtis."
"I'm Dr. Brenner. Can you come with me, please?"
The doctor led Darry into a room and shut the door. I could see them talking through the window. From Darry's expression, I was pretty sure they were telling him that Steve was going to die. Soda must have thought the same thing, as I heard him stifling a sob next to me. I reached over and pulled him toward me, gathering him in a hug. I was surprised to feel tears running down my own face. It didn't matter that Steve and I didn't get along great; he was one of the gang and we had already lost too many of us.
Darry came out of the room looking like a ghost.
"Is he gonna die, Darry?" I asked, crying. Soda hugged me tighter.
"No," he answered. "He's in bad shape, but he'll be all right." I didn't understand, then- why the pained look on his face? He pulled us over to a corner of the waiting room, though nobody else was there anyway. Quiet night in the city, I guessed.
"Social services is getting involved," he said, finally. That was a surprise. I thought they existed solely to make our lives hell, not to bother with kids who actually needed them. God knows, when our folks were still alive, they'd tried to involve them in what went on over at Johnny's house quite a few times, and they didn't seem to give a damn about that.
"Oh, so now all of a sudden they give a shit about parents that beat on their kids? After he almost kills him? Nice fucking timing!" Soda practically yelled.
"It's worse than that, Soda," Darry said, quietly.
"What?" Soda calmed down quick.
"The doctor said that… there is evidence that…"
"What, Darry?" Soda looked worried.
"He's been molesting him, Soda. His fucking bastard father's been raping him."
I was so sickened that I thought I might actually throw up, and I felt my hand go up to cover my mouth.
Soda looked equally disgusted. "Are you fucking kidding me, Darry? Jesus."
It was obvious from Darry's expression that he was dead serious.
"He never said a fucking word," Soda said, stonefaced. "I just thought he hit him… I didn't know…"
"He didn't want us to know, Soda. The doctor said that's usually how it works. It's not like it's something you talk about."
"That explains… the drugs, the anger…God. I never... Jesus Christ. For how long?"
"I don't know, Soda. A long time, it sounded like. Maybe since he was a kid. Looks like he just decided to start fighting back, and that's why it's been so much worse."
I wanted to be sick. His own father. I felt sick with myself at the annoyance I had always felt when he'd spend the night on our couch, now that I knew what he had been trying to avoid. I thought back to my Dad- how great he had been, how much he cared about us, and suddenly I couldn't find it in myself to hate Steve Randle anymore.
All I could hope was that he'd eventually be all right, now that his whale of a secret had finally come up for air.
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A/N: OK, So this is sort of a sidefic to my story, Complexity, in which Steve is a total ass, and does some really bad things, seemingly out of the blue. This is the reason. Poor Steve.