Chapter 4

I woke up on the sofa in our house. Darry was sitting across from me in Dad's old armchair. The shades were all closed. I could see little motes of dust dancing in the thin shafts of light that the drapes couldn't completely block out.

Darry must have pulled off my shoes and tossed a blanket over me. I couldn't remember. When he saw that I was awake he set down the newspaper he was reading and folded it with careful, deliberate movements.

"What time is it?" I asked. My voice was rough.

Darry looked at his watch. "About ten or so. You want something to drink?" he asked. It sounded like he was forcing himself to go easy on me.

"Coffee, if you've got it," I croaked, knowing damn well I wasn't going to get it.

Darry stood and went into the kitchen. Sure enough, he came back with a bottle of orange juice and a glass.

I sat up slowly. My hand shook so bad when I took the glass that I almost dropped it.

Darry just looked at me and kept quiet. We'd barely spoken to each other in the last five years. Sure, he called on Christmas and I would send him letters every few months, but we hadn't been close in a long time.

When I'd finished that first glass of juice Darry poured me a second one. I used that time to have a look around the room. There was a shelf over the fireplace. It was lined with pictures, some of which I'd never seen before or hadn't seen since high school. Some were of people I didn't recognize. They must have been friends of Darry's. A few of the pictures stood out from the rest:

There was a black-and-white photo of the whole family, taken the summer before Mom and Dad died. Darry looked so much like Dad that it could have been him standing next to Mom. Soda was sitting in the front, mouth open in a happy yell with one arm thrown around me. I remember that he'd done that at the last second. The photographer had been pretty mad, but Mom and Dad didn't seem to mind. Dad said it was the best picture we'd ever taken.

Next there was a picture of the old gang: Me, Soda, Steve, Two-Bit, Dally and Johnny. Darry wasn't in the picture. That was because he'd taken it. I had my arms crossed in front of me, scowling. Soda had a cigarette behind his ear and his sleeves were rolled up to show off his biceps. Two-Bit and Steve were wearing cocky half-smiles, the kind that say, 'Go on, try to mess with us.' Two-bit was cleaning his nails with his switch. We were all trying to look tough. Now, I thought, we just looked young and sort of naïve, especially Johnny, who almost faded into the background he was so unassuming. The exception to the rule was Dally. He always scared me when I was a kid. Even now his icy stare gave me the chills.

I tried to imagine Dally alive now and I just couldn't. I think that he would have found a way to die no matter what. If it hadn't been the cops that night, then it would have been some drunk at a bar with a knife in his boot, or a shopkeeper with a gun. It would have been something. Some people burn bright for a short time and then fade out. Dally was never meant to grow old.

My eyes were drawn to one picture in particular. It was a color photo and the wooden frame it was in looked new. In it there was a young woman with long dark hair and dark eyes. She was wearing a soft pink sweater and a softer smile and holding a girl in her arms. The girl was about six years old or so. She looked just like the woman in miniature, with the same hair and big doe eyes.

"Is that Cynthia?" I asked Darry, nodding at the picture.

It was worth it to see the look of surprise on Darry's face. He doesn't surprise easy. "Did Keith tell you about her?"

"Yeah. And the little girl. What's her name?"

"Rachel."

"She's real pretty. Cynthia, I mean. Well, they're both pretty. Rachel looks just like her momma."

Darry looked kind of proud and embarrassed at the same time. He smiled and looked down at his hands.

"When did you start calling Two-Bit by his real name?" I asked.

"A long time ago. You gonna finish that juice or do you just like holdin' it?"

I scowled at him but took a drink. Darry had my prescriptions out on the coffee table. One I was supposed to take on an empty stomach, the other one with food. The first pill was so big it almost stuck in my throat.

I saw another photograph. This one wasn't on the shelf with the others, but off to the side, hung on the wall in a silver frame. It was a picture of our brother Sodapop in his army uniform. He was nineteen years old in the photo. His hair was cut short in a military buzz and his army cap sat slightly off-center on his head. He looked very handsome, almost heroic. He didn't look anything like me.

"Darry?" I heard myself ask.

"Yeah, Pony, what is it?"

The words stuck in my throat and my courage dried up. I shook my head. "Nothing."

Darry was frowning. "What's going on with you, Ponyboy?"

Boy, was that a loaded question.

"How much did Tw- Keith tell you?" Two-Bit's real name felt funny to say.

"He said you got hurt, that you were in the hospital. Told me you got on the wrong end of a knife. You want to tell me about it?"

Darry was wearing an expression that was part-worried, part-angry. It seemed like Darry was almost always part-angry. Out of all the people I'd ever known, he scared me the worst. I think he scared me because out of all the people I knew, he knew me the best, and what he thought about me mattered. I'd tried hard to pretend that it didn't, but it did.

I was having trouble talking. The truth is: I was still so shook up that I felt like I wouldn't be able to finish a sentence without my voice breaking.

"Are you in some kind of trouble, Pony?"

I had to look away while I lied: "No, I ain't in any trouble."

An awkward silence stretched between us. Darry's no dummy. I knew he didn't believe me. The next words out of Darry's mouth must have been some of the hardest words he'd ever had to say.

"We haven't talked in a while, Ponyboy," he said slowly. "That ain't all your fault. It's my fault too, but I'd like it if we could talk."

My eyes were stinging. I still couldn't look at him. "Sure, Darry. But could we maybe eat something first? I'm about starved."

Darry looked kind of ashamed right then. I guess I did look pretty bad. Darry sent me into the bathroom to take a shower while he fried up some bacon and eggs and made toast. The doctor had said I could take a shower, but to be careful around the stitches. I only bled a little bit, and I was able to change the bandages without help.

I hadn't seen a mirror in a while and I was surprised to find that I had about a quarter-inch growth of beard on my jaw. I hadn't packed a razor, so I borrowed Darry's. A lot of guys these days were wearing mustaches, like Two-Bit's, or beards. I still kept my face clean-shaven when I could. I'd tried to grow a beard once, but it came in redder than my hair. I didn't like it, so I'd been clean-shaven ever since.

Once I was showered and the beard was gone I didn't look quite so scraggly, just pale and skinny. I'd lost a notch on my belt and I could see my ribs, even the ones right below my collar bones. I felt weak as a kitten.

I dressed in the bathroom, choosing a long-sleeved button-up shirt and a pair of corduroy pants. The shirt was pretty wrinkled but I was too cold to care. I put a couple of t-shirts on underneath it.

Darry was just about done making breakfast when I came into the kitchen. I got out two plates and a couple for forks and knives and set the table. Darry had already poured himself a cup of coffee and I brought my glass in from the living room. Coffee wasn't sounding so good anymore, and if you want to know the truth, I was feeling pretty light-headed from my shower.

I slumped down at the small kitchen table, resting my head on my fist. I was feeling more together now, and I was noticing things more, like the house. The furniture had been moved around, and although the armchair was the same one that Dad had bought when he was still alive, the couch I'd been sleeping on was new. So was the tile in the kitchen.

Darry had always been kind of a neat freak, at least compared to me and Soda, so when I saw stacks of books and papers in the hallway I was kind of surprised. I'd poked my head into the spare room, the one that Soda and I used to share, and found out it was empty. There was a bucket and roller in one corner and plastic on the floor. The room smelled like fresh paint. When I saw that empty room I felt a stab of something in my gut. I felt sort of hurt and angry. My first thought was that Darry should have asked me first. Then I realized how childish that was. This house wasn't mine. It was Darry's home, and it wasn't like he was tearing the place down. He was trying to get on with his own life, just like Two-Bit had.

"Darry?" I asked as he dished up the eggs. "Tell me about Cynthia. What's she like?"

Darry's ears got red and he looked uncomfortable. "Pony- I, uh…Well, she's…" he made some motions with his hands, like he couldn't quite get the words out. At first I didn't understand why he was having such a hard time talking, and then I realized what he thought I was asking.

"Oh. Glory, not that! That's not what I meant! I mean, what does she do for a living? Is she from around here?" My ears got red too. I buried my face in my hands. "God Almighty, Darry! I wouldn't ask you that!"

"Oh," was all he said.

We were quiet more a minute, then we both burst out laughing. I realize I'm not as crude as most guys. That's all some guys care about when it comes to women. I've always been sort of naïve about girls that way. I mean, sure I think about that kind of stuff. What guy doesn't? But I wouldn't ask about it, especially not Darry.

Finally we both recovered enough breath to talk. Darry took a sip of his coffee and choked on it a little. He started telling me about Cynthia.

Cynthia was a schoolteacher, like Two-Bit had said. She taught second grade at Lindbergh Elementary. She was from Michigan originally, but had moved to Tulsa with her folks when she was seventeen. Darry liked her accent, which didn't have a bit of the south in it. She liked bowling and playing softball and drive-in movies.

Last summer Cynthia's parents had been clients of Darry's. That was how they'd met. They became friends first. It turned out that she and Darry knew some of the same people even though she'd gone to a different high school. She'd even been married to one of Darry's skiing buddies, Vince Carter. Vince had died in the war. Afterward she'd moved back in with her folks so that they could help her take care of her little girl, who had been just a baby at the time.

Darry wasn't sure when he and Cynthia had become more than friends, but he thought that her parents had encouraged it. They liked him. I could see why. Darry was solid, responsible, a hard-worker. He wouldn't ever disrespect Cynthia or Rachel, or leave if things got too rough. He knew what tough times were. They probably wanted Rachel to have a father figure in her life, somebody like Darry.

I thought about that. Darry'd already had the experience of raising me and Soda by himself after Mom and Dad died. One little girl had to be a lot less trouble. Sure, Darry and I didn't get each other, but he'd done the best he could. Now that I was older I could appreciate that. Darry had been twenty years old when he took custody of me and Soda, four years younger than I was now, and I still didn't feel like I could take care of a house plant, let alone a kid.

I picked at my breakfast while Darry and I talked. I'd taken the painkiller and it seemed like the only thing it had killed was my appetite. I knew better than to waste food, so I tried just eating slowly. Darry was on his third cup of coffee before I finally pushed my plate back and gave up.

"You doin' okay, Pony?" Darry asked. "You look kind of pale."

I managed a weak nod. "Just wiped out. I hate these drugs."

The word "drugs" hung awkwardly between us for a second. Darry opened his mouth and then shut it quickly. He looked down into his cup of coffee like all the answers were in there somewhere. We hadn't talked about the drugs, not ever...

Continued in Chapter 5...