Just because everything's changing
doesn't mean it's never been this way before.
"So what're we gonna do?"
"What're 'we' gonna do? You ain't doing shit, Curl."
Curly had been sent home from the hospital five days after Angela visited him and been subjected to bedrest until his ribs didn't feel so sore if he walked or sat up. Mostly he'd stayed downstairs on the couch in front of the television, where there was easy access to beer and cigarettes. He was lighting one up when Tim came into the house, bringing in the cold wind and the sunlight from outside that did nothing to warm the blood in Curly's veins.
Tim had given Curly as many details as he could about what had happened when he was in the hospital, brushing the fight with Wade off when Curly had asked about it. Tim was sick of lying, but war was on the horizon, and he needed to think through his plan before saying it out loud, putting it into definite action. He was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, tossing the box of matches from one hand to the other. Curly passed the cigarette to him wordlessly and he took a grateful drag, handing it back. A gray cloud rose to the ceiling as he exhaled and stared directly at his brother for the first time since he'd returned from McAlester.
Curly was the one to break eye-contact first. He'd never liked looking into Tim's eyes because it was like looking into a black hole - once you got sucked in, you never got out - and fidgeted with the loose threads of the blanket draped over the back of the couch.
"Why the hell not?" he asked, not liking the way his voice sounded to his ears, childish and whiny and nothing like the voice he'd mastered over the time that Tim was gone.
"'Cause I said so," Tim answered. "'Sides, you got school anyway."
"So what?"
"I can't have you skipping no more or the state's gonna find out and hound my ass for letting you. Shit, they could take you away or something, and then what would I do?" Tim mocked. He was trying to make the conversation lighthearted and Curly wasn't buying any of it. Knowing he'd have to face Tim eventually, he'd drank three beers that morning with his breakfast, and now, slightly buzzed, he could feel the tension in the air, a thickness that made it hard for him to breathe. It'd been there since they'd fought, and all he wanted was to clean the slate, to have the old Tim back, the one who he could stand being around most of the time, the one who wasn't such an asshole.
There was an old saying about how blood was thicker than water, and Curly couldn't help wondering if he'd made the right decision, staying by his brother's side instead of pulling away, letting him fight this war all on his own. Tim was the kind of person destined to be lonely, and as much as he told this to himself, Curly couldn't leave, no matter how much it hurt to stay. It was true that their separate injuries were healing, which was a good thing, but this was also bad because it meant that time was passing, and with each day over, it meant one less moment with the person he'd have done anything to save.
"Trust me," Tim said, "I'm not dead yet, am I?"
"Fuck you," Curly said, and Tim, surprised, raised his eyebrows. He grabbed an unopened beer bottle that lay on the ground and twisted the cap off. He took a long pull, glaring at the side of Curly's face, and for a moment, all they could hear was their breathing.
"You don't know how much I've had to put up with for you. You think this is fucking easy? I could drop you in a second and you wouldn't be able to do a goddamn thing about it. And since you're so fucking smart all of the sudden, Curly, why don't you tell me what I should do?" Tim's voice rose and he laughed bitterly, "Go on, tell me."
It was a rhetorical question, and Curly bit down on his tongue. His fingers were shaking, and he tugged at the hem of his shirt, wanting to make Tim hurt the way he did.
"That's what I thought," Tim said. "You wouldn't know fucking shit if it hit you in the face."
There it was again, that palpable uneasiness in Curly's throat, how it felt to fall down a flight of stairs: spiraling out of control with the acute knowledge of sensing that he'd hit the ground, when it came, and hit it hard.
xxx
"So, how's Curly doing?"
"He's fine. Why're you asking?"
"I'm just curious is all, 'cause it seems like you aren't."
"The fuck does that have to do with anything?"
There was a pause, and then, "Shit, Tim, you ever get tired of this?"
"Get tired of what?"
"Living this kind of life. You ever think about the future, what might happen to him if something happens to you?"
"It doesn't matter. Nothing's gonna fuckin' happen to me, Curtis."
"Just think about it. Might do you some good…"
xxx
Tim snapped his eyes open and sat up in bed, pulse racing and skin covered in a sheen layer of sweat. The conversation he'd had with Curly had triggered a memory, and after he finished his beer, he'd gone upstairs to try and sleep it off. Clearly it hadn't worked, because he could still remember the exact moment everything had changed.
It'd been right after Curly broke into the liquor store. Of all people, Darry Curtis had called him in the morning and asked if he wanted to repair some house's shingles on the west side of town. Tim had obliged, needing the small amount of cash so he could pay the bills he'd fallen behind on and just to get around.
He'd shown up at nine sharp, and by the time it was one o'clock, he was covered in sweat and his bones ached. Darry had offered him a ride and he'd accepted; it was a fifteen minute drive home, and he knew that, at some point, Darry would preach about leaving the gang life behind for the importance of family, and wanted to gag at the thought.
And that was it. Darry listed his various pros and cons, Tim was dropped off at his house, and as he'd walked up the front steps he'd played the conversation over and over in his head, trying to understand what Darry had been talking about, and why it was so important.
As he sat in the dark, wiping off the beads of perspiration that slid down his forehead, his tired mind came to a conclusion. As long as there were gangs, there would always be wars - one couldn't exist without the other. Wars were like a forest fire: there were only so many ways it could be snuffed out before the flames became uncontrollable and destroyed everything in its path. If Tim didn't do anything about the fights, just let them run their course, his territory would be overruled and he'd be taken down; but if he did something about it, fought back, fire against fire, Wade would be driven into the ground.
This is where the memory reared its ugly head into the back of his mind. The last time he'd had a conversation with Darry Curtis that lasted more than fifteen seconds had been during the hot, normal summer of 1966, before the world had gone to shit with that murdered Soc and the rumble and Dallas Winston killing himself with Tim's unloaded point-forty-five pistol.
If Tim was able to get the Curtis gang - or at least what was left of it - on his side, plus a few stragglers from the lower rankings of Brumley and Tiber Street that Curly had befriended, he'd have some sort of a decent chance to win the war. Add in a few weapons and Two-Bit Mathews to lighten the mood with his alcoholism and shitty jokes, and Tim would be set to bring Wade down. He could play dirty with the best of them, and knew that when the going got tough, it was best to keep pushing on.
But he'd wait until the morning to spring this plan on Darry. It would be Sunday, the one day that Darry didn't work, and Tim couldn't risk the possibility of Curly waking up if he snuck out of the house in the middle of the night. Curly had barely gone upstairs since he'd returned home from the hospital, and if he did the two brothers didn't say a word to one another unless it was necessary. Most of the time Curly couldn't hold his eyes to Tim's, and when he did there was a look in them Tim didn't like, a painful twinge that he felt in the bottom of his stomach.
And maybe he'd have brought it up, too, if Curly hadn't flipped out, but they both knew that nothing would've really changed. The space beside him was still empty, the coldness of the bedroom wall seeping through his shirt, an apology he would never say jammed in the back of his throat.
xxx
"Where're you going?"
Curly spoke from the couch, his head facing the black screen of the television. There would be nothing good on besides kid cartoons for another two hours, so he yet had any reason to turn it on. Tim was going out, nonetheless at nine in the morning on a Sunday, and his destination most definitely wasn't the church at the end of the street.
Tim put one hand on the front doorknob, twisting it open while the other dug around his jacket pocket for his keys. He'd been surprised how Curly asked him this, blasé, like it didn't matter if he could or couldn't tag along.
"The Curtis'," Tim admitted. "I gotta talk to Darry about something." He waited for Curly to react, to stop acting so careless all of the sudden, and then, when he didn't move a muscle, said, "You wanna go with me?"
"Okay." Curly got up from the couch and smoothed his wrinkled shirt down, touching the bruised flesh around his ribs to see if there was any more pain, if it would ever go away. Tim didn't wait for him to put his shoes and jacket on; he'd opened the door and disappeared outside to start the car.
Despite the warmth of the car's heater and the cigarette Tim handed him, it was early November, meaning that by the first snowfall, there would be blood on the ground, and Curly shivered. He kept his hands in his lap, fingers laced together despite wanting to tap them on the window, eyes on the road ahead.
They rolled up to a red light and Tim coughed, brushing loose curls out of his eyes. He hadn't greased it down, so he looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. His hair was unruly and tangled, nothing like the way he usually wore it, and damp in places where he'd ran a wet comb through it.
"Don't you wanna know why we're going there?" he asked, his blue eyes somehow dark and bright at the same time.
"Sure." Curly was slightly annoyed at how his curiosity slipped through the neutral façade he'd hidden behind for the past week.
"There's gonna be a war -"
"But you said this was over, you said you took care of it, Tim," Curly interjected, and the veins in his forehead snapped.
"I fucking tried."
The light changed to green, and they crossed the intersection, Tulsa flying past them in a blur. Tim changed lanes and pressed his foot down on the accelerator harder, scanning the street names for Saint Louis. It was a far ways down, farther from the empty lot and a dilapidated park than Tim realized, and he turned the corner ruthlessly, tires skidding across the pavement.
They pulled up to the Curtis' and Tim stopped the car beside the curb. He popped open the lighter and lit another cigarette. The windows weren't rolled down, so the smoke he exhaled traveled into Curly's nose, burning his nostrils.
Tim got out and slammed the door, the noise bouncing off the otherwise silent street. The cigarette clutched between his teeth, he spoke around it. "You wanna wait here? It won't take long."
Curly shrugged, not caring as Tim sauntered through the dead grass and up the walkway. He reached the front door and knocked on it, the tender skin of his broken knuckles stinging, standing there for a minute before it opened.
Darry's face was pixellated by a screen of mesh, his frame filling up the doorway. He slipped outside to the porch. Taller than both the Shepard boys, he had the body of a purebred athlete, giving him a stern appearance to the contrast of Tim's slight frame.
"What're you doing here?" he asked, his eyes traveling from Tim's to the outline of his brother in the car.
"Gotta ask you a favor," Tim answered, "if you're up for it."
"Up for what?"
Tim picked at the end of his Marlboro, a dusting of ash falling through the cracks of the wooden floorboards. "My gang's going to war with the Kings," he exhaled.
"Don't know if I'd be of much help, Shepard." Darry crossed his arms over his chest and looked behind him and into the house, the line between his eyebrows deepening. Distant sounds of conversation and laughter drifted through the screen door and outside.
"You'd be enough. Curly's gonna talk to some guys and see if they're interested. It's all or nothing, man."
"That's what I'm trying to understand." For a second, Darry looked as if he was about to ask for his own cigarette, and then chose not to.
Tim pursed his lips and scratched the back of his neck, not sure how to broach the next topic, and thought, to hell with it. "I, ah, also wanted to say thanks for helping Curly when I wasn't around. It was fucking messy."
"It was," Darry echoed. "We just can't lose no one else, you know? After the last rumble…" he trailed off.
"You won't."
After Tim asked Darry to spread the word out, they shook hands and he walked back to the idling car and got in. They drifted back onto the street and drove for a minute in complete silence before Tim flicked the radio on. The static was loud, and Curly bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood to stop from thinking. Although his lungs were full of air, he felt as if he was drowning, and as they merged onto Peterson, he asked if they could stop for lunch.
They ended up at the small Dairy Dream off the highway, sitting at one of the picnic tables underneath the awning. A chill was in the air, the wind picking up, and the younger Shepard picked at his burger and fries gingerly. He was a little disappointed that Tim hadn't asked him if he'd wanted to join in on the conversation, considering his own brother was the gang's leader, but didn't bring it up. This sure as hell wasn't the time or place to discuss girly bullshit like feelings, and he was pretty certain Tim didn't have any.
Tim took a sip of his soda, thinking back to what Darry had said all those days ago - you ever think about the future, what might happen to him if something happens to you? - and set his drink down. Curly, with a fry halfway to his mouth, swallowed it dry and said, "What?"
"You mind talking to some guys, see if they're interested?" Tim suggested, leaning back, his palms flat on the wooden bench. "We don't have long, and we're gonna need all the help we can get. This ain't gonna be no fucking walk in the park, kid."
"Fine," Curly said, resisting the temptation to add that no, he wasn't a kid.
Behind Tim, cars passed on the highway, and to anyone looking out their windows right then the scene would've appeared normal: just two brothers having a simple discussion over burgers and fries, except the hard, guarded-off expression on their faces in the cold sunlight gave reason to believe their words were anything but innocent.
