I sat at the table with my head down for a while, just letting Soda rub my back.
"All this stuff making any sense to you?" he asked.
I picked up my head and looked again at the ocean of paperwork. "Not really," I admitted, only because it was Soda and not one of the other two.
"Patrick is going to help me sort through it all."
"That's good," Soda said. I could feel him wanting to say something else, but he was hesitating. Finally he said, "I wish I could help you with this stuff, but…" There was a sadness in his voice. He knew as well as I did that math was not his thing. I felt bad that he was upset about not being able to help, though.
"It's OK, Soda. I can handle this part of things. I'm gonna need you to help with Pony. He's not gonna make this easy for me."
Soda didn't answer. I'm sure he wanted to defend him but he knew I was right.
I pushed the chair back and stood up, slapping him on the shoulder as I passed by. "Thanks for the backrub," I said.
I wandered into the kitchen and looked out the window at the backyard. Scout, Pony and Ben were all sitting around, looking miserable. Scout was reading something and I was sure it would be the obituary. Of course Pony would let her read it before anyone else. Those two may not usually get along but when it came to reading and writing they were a nearly perfect match. Damn good at both. I could match up to them academically when it came to math, science, and those subjects where there was just one right answer, but when it came to writing or drawing or being creative I was a world apart. I saw Scout say something to Pony and wipe her eyes. Ben must have asked to read it because she passed it over to him. I wished the three of them could just look like kids again.
Soda was sitting on the couch and asked me from the other room, "Are you sure you want to take Pony?" I had to stop by the funeral home again with the clothes and didn't want to bring Soda anywhere near the place, after last time.
"He'll be fine, Soda," I assured him. "He's just gonna wait in the car anyway." Seeing how Pony hadn't minded going into Mom's closet to get the paperwork made me think the funeral home might not bother him as much as it had Soda anyway.
I gathered up the clothes for the funeral home and put them into a bag. I was about to go get Pony when I heard the door slam.
"Nice, Pony," I heard Soda say.
"What?" Pony answered. "Oh. Sorry." I was sure he let the door slam on someone. He was forever doing that.
"That's why you can't get a girl, Pony, you have one right beside you and you can't even remember they're there," Soda teased. I guess it was Scout who got the door in her face.
"Shut it, Soda," he said.
"Not now, you two," I said, coming around the corner. The last thing I needed was the two of them going at it, right then. I took a good look at Ponyboy.
"Pony, brush your teeth and wash up. I don't want us picking up Uncle Pat with you smelling like a chimney and looking like a hobo."
As usual, he appeared to be considering arguing, but instead just glared and headed into the bathroom.
Scout had flopped down next to Soda on the couch.
"While we're gone, I want you two to pick up around here." Our house may not have been much, but I wanted it to look decent for Patrick. I tried to remember the last time his family had come to visit us. I think he had only two kids then, so it must have been eight or nine years ago, at least. I knew our Mom would have had the place spotless for him. I didn't have much hope that these two would manage spotless, but at the very least they could neaten up.
"Scout, you did a pretty decent job with supper last night, you think you can come up with something edible for us tonight?" There was no way I was going to ask Soda to cook.
"I guess so," she said, skeptically.
"Good. Pat and I have a lot of paperwork and stuff we need to go over, so you three are gonna have to stay out of our hair after dinner, got it?"
"Got it." The two of them could not have sounded less enthusiastic.
"Also, you need to wash whatever you're gonna be wearing tomorrow. I expect us all to look decent." Scout looked surprised at the request. I was wondering if anyone in our house had ever done the laundry besides our Mom.
"Pony, let's go," I yelled, and immediately he was at the doorway.
"You got the obituary?" I asked.
"I got it."
"All right, let's go then," I said, heading out the door ahead of him.
"We'll be back by five," I called back to the two on the couch.
_____________
We pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home and I turned to Pony.
"I'll only be gone a few minutes," I said. "I need the obituary."
He sat up in the seat and pulled it out of his back pocket, handing it across at me.
I was almost afraid to ask, but I did. "Can I read it?"
He looked down at the floor of the truck and shrugged. "I guess so," he said quietly. I knew he felt that I didn't understand his love for reading and writing; the truth is, I really admired it. He had a way of expressing himself that I couldn't even begin to emulate.
I opened the paper and read.
Darrel Shaynne Curtis, Sr., and Mary Elisabeth (MacIntyre) Curtis, aged 40 and 38, respectively, died from injuries sustained in an automobile accident in Tulsa on October 3, 1967, their twentieth wedding anniversary. They are survived by three sons: Darrel, Jr., Sodapop, and Ponyboy, and a daughter, Samantha Scout. Mary also leaves a brother, Patrick MacIntyre, his wife Carrie, and their four children, of Galveston, Texas.
Darrel and Mary, or "Molly," as she was known to friends and family, were born and raised in South Tulsa. They met in high school at Tulsa South High, where Darrel was an all-state athlete in football and Molly was a captain of the cheerleading squad. After high school, Darrel went on to play for the University of Tulsa as a wide receiver. After his college graduation with a degree in engineering, they were married in October, 1947. They settled down to raise their family in the same neighborhood where they had grown up. They remained devoted football fans throughout their lives.
Darrel was employed for the past 20 years by The Southern Pacific Railroad, as a construction foreman and site manager, and most recently as a member of the engineering management division. He was a devoted family man, never missing an opportunity to support or encourage his children, be it academically, athletically, or creatively.
Molly was a devoted mother, homemaker and wife, and was admired by all she met for her warm heart and gentle nature. She was actively involved in all of her children's activities, both academic and athletic, and made sure that her home was well-known in the neighborhood as a place of safety and acceptance. She had kind words for everyone she met and truly believed that "There are no strangers, only friends who haven't yet met."
They will be greatly missed by all who had the pleasure of knowing them.
Pony was still staring down. I put my hand on his shoulder and waited until he looked up. He needed to know how much I appreciated this.
"You did a real good job, Pony," I said. "None of the rest of us could have done this."
His eyes filled up and I got the distinct impression that it had more to do with me complimenting his writing than with the current situation.
"Thanks," he whispered, and as he hung his head back down I saw a tear fall onto the seat next to him. I wanted to hug him, to pull him in tight and let him cry against me, but something inside me held me back.
"I'll be right back," I said, and took the paper and the bag and brought them into the home. I was glad to see that the person who dealt with me this time was not the man from the day before, but an older, grandfatherly type who seemed to possess a full array of human emotions that the other guy had sorely lacked. After this man took the items, gathering them into his hands carefully, with the respect deserving of my parents' belongings, he put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and with a compassion that I had thus far not experienced in the funeral business, said, simply:
"I'm really sorry about your folks, son. I truly wish the best for you and your family." Somehow it seemed to me that he knew the story, about it being me in charge now, and he felt for me.
"Thank you," I said, feeling for the first time since they died like I might have really meant it.
____________
Pony and I said little on the way to the airport. I wanted to reassure him that, despite the fact that we didn't get along, despite the fact that I knew he didn't have as much faith in me as he did Soda, that I was going to do right by him, by all of us. My brain was able to form the thoughts into words, it simply wouldn't allow them to escape from my mouth. I wondered, how is it that I can talk to Soda and Scout, but not Ponyboy? It didn't exactly help my confidence as newfound guardian to find myself completely unable to relate to one of my charges, possibly the one who would need me most.
Scout had Ben, Soda had Steve, but Pony was left with just Johnny, who, from what I could see, was generally in a position of needing comfort, rather than being able to offer it. Shit. This was going to be hard. Really hard.
"Darry?" Pony startled me. I wondered for a second if he knew what I was thinking.
"What?"
"You missed the turn." He was right, I had been thinking so hard that I had driven right by the turn for the airport. I wasn't sure if I was more relieved or disappointed that he hadn't had something more profound to say. Interacting with Pony was complicated, and, to me, at least, exhausting.
Because I had missed the turn, we were late pulling up to the terminal and Patrick was already waiting at the curb outside. I pulled up and got out, taking his suitcase and letting him encircle me in a hug. I had vowed I wouldn't cry and I didn't. I didn't want to come across to him as unable to handle things. Regardless of the stipulations of the will, I was still wary that any show of weakness or uncertainty on my part could spell disaster for our family.
"I'm so sorry, Darry," he whispered in my ear, and, like the man at the funeral home, I could tell he meant it.
"Thanks, and I'm sorry too." She had been his sister, after all.
Pony had slid out of the passenger door and was leaning up against the truck. Patrick released me and stepped around me to face him.
"Ponyboy," he said, and to my absolute surprise, Pony nearly jumped into his arms and sobbed, while Patrick soothed him, rubbing his back and trying to calm down.
I was dumbfounded. Why could I not comfort my own brother, and an uncle he sees once a year just had to say his name and he allowed himself to let go? I felt something like pain at my inability to relate to my own brother. I loved him, and I was sure he must love me; that was not the obstacle, but for the life of me I could not figure out what was, and I knew it was going to eat away at me until I figured it out.
Patrick eventually succeeded in calming him down and for the 15 minute ride home it was just an exchange of information between myself and Patrick about funeral arrangements and the church service. I don't think Pony, squeezed in between us, said a word. Patrick asked if he could read the eulogy and I was so relieved that he asked. There was no way I could maintain my stoic façade in front of a crowd of people while recounting fond memories of my parents; there was just no way.
We pulled into the driveway and I was relieved that soon I would be back with Scout and Soda, no longer trapped in the bubble of uneasiness that surrounded Pony and I whenever we were alone together. I wondered what the house would look like, and what Scout had attempted to cook.
Pony went into the house first and I had the good sense to anticipate him letting the door go, so I caught it with my arm. Scout ran over and held it open while I followed with Uncle Pat. He bent down to Scout's level and called her over.
"Scout…" he said. Even though he was my mother's brother and she had always called her Samantha, he called her Scout.
"Uncle Pat," she said, and there was virtually a repeat of the breakdown that Pony had had in his arms. This didn't bother me quite as much, because Scout would just as easily let me comfort her as Patrick. Pony would pick anyone over me, it seemed.
"Oh, Scout, I know," he said to her. "I'm so sorry." He sat with her on the couch until she calmed down.
I looked around the house. Everything was surprisingly presentable. I heard the washing machine and noticed that even the table was set. "What are you making, Scout? It smells great."
She must have forgotten about whatever she was making because she jumped up with a squeak and ran off into the kitchen.
Soda and Patrick shared the requisite hug and expression of sympathy as we all followed Scout into the kitchen in time to see her pull out some kind of chicken concoction that I remembered my Mom having made in the past.
"I think we can eat," Scout said. I found myself wishing that our parents could be there to be proud of how we had all managed to pull it together for Pat. It wasn't very often that I allowed myself the extravagance of wishing.
So I pushed that wish to the back of my mind and sat back down to the reality of what was us, now.