It's been over a month since I updated this story, for those still reading, THANK YOU! You make my day. For new readers, THANK YOU! if you have any questions, I'm more than happy to answer. :) I'm still trying to work on the scene where Pony tells Soda about Patrick, so I decided to write this chapter that will hopefully explore Mary and Soda's co-dependent relationship.

Some graphic war memories/dreams, racial slurs, etc.

I wake up pregnant.

I roll my eyes, I know the drill. I've been having this dream for the past few months. I dream that I'm pregnant, my heart soars with excitement and this inescapable joy that is coming from inside of me but which is so strong that it manages to engulf me from the inside out and carry me like a newborn baby wrapped in a burrito blanket.

Then I wake up, and my belly is as flat as a line of coke, and that heavy, swaddling feeling of being enfolded in ecstasy gives way to feelings of emptiness.

But not today.

I pinch myself, feel the tiny prick and watch my fingernail mark fade back into my skin. The sun is coming through the blinds and even though the sun is bright it's real cold for April. I shoulda worn something other than just my panties to bed.

I don't want to get up, because it's chilly, but I pull the covers off my side of the bed and I look down. I'm huge.

Shit.

I cross myself, and begin to pray to the Blessed Mother, and those words I have said silently to myself for years rings through my soul: Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.

Thank you God! Thank you! Thank you! Oh, God!

I pinch my other arm, this time really twisting it so two fingernail marks form red lines deep in my skin.

I ain't dreaming.

"Soda, Soda, Soda", I shake him and he turns to me, eyes still closed, "where's the damn fire…" he mumbles. Soda can be the nicest guy in the world but if you wake him up five minutes before he's ready my man will turn into a moody, grumbling big baby.

If he wasn't a man I'd swear he was on the rag.

But I don't care. He's mine.

"Soda!" I snap at him and this gets his attention, "I'm pregnant." I'm so excited that I think I may be shouting it and one of the dogs wakes up from his slumber at the foot of our bed. For a golden retriever, Hunt or Rex sure sounds like a wild coyote on a full moon night.

Soda, opens his eyes part way, and I can see the sleepy eye crust form along the lower lid of his pupil. He breaks into a small, but sweet grin and gives me the thumbs up sign, "good job, babe. I knew you could do it."

Names! Shit, we need to think of names.

"Soda, think of a name!" Soda turns around and gives me a wise ass grin, "Chuck, Chuck bo buck banana fanna fo fuc…"

I hit him with the small embroidered pillow that lies between our heads, and I laugh and my laughter is both more full and lighter than I've ever laughed before, I feel like I could fly on its wings and never fall off.

Even God laughs, a gentle, yet booming laugh. He knows how much I want this baby.

A Crib, A highchair…

"Soda, where we gonna get all the supplies for the, our baby?" I'm bursting with a pure exuberant joy that tickles inside of me. I feel like I swallowed laughing gas, I'm floating on a beautiful high, beaming at the dark blonde curls at the nape of his neck.

I hope our baby gets his hair.

Soda turns to me and cocks an eyebrow, "damn, Mare, those pregnancy hormones really did a number with your head, huh? Don't you remember, I got a huge raise, we don't ever have to worry about money."

"Your back?" Soda's back acts up at times, he works too hard and is always pulling muscles.

He does a somersault, bouncing up with a grin and a ta-da. "Ain't nothin' wrong with my back babe, you know that."

As he talks I feel the cool breeze of Aquafresh leave his soft lips. Back when we were doing drugs his lips got so chapped pieces of skin would fall off in tiny bits of flakes, like dandruff; now they're smooth and a healthy pinkish-red.

I smile, I don't remember Soda getting a raise, so maybe he's right about pregnancy affecting brain cells.

I stand up and look at myself in the mirror and my titties! Damn. Now my tits pre-pregnancy ain't nothing to be ashamed of, Soda is both a tits and ass man, though he kinda has a leaning for tits. But now? They're like supersize, Hugh Heffner would be speechless.

Hell, even I'm turned on.

I stick my finger in my mouth, feeling my finger prints against the sweet spot in my tongue.

Soda gets strung. I mean he can barely keep control and he pulls me closer, his eyes an elixir of danger and protection and that turns me on, to have my man who will take me the edge but never let me fall off the cliff, not with his baby inside of me…

Nah, instead of going over the cliff, we're gonna soar together. Two wild birds, Soda my wild, sexy hawk and me, his small tan chickadee, but with enormous tits.

"Soda!" I cry out for his ecstasy.

He puts his hand around my neck and pulls me down. For a second his eyes grow wide, "aw, shit Mary, I'm sorry."

I haven't had any man, not even Soda, put their hands on my neck since that night my ex-husband squeezed me unconscious.

It's my sore spot.

But now, with Soda, with our baby, it don't hurt. I don't even think of Scott. That vulture-shit can no longer stick his talons into me.

Instead, I lean into Soda's grip, and place my hands around his own neck. Feeling his pulse.

I tell him to go on, and his face change from concern to charged. He growls, and though there is viciousness to his growl, I know he won't hurt me. There is an electric current which flows from me pulsating throughout my body.

But I pull back, "nah we can't, might hurt the baby…" And I'm upset, because right now all I want is for him to give it to me as rough as he can, feeling him inside.

But isn't this what I want? Our baby? No, not our baby, his baby. Soda's baby.

Soda smiles, a cracked animal growl of sneer. He's sexy as hell. "you're forgettin' babe, that's my kid inside of you, my kid is indestructible. Now turn over. I still want you Mary."

He says it as an order, but his voice is almost soothing and gentle, gliding me towards him.

We do it doggie style and Soda don't leave no tools in his toolbox, and I'm on fire. I moan and feel his breath on my neck, sending shivers down my spine. feel his hand move down my breast, on top of my stomach and down my legs. I don't ever want him to let go.

His hands are gentle and strong, but he's going rough and I don't know what's turning me on more.

And I feel safer, more loved, more protected and more cherished with Soda going through my backdoor than I ever had under my first husband's nimble touch. When he wasn't beating me, he was real gentle and soft, like a feather.

This sex is the best sex I've had in my entire life. Soda, he knows where to find my g-spot, believe me, he ain't got no problems making me happy, but I feel sexy and wild and free and beautiful in a way I've never felt before.

Like a Greek Goddess with long silky hair, and beautiful breasts, being with my man.

And our baby, that life, that God gave to us, floating between us. A little blonde, curly haired robin, who never shuts up, like his daddy.

This is why I got clean. This is why. Because this feeling is the best hit in the entire world, I'm with my man, he's sexy and he's all mine and even though it's bitter and cold outside, the sun shines through.

And I ain't dirty, I ain't broken.

How can I be?

I'm carrying our baby.

I'm carryin' my weapon: M60 Machine Gun, AKA The Pig and an itch. I'm wishin' more than anything that I can scratch it, take a pen, or a twig, or even a knife and scratch that fucker to numbed bliss.

But I'm covered in dirt and sweat, a layer of grime; and shit, if mom saw how dirty I am, she'd make me take a bath 'til I was blue in the face and hiccupping Dial. But she ain't here. She's lucky, she's clean and floating up in heaven, dancin' in the clouds; and I'm covered in bugs and dirt in this jungled hell.

I'm never gonna get clean. The dirt on the outside seeping through my pores, or maybe it's the other way around? Maybe I was never clean…

I'm covered in camouflage: green and black, protecting my face from the elements. I blend in with the wild of the jungle, but hiding in a thick bushy vegetation, I don't feel free or wild, but a trapped animal in a cage of bamboo and sharp sticks.

I don't dare move, because one noise could give away my position. The sun cracks through the canopy jungle, tiny slits letting in a tiny bit of light. It's hotter than hell up in here, the heat frying my eyes, my tongue and my ears, but coolness is a luxury I can't afford, not when every second I get closer and closer to dying.

We have rules of engagement, rules governing when we can shoot and who we can shoot, but in the heat of moment those rules burst open and fall apart like a shell. The only rule here is killed or be killed, oh, and don't drink the water unless you wanna spend the next few days shitting out a brown river.

I see him. Motherfuck, I see him. Tall guy, at least tall for a Gook. 5'7.

I see the grenade in his hand, he's aiming it right towards my guys: Phil, Coop and T.P. I pull Phil down violently, yanking down on his flak jacket which is bunched up and makes it feels like he has tits.

Big ass tits.

Ain't it weird what you think of before you die?

"Soda!" he cries, his voice cutting through my brain.

I don't have time to deal with this bullshit, but I growl at him, "shut up!" he knows better. He ain't green no more, fuck, if we're gonna die at the hands of some dickface with a grenade.

As I push Phil out of the way and hold him down so he won't jump up and try to play hero, my other arm takes on a life of its own.

I smoke the Cong.

But he's not dead. No he rises up from the ground and he's coming closer to me. Phil, Coop and T.P. fade away, and the man comes closer, and as he gets closer I get smaller and smaller, I look around and blackness rushes around me, my heart beats faster, a bit of foam mixed in with a metallic sour fills my mouth, my knees are frozen.

I can't breathe, it feels like an elephant stomps on my chest, leaving me shallow breath.

My hands are so heavy I don't think they can hold up a gun, let alone pull the trigger, I dig for my knife, the last refuge. As the man comes closer I can't see anything but his shadow. He feels as big as an elephant, sucking up all the air around me.

The ground spins beneath me.

I don't want to kill someone at point blank range, personal with a knife; I prefer my kills with the gleam of distance. I don't wanna see the whites of their eyes or feel their salty breath bearing on my neck.

I still can't believe little Johnny Cade of all people killed someone with a knife, thrusting that knife into that Soc's body. For as long I live, which judging from mad rush the un-killable soldier makes for me, ain't gonna be long, I'm never gonna comprehend it.

But at one point, just when he looks like he could stomp me dead by pressin' one toenail on my camo body, he starts shrinking and he becomes younger and younger and smaller and smaller. But I'm still suffocating, feeling like I did when I was a little kid and Mom bundled me too tight under my covers, my blankets wrapped around like a casket.

His grenade is replaced by a cherry popsicle, and he bites into it. Spraying me with red juice.

GET THE FUCK AWAY! I try to scream out, but nothing comes, something grabs my throat and I pull the invisible monster off.

His popsicle becomes a gun, an AK-47 and he starts shooting, his face a snarled animal.

And I hate him, I hate this kid for making me kill him, for making my trigger finger itch with lust for killing. For making me thrust a knife into his belly full of popsicles, Cola and famine. I'm beggin' for mercy, not for him, but for me.

Oh God! Something flickers in front of my eyes: rain? Tears? I don't know, but I'm blinded and no light can get in.

But I want to get out here, Oh God. I can't do this. Please help ME. Oh, God. I don't want to die, but I can't live.

God damn it.

GOD!

I'm crying out in agony, my body convulsing, I pull my knees closer and rock, rock away. But, God, he laughs at me. What was it Pony said, 'we ain't His favorite people?' Yeah, we ain't.

He starts shooting again, the kid starts shooting and my mind fills with a pink haze, pieces of flesh hit me, and there's more blood on me than inside of me.

I have no choice, I kill him.

As the knife goes in, I see the life suck out of him: and my knife is still waddling inside him like a knife in a vat of Jell-O. Mom always made good Jell-O. I miss my parents. But let's face it, after all I've done since I arrived in 'Nam, I ain't never gonna see them again.

I see his eyes, as they roll back I see them: he has my eyes.

I see my nose: he has my nose.

I see my ears: he has my ears.

I see on his face a lopsided, disheveled grin that I rarely wear anymore, sliced off my face like the sick trophies Cooper collects, and pasted on his.

I look at him, and I hate him with every fiber of my soul. I thrust the knife in further.

Because that boy is me and with all my strength I twist the knife into me the killer, the savage animal, I want to slash that grin and throw it to the vultures.

I grunt, my face a cruel mirror of his laughing, carefree death throes. I want him to suffer, I need him to suffer, because I don't deserve mercy, but damnation. Then his face changes: he pleads with me…

Dad?

His voice is filled with pain, and he's looking at me with fear and his hands tremble, his eyes wide like he saw a ghost. Or a demon. Or his daddy.

The boy he ain't no Cong, he ain't me, it's worse: he's my son. And my bloody hand moves for his chest, hoping against hope that he's still alive, feeling a part of me beating away, but his chest is cold.

I killed my kid. I know I should feel the weight of the world crashing in on me, but right now I feel nothing. But an evil, sickening numbness.

Voices ring through my head: Darry: Soda, get off of him! Pony: Soda's it's me, it's just me. Me: I'm gonna hurt him, I'm gonna hurt him! Get him away from me!

Pony and Patrick fuse together til I can't tell them apart. All I know is that my hands, killer hands, destroy them both.

A childhood memory breaks through.

"Soda, how come you always get so dirty?"

"I dunno Mom!"

I place my dirty hands around my neck and start to squeeze, squeezing out the killer inside of me, but they fall limp.

I am suckered into the pit of hell, crying out to no one. Because who can hear me? Everyone's eyes, ears and mouths are sliced off, put away in Coop's special box.

An anguish cry that makes no sound spews out of me. I open my mouth and nothing comes. I roll my eyes back.

I hear him come back to life, a slight gurgling sound, a low purr like a kitten. And his body is no longer his body or Pony's body, but the small tender curves of a woman.

An ugly thought crosses my mind.

Slowly the leaves of trees become blind slits, letting in the sun.

I'm dreaming. This is a dream. I'm not in Nam, that boy ain't me, or Pony or Patrick.

I was dreaming, it was only a dream.

It's okay, It's okay, It's okay.

I remember what my therapist tells me: look for an anchor point and take deep breaths. My eyes dart around the room, I don't recognize anything. I don't see Mary's crosses, my lasso wall decoration, my chair with clothes thrown on it from the night before because I'm too lazy to toss it in the hamper.

Breathing hard, hands trembling, out of the corner of eye, I see my anchor. I pull on Mary.

A wave of relief washes over me, only to replace with a gnawing pit frozen in my stomach. Oh God, I hope I didn't wake nobody up.

I get right into Mary's face, starring intently at her, but her eyes are glued shut, she's purring, there is a smile on her face, but she's still asleep.

Whatever thrashing, mumbling and ranting I did in the middle of the night remained trapped inside of me, where it belongs.

I carry my sickness with me, I can't ever get away from it.

Soda is yanking on me awfully hard, don't get me wrong, I'm loving every bit of my frisky man, but damn, he's like a cat in heat! As I look down at my sexy, womanly form, my boobs become shrunken heads. What the hell is happening? I put my hand on top of my belly, worried that I haven't felt our baby move yet. As I place my hand on top of my belly, my belly shrinks inwards. Becoming smaller and smaller.

I was dreaming. It was only a dream.

I'm still gripping onto Mary and I see that her face is contorted, the left side of her face rises slightly and her eyes open wide.

Shit. As quickly as I can, I let her go, "shit Mare, I didn't hurt you, I didn't hurt you? I didn't hurt you?"

My voice is not my own, and it rises, there is anger and disgust in my voice and I'm pissed off at both of us. At myself for being a fuck up and still having nightmares at almost 30 years old, and Mary for putting up with my shit; for having a 'man' who whimpers in the middle of the night like a goddamned baby.

I want to pull away from her, to let her go free from my grip, but I can't.

Protecting her is the only time when I still feel like the boy I used to be. The boy who stayed up with Ponyboy all night when he was having his night terrors, the boy who gave Darry muscle rubs and held late night pow-wows with my brothers. For a brief second, I close my eyes and see my mom, she's smiling at me. I'm all clean.

She shakes her head, making a tiny noise, a slight rumbling of pain like from a papercut, as she moves one of my hands off her stomach.

"You could never hurt me Soda," her voice is far and distant, and she rubs her neck. I know I should figure out what's wrong, but sometimes I'm selfish. I pull myself towards her, wrapping a strand of her hair on my finger, and my mood instantly calms down. I sigh with relief. I am covered and safe. I'm full. I pull closer to my woman.

"Did you have a nightmare, Soda?" There is concern in her voice, even though she sounds weary. I feel her hand on top of my cheek, almost a light touch. Her hands are sweaty.

I nod, "yeah, no big deal," I say in as cheerful of a voice as I can manage. I lie to my wife sometimes. Grateful that she doesn't seem to be in the mood to hold me on my obvious bull.

In the beginning I used to get real bad nightmares, now even when the nightmares tear me up inside, I usually don't show the outward signs: the screams of terror, the sweating, the violent thrashing.

I murmur softly into her ears, nibbling on them.

As Soda pulls towards me, snugged up like bug, mumbling some love lines that I don't want to hear, I look down at my body. My titties are like dried apricots, my belly shrunken inward.

An empty carcass.

As much as I love Soda, I never felt more dried up and exposed.

Empty.

I turn away from him. He still pulls on me and I never felt more alone. He sighs happily and continues to sleep.

Me?

I stare up at nothingness. My throat tight with tears that won't come out.

I wake up to Aimee's curves, as she stands in front of our bed, her back turned towards me, and in a reverse strip tease, gets dressed. Her luminous full moon body a lighthouse anchoring the seismic waves of my bundled up nerves.

"God, you turn me on…" I say with admiration, my toes touching her bare legs.

She turns to me, now buttoning up her faded purple dress shirt, a wide grin and fluttering eyes: "why, thank you Mr. Gent, I swear you are the peach to my apple tree."

She's doing an impression of our neighbor, Mrs. Phoenix. Mrs. Phoenix, a retired high school algebra teacher cannot calculate that Aimee and I have different last names, hence she always introduces me to friends and family who pop into her house like assorted chocolate and pralines in my mouth at Christmas time, as Mr. Gent.

She in her stooped wisdom, using a walker with tennis balls to waddle from place to place, has also declared me 'sexy,' and my accent 'irresistible.

Whenever we talk she comes out of our conversation talking like a stock character in a Margaret Mitchell book, adding a thick drawl and enough syrupy language to drown a pancake.

Personally, I don't think I have much an accent, but Aimee tells me that for people up here I sound like I just strolled off the ranch.

"Face it Pony, you're a cowboy."

Yippee.

I, on the other hand come away from my neighborly talks with Mrs. Phoenix with no more knowledge of sums, coefficients and variables than what was forced fed into me by the teachers at Will Rogers.

Are you nervous, Pony?

I hold Aimee's hand and shrug my shoulders. "I shouldn't be nervous, this is good news, right?"

Before she can answer me, I shake my head, of course this was good news, unmitigated, unabashed good news, maybe even a miracle.

No, this is a miracle. Patrick, my brother's son, my nephew, our family's lost soul, is found.

Then why am I so nervous? Why does my stomach twirl like it did after riding the Merry Mixer? And why do I fear that once more Soda's gonna end up covered in my vomit?

Speaking of miracles Paige Leigh Gent-Curtis with the elocution of a Televangelist on collection day, wailed in her crib, her fists flying high like a mast, her feet sloshing like sails through the thunder shaking sky.

I lean over her crib and tickle the soles of her feet.

"Gosh, Paige-Paige, you keep it up and you're gonna kick Jim and Tammy Faye out of a job," I say in the closest approximation to baby talk I can muster. Oh yeah, me and Aimee, we don't do 'baby talk' with Paige. Between her well-meaning aunts, uncles and cousins we hope Paige has heard enough itty-bitty, cutesy talk this week to last until pre-school.

Aimee smiles down at Paige, her hand massaging our daughter's stomach, "except she makes more sense."

Paige farts, a perfect response. Aimee merely smirks at me, "see, what did I tell you?"

Aimee puts on the record, we keep a record player in Paige's room and play music to lull her to sleep or to calm her down; Fleetwood Mac is always in popular demand with both of the women in my life.

"And I love you, I love you, I love you like never before," Christine McVie via Aimee sings to our daughter. Aimee holds Paige's small hand in her own as the song fades out, and Paige looks up at her Mama and starts to drool.

I know I'm biased, but damn, did we make a pretty baby.

Aimee walks back to the record player and moves the tonearm a few notches to find her current favorite song, Oh Daddy. Paige, our captive audience, smiles, and I know it's just gas, but she's perfectly adorable, and gosh, I'd like to think that she's smiling at us.

You soothe me with your smile

You're letting me know

You're the best thing in my life

A baby bird flies by our window, a tiny robin fluttering it's unsteady wings.

And the songbird are singing like they know the score,

And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before.

I'm still tangled up the covers, my legs wrapped around Mary's legs. My toes digging into her. I'm trapping her. I want her to carry me away, I lean into her, "I love you, I love you, I love you, babe."

I feel okay, I'm with my wife, my brother, his sweet wife and his adorable baby roaming their house. Dreams can't hurt me.

Soda is being so sweet, but I'm not in the mood for sweetness, because his kindness just reminds me that he's still with me even though I'm a broken. Besides, diabetes runs in my family.

My man saved me more times than I can count, he's the best thing that ever happened to me, he protects me, and usually his smile, his words and his eyes can soothe me down off the ledge when I'm itching for that fix, but I don't understand why he wants me.

I look outside the window and see the shadow of a bird flying away. I shiver.

"You cold, babe?" Soda drapes an arm around me, like a protector, a provider, a nurturer. I need Soda to protect me, more I want Soda's protection, his big hawk arms over my cold body. But right now, not even Soda can soothe me.

"Nope, just watching the birds fly away, baby."

I fly away with them. I close my eyes and jump off the cliff. A lump forms in my throat.

"EWWW!" I hear Karen scream, and automatically I reach for my gun safe. Cathy didn't want guns in the house, around 'her babies' but I told my wife that there was no way in hell I wasn't going to defend my family.

Under protest, I kept my hunting rifle and two shot guns, but they have to be kept under lock and key.

She's still trying to convince me to get rid of them.

Karen rushes towards us, "C.D. peed all over me! EWWW! EWWW!" She shakes and bursts into a crying fit.

"It's running down my leg!"

"Karen, sweetie, calm down, you sound like a banshee." Cathy is already running soapy water in the bathroom sink.

Through her hiccup cries she looks at me, "what's a banshee?"

"Ah, never mind, Karen. Mommy will clean you up, I'll take care of your brother."

Sitting up in the hotel bed he shares with his sister my son sits up on the bed with the biggest shit eating grin you'd ever seen. Goddamnit, this kid.

"C.D…"

He is soaked. I lift him up and put him down eyeing the big wet spot on the covers. How much did this kid drink? Christ Almighty. I calculate the extra tip I'm going to give housekeeping.

I thought putting Pony through college was expensive.

C.D. just shrugs, "she was bouncing the bed, Daddy. I was playing the game."

I roll my eyes and try to keep my voice even, "what game?"

"I see how long I can hold it in before I gotta pee. We play it at school," he says solemnly.

I shake my head, what hell kind of game was this? And did his pre-school teachers know my son was ruining his kidneys?

I hear Cathy try to calm Karen down, "Karen, it's not that big of deal, you peed way more on Daddy and me and we didn't complain."

I take C.D. to the bathroom to clean him up.

"Okay, no more playing this game, okay? The moment you gotta tinkle…" (God, what happened to my vocabulary? Talk about talking like a wuss, my construction crew would be laughing their asses off if they heard me now, tinkle?"

C.D. stop touching yourself.

Wait, C.D. do you gotta tinkle? I mean piss? I mean pee?

You sure?

Damn it, Carlson.

I mean darn it, hey, buddy, let's not tell Mommy what Daddy just said okay?

Yes, Daddy is stupid.

S.E. Hinton owns. Fleetwood Mac owns/sings "Songbird" and "Oh Daddy" Jim & Tammy Faye is a reference to televangelists Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker

There are some callbacks to my Soda in Vietnam story, but I don't think you need to read that story to understand this chapter. But for the unfamiliar here are some cliff notes: in Vietnam one of Soda's fellow soldiers, Cooper, collects 'trophies' of dead Vietcong soldiers. Hence all the reference to body parts and collections. It's horrible, but there are reports/anecdotes about it taking place in real life.

Out in the field, with fellow soldiers Coop, TP and Philip, Soda, kills what he believes to be a Vietcong solder who has a grenade, only to later to discover the soldier is a child soldier around 14 or 15, just a year younger than his own brother.

If you have any questions, let me know. :)

Thank you for reading.