"He never gave me back my switchblade," I said it out loud without even realizing it. The second the thought came to mind was the same second it was out of my mouth.
I was sitting at the Curtis's kitchen table, Darry sitting to one side of me, Ponyboy on the other, Steve leaning against a counter. Sodapop was standing near the door, saying a few words about Johnny and Dal and everything they'd added to our lives. It was a wake we'd thrown together, just the gang now, but people had been in and out all day. Buck Merril, Tim and Curly Shepard, Sylvia, hell even some guys from the Tigers who I didn't even know showed up and said some stuff. Guess word got around.
"He never gave me back my switchblade," I'd interrupted Soda mid sentence, not meaning to but doing it anyway. He stopped and looked at me, puzzled. Realizing I was thinking out loud, I looked around. Everyone was looking back at me.
"What are you on about?" Steve asked.
I looked down, sheepishly. "Dallas, he…" I laughed a little. "When we were talking to him in the hospital, me and Pony, he asked to borrow my fancy switchblade. He put it under the pillow after he told us how we were gonna win the rumble...win it for Johnny…" I rubbed my eyes. I couldn't tell you why I was remembering this of all things. "He used it to get out of the hospital, but he didn't give it back to me before he…" I trailed off, shaking my head. "Rat bastard, I bet it's locked up in some vault somewhere as evidence or somethin'." I looked up again, half expecting everyone to be frowning back at me for cracking a joke at a time like this. I was wrong, I could see Darry chuckling a bit, and Soda was giving me a kind smile. That was the first time I'd seen Darry laugh at something since the night it all happened.
"Do you wanna say something, Two-bit?" Soda offered.
I could feel a smile growing on my face. "Yeah, I could say a few things. You know, when I first met Dallas, he punched me right in the jaw…"
Johnny's family couldn't have afforded a proper burial and all that shit if they had wanted one, and Dallas's dad wasn't gonna bother claiming him. They had the same fate, county-provided spots with just a plain wooden cross to mark 'em. The gang, it was funny, we bent ourselves over backwards to get them buried next to each other. I think that it was the only break we'd ever get for the rest of our lives. It just wouldn't have been right, I think, if they were laid to rest apart from each other.
I don't know when they did, but one of the guys had draped Johnny's denim jacket and Dallas's old leather jacket over each of their crosses. Maybe the county wouldn't put their names on their graves, but we would somehow.
I stood there, two weeks after we held our services in the Curtis home, and for the first time I was really wondering if I could go on without them there. Things had settled down, but goddammit they sure weren't the same. I pulled out a carton of cigarettes. They were gone. They were really gone and it was just feeling real. No more parties or getting high or stealing shit for kicks with Dallas. No more rodeos. No more meeting up with Johnny and Pony and heading to the Dingo. I'd never get to hear Johnny rag on me for my shitty jokes again. I'd never hear Dallas's laugh again or see Johnny smile again.
My hands were shaking as I fumbled to open the cigarettes. There were only two left in the pack.
I could feel the hot tears building in my eyes. It had taken so long for me to finally feel this, and it was forcing its way out with more force than a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. Two of my best friends were gone. For good. They weren't coming back. Dallas wasn't just in the cooler for a few weeks. He was six feet under. Johnny wasn't just under bed rest against his will at the Curtis's for a couple days, getting over getting jumped. He was dead. I crouched down. My legs were beginning to shake, and the tears had begun to stream down my face. I held my face in my hands and I cried a good long while before I started to stand back up.
I was still holding the pack of cigarettes in my hand, open. Drawing a shaky breath, I pulled one out. I chewed on my cheek for a minute, then shook my head. I tucked one of the smokes into each of their jacket pockets. I guess usually you put flowers on graves, but I thought they'd've preferred to bum a cig anyway. I finally moved and started to leave, but stopped in my tracks shortly after. I looked down at Dallas's grave.
"You know," I said, sniffling a little. "You never gave me back my blade, man. What's that about?" A moment passed, and with a chuckle, I left.
Somewhere along my walk home, I stumbled upon Buck Merril, leaning against his T-bird with something in his hand. I gave him a wave, and he barely noticed, giving me nothing more than a nod. He was intently studying whatever it was he was holding. I cocked my head as I approached, trying to see what it was. He flicked open a blade, and suddenly I knew exactly what he was holding.
"Buck, what on God's green earth are you doing with my prized blade?"
He looked up at me finally, raising an eyebrow. "Your blade?" He snorted. "It was in my car, Mathews," He argued.
I furrowed my brow. "Everyone from here to Kansas City knows who that black-handled switchblade belongs to, Buck." I scowled at him, and a devilish grin spread across his face. I always thought he looked stupid, but dammit he looked dumber without the buck teeth than he did with 'em.
"Yeah, whatever Mathews. I know your blade just as well as anybody," he said with a laugh. "What's it doing in my car anyway?" he asked.
"Dallas had it," I answered bluntly. He nodded, continuing to examine it. "Didn't the pigs search your car after Dal-you know?"
"Yeah, but I guess not hard enough," he answered with a smirk. "Dal hid it pretty damn good."
"Where'd he-" Buck opened the car door before I even finished my sentence. He pulled a crushed cigarette carton out from in between the passenger seat and the armrest, after a few moments of trying to figure out how he grabbed it the first time. He couldn't reach it from the top, then couldn't from the front of the seat, then tried again and got it from the top. He opened it, demonstrating to me that the blade fit inside it. Then he gave me the box, blade inside.
"He shoved a couple tissues in there too, for extra measure. He really didn't want them getting it," Buck remarked.
"Yeah…" I said, a wide smile returning to my face for the first time in weeks. "Thanks, Buck."
"It's no thing, Mathews."
As I walked off, I pulled my blade back out of the box. I chucked the carton in the nearest trash can. I looked it over carefully. Handle was still pristine. With a little more flourish than it needed, I flicked it open. Still sharp as ever. I shook my head, laughing to myself.
"Dammit, Dal, you took all that time to save the blade but not yourself? I wouldn't have given that much of a shit about it, man."
He really hid it from the cops. He always did have my back like that. Only thing was that he forgot to tell me where it was. Dallas must've heard me, wherever the hell he ended up, bitchin' about him not giving it back. I looked up at the sky, half expecting to see an apparition of the idiot with devil horns and a tail staring back at me. I was tearing up again, and flicking the blade closed, I couldn't help but think out loud some more.
"You know, Dal, you always acted like you only gave a shit about yourself, but I'll be damned if I let you or anyone forget how much you did care about the guys…" I shook my head again. Dal had everyone's back whether he wanted to admit it or not. He'd take the fall for one of us at the drop of a hat. He'd lie through his teeth if it meant one of us wouldn't get caught. He'd risk life and limb for us. I took one last look at my blade before I tucked it away in my back pocket. I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself again. Despite the tears running down my cheeks, I was grinning wider than ever.
"You're absolutely fantastic, Dal."