Even though he's talking in a hushed voice to keep me from hearing, I know exactly which number Martin dialed behind the bar, his hands still working tirelessly to dry a pint glass.
"Yeah. Since two." He's not trying to belittle me, but it's how it feels. Everybody's funny because you'd think coming back from the war would make me seem like more of an adult to them, but lately they've been treating me like a child. I can feel Martin's eyes dart my way, he's not as subtle as he thinks. But he's a stand up guy, and I appreciate what he thinks he's doing to help. "You're welcome. See you soon."
I'm hoping Pony's the one to show, not Darry. I love them both to death, but I don't have enough energy to spell everything out for Darry. Pony and I get on better with that stuff. Although those two are more alike every day, and they've become a great team. While I'm glad to see them getting along better, I can't help but fight feeling a little left out. I haven't gotten used to being the odd man out, especially when I used to be the only one really in. They never used to look at me worried like they do now, and I hate disappointing them all the time.
I remember being here not long ago, and the party that raged through the night. A celebratory send off in my honor, all of my favorite people in the same room. There's nothing better to me than being around people I love and having a crazy ol' time. Put them together and the night was pure bliss. Now it's completely silent, no juke box music playing. It seems odd but then I remind myself that it's probably because it's not even 8 o'clock on a Tuesday, and not that the best memories of my past are fading away with the town. I reach into my pocket, discreetly pulling out my pill bottle and fishing out a couple of those orange pills from under the bar so no one will see. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to recall the last time I took one. Have I really been here since two, like Martin said? It must've been before that then, which means I can have another. Unless I took another one since I've been here, then I'm not sure. Whatever, I pop one into my mouth and swallow fast, hoping to dull my rising anxiety.
I glance to my left, and there's a young woman there, probably my age. She's sipping on her cocktail, and I see she's looking at me sideways, like she's waiting for me to notice her. I suddenly feel a little younger again as our eyes meet and she gives me a little inviting smile between sips. She's pretty. She looks like trouble too, but I've never been one to shy away from a bad choice. I scoot to the next barstool over, bridging the gap a little bit so now there's only one seat between us. I don't want to scare her off before we even get the chance to talk.
"Now what is a pretty lady like you doing in Tulsa, Oklahoma?" I ask, trying to give her my kindest smile- the smile I didn't used to have to work at to make genuine. But then again everything's been taking more effort these days.
She giggles at this, then bounces her body to the seat right next to me so our faces are close together. She studies my face for a moment, and I keep my eyes on hers to see what her next move might be. Her expression changes a bit now that she can see me under the light and I can tell she's reconsidering. I try to stay engaged, though, just in case I'm misinterpreting. Although when it comes to women, I never misinterpret.
A little sound escapes her lips, and it sounds like one of slight disappointment. She's been staring into my eyes a little too closely for a little too long now, her face falling with each passing second. I'm getting a little tired trying to keep up this facade, and I can feel my face muscles start to give a little. She blinks at me cold, and then wordlessly hops back to the barstool away from me, taking her cocktail with her and turning to face the bar as if none of the exchange ever happened.
I look forward too, and then scoot myself back over to where I was, pretending like I hadn't just had my pride crumpled up and shoved back at me. A year prior and I would've been fighting her off of me. Different times.
Dejected, I think about getting myself up and out of there before the calvary Martin's called on me arrives. Maybe I can make it back to our house before either of them make it here. Then at least I'd have a little more time to work this crazy web of thoughts before I try to dump it on somebody else when they ask if something's wrong. Just as I stand to say my farewells, my hand collides with my glass, knocking it clear off the bar and onto the floor. The glass shatters and I see Martin wince in unison with me.
"Sorry, Mar." I say, catching his eye so he knows I really mean it. It breaks into two big pieces, a few smaller ones scattered around, so I crouch down and begin stacking the smaller shards into the bigger ones.
"I got that, buddy." Martin says and I can hear him start my way from behind the bar, grabbing the broom and dustpan, but I stay focused on my task. Crouching under the bar reminds me of being crouched in the jungle and I swear I can still feel my pack on my back. I don't pay much attention though, I'm used to random flashbacks. "Don't worry about it." Martin says again, and I snap back up, stacking the last shard I can see on the floor.
Standing again, I look for a trashcan or something to toss my mess, and I see Martin has his eyes locked on me. I'm too embarrassed to look back, he's close enough to me now that I worry he might notice what's really behind my eyes like the lady at the bar did and I'm still figuring how to show people that.
"Private Curtis, your hands." He says, pointing. Looking down I see that they're almost completely drenched in blood. I feel the stinging in my palm then. I'm not startled the least bit, but Martin's face is almost completely white. I apologize again hurriedly, tossing the destroyed glass in the trash during my beeline to the bathroom.
I let the cold water run over my hands for a moment to wash away the red, glancing up in the mirror in habit, immediately regretful. I can see why she stopped talking to me. My hair's done just right and my collar's still popped to look tough, but my eyes look empty, even I can see it, and I can feel it, too. It's an odd thing to see your reflection, and not recognize the person staring back at you.
I shake my head and look back down at my hands again before shutting off the water and wrapping them in a paper towel, taking a deep breath before I leave.
"Hey Martin," I greet as I walk in, scanning the place for my brother.
"Hi Pony." He gives me a small smile back, noticing my wandering eyes. "He's in the bathroom."
I nod, stuffing my hands in my pockets, realizing instantly that it's exactly what Darry does when he's waiting for us. I'm not sure if I should take them back out or own the one little similarity we might have between us. Although lately more people have been commenting that we look and act a like. Age is a funny thing that way, the same people used to say I was more like Soda.
"Did he order anything unusual?" I ask, trying to keep my voice relatively low since there are others in the bar who don't need to know every little thing about the Curtis boys.
"Nope, just a few Cokes like normal." Martin says. He's become a real pal to our little family since my brother got back, always trying to keep an extra eye out for him and calling us when he rolls into the bar and stays just a little too long. I think it's cause he was a vet himself too, and he understands being misunderstood.
I notice a woman across the bar sipping on her cocktail, eyeing me up and down before giving me a naughty smile. I look away, not even interested in engaging. Surely nobody falls for that, her red dress is a red flag enough in itself.
Just then, my brother exits the bathroom. He sees me and I give him a small wave. When we reach each other, I get a better look at him, something I sometimes have to prepare myself for. He's got a big smile on his face, and I know it's genuine, because everything Soda does is genuine. But his eyes aren't telling the same story. Those brown eyes used to have fire, mischief and kindness all wound up into one, their life a perfect addition to the rest of his spontaneous, cheerful, big self. Today, they're shallow. I know those bits of him are still in there somewhere, but I can tell he's having a tougher time finding them today. He looks drunk right now, and it breaks my heart a little knowing that he hasn't had a drop and that it might've been better if he was drunk because then the troubles could be slept off and medicated with coffee and aspirin the next morning. Sodapop never went for alcohol when he was feeling happy and he never went for it when he was feeling sad. He was a high low kinda guy, and he didn't need any help achieving the highest of highs or the lowest of lows.
"Hey." I say and smile back. It's been back just about as long as he was gone, and I know he's still tired of seeing our faces fall every time we see him, so I maintain the composure I had upon coming in.
"We goin' home?" He asks, and I'm glad he spares me the bullshit speech I could give him about how I just happened to wander in here while he was in here too. He's no child, and as his younger brother it feels especially condescending trying to trick him when he knows full well what's up. I ignore the wadded up paper towels in his left hand, blood still seeping through, it doesn't look bad enough to bring up.
"Yeah." I say, leading him out the door.
"See ya later, Martin." He calls out right before the door shuts, never one to leave anyone hanging. I remember when Darry tattled on him once when we were kids for sneaking into the kitchen for chocolate cake without permission. After he got a serious talking to by dad, he stopped by Darry's room to say goodnight before turning in. Water's always under the bridge with Sodapop.
We walk in silence for a bit, and I'm reminded yet again just what a chatterbox he used to be. I never had to start a conversation, he always did that. Whether it was breaking the silence to tell a story, or a joke or ask about your day, he was always the initiator. I suck at coming up with things to say, but I knew this was a time I had to.
"You wanna talk about it?" I ask, forfeiting my long list of anecdotes.
He gives me a side look, "Talk about what? My soda addiction? I'm just living up to my name." I look back at him looking at me, and after a second, his mouth curls to a tricky smile. I laugh, and it's the realest laugh I've had all day, even though I spent it with much happier people.
He's pushing me away with the joke, and I know it, but I also know his stubborn streak is a pain in the ass, and if he doesn't want to talk then he's not going to. If he wanted to talk about it, he wouldn't've stuck himself up in that bar alone all day. He claps his hand over my back, squeezing my shoulder a bit, trying to take the edge off. "Just gettin' a new lay of the land." He says. It's an understatement. Soda and I understand each other, maybe that's because he understands everyone, but I like to think it's because we're similar. But six months overseas changed him in a way that has left me struggling to keep up. Our life experiences used to be the same, and now there's a whole chunk of time I haven't been able to account for.
"You got a cig?"
"Always do." I say and then jab a bit, "You ever buy cigarettes yourself or do you just bum them off of me?"
He gives me an innocent smile before he sticks his hand out, "Light?" He still likes to play. I hand him my lighter. We take a seat on one of the bus benches near the bar. He specifically chooses the bench that has the black dog tied to to it, the owner probably just across the street in the five and dime. Soda puts his hand on top of the dog's head and starts to scratch behind his ears, the dog loving every second. So like Soda to comfort a lonely, tied up dog when right now, when he isn't much more than that himself these days.
I move a little closer to him to keep warm, mild snowflake flurries beginning to fall from the sky. I should've brought my damn jacket, but that would break my perfect record of never thinking before leaving the house. Soda doesn't have his either, probably because the cold doesn't get to him the way it does us two. Darry would have brought a jacket and upon noticing our bare skin, would've promptly gone on another lecture about me being forgetful and Soda being stupid.
He's still being quiet, and that's how I know he both doesn't want to talk about it, but can't lay off of it either. Generally, he's a pro at brushing things right off his shoulder, but when something gets to him, it really gets to him.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette, inhaling it deep and keeping it in his lungs for a few second longer than normal, before exhaling it all up into the air with the snowflakes. He's got a look of ecstasy from the hit, and I see seventeen year old Soda again, eyes with a fire and a bliss to them for a moment only.
"I'll do the dishes." He said, reaching into his pocket and grabbing another pill before popping it into his mouth flippantly. I think he usually does this in secret, because Darry and I both give him a surprised look. He seems a little embarrassed, maybe like he forgot it was something he didn't want us to see. But he shakes it off, like Soda does, and gives us a sneaky smile. "I think I'd better be cooking tomorrow night, whaddaya think Pony? Darry, you're good a lot of things buddy but you never did quite figure this food thing out, didja?" He grabs our plates, and Darry and I laugh. He's already set things back to normal and I'm too caught up being glad to have him back that I don't even realize that that's what he's doing.
Eventually, Darry and I retreat to our rooms, and I can hear Soda scrubbing away in the kitchen, blasting the radio while I try to read my book for English class. He's always been a loud one, my brother. Slamming the cabinets closed, singing at the top of his lungs off key, throwing things back in their place with no sense of delicacy to it. But I'm glad to have that noise back- Darry and I are just quiet people and the house felt too damn empty those six months.
I hear a thud from the kitchen, and I stop my reading, a little startled by the weight of the drop. I wait for more kitchen cleaning madness to follow, or Soda's singing, but I don't after a few seconds. The radio is still on eleven, though and so making out any kind of noise is going to be a challenge. Still, I open my the door to my room and peer into the kitchen. Soda's not there.
"Soda?" I ask, looking over the living room and down the hall, but he's not there either. As I come up from behind the table, I can see him flat on his back, choking and grabbing his chest.
My heart drops clear into my stomach and I scream for my eldest brother.
I collapse next to Soda, completely unsure of what to do. I notice above him are three empty bottles of Heineken, and I know they're all his because Darry felt too bloated to drink tonight.
His eyes finally find me as I try to steady his hand in mine and keep him from convulsing into the tables and chairs around us. Darry bursts through the back door and I can hear the panic in his ferocious steps coming down the hall and towards us.
"Call an ambulance!" I beg, not looking up when I know he's reached the kitchen.
Soda's body is almost completely still now, his breathing seeming nonexistent, in fact, I'm sure not sure if he's even breathing anymore. But I can feel his heart beneath his shirt. And his eyes are on me still, and they've still got that kindness in them. Darry is frantically on the phone somewhere in the background of my consciousness, but I'm caught in the line of Soda's expression. He doesn't look scared, he doesn't look small, he looks concerned for me. I begin to wonder if he did this on purpose and I'm so angry at him.
"It's okay, Pony just let it happen." He says so quietly I have to lip read to be sure that's what was said. In that moment, I don't know what he's talking about. It isn't until we're chasing the ambulance in Darry's truck after he passed out cold on the kitchen floor that I start to understand what he meant. He wanted us to let him die, he would rather have that for us than for us to understand what he's going through. I realize it's worse than I thought.
I still haven't figured out the right thing to say to him here at the bus stop. What the fuck are you supposed to say to a war vet when you spent the last few years safe in school while he was in the jungle getting shot at? After the incident in the kitchen, alcohol was off the table. Turns out it wasn't an intentional overdose, he had lost count of how many he had taken and the addition of three beers, which he forgot he had to monitor as well, were what had sent him to the floor.
He takes another drag of his cigarette, and snapping back into the moment, I can feel him staring at me from the corner of my eye. He knows me too well not to know right away that I'm thinking about what to say to him next.
He deflects, "You'd better slow that mind down, Pony, or you'll give yourself an aneurysm."
This might be my only chance anytime soon to bring it up, so I dive in headfirst. "Soda," I ask, looking him square in his eyes so he knows I mean business. "Do you ever still feel like you did that night in the kitchen?"
He keeps his eyes on me a few seconds, and then looks back down at the dog that's fondly staring up at him to give it some more love, I think cause he needs it too. He then, so cooly, puts out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and wraps his arm around my shoulder. I wish he didn't feel like he had to cradle me all the time, because it makes me feel like I ain't tough, but I do feel better when he pulls me in closer to his chest. I can feel his heart beating again.
"Ponyboy, I'm sorry about that night." He says, and I don't know how many times he thinks he has to say that, especially when that's not what I'm getting at.
I try to steer the conversation away from the past, "Whatever's going on in your head, however you feel, Darry and I want to help. And I know it'll take time, but I think it'll take even longer if you keep us in the dark. We can help fight through. whatever it is."
"Mom and dad said we shouldn't fight." He jokes, and it's not a great one, so I don't feel so bad glaring back at him silently. He puts his hand on my shoulders and looks me square in the eyes, and those stupid eyes can't keep me mad for long. "Have you ever known me to break a promise, Ponyboy Curits? I promised you I was coming home before I shipped out, didn't I? And I didn't break that promise, did I?" I'm not sure where he's going with this, but he looks serious for once. I simply nod. "I'm not going anywhere now either, I promise."
I believe him, because I think he knows I literally can't take losing him too. I may not know my brother as well anymore, but I know him well enough to spot his bullshit, and I can see here that he's not playing around.
"Thank you." Is all I can say, and he flashes that stupidly charming Sodapop smile, gives me a small wink and a click of his tongue before turning back to the dog and giving it one final pat. He takes a step in front of me, back turned and I see him reach into his pocket to pull out his pill container. He's still a little secretive about it, but I saw him take one earlier this afternoon and so I know he's due for another.
The bus arrives then, and we get on, Soda's got a hand on each of my shoulders as he guides me through to the bus to the back, where we always sat as kids so we could deal cigs to one another without the bus driver catching us. I can almost see Two-Bit, Johnny and Dallas back there too. Discretely, below the chair so nobody but me can see, he hands me a hand rolled joint, waiting for me to laugh at the nostalgia. I do, cause this time around, the joke is actually funny. For a moment, things feel like they did before he left, and so I sit there and soak it up the rest of the ride home.