11. A Desperate Sodaholic on the Edge
Elenore is alone in Darry and Lynnie's living room. It's a few minutes before six, and she's been up since a few minutes before five. She's surprised Darry and Lynnie aren't out here with her. They're incurably early risers. But they probably know better than to get around Elenore when she's feeling like this. They probably know better than to get around Elenore at all.
She stares at her phone in her lap, wondering if she should call Pete. It's later where he is, but not much. He's probably still not awake. As a tenured (male) professor, Pete gets a lot of pull as to what time he'll start classes during the day, and he never picks anything before noon. Naturally, he never wakes much before 10:30. He's a high school senior with gray hairs in his beard. Elenore should have known better. Elenore should have known better, but she never does.
For a moment – not as long of a moment as it ought to be – she wonders why she loves Pete. That's easy. Elenore falls in love with everybody and everything. Plus, there are good things about Pete. He can be funny. When he chooses to be there for Veronica, he's good at that. It just doesn't happen very often. None of Pete's good points happen very often anymore. She's known that for a long time. She's just scared. She knows being married isn't the mark of anything. But it feels like it ought to be. It feels like something she ought to do to feel safe, to feel beautiful, and to feel wanted. For a while, Pete was so good at making her feel wanted.
Then again, for a while, Ponyboy Curtis was good at that, too.
She picks up the phone like she's going to call Pete, but she stops when she hears footsteps coming into the living room. She expects to see Darry or Lynnie in front of her; when it's neither of them, she has to smile.
"Hey, Veronica," she says. "Did I wake you?"
Veronica shrugs and sits on the chair across from Elenore. The carpet between them feels like an ocean.
"No," Veronica says, keeping her voice down low. "Not really, anyway. I've been … well, the past couple nights have been hard for me to sleep."
Elenore tries to smile, but she knows it comes out crooked. Veronica looks at her in exactly the same way. But no matter what look Veronica has on her face, she is always beautiful. Elenore wants nothing more than to make her see that.
"Is it because of your grandpa?" Elenore asks.
"A little," Veronica says. "It's also because of you."
Elenore exhales. The memory is only a few hours old, and so, it burns inside and outside her skin. She sat in Jane and Soda's kitchen and cried like a baby. She cried like a baby for all the love she imagined she had and never did. And as she cried like a baby, Veronica was the one to hold her – to whisper to her that everything would work out, like it always does. The thought makes her want to vomit. That was not the way it was supposed to be.
(Elenore really just wanted her mother.)
"Hey," she says and looks Veronica right in the eye – those eyes. "I'm sorry you had to see me like that last night."
"Don't apologize, Mom," Veronica says. "You were hurt."
"I know. But that doesn't mean I should show it like that in front of you. I'm the mom; you're the kid. I'm supposed to be the fool who plays it cool for you, Jude. I never wanted it to ever be the other way around. You know that, don't you?"
Slowly, Veronica nods, and Elenore can't tell what that's supposed to mean. As she ages, Veronica gets increasingly cryptic. It's the most Winston thing about her. Incidentally, it's also the most Curtis thing about her.
Elenore remembers Willow, Rosemary, and Emily's song-and-dance about how everybody became somebody's cousin except Curtises and Winstons. May their blood never meet. When it does, you get a kid who's so smart and so beautiful, she barely knows what to do with herself. Elenore won't give up hoping that Veronica is just about to discover it – her own power. She smiles at her from across the room, but Veronica, ever in love with her own tunnel vision, doesn't notice. She just speaks.
"I know," Veronica says. "But it's OK. We're not your typical mother-and-daughter pair, are we?"
Elenore can't help but laugh a little.
"Despite the cliché, I think I'd have to agree," she says. "It's just been the two of us."
"I know. In case you forgot, I've been there the whole time."
"Oh, that's very funny, little lady. No, what I meant was … since it's always just been the two of us; we've been very … equal to each other. Haven't we?"
Veronica thinks it over and then, thankfully, she nods.
"Yeah," she says. "I guess that's true."
"And I guess it's taken me a long time to realize that doesn't have to be a bad thing," Elenore says. "It's good that we can talk to each other like peers – real peers."
"What do you mean?" Veronica asks.
"Well, let's see if you can figure it out. If you grew up as Lucy Bennet's only child, and she treated you like a peer, then …"
"Then there's lots of bossing around and telling you what's what."
"My mother has always had trouble parsing out the subtle differences between peer and subordinate."
Veronica laughs. She even sounds beautiful. It's in this moment that Elenore's heart floods with hatred for Pete Butler. How could he choose a night at the bar over listening to someone as beautiful as Veronica give a speech at her open house? How could he choose anything over Veronica?
(Ponyboy was there. Ponyboy is finally choosing Veronica.)
(What does that mean?)
"Mom?" Veronica asks.
"Yeah?"
"Was Grandma a good mom?"
Elenore tries to take a deep breath, but it just comes out as a laugh. Veronica sits on her hands and shifts her eyes toward the carpet. It's a terrible sight to see. For the past five years, Elenore has watched her beautiful little lady retreat deeper and deeper into her shell; everyday, it's broken Elenore's heart clean in two. Normally, Veronica doesn't feel the need to hide in front of Elenore. But this morning, it's different. This morning, Veronica hides.
(They've been in Tulsa too long.)
"Hey," Elenore says, keeping her voice nice and gentle – her best impression of Soda. "I wasn't laughing at you. I'd never do that. I'm laughing because … well, I don't really know how to answer that."
"Yes, you do," Veronica says. She takes her hands out from under her thighs. "You just don't want to tell me. Nobody wants to tell me."
"Have you asked other people about my mom's parenting skills?"
"No. I mean … nobody wants to tell me anything."
Elenore closes her eyes and focuses on her breath. It's the only thing she thinks she can do. She can't tell Veronica what she needs to know – what she's probably asking for, in a roundabout way. Veronica realizes more than she's willing to let on. Elenore's perceptive enough to pick up on her perception. It's early in the morning, and it's much too late.
She opens her eyes.
"What's got you thinking about my mom?" she asks.
Veronica shrugs, and Elenore wishes she would just pull her shoulders back. She's better than this.
(What has Elenore done to show her daughter that she's better than hiding? All she's ever done is hide things. Veronica has only learned by example.)
"Just thinking about how she and Grandpa took off," Veronica says. "And I know things haven't always been easy between you and Grandma, either."
Elenore bites the inside of her cheek.
"Yeah," she says. "Well, you know your grandma. She likes things to be organized. She likes to have a plan. She's not happy unless she has a project to work on."
"And what?" Veronica asks. "Were you just one of her projects?"
To Elenore's own surprise, she shakes her head.
"Not really," she says. "Not always. Sometimes, maybe. It's something I liked to tell myself."
"Why?"
Elenore pauses. She's thankful for this conversation – not because she likes it but because it takes her mind off Pete, whom she should be thinking about … dealing with … telling to fuck off …
"I don't know, babe," she says. "Girls always want to find a way to blame their mothers. My mom did it with Grandma Esther. I did it with her. You might even do it with me. But I like to think we're a little different, you know? Since it's just the two of us, we have nobody else to hide behind."
Veronica looks at her like that might not be true. Elenore wishes it were less true than it is. She wishes Pete was interested in being a stepfather. She wishes Ponyboy was interested in being a father.
She wishes she were married to John Webber.
"That all makes sense," Veronica says. "But was Grandma a good mother?"
Elenore takes a moment before she nods.
"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, she was."
"How do you know?"
These questions. Elenore is proud of Veronica for always wanting to know why. She boasts about her curiosity and her intellect to anybody who will listen. But sometimes, those questions sting her right in the heart. When Veronica asks questions – this loop of questions without real answers – it's just a reminder that her eyes are green.
"My mom made a lot of mistakes," Elenore finally says. "She was brisk. She was strict. She was overbearing, and she didn't always know how to give me a hug or comfort me. I still have a lot of issues with that. It's why I pay good money to see a therapist."
Veronica laughs a little, but Elenore can tell she knows that's not the whole story. She'd like to be able to say something like; I also go to therapy to learn how I can forgive myself for your father, but she can't. She can't say it because it's too much, and she can't say it because she hasn't figured out how to forgive herself yet.
She knows that, but she doesn't fix it. It's very Elenore of her.
"But even though she wasn't warm," Elenore begins and then starts over. "Even though they weren't warm … they always made the right call. They always wanted what was best for me. I was always their first priority."
She closes her eyes again and lets her own words wash over her. It doesn't occur to her how true they are until she hears them said. It doesn't occur to her how true they are until she hears them in her own voice.
"My mom was nineteen when I was born," Elenore says. It feels like absolution, but she's not sure why. "Nineteen and more calloused than a guitarist."
Veronica nods.
"She's a harsh woman," she agrees.
"No kidding," Elenore says. "But she … I think she knew that was how she'd get people to take her seriously. I mean … you and I are dead ringers for your grandma. If we didn't know how to be stern, do you think anybody would listen to us? With our cute little faces and the way we barely stand higher than five feet from the floor?"
"I still don't know how to be stern like Grandma," Veronica says.
Elenore shakes her head.
"Sure you do," she says. "I hear you when you think I'm not around. You belong to your grandma, all right. Your grandpa, too."
Veronica bites her lip like she wants to smile but doesn't know if she should. Elenore sighs. Her breath is cold with guilt.
"Look," Elenore says. "I think I know why you're asking questions about my mom. I know I haven't talked about the way she and my dad just left the other night. And I know you think that hurt me."
"Didn't it?" Veronica asks.
(That's her father talking – the version of her father that her mother fantasized about and fell in love with when she should have been solving for x).
"Yes, it did," Elenore says. "But it's not rocking my world."
"Why not? Don't you care? Don't you want to talk to them?"
Elenore is surprised by the calmness in her own heart. Slowly, she smiles.
"Yeah," she says. "And I will, eventually. But I'm not … I'm not torn up about it today."
"Why not?"
Elenore inhales and exhales again. This time, on the way out, her breath is warmer.
"Because I know they love me," she says. "Even when they're cold, and even when they storm off like a couple of thespians, I know they've never done anything but love me."
Veronica nods, and Elenore thinks that's the end of the conversation. But Veronica is a teenager. Elenore should have known that things are never that simple with teenagers.
"If that's the case," Veronica says, careful not to look Elenore directly in the eye, "and you know what love looks like … then I think you should know I never thought you should marry Pete."
Before Elenore can even eke out a sound, Veronica gets up and walks back into Sadie's old bedroom. Elenore is left on the couch with her phone in her lap and her jaw falling down to meet it. She can't decide whether she's horrified by Veronica or proud of her. Dropping a bomb of domestic drama is painfully Ponyboy … but storming off to avoid confrontation after instigating it is terribly Dally.
Willow, Rosemary, and Emily were onto something when they prayed that Curtis blood and Winston blood would never meet. When they do, you get a kid who is equal parts beautiful and infuriating.
Elenore still can't decide if she's horrified by Veronica or if she's proud of her.
All she can think about is where she wants to be right now, and it's not here.
Somehow, about an hour after Veronica's bomb, Elenore ends up at the grocery store.
She knows, factually, that this the grocery store where her father worked after she was born. It's not exactly the same, of course. It's the same building, but all the character is gone – at least, that's how Sadie describes it. Elenore doesn't remember the old store at all, but based on the pictures she's seen, she has to agree with Sadie. What used to be Mom-and-Pop is now Big-and-Box, and even though the employees still wear stupid fucking vests, they're bright blue and clean. Her father wore red that faded into orange with sweat and bleach. When Elenore closes her eyes and steps through the doors, she swears she can remember the way he used to smell when he'd come home. She swears she can remember the surprise on her mother's face every time he walked through the door.
It fades before she can get lost in it.
She's not looking for anything in particular, but instinctively, she heads for the soda. She doesn't even mean it as a pun or a Freudian supplement, though she knows it's a nice little psychoanalytical checkmark. She's not looking for her godfather on these sticky shelves. She's just got a hankering for a cherry Coke, and it won't shut up until she has a taste.
It won't shut up until she has a taste.
She makes a note for Veronica: That's Mommy's epitaph.
As soon as she gets her hands around the cold, plastic bottle, she sighs. It's disappointing. Pre-packaged cherry Coke is always disappointing. There's nothing like mixing your own grenadine. She thinks about jumping down a few aisles to pick up a bottle and bring it back for Veronica, but she doesn't. She just stops and remembers grenadine on her twenty-seventh birthday.
I don't know why anyone would say cheers when they're drinking anything else.
That was the night she wept after they finished. When Pony asked her why, she didn't have an answer. The truth was that she was too proud to tell him that it felt so good – to be near him, to love him – she didn't know how else to respond.
She wants to cry here and now, remembering it in this grocery store. But she doesn't. She doesn't have time. Someone is saying her name.
"Elenore?"
She's startled as she turns around to see a woman she does not recognize standing behind her. The woman is quite a bit taller than she is, and she looks to be about Lucy's age. Like Lucy, this woman is still very pretty. None of that changes the fact that Elenore doesn't know who this woman is.
"Um, yeah," Elenore says. "How do you…?"
"You just look so much like Lucy," the woman says. "When I saw you over here, I thought you were Lucy, but then I remembered she and I aren't so young anymore. I figured that meant you were Elenore."
Elenore tips her head and looks at this woman's face closer now. She thinks she may have seen her before, but it feels more like a dream than a memory. Her smile is soft and kind – a little like Sadie's. She's very beautiful, and there's something about her that Elenore doesn't have much experience with.
She's calm.
Elenore finally places it after staring into this woman's eyes for much longer than she probably should. It's like she can't help it. She's always been a sucker for green eyes.
"Oh," Elenore says. "You're Cherry."
She grins.
"Yeah," she says. "I know it's been a real long time, but we've … we've met before."
"No, I sort of remember," Elenore says. "Um, I think I was thirteen. I ran into you with my mom after she sat through another round of The Empire Strikes Back with me."
The memory stabs her in the heart. And here, she typically gives all the Star Wars credit to her father. Her heart falls into her gut when she thinks about her father … the look on his face two nights ago when he told her to shut up … that he was going back home …
"Yeah, I think that's right," Cherry says. "I know – you didn't expect to run into me then, and you really didn't expect to run into me … oh, what is it up to now? Thirty years later?"
"Yeah, really."
The two of them just stand there. They're strangers. They're strangers, and yet, Elenore feels this strange pull toward Cherry Valance. She's heard about her in a few stories – some from her father, some from Soda, but mostly from her mother.
Elenore Winston and Cherry Valance are strangers. But there's something holding Elenore to this spot in the grocery store that tells her they shouldn't be.
"Um, my mom mentioned you quite a few times when I was growing up," she says.
Cherry's smile gets a little bit shy.
"Really?" she asks. "She didn't happen to … what did she say?"
Elenore lets herself have the biggest grin she's had in days.
"She said you were one of the smartest girls she knew in high school and in college," she says. "She said you were going places, just like she did. Just like Carrie Shepard did. And she said she regrets that she was such a bitch to you when she was seventeen."
Cherry laughs. It's a real laugh. Even though Elenore doesn't know her, she can tell. There's something about the way a person's eyes glitter when they're really laughing. It doesn't happen when you're just being polite.
They shouldn't have been strangers. This should be a run-in with an old friend. Elenore suddenly feels so much like Veronica – desperately filled with questions and seeking answers she knows she's never going to get. Elenore is forty-three years old and the mother of an incredible teenage girl. But it doesn't matter. She'll always be somebody's kid – and because of that, she'll always be on the outskirts of somebody's secrets, too.
"You tell Lucy I know what she means," Cherry says. "To tell you the truth, I wasn't always nice to your mom, either."
"Oh, trust me," Elenore says. "I don't blame you. My mother is too much to handle, and this is coming from somebody who loves her."
"No, I regret it, too. And it wasn't … I used to think it was because of the boy. Your dad, actually, which is still … it's still strange to say."
"That he's my dad or that anybody would have a thing for him?"
Cherry smiles. She's … good. Elenore can't help noticing.
"I think both of those things go together," she says. "But it was never about Dallas Winston. Your dad had big ideas about himself, but when it came down to your mother and me, we both could've lived without him. It was … your mother always walked so tall, even though she was tiny. There was just something about her that … well, I've said this before about other people, but she had something that made people want to follow her. I didn't think I had that."
"From what I've heard, you did," Elenore says. "My mom says that's why she was always so cold to you. She thought you were a better leader than she was."
Cherry gives her a look. It's still kind, but it's clear that when she looks at Elenore, that's not who she's trying to see.
"There's just so much we can't see about ourselves when we're seventeen," Cherry says.
"Or fifteen," Elenore adds.
"Fifteen?"
"Yeah, um … I have a daughter. Veronica. She's fifteen, and she's beautiful. And I don't just mean, like, Marilyn Monroe in Niagara. I mean she's beautiful like …"
"Like brilliant."
Elenore looks at Cherry like she's read her mind. Cherry notices and laughs – a polite laugh this time.
"I don't mean to pry," she says. "I have a daughter, too, and I remember when she was fifteen. It's like no matter what we do to tell them they're lovely …"
"It's when we're not with them they start to doubt themselves, and that's what sticks."
They smile at each other, suddenly remembering they're strangers.
"I'm sorry," Elenore says. "This is a weird conversation to have with your acquaintance's daughter you haven't seen since the eighties."
When Cherry laughs this time, it's more real.
"It's OK," she says. "I'm used to getting real personal with strangers the first time I meet 'em. I'm a psychologist."
Elenore can't help but smile. Her mom always said Cherry Valance wanted to be a psychologist. Her mom always said Cherry Valance would have made a great psychologist. She thinks she'll mention it to Lucy when she gets back to New York, among other things.
"It figures," Elenore says. "I have a lot of experience talking to psychologists."
"Oh," Cherry says, and by the tone in her voice, she doesn't seem surprised, even they are strangers.
"Hey, don't worry about it," Elenore jests. "You knew my parents when they were teenagers. Just imagine how much more intense they've gotten in fifty years. You can imagine. If you read my diagnosis at the same time you listen to 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,' you'll still be going long after Iron Butterfly asks you to walk this land and please take their hand."
She expects Cherry to look at her like she's crazy. Everybody does.
But she doesn't.
(Elenore knows it's because she's used to dealing with all kinds of people – the babblers and the mutterers alike. But she'll pretend it's deeper than that.)
"You're a lot like your mom," Cherry says. "'Course, you probably know that."
Elenore smiles. She has a quick memory of her mother in the summertime when she was nine years old. It was just the two of them in their East Village apartment, and Lucy introduced her to the world of Shirley Temples. She let Elenore drink the grenadine straight out of the bottle, and even though it was too sweet, it was good.
She remembers how Lucy pointed her with her straw – not harshly, but sternly. She remembers what Lucy said, even though she could have sworn she'd long forgotten.
Don't ever get too proud for grenadine.
It's not until she's standing here, in front of Cherry Valance, that Elenore thinks she knows exactly what that means.
"Your parents are good people," Cherry says. "I know I haven't known them in a long time … and even when I did, I didn't know them as well as I could have."
"I think that's the first time anybody's ever called my dad good people," Elenore says. It's her own polite laugh that does her in.
"I thought so. But he … he had the same thing as your mom. They're good people."
She has the kindest look on her face. It reminds Elenore so much of Sadie.
"I hope you know that," she says. "I know I haven't known them since we were young, but something tells me they're still good people."
Elenore nods. She takes a deep breath, and she's surprised by what she feels.
She's so sad that all she can feel is calm.
She winds up on Sadie and Johnny's front porch in the middle of her flashback. When Sadie answers the door, Elenore falls right into her arms like a little girl.
"Oh!" Sadie says. "Hey, Elenore. What's the matter?"
Elenore lifts her head and looks Sadie right in the eye. She notices for the first time in a long time that Sadie and Soda look just alike. She's not sure what that means, but it feels like it should mean something.
"Can I talk to you about my parents?"
After Elenore tells Sadie about her run-in with Cherry Valance at the grocery store, Sadie gets that look in her eye: Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long, long time. She doesn't say it, but Elenore knows an Obi-Wan Kenobi look when she sees it.
At least, she thinks she does.
"Is she right, Sadie?" Elenore asks. "Are my parents good people?"
Sadie's eyes are halfway between amusement and heartbreak.
"Elenore!" she exhales. "Of course they're good people. Don't you know that?"
Elenore looks up at the ceiling and sighs. When her eyes drift back down, she has to bite her lip to keep from crying. She's so tired of weeping – in front of Sadie, in front of herself.
"I guess," Elenore says. "I guess what I'm really wondering is if I'm a good person."
She folds her hands together between her knees and stares at her thumbs. She's not really a praying woman, but these are the moments she wants to be. Her parents raised her better than this. Her parents raised her to know that she's in control. All her life, she watched them be in control – of their choices, their presentations, their resistances. Cherry Valance was right at the grocery store this morning. Elenore's parents have something about them that make people want to follow them. Elenore followed them, too. She followed them so well she never learned a thing.
Lucy and Dally's daughter doesn't sit here and cry over men who do not love her. At least, she's not supposed to.
Sadie sits down beside Elenore on the couch. She takes her hands but doesn't look her in the eye. Secretly, Elenore is glad for that.
"Veronica got up early with me this morning," she says. "She asked me if my mother was a good mother."
"Well, what did you say?" Sadie asks.
(If Elenore didn't know any better, she'd say it sounds almost snarky.)
"I said yes," Elenore says. "That even if my mother was … cold and determined and didn't hug or kiss or cry in the same way I do … she was always looking out for me. She always loved me. Still does."
Sadie smiles this time.
"Yeah," she says. "That sounds like your mom to me."
Elenore nods.
"But then, she said I should have always known that she didn't want me to marry Pete," she says. "And she's right. I knew the whole time. I knew he wasn't right for me, but I knew … I knew he really wasn't right for Veronica. I knew he wasn't right for us. What we'd built. Who we are."
She expects Sadie to ask her, "Then why do you stay?"
But she doesn't. She just holds her hands tighter.
"You don't have to hold back on me," Sadie says. "You know that."
Elenore does know that, but it's different. Sadie was her godmother first, but for as long as Elenore's memories reach back; Sadie has had her own children. They've always been her focus – the way it should be. It wasn't like that with Soda. He didn't have to divvy up his time until Elenore was already eight years old. For eight years, there were letters to Elenore, phone calls to Elenore, and presents for Elenore. She never had to hold back on him because nobody else needed him. Somebody else always needed Sadie.
It was different then, so it's different now. They're twins, Elenore thinks to herself, but they're not equals – not for her.
"I'm not making the right choices for my kid," Elenore says. "Hell, I'm not even making the right choices for myself, but that doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is Veronica. But how can I say that when I've been so selfish? How can I say that when I'm still wearing this ring, knowing full well I'm just going to take it off … that it's what Veronica wishes I would have done a long time ago?"
She closes her eyes and keeps the tears inside of them. It doesn't matter that she's with Sadie and that Sadie knows how to feel better and more deeply than anyone she knows. Elenore is still Lucy and Dally's daughter, and Lucy and Dally taught her that she shouldn't cry.
"Elenore," Sadie says. "We've been over this. You're not a bad person. You're not a bad mother. You're just a person. A person is allowed to make mistakes."
"Is a person allowed to make mistakes that hurt her daughter?" Elenore asks.
Sadie's silence is the correct answer.
"Since this morning, I've wished I could call my parents and tell them everything," Elenore says. "Like why I stay with Pete even though we're not good for each other."
"So, why don't you?"
Elenore's heart lurches, and the more she holds in her tears, the more she feels like she might vomit. She coughs for a while before she's able to speak again.
"Because I don't like the answer. I know why I stay, but I wish I didn't."
Sadie looks at her like she can feel the answer, too. Somehow, she squeezes Elenore's hands tighter. It's nice, but it's not enough. It's not what Elenore thinks she needs.
"Listen," Sadie says. Her voice is firmer than it's been. "Your twenties are over. 1994 is over. I know in a lot of ways, you'll always be twenty-seven with a club soda. But there has to be a way for you to live less and less in that year. I know it's not easy. I know my brother is still around everyday, and I know that makes him hard to forget. But even if Pony is still around, it's over. That time is over. The two of you are over. And you're alive. You've got Veronica, and she's beautiful. You're here, Elenore. You made it. There has to be some kind of way for you to forgive yourself for what happened between you and my brother. And if you think this is how you'll take your lumps – marrying a man who isn't kind to you – then, Elenore, there's got to be something we can …"
"You know that's why I don't tell them?"
Sadie tips her head.
"My parents," Elenore says. "I don't tell them the truth about Pete or about where Veronica came from because I'm so sure I know how they'll react, and I don't know if I'll be able to put up with it."
"How will they react?" Sadie asks.
She doesn't sound curious. She sounds put out. Elenore ignores it.
"I know they'll think less of me," Elenore says. "I know they'll think I'm weak for not standing up for myself or not having learned my worth a long, long time ago. That I should have known better than to get into a relationship – an engagement – before I knew my worth. They'll say I should have known better than to stay in a relationship with a man who didn't love me well enough and wasn't interested in being my daughter's stepfather. That's what they'll say."
Elenore expects Sadie to hold her hands again. She doesn't. She stands up and paces the floor.
"Sadie?" she asks. "Did I say something?"
Sadie whirls around and nods once. It's a look Elenore has only seen on her godmother once before – five years ago, when she screamed at Ponyboy in Veronica's room.
"You're damn right you said something," Sadie says. "Who do you think you are? Talking about your parents … talking about your mother that way? Do you know how nasty you sound?"
"Oh, come on, Sadie," Elenore pleads. "You know the way my mother was with me. Sure, she loves me, but she's Lucy. She told me to be strong all the time. She told me never to take shit from anyone. She'll think I let her down. He'll think the same."
"Oh, you're letting them down, all right. You're letting them down by talking about them like you don't know who they are and who they chose to be when they became your parents."
Elenore thinks Sadie might be angrier today than she was five years ago.
"Don't you remember when you and Jane took me roller skating when I was ten?" Elenore asks. "I fell right down on the floor in the middle of 'Best of My Love.' I skinned my knee, and it hurt like hell. My mom told me to stand up. She told me I couldn't just lie there. I had to stand up."
Sadie nods.
"I remember," she says. "Do you remember what she did after you finally stood up?"
Elenore doesn't answer because she doesn't remember.
"She took you off to the side and checked you out to see if you were hurt," Sadie says. "She asked you if you were OK after you stood up because that's who Lucy is. She's tough, but she'd never make somebody do something they didn't want to do. Then she got you out of the skates, we had ice cream, and we had a nice day. Your mother never coddled you, but she looked out for you. She always made sure you were OK, and she never would have blamed you for falling down."
Elenore looks down at her shoes and hates herself. It's really that simple.
"Sadie, I know how much you love my parents," she says. "But maybe … don't you think I know them better as my parents than you do?"
Sadie digs her heels into the carpet. She's so angry. Elenore would be scared if she weren't so sad.
"You really don't understand, do you?" Sadie asks. "You know, I think you do understand. I think you just don't want to. There's a reason Lucy chose me to be your godmother."
"Yeah, because you're best friends."
"You're right. And we're best friends because we make each other into the best versions of ourselves. It's what she was hoping I could do for you. She wanted me to back her up because she was worried she didn't have the kindness and the patience you needed. But she did. And not just because I was there, but because that's who my best friend is. So, I think I know what your mother is like as a parent because I watched her. I watched her for you."
Elenore isn't sure she's ever hated Sadie more.
She's also not sure she's ever loved her more, either.
"I know your mom always told you to get tough and to get strong," Sadie says. "I know your dad said all the same things. But they – she – meant 'Get tough and get strong so you can have the job you want. Get tough and get strong so you can make the art you want. Stand up for yourself. Be OK about who you are.' They did not mean, 'Blame yourself for the way your fiancé treats you.'"
Sadie is pointing now. Elenore isn't even thinking. She's just listening. She hasn't listened enough.
"Lucy would never blame you for staying," Sadie snaps. "And you can say what you want about him, but Dally wouldn't, either. Your parents would never blame you for being hurt. They'd tell you to stand up, and they'd check you for cuts and bruises, but they would never blame you. They'd never tell you that you weren't good enough or that you have to 'assume responsibility.' And if you think I'm going to let you sit here and say something this terrible about my best friends, then you're wrong."
It hurts so much that Elenore feels nothing. She stands up, and when she does, she feels like someone else.
"You know something? I don't need this! I don't need this, and I don't need you. You might love them, and you might love me," Elenore says. "But no matter how much time you've spent around them and around us, you have no idea what it's like to be their daughter. If I say I know how they're going to react, then you just have to take my word for it."
Sadie folds her arms across her chest. In this moment, she's unrecognizable … until Elenore recognizes her perfectly.
"And if you're going to talk a bunch of shit about people I love, including yourself, you can get out of my house," she says.
Elenore snorts once and heads for the door. She knows exactly where she wants to be, and it's not here. It was never here. She doesn't even know why she showed up here in the first place.
"Elenore."
With her hand on the doorknob, she turns around and sighs like a child.
"What?"
Sadie's trying to hold back tears, too.
"I love you."
Elenore turns back around and pulls the door open. She doesn't look Sadie in the eye, but she responds.
"Yeah. I know."
When Soda answers the door, Elenore is lucky. He doesn't say much, but he lets her in. That's what really counts. She just wants to be near him. Everything's better when she's near Sodapop Curtis.
"Who's here?" she asks.
"Uh, just Janie and me," Soda says. "Even Troy got outta the house today. Tuesday wanted all the girls to run around here in shifts, but I told her to back off. I think I can still take good care of my wife."
Elenore smiles.
"Yeah, I know you can," she says. "Just like you take care of me."
Soda's face falls halfway between a smile and a frown. He's frozen there for a moment as Elenore flops down on the couch. When her back hits the cushions, she looks up at the Curtis-Randle family picture and sighs. She remembers how badly Veronica wanted to crawl into the frame that day.
"Elenore," Soda starts, but she doesn't let him finish.
"I have had the weirdest fucking day," she says. "Really, I've had the weirdest fucking sixteen years, but today … today is quickly rising to the top ten. My daughter asked me if my mom was a good mom and then told me that I should have known she never wanted me to marry Pete, so if you read between the very faint lines, you'll see that what she really means is, 'You're a bad mom.' I ran into Cherry Valance at the grocery store where Dally used to work, and I talked to her like I'd known her all my life. And then I went to see Sadie, and after pouring my heart out to her, she kicked me out of her house."
Soda makes a face.
"Sadie did that?" he asks.
"Yeah," Elenore says. "Apparently, I wasn't very good at respecting my elders – in this case, my mom and my dad. But she doesn't get it. She doesn't get how hard it is to be their daughter and to know that you can't fuck up, and you can't cry. Fucking up and crying are signs of weakness, and you're not weak, Elenore. You're our daughter, and our daughter is tough shit."
She looks up at the family picture again and sighs louder this time. She expects Soda to sit beside her like Sadie did. He doesn't. He stands over her – nearer to the door than Elenore would normally like. She pretends like it doesn't bother her, but she's never been particularly good at hiding her feelings.
She sits up a little and folds her hands in her lap like a good little girl (the kind of good little girl she could have been if she grew up in Tulsa, she thinks).
"That's why I had to come and talk to you," she says. "I know you won't expect me to be Supergirl like my parents do. I know you won't judge me for complaining about my parents like Sadie just did."
Soda breaks eye contact, so Elenore sits up straighter. She's on the edge of the couch now, and she's smiling like a little girl hopped up on grenadine. She remembers the way Soda used to watch her mix herself a Shirley Temple in his backyard every summer after Lucy taught her how. She remembers mixing the grenadine into the ginger ale and hearing "More Today Than Yesterday" on the radio. She remembers the way Soda walked up to her and kissed her on top of her head.
What was that for?
Aww, you're so smart I thought you'd remember. This is our song, baby girl!
We have a song? Like a husband and wife?
No, like a guy and his best pal. This is the song me and you danced to when Darry and Lynnie got married.
Then I like it.
Me too.
He was shiny then. Today, he's not dull, but he's not that guy with the gold grin from the backyard, either. Elenore chooses not to see it that way.
"I just need you to work your magic," she says – pleads, really, though she's not proud of it. "Just do what you always do and tell me it's all going to be OK. I just … I really need to hear it from you because I don't think anyone else believes in me right now. And you're the only person who's always there to cheer me on, even when I don't …"
She stops and notices the look on his face. There's not one hint of a smile in his eyes. It's the first time Elenore has ever seen him look like that. Even when he found out about her and Ponyboy, he still looked like himself. He still looked kind. Elenore's not sure who's standing in front of her today. She takes one long breath like it's going to make a difference.
"Look, you have this … incredible gift," she says. "You know it, and I know it. You can look at a person and fix them right up. You can see straight through to anybody's heart, even if everybody else would say they don't have one. So just … do it for me, now. After the day I've had, do it for me. Just tell me … tell me what I need to hear because I don't think I can say it to myself."
That's when she hears a thud against the living room wall.
When she looks up, she sees Sodapop Curtis, shaking out his hand like he's in pain. She forms her mouth around a vowel sound, but she doesn't get a chance to make it.
"Goddamn it, Elenore!"
She makes a few gasping sounds, but they're not enough to make him stop. His face is bright red, and he's not even crying. Elenore closes her eyes and draws another long breath.
She's never seen Soda get angry without crying before.
When she opens her eyes, he's standing right on top of her. He points his finger down the hallway, and when he does, Elenore swears she recognizes him – just not as himself.
"Do you ever think about anybody else?" he yells. "Do you ever think about me?"
"Soda, of course I think about you," Elenore says. "We're a girl and her best pal. Remember?"
"No, I don't. If we were a girl and her best pal, you'd think about the way you came in here today. You don't care that my wife just had surgery. You don't care that I was in the middle of my own day. You don't care about me at all 'less there's something you need from me."
She tries to respond, but she can't. She can't defend herself against something she knows is true.
"You never think about me as a guy, Elenore," Soda says. "You just think of me as your pal who's gonna drop everything and save you. And I could be that guy when you were a little kid – really, I could. That's what ya do for a little kid. But you gotta grow up. You gotta see there's a lot more goin' on than just what you're goin' through."
Elenore folds her lips together. She will not cry. She can't do that to him.
"And I know you're goin' through a lot, baby girl, I do," he says. "I'm sorry your fiancé's a piece of shit, and I'm sorry Veronica don't like him. But I can't fuckin' do it anymore. I've been tryin' so hard for so long, but you're a grown-up now, too. And you can only tell a grown-up she's wonderful and worth forgivin' so many times 'fore it starts to sound like bullshit. I've been tellin' you since Veronica was born that you gotta find a way to be OK with what happened with you and Pony. But you ain't listened. You just roll around in it, and I can't do it anymore. I can't pull ya outta the mud just to watch ya jump back in. I can't have ya pull me down in there, too. You don't deserve it, baby girl, but I don't deserve it, either."
Elenore chokes on fresh tears. It's not what he's saying that stings so badly – not exactly, anyway. What stings is that she can tell how long he's been thinking it … how long he's surely fantasized about being able to finally say it.
"I ain't blamin' you for stayin' with a piece of shit, and I ain't blamin' you for feelin' like one," Soda says, and Elenore wonders if that's supposed to make her feel better. "But I am blamin' you for not thinkin' about anybody but yourself. I don't care how much I love you. You don't just storm into a guy's house and tell him he's gotta tell you what you need to hear. That ain't how this works, and I think you know that."
She does. She just thought the rules were different with Sodapop Curtis.
"You come in here," he says, "and ya tell me what to do in my own goddamn house. You talk shit about my best friends, and you pit me against my twin sister. And you expect me to lift you up? After you shot down people that I love? People that you love? Lemme tell you, Elenore. I don't feel so great about liftin' you up just to watch ya fall back down on purpose, but I know I don't wanna do it if you're just gonna shit all over the people who love you."
"But that's what you're supposed to do!" Elenore yells back. "You're supposed to lift me up, Dad!"
The air leaves the room. Elenore gasps with a sound so hideous, she's surprised it isn't her last breath. She covers her mouth with her hands, and her eyes feel like they might roll onto the floor. Soda's face has gone from bright red to stark white. He's not saying anything. He doesn't look like he ever wants to say anything again.
"Oh, God," Elenore says. "I'm so … Soda, I'm so sorry."
"Don't," he says softly. "It's …"
"No."
She stands abruptly and makes her way toward the front door. She's not really sure how she's doing it. She just feels weightless.
"Um, I need to leave," Elenore says.
"Elenore, I'm …"
She throws up her hands.
"Stop," she says. "I know I have to go. I know you want me to go. So, just let me."
Soda nods. It's about all he can do, Elenore thinks.
She reaches for the door, but before she pulls it open, she stops. She closes her eyes and tries to think about where she'd rather be. As soon as her vision is clear, she opens her eyes and looks at Soda again. There is still no color in his face.
(He doesn't look upset, either, which is the worst part.)
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Elenore says. "I'm going back to New York."
"Yeah," Soda says in a voice that Elenore doesn't recognize. "I know."
"When I get back, there's some stuff I have to take care of."
Soda nods again. He still doesn't look upset, and Elenore's guts are still tangled up because of it.
"I won't bother you after I do it," she says.
"Elenore."
"You'll hear about it from somebody, but it won't be me."
"I know what you're doin'. You gotta stop. I might've told you what's what here, but that don't mean you get to act like a fuckin' baby about it. That ain't learnin'. That's a guilt trip. You're forty-three. Mighta flown twenty years ago, even, but it ain't gonna fly now. You know that."
Elenore inhales sharply. She's careful not to blink. She's not mad at Soda. She's mad that he's right, but she's not mad at him.
She could never be mad at Soda.
"Soda?" she says.
Her voice is steady and strong – just as Lucy and Dally would want it to be.
"Yeah?"
She stops and wonders if it's the right thing to say.
"I'm sorry."
She doesn't give him a chance to respond, and she doesn't check to see how he reacts once she's out the door. She just walks back down the street, thinking about what he said and how it's true. She has loved him with all her heart, but she has not respected him. She has loved her family with all her heart, but she has not respected them.
Elenore hasn't loved herself at all.
It's time to go home.
"Look, Mom!"
Elenore barrels into the apartment with her first junior-high report card. She's twelve years old on a Friday afternoon, and everything feels possible. The leaves outside the living room window are red and gold.
Lucy sits on the couch grading papers, but as soon as she sees Elenore, she puts it all down and pats for her girl to sit down.
"Hey, babe," she says. "What do you have there?"
"It's my first seventh-grade report card," Elenore says. "Do you want to see?"
"Is the pope Catholic?"
"Are you?"
Lucy laughs and pulls Elenore closer to her. She kisses the top of her head, and Elenore feels lovely.
"You're the funniest kid in the world," Lucy says. "Let me see the proof that you're also the smartest."
Elenore tenses up and covers the last class with her thumb. Lucy looks over and reads out loud. She has the biggest smile.
"Let's see," she says. "English, A. History, A. Science, A. Art, A. Physical Education, A … you're getting an A in P.E.?"
"Yeah," Elenore says.
"Impressive. I could never pull that off. You really are one hell of a kid, aren't you?"
Elenore shrugs. She's just happy she's going to get away with it.
"Wait a minute," Lucy says. "You take six classes at school all day."
"No, I don't," Elenore says. It's a stupid lie, though it's not the most stupid lie she'll ever tell.
"Yes, you do. Where's math?"
Elenore sighs and lifts her thumb. There it is. In math, she earned a B+. Lucy laughs.
"I knew it!" Elenore says. "I knew you'd think it wasn't good enough!"
"Elenore!" Lucy says. "That's not why I'm laughing. I'm not laughing at you. I'd never do that. I'm laughing because we're so much alike."
"How?"
"Well, because I was an A student … in everything but math. The numbers just didn't make any sense to me, and when I saw them, I'd just get so nervous. I tried taking the numbers and spelling them out on my quizzes, too. Like, 'T-W-O' plus 'T-W-O,' but that didn't work. Plus, my teachers just got mad at me."
"Teachers get mad all the time. It's like it's their favorite thing to do."
"Hmm, professors get mad, too, but they have reasons."
"What are their reasons?"
"Capitalism, mostly."
Elenore nods. It makes a little sense to her. Really, she's just glad to sit this close to her mom on the couch. Her mom loves her a lot, but she's not a cuddly woman. When she chooses to hold Elenore, though … that's the best.
"You don't have to hide a B+ from me," Lucy says. "I think a B+ in seventh-grade math is pretty great."
That's when Dally walks into the room and enters the conversation like he's been there the whole time.
"Damn, Bennet," he says. "You sure you're the same broad you always been?"
Lucy looks at him with those stern eyes of hers. Elenore can't wait until she learns how to stare down a man like her mother can.
"I don't know what you think you're getting at," Lucy says.
"Nothin'. I just remember my wife wantin' to throw herself off a bridge for gettin' a B minus in some science class or somethin'. Wanted to check and see if this is still my wife."
Elenore looks at Lucy, perturbed. And here, she should have known.
"If it's OK for me to get a B, why is it bad for you?" Elenore asks.
Lucy sighs.
"When I was younger, I held myself to what they call impossible standards," Lucy says. "And I wasn't very kind to myself when I was in school. But I knew, in the back of my mind, that a B on a transcript wasn't going to kill me. It wasn't going to end the world or end my career. It was just a B – the same letter that starts my last name."
Elenore sighs and curls up closer to Lucy. To her surprise (and delight), Lucy warms to it.
"I just want you to be kind to yourself," Lucy says. "I'm working on it, too. If you ever catch me being impossible, about you or about myself, will you call me out?"
"I don't know," Elenore struggles.
"Elenore. I'm asking. Please. Be my teammate?"
She grins so brightly she swears she blinds herself.
"OK, Mom," she says. "I will."
Eventually, Elenore winds back up at Darry and Lynnie's house. She finds Elenore sitting at the kitchen table with Ponyboy and Carrie, just like she found her on the day after they all got there.
"I'm only saying," Veronica says. "If you're going to call yourself a humorist, you might as well try to be funny."
"Are you kidding me?" Pony asks. "Ya know Me Talk Pretty One Day doesn't have a single bad review to its name."
"Except for mine!"
"You got no taste, Veronica Winston."
"I have a taste. My taste is that there should be more women writing funny books about themselves."
"You're tellin' me you got no love in your heart for 'Santaland Diaries?'"
"I especially have no love in my heart for 'Santaland Diaries.'"
Pony laughs, and Elenore's heart clenches. He gets to laugh with her, and in a moment, Elenore will have to make them cry. She hates him. She hates that she can't get rid of him. She hates that she doesn't even want to.
"Humor is subjective, Ponyboy," Veronica says. "You're a writer. I would have thought you'd know."
"Ah, but I ain't never written anything funny in my whole life," he says. "Carrie, what's the word they used to describe my last one?"
"Wrenching," Carrie says. "The word was wrenching."
"There ya go. I ain't funny. I'm wrenching."
Elenore wants to laugh, but not because it's funny – because it's wrenching.
"Veronica, if you're interested in humor and subjectivity, you might want to check out Taking Laughter Seriously," Carrie says. "It's philosophical, but that's never stopped you before. I have a copy. I could let you borrow it if you wanted."
Veronica beams, and she is brilliant.
"Thanks, Carrie," Veronica says. "Mind if I grab it on Monday? If we're going back to business as usual, that is."
"Aww, honey. We wouldn't know what to do without Monday nights with you."
Elenore grips onto the wall and watches them.
This is the way it should be.
She walks all the way into the kitchen and puts her hands on Veronica's shoulders. Veronica doesn't say a word. She just makes a long face.
"Sorry, Ponyboy," Elenore says. "But my kid's right about David Sedaris."
Ponyboy gives her a look because he notices what she says.
"Sure, sure," he mutters.
"If you don't mind, I'm going to steal Veronica for a minute," Elenore says. "There's some stuff we have to sort out before we head back to the city tomorrow."
"Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of them," Veronica says. "Right?"
Elenore sighs. She doesn't have an answer. She's got a million quips up her sleeve, but she doesn't have an answer. It's taken her more than forty years to realize they're not the same.
Carrie stands up from the table and clears her throat just a little.
"Um, we can get out of here," she says. "Can't we?"
Pony stands up, too, but Elenore can tell he doesn't want to. He mutters something on his way out. Before he makes it out of the kitchen, he stops and looks at Elenore.
"You OK?" he asks.
Elenore clicks her tongue, and Ponyboy turns around. He should have known better. He should have known better, but he never does.
Once Pony and Carrie are gone, Elenore turns her eyes on Veronica. She gasps a little when she sees the look on her face.
She looks so much like her aunt and uncle did today.
"Where have you been all day?" Veronica asks.
She doesn't sound angry. She just sounds … tired.
Elenore makes everyone tired.
"Oh, I've been around," Elenore says. "We're going back tomorrow."
"I know."
"And we're going to see Grandma and Grandpa."
"I thought we would."
Elenore sighs. She's not sure what she's doing here or what she wants to say. All she knows is that she wants a moment with her baby. It's been so long since Veronica was just her baby.
"You asked me this morning if my mother was a good mother," Elenore says. "And I told you she was."
"Yeah," Veronica says. "What? Did you go out and change your mind?"
She says it like she wouldn't be surprised, and Elenore feels her heart break a thousand times. She did not know love before she knew Veronica.
"No," Elenore says. "No, I know she was a good mother. I know she still is. I guess what I want to know is … am I a good mother, Veronica? Have I been a good mother to you?"
Veronica doesn't say anything for a very, very long time. Elenore does not cry. She cannot look weak – not in front of the one person who needs to think she's strong.
"Yeah," Veronica says. "I wouldn't trade you for anybody."
Elenore bites her lip and smiles. But then, of course, it's not over.
"Just do me a favor, Mom," Veronica says. "Be happy. Don't marry Pete."
Elenore doesn't say a word. She just nods.
"Don't worry, babe," Elenore finally says. "I'm gonna be happy."
As soon as we get home, I'm going to see my parents.
Chapter title is a quote from The Naked Brothers Band Movie, which I watched with my little sister a lot on Nickelodeon in 2007.
As for the more obscure references: There aren't many this time! But "More Today Than Yesterday" is a song from the late sixties. The most famous version was recorded by The Spiral Staircase. Taking Laughter Seriously is a real book from the eighties.
Hinton owns The Outsiders. I own very comfortable pajama pants.