Chapter 2: Back in Tulsa

It was almost 7:30 when Cinnamon pulled off the highway. Clint had asked several times if she wanted him to drive, but she was awake anyway, used to working the night shift, and in no danger of dozing off. So now, he snored softly in the passenger seat, while 8-year-old Johnny and 5-year-old Sarah slept buckled in the back seat.

Leukemia, Soda had told Clinton, some kind of leukemia. Soda was stumbling over the words, nearly gone to pieces when he heard Cinnamon was working. Clint said the conversation had lasted less than three minutes. It wasn't until Pony had called her cell phone, right before he and his family boarded a 4:30 a.m. flight, that she really knew it what it was.

"Chronic myeloid leukemia," Pony recited carefully. "I had enough time to look on WebMD and scare the shit out of myself. Should I be scared?"

"He's got CML?" Cinnamon whimpered.

"Does chronic means it won't go away?" Pony persisted. "It'snot necessarily … I mean, it's blood cancer, so it's serious, sure, but he's not …"

And then neither of them could speak. They sat in silence, sniffling, until Pony's flight was called.

"Mommy?"

Cinnamon smiled in at her daughter in the rear-view mirror. "Good morning."

"Are we almost there?"

"Almost."

Their conversation woke Clinton, who rubbed his eyes. "Where are we?" he mumbled, staring out the window. "Isn't your brothers' house the next exit?"

"I wanted to go this way," Cinnamon said. She glided to a stop at a red light.

"Going straight to the hospital?" Clint asked.

Cinnamon didn't answer but turned right, toward the heart of the city. A block down, on her left, before the business district, was a rolling green cemetery. Clint reached out and rubbed his wife's shoulder. It was the cemetery where her parents were buried, and her childhood friends, Dallas Winston and Johnny Cade. He looked back at his own Johnny, still sound asleep. It had taken Cinnamon years to be ready to have children, she was so terrified of losing them.

The gas station was six blocks beyond. It wasn't a DX anymore, it was "S&S Gas and Repair" – S and S, for Sodapop Curtis and Steven Randle. They'd become partners a decade ago and Steve still picked Soda up for work every day. Soda didn't have a license – he'd gotten one a few times but let it lapse so many times it wasn't worth the bother. Cinnamon pulled into a space and stopped.

"Mommy?"

"Stay with Daddy, sugar, get out and stretch your legs," Cinnamon said. "I want to go say hello to Uncle Soda."

She stretched herself, stiff from five hours of driving, and crossed the parking lot. She could see Steve through the open garage door, bent over the engine of an old Ford. Cinnamon had never liked Steve but she had always tried to keep her mouth shut for Soda's sake, figuring that there must be something her happy-go-lucky, loving brother saw in him. The trouble was, even after knowing Steve practically her whole life, she still hadn'tfigured out what it was. She hadn't seen Steve in a long time. Even though she got back to Tulsa a couple of times a year, she managed to mostly avoid him.

Steve straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag. "Cinnamon! You like to give me a heart attack! What you all doing here?"

"Hi, Steve," she said. "Where's Sodapop?"

"Cinny."

She turned and flew into Soda's outstretched arms, both of them fighting tears. Soda held her close. He'd been a tightly-wound spring for five months and he hadn't realized how hard it had been until he saw his little sister.

"Since when?" she whispered into his chest.

"March 12," he said softly. The date was embedded in his mind, just like the date of their parents' death and the day that took Johnny and Dally away.

She pulled away and looked at him, horrified. "March 12? March? Five months? Why didn't you call?"

"He told me not to," Soda said simply, and Cinnamon, as stunned and heartbroken as she was, understood. If Darry had asked Soda to jump from a cliff, he would have stepped off the edge without hesitation. "But it's – it's not up to him no more, Cinnamon."

"Where is he?" she asked abruptly. "University Hospital or Saint Francis?"

"He's at Saint Frank's, but Cinnamon, not now. Go on home. Ponyboy and Michelle should be there in a couple of hours and I'll meet you back at the house and explain what happened. Then we can go."

"I'm going now," she said stubbornly.

"He don't know you're here, Cinny," Soda said, just as stubbornly. "And you ain't going over there until I've talked to you both and had time to talk to Darry. And that's all."

"Then come home with me now," she said.

"We promised Mrs. Matthews we'd get her car done," Soda said. "I'll be along."

"What's the matter with you? Work's not more important than this. Come now."

"Glory, Cinnamon," Soda said, both affectionate and exasperated, "I can only tell this once. And how can I sit there with you and not tell you? Go on. You've been driving all night. Let me kiss your kids and then go get some rest."

They walked back to the Rockwell's minivan, where Clinton and Sarah were sitting in the open door. Johnny had just woken up and was yawning, but when he saw his uncle his whole face lit up.

"Hey! Uncle Coca-Cola-Pepsi-Cola-Royal-Crown!" he hollered, sprinting the short distance between them. Soda caught him easily and swung him off the ground, as if he were a toddler and not really a tall-for-his-age third grader. He hugged and kissed his nephew then set him back on his feet, looking at Sarah, sitting shyly in her daddy's lap.

"Who's this grown up girl?" Soda asked. "This can't be Sarah Mary. She's too big."

Sarah rolled her eyes at him and allowed herself to be hugged.

"You're too young for that attitude," Clint scolded her, and stretched out an arm to his brother-in-law. "Hey."

"Hey." Soda hesitated a brief second, then turned the handshake into a hug. "Thank you."

"No problem," Clint said. He suddenly remembered his wedding – though Darry had been the one to actually escort Cinnamon to him, when the minister asked, "Who gives this woman to be married?" all three brothers had said, in unison, "We do." He was now part of that circle, both he and Pony's Michelle, and he sometimes forgot what a privilege that was. "Anything you need, Soda. Anything."

"Go on back to the house," Soda said to him, turning to the children. "Johnnycakes, Sarey, come on, buckle in. I think your cousin made some cake; go on over and see."

Cinnamon had to grin. Soda was almost 40 years old and still ate chocolate cake for breakfast most mornings.