Author's Note: As you get toward the end of the chapter, keep in mind – Ponyboy has not had a cigarette in almost two days. Nicotine withdrawal is an ugly thing!
Disclaimer: The Outsiders is owned by S.E. Hinton. I made everyone else up (don't they seem so real, though! hehe).
Dedication: This one goes out to my awesome cousin Kev and my stellar cousin Brit, who are both working hard and aiming high so we can all sleep better at night. Love ya, Grandpop would be proud!
This chapter is one of those where I am trying to get from A to C, and we can't skip B. Sorry, but I can't rewrite the alphabet. Hope you all enjoy!
Pony's POV
I gripped the steering wheel like it would have escaped if I'd loosened up as I tried not to think about the day I'd just had. I was just happy to be going home finally; it was after seven, damp and raining. When the red Thunderbird cut me off, I pounded my fist on the dash and wished I hadn't smoked my last cigarette of the week the previous morning. It had been one of those days, and I hoped it would start going uphill soon. At least it was Friday.
Steve had called me just after nine in the morning to let me know that one of his waitresses was out for the fourth day in a row, and hadn't bothered to call in this morning. Normally the goings-on in his diner would have nothing to do with me, but this was a girl that he had hired on my behalf. Tracey was nineteen, and had been left caring for her three younger siblings early in the year when they'd lost their mother to cancer. The father had taken off years ago and was nowhere to be found. Steve was letting me know what was going on before social services was officially notified that Tracey had been negligent with her employer.
I arrived at the house about half an hour later. It was a run-down little place, with chipping paint, wobbly steps, and a broken doorbell. Darry had fixed the leaky roof over the summer at a severely reduced cost. He hadn't even wanted Tracey to pay him at all, but respected her pride and allowed her to cover the cost of the materials.
I knocked on the door. Ron, the eleven-year-old, peered through at me a couple of minutes later, then opened the door and greeted me with a smile. They were all nice kids. The little ones were just five and seven years old. "Hey Ron, where's Tracey?"
"Ron, who is it?" came a tired voice from inside the house.
"It's the social worker," he answered.
I heard some scrambling around, and something dropped onto the floor, before Tracey pulled Ron out of the way and stood in front of me. She wasn't smiling. In fact, she looked hideous – hair unkempt, eyes watery with dark circles under them, pale, nose red and raw, wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms – in short, she looked like hell.
"Hi, Tracey," I greeted her. "Steve called me this morning to tell me you haven't been at work. I called the school, and they said the kids have been out all week. What's going on?"
"We're sick," she croaked. Clearly.
"I need to come in and check things out," I told her, and saw the panic cross her face before she stood out of my way.
The living room was a disaster. There were toys, pieces of toys, papers, books, newspapers, crayons, dirty bowls, and crumpled tissues scattered all over the floor and furniture. One of the kids was lying on one side of the couch huddled under a blanket. I put my clipboard down and headed for the kitchen. The sink and counters were loaded with dirty dishes, crumbs, pieces of food, empty soup cans, medicine bottles, and…a cockroach. The refrigerator was almost empty, containing only about a nano-gallon of milk, an egg, two slices of cheese, and your standard condiments, like ketchup and mustard. The cabinets weren't much fuller. I found a bread bag with three slices of moldy bread; a can of beans, an almost-empty jar of peanut butter, and some canned vegetables. I didn't even bother with the bedrooms.
I walked back out to the living room. Tracey dropped down onto the couch in defeat, put her forehead in her hands, and waited for me to tell her what time I would be coming to take her family away from her. I sighed. No one should have to go through something like this. I remembered all too well the fear that overtook my brothers and I sometimes in the beginning, when it would feel like we had made a horrible mistake that would convince the state that Darry was completely incapable of taking care of us.
I startled Tracy when I put my hand on her forehead. She felt at least as warm as she looked, and her teeth were chattering. "Go to bed, Tracey," I told her. "Take the little ones and go to bed. I'll have Ron with me." Ron appeared to be getting over whatever bug they had. He was pale and a little shaky, but no fever, and he seemed at least a little upbeat. Tracey looked up at me in bewilderment; I watched silent tears roll down her face. "Go on. Go get some sleep. We'll be back in a couple of hours."
She didn't ask any questions. I carried her sister to one of the bedrooms and laid her on the double bed with the little brother. Tracey crawled in between them and pulled up the covers.
"Let's go, kid." Ron followed me out to my car, visibly happy to be getting out of the house.
We went to the grocery store first. It took an hour, but we left with a cart full of basic needs – milk, bread, eggs, juice, soup, cheese, canned fruit, frozen vegetables, chicken, canned tuna, canned ham, etc. I let Ron pick out a box of cookies, too, figuring it probably wasn't something that their budget allowed. Melissa and I weren't swimming in money either, especially after buying the house, but there was at least enough left over to buy someone a week's worth of food and a box of cookies on top of it.
After the grocery store we headed up to the diner. One of the waitresses went back to get Steve when we arrived.
"Pony!" Steve grinned when he saw me, and nodded at Ron. "What's going on?"
"This is Tracey's brother, Ron," I introduced. "Do you have a minute?"
"Yeah, sure. Mike, bring the kid a milkshake," Steve told the guy behind the counter. Ron sat down on one of the stools to have his milkshake, and Steve led me over to an empty booth. "What's the deal with Tracey?"
"She's sick. They all are. Looks like the flu or something. Is it going to be a problem if she's not here for the next couple of days? I don't see her getting much better even by tomorrow."
Steve shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Let me know if she needs a small advance to cover her bills. She's a good worker." It really pays to have connections. Steve knows the score, he knows how easy it is to slip behind through no fault of your own, and he takes care of the people who depend on him. I used to hate him. Then…I don't know. I guess we just grew up.
"How's Fizz doing?" I asked.
"Sick. Everybody's getting this flu. I was up half the night with him." I noticed for the first time how tired Steve looked.
"What about Shelly?"
He rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding? It was enough getting her out of bed in the middle of the night to get him a bottle when he was a baby. It's not her 'thing'," he finished bitingly.
I had to hand it to Steve – he didn't get along with the woman he had married, but no way was he turning his home into the one he had grown up in. The primary reason he gave in to his wife so frequently was to avoid hassling with her in front of their son. Fizz was a happy, smiling six-year-old, and the best thing that could have ever happened to Steve. He was born while Sodapop was in Vietnam, and although Steve and I were getting along by that point, even going out and doing things together sometimes, he was lonely; Fizz helped filled that void in his life, and brought him joy like I'd never seen in Steve in all the years I've known him.
I should probably explain how Steve's son got his nickname. The night Shelly went to the hospital to have the baby, Steve had come to our house to pace and tap and fidget. Darry had been about ready to strangle him, and finally just went to bed early. I stayed up with Steve until the call came around 2:30am, letting us know that he had a son. After a celebration smoke for us and a beer for Two-Bit (he had actually been celebrating most of the night, come to think of it, and was on his fifth or sixth beer at least) I asked Steve what they were naming the kid. "Steven Junior," he announced proudly. "What are you calling him?" I had asked, thinking that having two Steves in the house would be confusing. It hadn't occurred to him. "How about calling him by his initials?" I suggested. "S.R.?" he asked doubtfully. "You think we should call him S.R.?" Two-Bit, who hadn't been paying the least bit of attention, looked over at us. "You're calling the kid scissor?" he asked in astonishment. Steve and I glanced at each other, and Steve rolled his eyes. "No, not scissor…" he began, but Two-Bit cut him off. "Why not use Fiskars? You know, the people who make those orange-handled scissors." Fiskars. Can you believe Two-Bit? He continued, "I'd shorten it to Fis, though; naming a kid after a pair of scissors is a little odd, Steve." Two-Bit sat there practicing with the name 'Fis' for a few minutes. "Come here, Fis. Get me my shoes, Fis. Hey Fis, tell your mom to bring me a beer." He shook his head. "No, don't work. Too hard to say." He scratched his head. "Fizz would work, though. Yeah, Fizz. Good work, Steve, I think you've come up with an excellent name for your son." So at the tender age of one hour, Steve's firstborn had a nickname that had come about through five iterations of his own name, starting with Steve and ending with Fizz. It sounded dumb at the time, but for some reason it stuck, and now I can't imagine calling him anything else. It fits him, too – with his energy and spunk, he's one of the most effervescent kids I know.
After Ron had finished his milkshake we headed back to his house to put the food away. He helped out by straightening up and vacuuming the living room while I made a phone call to Mrs. Baxter, a woman from Melissa's mom's church who organized other church members in preparing meals for, and otherwise assisting, those community members who were in need. I had called her once before; they were nice people, and you didn't need to be a member of the church for them to help you.
After making arrangements with Mrs. Baxter I set about cleaning up the kitchen. It took a good couple of hours, and by the time I was done Ron had fallen asleep on the couch. I snuck into the bedroom and found Tracey staring at the ceiling.
"Are you taking them away?" she asked.
"No," I answered simply, sitting on the edge of the bed. "There's food in the refrigerator and in the cabinets, and a couple of women will be stopping by in a little while with some dinner. Don't fight it," I added, seeing her expression harden, "and don't think of it as a handout – you can join their band of helpers when things are looking up a little if you want."
"Is that your official Social Services recommendation?" she asked with a slight smile.
I grinned back at her. "No. As far as you're concerned, I was here for twenty minutes and everything was under control. Your job is waiting for you when you get better, by the way. I talked to Steve. Let him know if you need an advance."
Tracey crawled out of the bed when I stood up, and followed me into the living room. "Thanks, Mr. Curtis. I'll pay you back for the food."
I waved my hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. I've been there. Just get some rest and keep taking care of these kids. You're doing a great job. Oh," I finished, "and don't call me Mr. Curtis. It's Pony. Mr. Curtis was my dad." Tracey smiled and nodded, and I left. It was hard to believe she was only five years younger than me.
By the time I got back to my office it was after three o'clock. I still had a pile of folders and a stack of paperwork to fill out, and none of it could wait until Monday. Sighing, I sank down into my chair and got to work.
The paperwork wouldn't have taken too long on its own, but on top of it I had to make several phone calls pertaining to the paperwork, and got stuck talking to possibly every idiot who had ever set foot in the social services branch of the Oklahoma government.
Four hours later my hair was sticking out in all directions, my phone cord was wrapped up so tightly I had to lean down across the desk, and my teeth were ground a few millimeters shorter. On top of it I was starving, having skipped lunch and worked straight through dinner time.
Finally, I was pulling into the driveway at home. I swerved just in time to miss our trash can, which Melissa had obviously forgotten to take back to the side of the house, then stepped out of the car and narrowly avoided tripping over Vic's skateboard, which I rolled to the side. It went straight under the bushes. Good, maybe he would remember to take better care of his things when he couldn't find half of them.
When I stepped through the front door I tripped across two pairs of shoes, which I kicked out of the way, on my way to the coat closet. Heading into the living room I picked up the pile of newspapers that had slid off of the hall table, separated them from the important mail that had gotten mixed in, dropped the whole mess, and finally gave up in exasperation.
I turned the corner to find Melissa stretched out on the sofa, paging through a magazine. There were some papers and shoes on the floor, a dirty cup on the coffee table, and miscellaneous odds and ends scattered about because nobody had bothered to take them back to the rooms they belonged in. Melissa looked up and flashed me a big smile as I came in, which I didn't return.
"How was work?" she asked, sobering a little.
"Same old thing. Where's Vic?"
"I let him go to the football game with Darry and Jenn," she answered. Who?
"Who?" I said out loud.
"You know, Darry. Your brother." She was trying to be funny, and I just wasn't in the mood. "You know what I meant," I snapped, picking papers up off the floor. I was starting to feel like a maid, after my house call at Tracey's in the morning.
"I told you about Jenn," Melissa said. "Remember? That woman he's seeing? I saw them at the grocery store last weekend…" she trailed off.
"Oh, right." I had no idea what she was talking about. I had no doubt she had actually told me all about it, but probably while I was reading something. Can't she wait until I'm not reading to tell me things?
"Vic was supposed to be on punishment this weekend," I told her, knowing she already knew that and annoyed that she had undermined my authority. Vic was not the type of kid you wanted working you against each other.
"He's been so good the last week and a half," she said, which was true, and which I had also noticed, "I just thought tonight would be a good night to let him go out for a while. He even drew me a picture in art class. Are you mad?"
"No," I lied, even more irritated that she had fallen for his obvious manipulation. "Is there any dinner?" I asked, changing the subject before things got ugly.
"I put yours in the oven. I'll come in and sit with you." I knew she was trying to keep things smoothed over. She could probably tell there was something wrong, and was trying to salvage the evening before it completely fell apart. I wish I had worked with her.
I went into the kitchen to get my dinner, moving some of the dirty dishes off the counter and into the sink so there was room to get something to drink. About two days worth of dishes were already piled in the sink. I opened the oven and pulled out my foil-covered plate of dinner, took the foil off, sat down across the table from Melissa, and started eating. We sat there in silence for a few minutes while I ate.
"The chicken is dry," I finally commented. I can't stand dry chicken.
"Yeah, I know, sorry. I left it in too long." More silence.
"What's wrong?" she asked after a minute.
"Nothing."
"Are you sure?" she persisted.
"Yes," I snapped, "everything's fine."
"You seem angry."
I shook my head. "Just let it go." I couldn't shake the frustratingly tense feeling that had overtaken me. I wanted to throw something.
"So then you are angry."
"I'm not angry!" I shot back.
"Then why are you yelling?" she pointed out.
"Because you won't stop bugging me!" I shouted. We've never argued before. Disagreements, yes. Arguments, no.
Melissa was starting to look more angry than concerned. "If there's something bothering you, just say it," she told me, voice quavering slightly.
"I've had a busy day. And it didn't end with work," I added bitingly.
She picked up on my insinuation immediately. "I'm sorry about the house, Pony, I just didn't get to it." I remembered her lounging on the couch flipping through a magazine. Why is this bothering me, I kept thinking? "I'm tired too when I get home," she continued.
"You get home two hours ahead of me," I pointed out, "four today."
"It isn't easy, Pony," Melissa complained. "Making sure Vic starts his homework, getting dinner started, and I'm tired. You aren't exactly perfect," she finally snapped in frustration.
"At least I could clean a house and cook a goddamned chicken by the time I was FOURTEEN!" I exploded, standing up and letting the chair fall to the floor behind me. If I had reached across the table and slapped Liss across the face I wouldn't have been able to get her to look the way she was looking at that moment. And it probably would have hurt her less.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. No, that's not right, I could think alright. 'I hate myself, I hate myself'…it was the only thing running through my head as we stared at each other in stunned silence for an instant. It was our first fight, and I had started it.
I had to get away from her. I just needed five minutes. Five minutes to pull myself out of the downward spiral I was spinning through. Five minutes to breathe and think and stop myself. It turned out to be the last time I would ever think that I needed an extra five minutes before telling someone how sorry I was and how much I loved them.
I turned and hurried to our bedroom, slamming the door behind me and leaning against it with my eyes closed. After a couple of minutes I felt, more than heard, the 'whumph' of the pressure change in the house when the front door was opened, and the thump when it closed. She was probably going to her sister's, about twenty minutes away. I had actually driven my wife out of our home.
A peculiar scent finally caused me to open my eyes. I let out a low groan and wanted to die.
There were lit candles on the dresser, the nightstand, and the chest of drawers. The bed was made, the floor was vacuumed, a skimpy satin nightgown was laid out on Melissa's pillow, and soft music emanated from the radio on the nightstand. I have never felt so horribly guilty in my life. Liss had come home and cleaned and prepared our bedroom, then she had sent Vic over to Darry's so we could have some time alone. I felt sick with shame.
Eventually I wandered back out to the living room and sank onto the couch. I wanted to wait up for Melissa. I needed to talk to her. I had to tell her she was my friend, my life, my world, and I couldn't live without her. I desperately needed her to know how sorry I was, how much it had not been her fault…I loved her…I needed her…I needed to take that look out of her eyes, the look that kept forcing itself to the front of my mind…
-
I nearly fell to the floor stumbling off the couch in the dark, not even quite aware of where my legs were taking me in such a hurry until the kitchen phone rang again.
"Hello?" I answered groggily, my mind still trying to pull itself from sleep.
"Is this Mr. Curtis?" Mr. Curtis? That was me.
"Yes, it is."
"This is Marie Maxwell," she continued, and in its still-confused state my brain scrambled through its files, grasping for who this woman was and coming up empty, even as I tried on some other dimension to comprehend why I was standing in the dark kitchen and what time of what day it was.
"I'm a nurse here in Tulsa Regional Hospital's emergency room."
Everything stopped, every sound, every movement, every attempt to come out of my sleep-induced stupor. The phone trembled slightly against my ear as my hand started to shake, because I knew what was coming next.
"We have your wife here."
Aaahhhh! Stop throwing rotten vegetables at me!
Sorry to end there, but it was either that or make everyone wait until next week to get the whole thing at once. And I'm getting accustomed to these Friday updates…
Now for my reviewers:
Fairlane: Your story is on my favorites list, so I already knew your emails were coming from the other side of the world! You really get my story and characters well, I'm glad. Hope you liked chapter 4, I had to split it so I could get something posted sooner. Chapter 5 should be up soon.
Ktk2005: Thanks for the compliments! I'm glad you like the story and the part about Pony's essay. That's going to crop up again here and there.
Bleezie: Glad you enjoyed! I'll just keep going then…
BonnieBlackCat: Thanks so much for the compliment! I'm really enjoying writing this story, hopefully it keeps delivering for the readers.
goldengreaser: Yes, that is Pony's essay. Vic has a lot of issues, but he's getting there. He's got a lot to figure out, and trust can be a fragile thing.
Ale Curtis-Carter: Wow, capital letters and everything! I'm glad you liked it so much. I have a few ideas about how Vic figures out the story is about Pony, but we're not quite there yet…
Ciderbrat: Glad you like it! Sorry about the itchy nose! I'll probably continue up to about the one-year point, we'll see how it goes.
lil librada: I'm so glad you're enjoying the story! Thanks for the compliments, too! I'm trying to keep everyone in character – chapter 4 was a little different with Ponyboy (I know people who've quit smoking, it's no fun!).
Tensleep: Thanks so much for the review! I appreciate the specifics, too, it's good to know what's working and if the things that I liked the most stood out to others as well. I'm really glad you liked Vic's point of view; it was somewhat of a balancing act to progress him from angry little punk who doesn't need anyone to realizing (to his horror and surprise) that he is getting attached to his new family, all in just a couple of pages. Goes along with 'you don't know what you've got until you think it's gone.'
Kaz456: Thanks! I'm glad the part about Vic reading Ponyboy's story for English went over well, I wasn't sure if it would. Enjoy!
Tessie26: Wow, I love your take on this story. I was trying to get Vic to be seen as a representation of a lot of people, I guess it worked! As far as your question, I have some ideas that will crop up eventually. Keep reading! Chapter 5 should be up soon.
