in order to understand this fic, please see previous fics in this series, starting with "a land of milk, honey, and blood." this follows "a river of honey, spirits, and blood"
"—oh the savior, came!" the sound of tammy faye bakker's voice is deep, joyous and overall, loud. that is what jerks molly out of her sleep, the dishes falling out of her lap, clattering onto the carpet and dining room table louder than what she anticipated.
a groan leaves her as she watches the image of the evangelical woman, caked in make up to the high heavens themselves, sings on the television. her head throbs from the alcohol last night, the general feeling of exhaustion, and the stress of the past few months.
well, maybe not stress so much as excitement. molly rights herself on the couch, not bothering to fix her robe, picking up the cup, the platter, the spoon. it's still so early in the morning that the sun hasn't peeked out yet, and two-bit still hasn't called yet. he'd told her to wait for him, and even though she'd fallen asleep, something in her tells her she hadn't missed it.
so she gathers everything up, shuffling her way from the living room and into the kitchen. it's mostly cleaned up, and she sticks everything in the dishwasher, sticking her tongue out at the way her mouth feels. it takes a jerk of the faucet to run water, and she leans on the counter, waiting for it to get a little cooler. all the while, the television pumps out tammy faye's song, her glitzy songs and false devotion.
"why couldn't you do this, two?" molly fishes a hand into her pocket, as if he's there, rooting around for a cigarette. her red hair is a curly mess, and when she grasps the cigarette, she puts it to her mouth, glancing at the television.
if he were there, he'd quip back that irene cade was always her interest, and irene cade was always something she was fascinated by — all the with the undertone of who she really resembled.
in any case, two bit was out chasing marshals and cops and darry curtis. someone needed to keep things organized at the house, and more importantly, he would never be able to talk about irene cade the way molly could.
she was the one with notebooks full of notes, the one who attached things to two bit's articles with notes, the one who could better see through her annoying veil, the one who understood. so this was her beat, and if she had to suffer through it, than she would.
she lights the cigarette with her lighter, and ties the robe around her tighter. it aggravates her middle a little, waves of pain arcing upward. molly tries to ignore it, moving to the drawer to root through the junk for a pen — not a pencil — the spare notebook she usually kept around, and the tape recorder she specifically put there the night before.
all of them come easily, and when she grasps two bit's tulsa world mug, she sticks it under the now cold water until it's full. then she shuts off the faucet, and makes her way to the couch. she plonks down onto it, and starts writing, as usual the reminders at the top: irene cade, widowed in 1969. mother to johnny cade, murdered in 1965 by dallas winston. the woman who ran the evangelical, religious crowd of tulsa, a pentecostal by nature who loved her spots on television, who always tried her damndest to make sure that everyone knew—
"and now, today's guest," the channel switches over from the normal praise the lord show to regular tulsan programming. it's familiar, the chairs, the way the studio was arranged to give the audience the best view. the announcer has coiffed hair that's honestly a pitiful version of bob sheldon's already pitiful looking hair, teeth achingly straight, chin jutting out, "is the formidable, yet ever faithful, irene cade."
"how much did she pay you to get on here, chip?" molly snarks from her position on the couch. "i bet you didn't try to pat her ass."
the program continues unabated, the lights falling on the clapping audience as irene cade descends. if there was one thing that could be said, it was that irene was certainly johnny's mother. they had those same dark, wide eyes, the same dark hair, and similar almost dusky skin. but where molly's memories sometimes could coyly offer that johnny had at least sometimes looked approachable, irene cade — even under the glitzy lights, even as she gives a smile out to the audience — is an iron rod. nothing about her can even pretend to be warm, even if she wore those long sleeved outfits, even if she tried to put on as little make up possible, even if she tries to make herself seem like a good, loving, caring mother.
all molly can see is a cold little snake with pearls for teeth as she says, "thank you very much for having me, chip. i never thought that one day i would be here, able to speak about my prayers being answered." molly can't help but to throw one of the wrappers she has at the television in utter annoyance. "i've waited so long for the lord to hear me, for the lord to deliver this blessing. and he finally has."
there's scattered claps and chip looks like he has outright rigor mortis on his face from the smile he has. "so, irene — i take that to mean you were as shocked as we were, hearing the news about dallas winston?"
irene shakes her head — and molly can't believe the fact that so many people are going to eat this bullshit up — and her tone takes on that annoying quality it always has, full of false piety. "in truth, i knew it in my soul that one day, johnathan's killer would be found. i knew that god would deliver this man to the right authorities in time, that he would do so not on the time of the flesh, but on the time of the divine." there are murmurs and molly scribbles down the words as fast as irene can say it. "i had hoped, of course, that it would be faster. that maybe god's time would align with mine. and now it finally has. he has finally delivered johnathan's killer to the right men and i feel blessed to be alive to see it."
chip turns to the audience, that stupid mic held up close to his mouth. "and it was something, wasn't it?"
footage rolls out then: a police car, driving up to the tulsa jail. and for all the emotions irene cade is attempting to stir up, nothing gets her like this: the sight of dallas in the back of the car, his hair still long, a little unkempt. he's in one of the worst muzzles molly has ever seen deployed on an alpha, mostly steel that's clearly wedged between his teeth in a large, awful metal bit that shines with every camera flash. the muzzle is clearly a size too small with how tight it is on his cheek, with the way it cleaves to his face. it looks to be attached tightly and as the door is open even she can hear the angry snarl he gives.
he's hauled out of there by a deputy, two men on either side. they're all bigger than him, but even as he's walked to the steps of the jail, molly can sense how nervous they are through the screen even though dallas is cuffed, muzzled, and she suspects, is cuffed at the ankles, too. "no tranq," she mutters, writing it down. "not protocol for alphas?" she feels fairly certain that it is — alphas that are aggressive are supposed to be. "photo op?"
in any case, from molly's end, it's not a very sensational clip. dallas isn't fighting back, he isn't snarling. if anything he's tense, angry — but allowing the arrest to happen. which lines up with what two bit had reported on weeks before: that dallas had willingly given ponyboy up to the marshals, that he had allowed them to take him.
"shit," molly frowns, as the clip goes back to chip. "forgot to look for the mating mark."
she lets that go in favor of looking at irene's face. at how stiff she is, at how unforgivingly stern she is as chip continues, voice cloying, "i haven't ever seen an alpha taken into custody like that, not since i was a child. to have a muzzle like that—"
"it is his true nature, is it not?" irene cuts in, blunt as a rock. "i've talked to so many children from that time. it was well known to so many people that he was a delinquent, a gambler, with so much violence in him. violence he inflicted on ponyboy curtis for over a decade, violence that took my johnathan away from me." right on cue her voice trembles in that scripted, perfect timing that molly has seen for years now. "he was — if the proper action had been taken earlier, my johnathan would still be with me. he had all the world in front of him before he died — he was on his way to new york university. he was smart, he was kind," and that that molly has to roll her eyes, "and that monster took him away from me. he robbed me of johnathan and i praise the lord that the curtises finally have an answer for their boy after all these years even if… the answer isn't necessarily a—"
"well, irene—" chip interrupts before the innuendo, the assumption can be furthered. the one always whispered about since molly was a teen, that dallas had violated ponyboy, that johnny had been defending him to no avail. "given the state mr. curtis was in, we still—"
"i have a good relationship with the curtises," her voice snaps so cleanly, so harshly that even molly flinches, "and what i know is that ponyboy didn't come out of the jaws of that beast unscathed. how could he?"
there's sweat on chip's brow and molly chews her lips. "c'mon, reel her in stupid. before she shoots you both—"
"well, irene, we're going to go on a brief break," chip says and molly can see irene glowering. her mouth opens and then a commercial does, indeed, cut in.
molly sighs, leans back onto the couch. it was good he had the sense to cut her off before more could be said. irene cade had only gotten more devout, more furious over the years and molly doesn't know that chip is willing to risk his station over her potentially saying something incendiary over the air.
she's proven right — when the program cuts on, chip is back but not irene. no longer needed, molly reaches over, mutes the television and sighs. this was only going to get worse.
just in time, the phone rings. cursing, molly gets uo, scrambles and grasps the phone, "two?"
"hey, darlin'," he chirps over the line. "how's my little cousin? feeling the spirit of the lord this morning?"
"oh, boy, like you wouldn't believe," molly sighs out. "irene cade has never seen a moment she can't use to talk about her dead kid." she glances at the television — there's that fucking photo she's seen for years now, the one on every editorial about the case: johnny in that red jacket of his, smiling beautifically, hair arranged in the Beatles cut, dressed to the nines. it was his class picture and she feels like throwing her phone at it as it's juxtaposed with ponyboy's old photo of him at the cotillion, hair nice and in a yellow outfit. and in between all three is dallas winston's new mugshot: the muzzle leaving impressions in his cheek and nose, dark eyes glaring, fangs bared. "she's going on like a battle axe."
"that ain't too surprising," two muses on the line — unbidden, a wave of pain makes it's way up molly's hips and she winces. "i finally got access to records about the arrests, what they got so far and i'm trying to see if they'll let me talk to either ponyboy or dallas. it's a real walk in the park, i tell you."
molly frowns, leaning against the wall. "he didn't look good on the tv. they had him shackled to the nines."
two bit sighs over the line. "wasn't fair. he hasn't resisted since he got into custody. they ain't playing fair though— he wasn't tranq'd when he was brought in—"
"i knew it—"
"-muzzle was too small, and they let people see him get fingerprinted and cuffed," two lets out a frustrated sound. "that mugshot is gonna be all over the news and it's… i don't know, people change all the time but i gotta tell you, it's weird. he ain't fighting, he's not denying anything. he's just letting it all happen." molly can hear him shift on the other side. "the dallas i knew used to talk back, you remember when they got him for slashing tires. it's just… odd. and the curtises are tight lipped right now, even soda."
"something's up," it's an obvious thing to say, but sometimes the obvious has to be stated. "you told me how dallas came in, and the way he's acting…" molly chews at her bottom lip. "you always believed he didn't force himself. i thought so too. exc—"
"no one's talking. no one knows what's going through pony's head, dallas ain't say a peep, and you know i don't trust cops and only a few feds are worth it," two bit makes a frustrated sound. "i'll still try to get to him, see if maybe he's up for visitors. if soda calls, just let me know."
there's a beat of silence, and then molly says, "you still coming back, by the end of the week?" she doesn't want to push for more because they both know what's going on is bigger than themselves. but she's still in pain. she still doesn't want to have to talk about it, about the way she feels at the moment, except two bit is two bit and they've always been attached to the other's hip. even if she hasn't had to said the words out loud, she thinks that he knows what she's talking about.
and he follows through, voice softening on the line. "promise. hell or high water. ain't good for you to be alone as is."
she smiles and the pain abates. "thanks, two. i'll see you then."
"take care now," he says, and she hangs up.
for a moment, she leans on the counter again, thinks of the appointments she's going to have to make. and then she brushes it aside, turns the television off. out winks another picture of dallas, muzzled and she gathers her notes, her mug, and goes up to her room.
her desk is waiting for her, and she presses play on the cassette player. music starts to play and molly pulls out the files she's got on irene cade, carefully kept up for almost twenty years now. it's thick, full of what she's said and done.
not for the first nor last time, the picture of irene, her husband, and johnny look up at her and molly turns over how they appear. how neat, how they all seemed to be the perfect picture of wealth. they were three times, if not five times richer than the curtises back in 1965 and now, the curtises had started to surpass them.
in the photo, they're frozen together, and not for the first time, molly's eye shift over the picture, picking up what a tight grip irene has on her son's shoulder enough to make the suit crease deeply, can't help except see how johnny cade smiles in a way that's distant, frozen, close to rigor mortis.
whatever he was in life, he had become deified in death in a way that wore away anything else, utterly eclipsed the reality of things. he could no longer be afforded humanity through faults; it was only through a portrait glossy, sharp, and without flaw that he could be seen and to suggest he was anything else was a sin in irene cade's eyes.
how fucking sad, molly thinks. to have had a real son only to paper over him in pursuit of something irene couldn't even touch.
she arranges her notes, turns the volume up on the iron maiden cassette tape and lets her eyes flick to the few photos of her and her mother that had survived all this time. she looks similar to irene in the way she looks in the photo, with the tight grip she has on molly's shoulder. except, at least, in that photo, molly is six and not sixteen. it had been one of the few times her mother had even cared to meet her and at least, molly had her father.
she blows smoke at the picture, and begins to get to work.
