"HE'S A GOOD ENGINEER TO BE A LAYIN' DEAD." - Johnny Cash (Casey Jones)

Momma and Daddy didn't talk about who they were before Tulsa.

We heard about the schoolhouse and the hours Daddy spent beating the chalk dust from the erasers, Momma told us about the one general store in town and the sour candies she'd buy on her way home. But the schoolhouse remained just as nameless as our grandparents - just faded shadows in the pictures Momma kept hidden under her bed. They were reckless and young before Tulsa, before us, but that part of them died the day Darry came home tangled in blue blankets wearing our Daddy's eyes. Where they were before Tulsa was an anonymous bundle of run-down shacks and farmland, a busted sign standing on the outskirts with letters too faded to be read. We would probably drive through it one day and they wouldn't even stop. Not to show us where they learned to read, not where they watched the horses race for days under the intense August sun. Who my parents were before Tulsa was just another skeleton in their closet.

Now, the only person who knew them before Tulsa was a skeleton in a coffin.

I should have realized something was wrong when they were both there when we were home from school. Ponyboy pushed to the front of our gang shamelessly, pulling Johhny up with him. I stood stuck in the middle, Two-Bit on one side of me and Steve on the other, talking loudly with Sodapop. Dally stood behind us, silent and skeptically as Momma pushed herself from her chair and wiped her eyes. Daddy always looked tired when he came home from work, but it didn't hold a candle to how he looked now. The bags under his eyes had never been more prominent, the grey in his hair was more visible than ever. His sigh was deep and quiet, his hand rested heavily on Momma's shoulder while she tried to keep the silent tears from trailing down. Behind Steve, Soda wrapped his hand around mine - it gave me a little comfort as I prepared myself for the worst.

Momma's pills weren't working like they used to. Daddy got laid off. We lost the house. Something happened to Darry.

The thoughts raced through my mind like a stampede of horses, filling me with the worst fears I could muster without breaking down in tears right then and there. None of that happened though - the real thing was a lot worse.

We called him Uncle Jim because he had been Daddy's best friend ever since they rolled into town. They worked together roofing and building houses, he and his wife swung by on the holidays. He was tall and slender, his skin was like copper and his eyes were just as dark as his hair. He kept it pretty long, just enough to be tied back and tucked flat against his back. When I was just learning, he used to sit on the front steps with Daddy and let me braid it when the boys started wrestling over a football. He always smelt of tobacco - but he said it was for "ceremonial purposes" rather than just getting high. His wife was lovely and last I heard, they had a baby on the way. Uncle Jim loved us like his own flesh and blood - and I mean all of us, even after he and Daddy had to bail Dally outta the cooler. We were the closest thing to family either of us had.

"There was an accident at work," Daddy starts nice and soft, "H-he slipped off the ladder, hit his head. Lucy said it ain't lookin' too good."

That night, we all sat in the living room not daring to speak - barely daring to breathe. Us kids busied ourselves with our homework and the odd game of cards, but our hearts weren't in it. I ended up watching Ponyboy and Johnny as Darry flicked back and forth through television channels - the weather, the news, cartoons, or some old cowboy flick I had never heard of. He was just a little kid - Pony, I mean - barely twelve years old. I looked back at Daddy, too, slumped his chair with the neck of an amber bottle grasped in his fist. He was the same age as Uncle Jim.

I knew he was thinking of his friend in the hospital. Thinking about his wife crying in the chair next to him, hands pushed against her building stomach and the baby inside. I knew he was thinking about all the things they had gone through together, and how unfair it seemed that a ladder would finally do him in.

The phone rang at half-passed eleven. Momma and Daddy didn't bother shooing us off to bed, so we all stayed together in the living room, slumped together on the floor, leaning against the sofa. I was leaning my head against Two-Bit's leather-clad shoulder. The jacket stunk of his mother's perfume, old smokes, and cheap booze, but I couldn't be bothered to care. Ponyboy's head was in my lap while he flipped through the pages of his English work. In front of us, Dally and Johnny flipped through a stack of cards and dealt them out to Steve and Sodapop. Darry sat behind me on the couch, occasionally twisting a lock of my hair between his fingers.

Our parents ran to the telephone as soon as it started to cry, shocking all of us out of our delirious states. Daddy answered, his voice was too quiet and muffled to be understood. I don't think any of us wanted to understand though, it would make it much more real. Still, the answer carved its way into my heart when Momma's broken-hearted gasp rang out louder than any telephone. Ponyboy shuffled away from me as Darry rose to his feet, arms wide open and comforting as his face contorted with grief. I hadn't realized the tears had started falling until Two-But patted my shoulder comfortingly and pulled me in closer to him. "It's alright, Marls," he tried, "at least he isn't hurtin' anymore."

None of us moved from the floor that night. Two-Bit never tried to push me away, and I didn't move my face from smothering my tears in his shoulder. Darry fell asleep with Ponyboy's head on his chest on the sofa, the rest of the boys were spread out hazardously over the carpet. Sometime in the night, when our parents were able to force their grief aside, they pulled the quilts from our bedrooms and wrapped them around us. Once our blotchy eyes finally slipped closed, we all slept peacefully - believing for a moment it had all been a nightmare.

Uncle Jim was dead. Everything he owned now belongs to his widowed bride and unborn child. But Two-Bit Mathews was right, he wasn't hurting anymore, and that was the best way to remember him.

Not hurting.

Not like we were. Not like we were gonna be, more rather.

Thursday was bitter and cold. The sun was beating down on us through the thin veil of grey clouds while the wind blew past us - barely blocking out Aunt Lucy's sobs as they finally laid Uncle Jim to rest. It was a small service on our side of town. Nothing too fancy or flashy - his casket was already collapsing in on itself, but I didn't dare point it out. I didn't bother mentioning how itchy my dress was either, even if the wool scratching at my underarms was sure to leave a mark. Sodapop and I stood to the right of our parents with our fingers interlocked. Ponyboy stood between our parents with Momma's hands on his shoulders and tears in her eyes while Daddy tried his best to keep his own at bay. Darry stood off to the left, dressed in a suit we got from the bargain shop the night before. Our eyes locked for a moment when Father Daniel started preaching, just enough to force a sad smile on my lips.

"It is with a heavy heart, we must ask for the Lord to watch over James as he leaves behind the world he once knew-" My nose wrinkled when Father Daniel said that name. I knew Uncle Jim's name was James, James Clark, actually, but it wasn't his birth name. It was at times like Christmas or on our birthdays we'd gather around and listen to the stores he'd tell. He talked about our parents, the day they asked him to be our Godfather, who he was before Tulsa. Before Tulsa, Uncle Jim lived some hundred miles away from here, with his family out on a reserve. James Clark was just a cover he picked up along the way. And now, it would be the name he was forever buried under. I bit at my lips and ran my tongue over my teeth as the wind whistled through my hair and turned my ears red.

Father Daniels droned on and on, the Bible in one hand and rosary beads in the other. I felt kinda guilty when I started to tap my foot against the cold, dead ground, but I couldn't help it. Cemeteries always made me nervous. Just rows upon rows of cement blocks, endless names of people forgotten forever. Even if they werem't forgotten, the would be soon enough. The last time I'd been in here, was when Ponyboy needed inspiration for an essay. What kind of essay required sixth graders to walk through cemeteries? But I went with him anyway and couldn't go any further than the ninth tombstone.

I didn't know Anthony Conners real well, but we greasers always came to a mutual understanding. So when word got around that the John Doe dead on the outskirts of town was him, the yard was full of east siders. No one said anything, we just stood there under the July sun and watched them drop the casket into the ground. We never really talked, but he'd stand with me until I caught sight of the guys. We'd share notes in History class too, usually when he was locked up in the reform or when Momma was having one of her episodes. Hell, he was the first guy Darry ever made fun of me for standing with. And then one day, he didn't come to school. It went on for weeks, all until some hitchers found two blue converse poking out of the corn. We all still think his daddy did it, even if the police never said anything.

Anthony Conners. Jim Clark.

Two people who had their whole lives ahead of them. Two people rotting in pinewood boxes six feed under the frozen earth. Two names carved into stone. Two names spoken only in whispers, as if any louder was just a tribute to the sins that killed them.

Lucy cried out again, her coal-black hair wrapping around her shoulders like shadows as Father Daniels made the final cross and closed the book. Ponyboy - his face blotchy and pale, hair stuck to his tear-stained cheeks - was pushed into my arms when Momma and Daddy wiped their eyes and moved to comfort the grieving widow. I watched Momma crouch down in front of her and push her hair back while Daddy wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. Then they started bringing her to the church. I don't know if they wanted us to follow them, but we didn't. I busied my mind by combing through Pony's hair, whispering sweet nothings. Sodapop was kicking at the ground, covering the stained toes of his shoes with dead grass. To my left, Darry fiddled with his collar and tie before he realized I was watching him. His hand was warm and heavy against my shoulder, but it managed to soothe the itch that had been driving me crazy throughout the entire service. "Cold?"

I was the opposite, actually. I shook my head slowly, careful not to disturb my brother as he tried to calm his ragged breaths. "Nah, sweatin' like a sinner in-"

"Good Lord, have mercy. It's been a while, hasn't it, Curtis?" The greeting was followed by a puff of tobacco and a wolfish smile. Up until this moment, I had never had the pleasure - if you could even call it that - of meeting Mr. Frank Shepard. Darry and I turned quickly to look at him as he looked around the empty yard slowly, the grin still plastered to his face. Darry was the first to speak. He cleared his throat and straightened his jacket after taking the smallest step in front of me. "Sorry, there mighta been a mistake. Do I know you?"

He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair before pulling at the collar of his rawhide jacket. The man forced another cloud of smoke past his lips before leaning back on his heels and looking at each one of us - like he was betting on the fastest horse at Buck's. "Nah, I guess you don't," he said carefully. He dragged his eyes up and down Darry, studying his face. Here I was, thinking Darry and Daddy could pass for twins, when Tim and his father were nearly identical. They had the same tanned skin and wild black hair, though his father's was turning grey here and there. They shared the same pricing eyes and malicious smile, though Tim was about half a foot and God only knows how many pounds lighter. "You look an awful lot like your daddy," he chuckled through his cigarette. "She does too," Mr. Shepard mentioned causally. I instantly held Ponyboy a little closer as Darry took another step forwards - this time completely blocking me from view. Even if he couldn't see me, I could still hear him. "Jesus, little Miss Marley ain't so little anymore."

The church door opening was barely audible over my pounding heart and the fierce wind, but Daddy's voice roared over the yard like thunder. "I told you to stay away from my fucking kids, Frank!" Daddy crossed the yard quickly, nearly running Soda over as he pushed himself in front of us and Mr. Shepard back. He pulled his hands up in surrender - Mr. Shepard did - and smiled again. "Slow down there, Darrel. Just sayin' hello. It's been a while, hasn't it?" Daddy cursed again under his breath, muttering quietly as he slapped Darry on the shoulder and pointed towards the empty street. "Just take everyone home, yeah? Momma and I..." he risked a glance back at the man. "I have some things I need to take care of."

"You can't be considering this? N-not after eveything-"

"You heard him, Annie! Jim died on the job, and Lucy got nothing. Not even her husband's last pay check!"

Daddy sent us home when the service ended at two in the afternoon. Now, it was quarter to seven and they were still fighting. What they were fighting about still remained a mystery. Darry and I were leaning against opposite sides of the hallway, hidden in the shadows and watching. We had heard the yelling coming up the path, so I did the best I could and pushed my little brothers into their room with the radio. Even now, I could hear bass and drums beating away on the other side of their door.

"We have kids, Darrel, kids that need us! We aren't seventeen anymore, we- we just can't!"

"Goddamn you, Annie, I'm doing this for the kids! It coulda been me heading up there, I could be the one six feet under right now, leaving you and the kids with noting! Is that what you want?"

My ears were starting to hurt. They had already begun to ache after standing out in the yard for so long, but the arguing and music blaring to try and drown them out only made it worse. Lord, my only prayer was that Pony and Soda didn't hear a word of this - I don't know how many questions I could answer tonight, especially when I had so many of my own going on and on like a jingle inside my skull.

"Get out."

Her words are sharp and short. Momma uses them as weapons and strikes when you'd never expect them. Momma stands rigid in the kitchen, arms at her sides and head held high. I watch Daddy's shadow reach for her as his voice grows soft, just like the times he used to soothe our nightmares. This time, Momma doesn't melt into his embrace like she's done a million times before. "We worked like dogs to get here, Darrel. If this is what you want, I'm not stopping you."

It's loud, but all I can hear is my heart beating against my ribs. My nails dig into the doorway, my legs are begging to run. I don't wanna be here. I wanna be in my room, flipping through my books and tryna remember the difference between the patriots and the loyalists. But I'm paralyzed. Is that what it was like for Sylvia? What about Two-Bit? Steve?

"But you ain't bringing your dirty money anywhere near my kids."

Daddy didn't say anything else - he didn't need to. The door slamming shut spoke for him.