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Chapter 2: The Wall
Vietnam 1968
Today's weather forecast is a hot towel knotted around a stick of bamboo and an old, scary but little, whiskery lady beating you with it all day long. She probably cursing at you, too. The sun's beating down on us relentlessly with no cloud coverage in sight. I swear you can smell your own flesh burning out here. I never thought I'd miss a Brooklyn winter. It's days like these that I think of how easy it would be to get discharged, who gives a fuck if it's dishonorably? Shoot myself in the foot or something, I don't care anymore. I never signed up for this. I hate this climate, I hate this country, I hate this war.
I've forgotten the name of this village already, not like I could pronounce it anyways. Parson will school me in it as soon as I try, anyways so why bother? We got orders to guard this village after word got to base that it would be an enemy hideout in the next few days. Our mission is to take them out before they even see it coming, keep this place at least a little intact before someone else tries to blow it up.
Curtis kicks a rock a few yards ahead, watching as it disappears into the bushes and tsks aloud because he was hoping to keep it going the whole quarter mile back to our campsite. He's been quiet lately, which I've learned after all these months with him means he's thinking hard on something.
"Crawford, do you think we're doing the right thing here?" he finally asks, sooner than I'd expected, his southern drawl always lays itself extra thick in the afternoon heat, "I mean, thinking about all the shit we gotta do to get it done?" and he's looking at me the entire time I munch on the question with that relentless curiosity he likes to dump on us from time to time. I take a hard, long drag on my cigarette, buying myself some time to choose my words carefully. I'm not sure if he's talking about the war as a whole or our current mission, but the answer's the same either way.
"That's a dangerous question. I don't even think it's worth askin' anymore. We're here no matter if it's right or wrong, so let's just get through it so we can get home." I can tell by his silence that my answer isn't exactly satisfying, and it isn't for me either, but we'll go crazy justifying things as black and white. We're way beyond that, and he's got to know it by now.
Parson lets out a defeated and dramatic sigh at my words, his signature trudging feet following behind him. Curtis instinctually puts an arm over his shoulder, always ready to swoop in to raise that kid's spirits. The new kids are always tough to crack, but Parson has been exceptionally difficult for me to stomach.
Curtis offers his lit cigarette to Parson, who shakes his hand in refusal, and I swear if that kid doesn't pick up smoking soon, he'll either die of his own anxiety, or drive one of us here to strangling him to death. Parson would catch a lot more heat from us if it weren't for Curtis always stepping up for him, and since we all respect Curtis, we leave the little one be. I guess Curtis has got a younger brother just like the kid, and that's why he's always coming to his rescue the way he does, on and off the battlefield. 'If my brother was here, I'd like to think someone was lookin' out for him, too', he had said when I asked him about it. And hell, my own brother is a lot like Curtis, so I can understand that same need to defend and protect at all costs.
"C'mon man, one little puff." Curtis encourages with that stupid smile of his that ropes in all the ladies in the city, dangling the cigarette closer to Parson's face. "It'll take the edge off a bit."
But Parson shakes his hand again, then simultaneously slaps frantically at a mosquito that's taken aim to his neck veins, his swings almost hitting my face in the process. My dodge is a bit overdramatic, I admit, but my strife has to come out somewhere.
"Calm the fuck down." I huff, always surprised at how much my twenty two year old self is starting to sound like old and crotchety Grandpa Guss from my childhood. I didn't used to be like this.
"Damn, Sport." Curtis chuckles, untangling himself from Parson's shoulder to avoid the mosquito too, "Forget it, one puff won't do you shit. You're going to need the whole pack for nerves like yours." And only Curtis can joke with no harm done, but just for good measure, he gives Parson a good, hearty slap on the back in comradery.
He loves that kid a lot, and whoever this little brother is that reminds him so much of Parson is a lucky son-of-a-bitch.
Headed towards the patty fields behind us is a tiny Vietnamese girl guiding a monstrous ox down the dirt path that last night's rain has made treacherous. As we get closer, she freezes up, grips the rope tighter and backs into the chest of the ox in fright at the sight of us. She'd rather be closer to this giant horned beast than us, and that's about what it's been like here. Can't say I blame her, though, who knows what she's seen, from both sides, already in her young years. Her eyebrows wrinkle deeper with every step we get towards passing her, and she's got her eye on Curtis' gun that's strapped over his shoulder closest to her.
I plan to keep walking in silence as we usually do, like Parkinson or Liniewicz would do too, but Curtis stops once we've reached her. Without looking or saying anything, he passes his rifle into Parson's hands so he can kneel down level with her. She sinks deeper into the ox's legs and her own fear at first, but as soon as Curtis pulls that little wrapped Lemon Head from his pocket her face loosens up a bit. He's called her bluff like a pro, and of course, Curtis would be able to charm the children, too. He unwraps it, then hands it to her, and reluctantly, she takes it, still trying not to step too close. He motions for her to eat it, and she shakes her head, probably afraid it's some sort of a trick.
Candy isn't really a thing out here in the middle of nowhere, let alone this fake-ass lemon flavor shit Curtis always scavenges when we're in the city. The way her face scrunches up from the sour flavor melts even my cold ass heart. Curtis slaps his knee with a laugh and she presses her little hand to her mouth to suppress her own giggle.
Her smile is lost immediately when we hear a deep voice behind us, probably her father. She straightens up, and leads the ox towards him and the patty field. The dad's giving Curtis an awful glare, the way any father would in such tense times with whities like us strapped with our guns, but Curtis doesn't care one bit. Instead, he stands up, grabs his rifle from Parson like it's no big thing, and tosses a Lemon Head in my direction with a perfect arch so it lands gracefully in my hand.
"You're such a softie, Sugar Rush." I say, but don't add how much this little candy has made my day. He sees right through me anyways.
He ignores me with a loud crunch of his candy, too impatient to let it melt it down like a normal person, and presses on towards the rest of our team, Parson trailing close behind as usual.
I stay where they left me, thinking about his question and what the hell we are doing out here. We're just people among other people, but it's never that simple. Fuck, man, I just want to go home. I ain't all sensitive like Sodapop Curtis, but even I'm tired of being mean all the time. Instead of saving the Lemon Head for a rainy day, I cash it in now for some comfort I wish I didn't need.
Tulsa, February 1976
It's dark and secluded in this quiet corner of the hospital. The three of us stand there, out of place in our mismatched pajamas, listening to Dr. Furman's break down of what the hell happened tonight.
"Every pregnancy is different, especially in the months before labor. The body starts to prepare for delivery well in advance, and little flares of discomfort are not at all uncommon in that process. I am concerned that they were as painful as they were for Mrs. Curtis, but all of our tests have come back favorably. There's no cause for alarm. Now, we did give her a little sedative to help her rest, she was a little shaken up."
Soda looks like he's walked through a landmine, his eyes just staring blank back at the doctor, though I hear him breathe for the first time at this.
"So she's okay?" Pony finally asks when Soda doesn't. "And the baby?"
"They're both fine. We're going to keep her here through tomorrow just to be safe and keep an eye on any changes, but I expect you'll be able to go home by evening, and we'll see you back for the real thing in several months." Dr. Furman looks between the three of us with a confused expression. "I'm sorry, which one of you is the husband?"
Soda lifts his finger silently without changing that disheveled manner on his face and my fists ball up at my sides again.
Dr. Furman leaves after Pony and I have asked our other questions, but Soda's still frozen, lost in the blur this night has become.
"Everything's okay." Pony's got both his hands on either of Soda's shoulders, trying to find something in that dumbstruck expression. Soda just nods with his eyes fixed on the floor, and I don't know why but that breaks whatever was in me that was keeping my fury at bay. Now that we know that they're okay, I don't have to continue to brace him for bad news, I can unleash this holy hell that bubbles beneath my seemingly collected surface.
"I'll go get us some water." Pony offers, and as soon as he's rounded the corner out of sight, I uncage it all, grabbing Soda by the neckline of his shirt, twisting the fabric around my hands to prevent any escape, before throwing us both into the wall with a weighted thud. Everything we've gone through as brothers has led us to this moment right here, and it's been a rich history in every way possible. We both know I wouldn't have him pinned here, my little brother, unless I loved him like hell. There's no space for a peaceful resolution anymore.
"You're a selfish bastard, you know that?" I don't even try to control the saliva that's spraying out of my mouth like venom. Soda looks surprised at my sudden physicality, but not as much as he's shocked at my words. Good. I want him to be. I feel like I could pound him into the floor right here with all this pent up steam from the last two hours.
"Darry, what the hell?" He says with a quietness that I hate, always trying to pacify before he strikes.
"How long you been using, Soda? Huh?" I feel the pressure of hot angry blood under my cheeks because simply suspecting it isn't nearly as painful as when you say it out loud. He doesn't say anything so I get as close to his face as I can without actually touching it. I'm bigger and stronger and a hell of a lot scarier than he'll ever be, and I've never wanted him to know it more than I do right now. "How long you been shootin' up in the streets while your pregnant wife is asleep at home?"
He doesn't deny it. He just looks back at me, studying me, trying to figure me and my anger out, like he always does. Good luck.
We're painfully still, him with his back against the wall forced onto his tippy toes, and me holding him there with a firm arm across his chest and a fistful of that stupid Mott the Hoople t-shirt he sleeps in. The asshole didn't even get dressed before he left the house to damn us all.
"Darry…" he starts steadily, but it's already not a good enough response.
"Shut the fuck up." I push him further into the wall. My body's throbbing with adrenaline, like I'm about to fight strangers in a rumble, which if I'm about to duke it out with junkie Soda, that's not so untrue.
I will him to try and escape, and sure enough he attempts to twist out of my hold to gage my level of effort and hardly budges.
"I'm not shootin' up, Darry, I swear-"
"You're a real asshole, Soda. And you'd agree if you heard Grace cryin' on the phone a couple of hours ago when she needed you and you weren't there." Knowing my brother, it's just a matter of carefully chosen words and physical strength that will make him explode. He always does eventually. Like the drop in a roller coaster, it's all a matter of the build up.
"I didn't know this was going to happen!" He's gritty with this hollow defense, but I can see in his crinkled brow and those bloodshot eyes that are morphing from that doped out look to rising rage, he's also overcome with guilt and fear. I almost let him go right there, because I know I'll never make him feel worse than he's already making himself feel right now. But I need him to know he fucked up, and I need it to fester inside of him so it doesn't happen again. The kid's playing with matches and dynamite like he doesn't see it'll blow us all right up with him.
"Where the hell were you and who'd you get it from?" I demand, and when he tries to squirm out again, I peel him off of the wall just to slam him back into it, maybe to knock some sense into him.
"I was at the park." he doesn't rat out the person he bummed it off of, which means that it was definitely Curly. It kills me to know Tim's little brother still has the same problem mine does.
"What'd you get, little buddy? Tar? Powder? God knows you could sell any of that shit on the street yourself with all your expertise." I wish I didn't know all this slang, not when I have the innocence of my three small kids at home waiting for me.
"Hydros." He doesn't divert his gaze even in admission, and his voice never cracks. A piece of me is relieved it's not some of the hard shit he's used to, but at the same time, I know it doesn't matter. Relapse is relapse and it's a slippery slope into a hell we've already pulled him out of. "Darry, I was only gone an hour-"
I throw my pointer finger in his face like he's some kind of disobedient dog. "You don't get to do this. Not to me or Pony, not to Grace or the baby. I will flatten your ass if you drag her into this any more than you already have. It's a good thing Mom ain't here to see this." I watch my words light something inside him, I've struck the nerve I've been aiming for. But it's not as satisfying knowing I've used my own dead mother as bait to do him in.
"Get off of me." He growls from so deep in his chest that I feel the vibration, giving me one more dwindling opportunity to quit trying to wake this beast. But I'm out for blood, his blood and there's no turning back now. Our eyes are locked together, in an unbreakable, hostel trance, and I can see him processing my fury, ready to match it, or usually, top it. Just one more poke is all it'll take.
"Darry…" Pony's warning is somewhere behind me now, but he sounds worlds away from us in every sense.
"You been sleeping around, too, Soda?" The words come out before I can catch them, but I don't think I would've even if I had the chance.
I'm ready for the sharp shove he sends into the chest, but it hardly moves me and this power my anger has granted. Soda can get hysterically out of control, a real maniac when he gets this upset, even when he was little, but Dad was the only person who's ever been able to take me when it came to sure strength. And I've only gotten stronger.
"Fuck you." He spits at me somewhere between an elbow jab to my ribs and my smooth pivot that spins him into a headlock. It's like we're kids all over again, only instead of playful aggression, we're teetering on legitimate hate. Do I actually hate him right now? Is it possible to love something so much that you hate the control it has over you? I feel like he's ripping me to shreds and doesn't even care.
We're squirming around in each other's grasps, and while I've pretty much got him pinned, he's starting to wear out my hold on him. He uses some crazy sparring technique to knock me off balance by striking the back of my knee and I remember what I forget too often, that soldier Soda probably ended a good handful of men simply in hand to hand combat.
"Fuck you, Darry." He says again, extra loaded this time as he succumbs to the anger. I can hear the pressure my locked elbow is putting against his windpipe, and even clearer I can hear that he's close to tears.
I'm about to seal the deal and tell him to 'cry me a fucking river', but Ponyboy's already between us, shoving us apart.
"What the hell has gotten into you two?" He bellows at us and it echoes down the hallway and into every empty crevice of this place. Once he's gotten my fingers unwrapped from Soda's lock of hair, Pony gives me a good thrust back out of the way, and I'm surprised at the power in the punch of my youngest brother, proud of it, really.
Soda's upright again, heaving with beads of sweat clinging to a blood rushed face, his eyes still piercing through me and I mirror it right back. Pony's holding him back now as he tries to come at me again. I almost laugh right in his face, not because it's funny, because it's anything but, but because now I'm not sure where my fury ends and I begin.
"Cut it out!" Pony's pushing Soda back, but stops when Soda's face starts to change to discomfort. His breaths are coming in wheezes, and while he's at full height now, I can tell something's not quite right in the way he's starting to wobble a little. He reaches his hand on Pony's shoulder for steadiness. Pony senses it immediately, "Soda? You okay?" and Soda near collapses to his knees, but Pony's quick enough to intervene so he doesn't hit the tile full force.
Soda's eyes are still holding me hostage even as he tumbles, but his body's making him fight for everything else. I recognize that struggle. It's his lung, damaged by that flying shrapnel from overseas; the one that I hate for what it's done to him but at the same time am thankful it's what got him sent home before the war could take more.
I've never been known for empathy, but I swear my breath starts to seize up too at the sight of him. If he's really on Vicodin, it's only making the fight for air worse.
Pony's got his hand over Soda's chest to steady him, trying to get him to answer all of those rapid firing questions he's spewing. I look at my middle brother with the worst kind of pity when he's unable to answer, and by the look on his face he'd probably come at me again if he wasn't still trying to catch his breath.
"Just breathe." Pony soothes. Deja vu hits me instantly as I remember us years ago as boys, their roles reversed, Pony with his night terrors, Soda with a wet washcloth and gentle words, the only brother who could calm our littlest brother. I can't help but notice that we're still those young boys all these years later. A bit of me softens up, but only a bit. "It's okay." Pony's voice is soft.
Most of me wants to rush over and make sure he's all right, but there's another that's stuck in my stubborn anger on Grace's behalf, on me and Pony's behalf, and that part of me is the one commanding this ship.
"Fucking junkie." I spit at him once I know for sure he's okay, then walk away, trying to ignore that heavy weight that drops like bricks in my stomach.
The color has returned to his face, and his heart isn't racing as quickly as it was a minute ago, but I keep my hand on his chest just to be sure, it's consistent, steady beating serving as a much needed tonic for me. I haven't seen him have an attack like this since withdrawal.
I can't tell if I'm shaking or Soda, but surely both of our adrenaline has worn off by now, our cover blown. I've become pretty damn fearless just from the things I've seen, both here in Tulsa and on those harsh NYC streets, but what I've just witnessed has rattled me to my core by it's own right. Darry is tough and controlling and protective and sometimes just downright scary, but I've never seen him snap and mean it. I'm still trying to decide if he had no right to jump on Soda the way he did, or every right after tonight's events.
I can't believe Soda left her alone. That's what I keep going back to. He's never not been there when I needed him, but I know that's exactly how addiction will cripple you, turn you into someone you're not.
I tell him to breathe again, trying to extinguish the fire Darry's ignited underneath him, but when I check in with his expression I don't see the resentment I expected.
"Shit, Pony." His voice breaks when he's finally able to talk again, and while his face doesn't let off of that stone cold glare down the hall where Darry was just walking, his eyes are filling with tears.
"Everything's going to be okay." I pretend like I'm sure of it. "They're fine." Truth is, I'm not worried about Grace or the baby anymore, it's all this other shit that's got me trembling.
Soda shakes his head, and the tears that were just hanging on, fall from his movement. "Darry's right."
I'm just as pissed at him as Darry is, but he's kicking himself enough right now, so I stick to comforting. "Yeah, he is right, but we're going to figure this out."
He lifts his head, and his eyes are so broken, I thought I was done seeing that in him. "She must've been so scared." He whispers to himself, then turns to me. "I'm sorry."
I'm not ready to accept it yet, and I'm no phony, so I don't. "Have you really been using?"
He holds his gaze with mine, because Soda doesn't back away from the truth no matter how painful it is. "Yes." And just like that, one of the strongest pillars of my foundation comes crashing down right then and there. The trust he had rebuilt in me completely shot to hell with a single word. "It's been a couple of months. Just the Vicodin, though. Nothing else."
My bitter scoff sets itself free without my permission. I ream into him with all my extensive junkie knowledge that I wish I didn't have. "It starts with Vicodin but then -"
"I know. I was going to stop, really. I was tryna get it out of my system before the baby. Things have been a little... off since that night at Lucky's. I just needed a little something to take the edge off." My skins crawls a bit. He doesn't look like the warped version of Soda that hit the rockiest of bottoms all those years ago, the one that assured me with scarred veins that it was 'just until he could get back on his feet', but he sure is starting to sound like him right now.
"Where is it." I pretend to ask, and my bite has startled even me.
Soda reaches right into his jacket pocket without missing a beat, and slaps the orange bottle into my hand, eyes never leaving mine. I've been here before with him, and I'm not stupid enough to believe this is all he's got, but at least it's a start.
I read the label and feel my shoulders drop at this broken promise, "Why the hell didn't you call me?"
"This ain't nothing personal, Pony." And even though he's so sincere trying to comfort me, all I want to do is leave him sitting there in his pathetic heap of self-inflicted ailments to make my point. Darry and I can be selfish like that. Even though my promise was genuine when I told him that he'd never be alone in recovery, I still have to remind myself from time to time that if our places were switched, he would've already jumped into the depths of this pit with me, probably pushing me up to freedom with his own bare hands.
"You're going to be a dad, Soda." There's a trembling in my voice that I wasn't expecting as my own father flashes through my mind. "You know what it's like to lose a parent. Mom and Dad didn't have a choice, but you do. Do you want your daughter to have the same pain we did?"
Soda loves life more than anyone I know, but he doesn't live for himself, he never has. He's always needed something to live for. Like keeping Darry and I in check with one another after the car accident; or serving overseas for what he was told was the greater good; or the young group of untouchables he's employed at the DX who rely so much on him for guidance. When he doesn't have that, he crumbles. He won't get clean for himself, but if I can get him to think about his daughter enough, that might just be enough.
He's looking at me like I'm telling him exactly what he needs to hear, soaking up every ounce of it like a sponge, bitterness and all.
"I would never cheat on Grace." he says softly, but firmly, and I know of all Darry's harsh words, that's what hit him the hardest. Maybe it's the power behind her name, or maybe I've just never doubted his fidelity, but his statement of the obvious puts me a little more at ease. At least he's not totally lost from himself.
"I know." I say, then, "Let's get cleaned up." referring to more than just our dirty hands. I help him stand on unsteady feet, hoping that since we've been here before, we can find the way out again.
Author's Note:
SE Hinton owns, I don't own the Curtis'... or Lemon Heads (sadly).
Thanks to all of you who are willing to go on this ride with me! :) Much love to each of you!