I stood outside my childhood home for a long, long time, just staring up at the front door, unable to actually bring myself to take the fateful step forward. The yellow police tape made it all the more real. It hadn't just been some painfully vivid nightmare. It was real.
I found myself thinking about my father – a cruel, cold man, who was once a loving, tender father. Until his wife was shot to death. He used to love all of us kids, even when there were too many of us to fit in the small two bedroom home. Back when Tyler and I were still too young to leave, and Tommy, Mary and Michelle were still little kids, we always had to fight over who would get one of the two beds and who would ultimately wind up on the floor. That was around the time I mastered the art of sleeping just about anywhere.
Tyler would know what to do, I thought tiredly. Tyler always knew what to do.
I couldn't bring myself to step forward, not even when Two-Bit walked up to me, nearly scaring me half to death.
"What do ya need outta there? I'll run in and grab it for ya," he asked gently. I simply shook my head. Last time anyone went in my house, they were almost shot to death. Just like mom. I thought painfully.
I took a shaking breath, before finally taking one step forward. I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder and upon looking up, I saw Darry's eyes lock on mine.
"You're gonna be okay," he said, almost as if he knew it deep, deep down. I nodded and finally put my fears aside as I opened the front door. The smell of old blood and rotting food hit my nose. I cringed, before making a beeline for the bedroom I shared with my younger sisters.
Inside the room, I found it oddly empty. The girls clothes and their few toys had been removed I assumed by the social worker. I quickly threw a few pairs of jeans, my work skirt, and a few shirts into my old back pack, before grabbing my small bag of makeup and hair grease off my dresser. I normally wore my hair up, my slicked back my bangs with grease most days – it was easier than trying to put it any other way, my thick, curly hair hard to manage as it was. I was about to run out of the room, when I remembered that I would be needing my black dress for the funeral. The dress was once my mother's, and would one day be my sister's. I snatched it out of the closet, along with the old, thickly woven jacket I normally never wore. After one final sweep of the room, I ran out into the hall, eager to be rid of the memories that were crashing down.
Once outside, I threw the bag of clothes into the back of Darry's truck, before taking a deep, shaking breath, trying to calm my nerves.
"I'll meet you at the house," I told Darry, who had been watching me like a hawk.
"You aren't walking alone," he said gently.
"I'll walk with her," Soda spoke up. Darry gave him a knowing nod, before getting behind the wheel, closing the door behind me.
"Straight to the house, you hear?" he said, his tone gentle.
"We're too old to be bossed around, Darry," I teased, but I knew he knew we wouldn't be making any pit stops.
Soda and me walked down the street slowly, knowing that it would only take a minute or two to clear the distance between the two houses. We walked in silence, until a mangy, grease covered mutt came running towards me. I smiled to myself, recognizing the dog right off the bat. It was one of the many stray dogs that roamed the streets, but the only one Mary had ever bothered to name. Even tried to convince our father to let us keep him, but that didn't go over well.
"C'mere Greaser," I called, patting my leg. The young mutt came bounding up, his tail wagging. I saw that he was still wearing the collar Mary had bought for him. Tucked under it, was a piece of paper.
I pulled the paper free and opened it, surprised to find it was a note. I was even more surprised to find it was from Mary. I knew the girls home was on the other side of town, so how Greaser ended up finding her, I'd never know.
Jo,
I hate it here. The girls here are so mean. Not Dallas Winston mean either. Mean, as in, having no problem teasing a four year old mean. Mickey's going through a real tough biting phase right now, so all the other girls keep on hitting her, like she's some dog or something.
They're letting us go to the funeral tomorrow. But they said we're supposed to stay away from you and the gang. 'Course we ain't having none of that. We'll see you as soon as they let us go.
Jo, please keep fightin' for us. I don't like this place one bit, and they're really, really awful here. I keep having those dreams again too.
I hope Greaser finds you like he found me. I think he followed the social worker here or somethin' because outta the blue, he was in the yard, barking up a storm. Maybe…maybe you could take him in for a few days. Keep ya company or something.
I love you sis,
Mary Beth Cedar.
"Good boy," I whispered, rubbing the dog's head absentmindedly. I felt tears welling in my eyes as I read the note again. Mary's sloppy handwriting was no better than most in our neighborhood, but her spelling had improved, which surprised me. I handed the note to Soda as I took off my belt and looped it around Greaser's collar.
"What are you doing?" Soda asked after he read the note.
"Bringing Greaser with me," I said with a sigh. "Ya never know, with that man still on the run, having a guard dog might be a good idea."
"Darry's never gonna let a dog in the house…" Soda said with a sigh.
"He doesn't need to. Your backyard is fenced in, I'll keep him back there," I said with a slight hint of a smile. "Otherwise he'll bark at the front door all night, trust me, that's why the damn dog got a name in the first place. That, and he got into god knows what and has a permanent greasy look about him."
Greaser barked softly, his tail wagging a mile a minute. I couldn't help but smile at the lean, mangy mutt. In so many ways, he reminded me of Dally. He was lean and on all fours came up just above my waist. His white fur was brown from dirt and grime, his black patches greasy and shining in the sunlight. He had dark chocolate eyes that danced with light. On more than one occasion, I'd seen him get into nasty scraps with the other strays, coming back with bites and tears, but always coming back.
Greaser had been coming around since just after our mom died. I think deep down, that was why Mary took to him so much. We'd had pets growing up, either a cat or dog from time to time, but when mom died, we had already lost our old dog, Lassie, after she was hit by a Soc's car a few months prior. To be fair, none of us were too fond of Lassie. She was a mean, snappy dog that was constantly nipping at Michelle, which never went over well. But our mom raised us to take responsibility, even if it meant scolding a dog that was meaner than sin.
Greaser followed beside me as we kept walking, right up the front stairs, until I gave him a quick pat on the head.
"You aren't coming inside with dirt all over you," I teased. He looked up at me with those dark eyes, a soft whine breaking free. "Oh no, don't you dare give me the innocent puppy look," I scolded. "Backyard until I figure out what I wanna do with you."
"Aw, c'mon, at least let him inside long enough to get some water," Soda said suddenly. I looked up, a smile on my face. For a single moment, he sounded just like he did back when we were kids.
"That's not up to me," I laughed. "Not my house."
"Might as well be with all the time you spend here," a deeper voice chuckled. I turned to see Darry standing against the door frame, his arms crossed across his chest. "Nice dog."
"Greaser, heal," I ordered the mutt. He barked and sat down next to me, his tail wagging. I knew he was itching to throw himself at Darry, only to shower him with kissed. That damn dog was too sweet to be on the street.
"Greaser?" Darry asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Mary named him. Trust me, he's the dog form of Dallas!" I laughed, rubbing a hang through the dogs matted fur. "You need a bath," I told him. He only looked up at me, his tongue lolling to one side.
Suddenly, Greaser stiffened. I looked up, scanning the immediate area for anything that might've set him off. He rose to his feet, growling softly, his floppy ears perked forward, his tail tucked.
"Get inside," I told Soda, pushing him behind me.
"Why?" he asked, catching the urgency in my tone.
"Just go," I said, my tone sharp. He looked at me, before reluctantly moving inside the house. I held onto the makeshift lead as Greaser's growls grew louder and louder, until he was snarling, his teeth bared.
"Darry, I need a knife," I said suddenly, looking up at my childhood friend. He must have seen the panic in my eyes, because he motioned for Soda to go into the kitchen. He returned a moment later, a sharp steak knife in hand. I slid it into my sleeve carefully, the movement swift and natural. It was one of the many skills I'd picked up from the gang over the years.
I was overly aware that the gang had gathered around the front door and windows, all watching me carefully.
Around the bend, just past the vacant lot, I saw a movement. At that same moment, Greaser went crazy. He growled and snapped, practically pulling me off the porch in the process. I dropped the belt, a quick "get 'im" coming from my mouth as I did so. Greaser took off, full speed, growling and barking his head off.
A moment later, it all came together, as Greaser threw himself at a man. A man I had seen one too many times. The man that took the lives of both my parents and nearly took one of my best friend's lives.
I watched in a mix of emotions, as Greaser went right for the throat. Like I said, he had the same spark Dally did. A need for danger. A need for bloodshed.
Someone must have called the cops, because within minutes, the fuzz showed up. I only moved forward when I saw one of them train a gun at Greaser's head.
"Don't shoot!" I shouted, running towards them, the knife long since discarded. Greaser ran to me, protectively stepping to my side. "He's my dog."
"Jo-Anna Beth," the officer said. For a moment, I wondered how he knew my name. Then it dawned on me, he was the one who took my statement. I nodded, then looked at the man on the ground, whose blood was splattered against the ground.
"That's him. That's the man who shot my mother all those years ago. He's the one who…who killed both my parents."
A/n - I want to thank those of you who have read so far! It means the world to me, and I promise, in due time, the rest of the gang comes more into the spotlight - I just had to etch a few things out first. :) I'm always open to ideas, so if anyone has any, please, please let me know!