Chapter 11: Hard Times
"Dallas, Dallas you have to breathe." Mr. Winston cups his son's face. Dallas sees his father, but can't make the words out to talk.
"What did they do to her?" He asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Shirley lies on the couch, clothed in an oversized raincoat draped over her shoulders, but he could see her naked and bloodied flesh underneath. She's sleeping, or at least that's what he's hoping for; the swollen jaw, the black eye, and the angry purple markings around her neck makes him sick…
"I think you already know what they did to her, Dally." Darry leans against the wall, smoking a cigarette and watching over Shirley like a hawk. Ponyboy peeks out from the corner of Darry and sees the spectacle in horror.
"We need to call the police. We need…"
"The police did this, Ponyboy," Darry looks over at his little brother, signs of premature aging evident in his features.
"You think the police are going to bring their comrades to justice? Turn their back on their own?" Steve sneers. He'd been sitting against the kitchen counter, knocking back a beer and scowling. Dallas is not in the mood to deal with his shit.
"Well what can we do? If people do something wrong, we take them to justice and hold them accountable! They can't get away with this. This is wrong. So wrong." Ponyboy shakes his head.
"That's just the way it is. It's been this way since the beginning of time." Steve knocks back the last of the beer.
"It wouldn't have happened if Dally didn't date that colored girl. She's more trouble than she's worth."
"Shut your goddamn mouth, Steve. It ain't their fault some cops didn't know how to do their job right." Darry barks.
"Now is not the time to hear your two cents. Dally almost died tonight and a woman had been…violated, by men who broke their promise to their citizens."
"Ain't the first time," Buck interjects. He's sitting on the side of the couch, looking over Shirley.
"They say they're here to protect us, but they're too busy beating the shit outta us with batons, shooting us like we're dogs, and throwing us in the cooler just because. The pigs ain't to be trusted. Let that be a lesson for your ol' girl, Dally."
Dallas rises to strike, but is halted by his father.
"Now isn't the time to fly off the handle, son. Shirley needs you to be strong." Mr. Winston whispers.
"What the hell, Dal? I thought this was America, old man. Speak English." Steve sneers.
"Yes, this is America, not England. If I wanted to go to a country that spoke predominantly English, I would've went to England. I speak three languages and you only speak one. Keep up." Mr. Winston retorts. Steve looks taken aback, but otherwise says nothing.
"Dallas, I want you to understand that if you need anything, anything at all, you can tell me. My door is always open."
"Thanks, Pop. But I don't think that'll be necessary. This is my life, my problem. I'll handle it."
"You can't handle it alone, Dal. You need people in your corner." Ponyboy pipes up.
"He's right, Dal. You can't go it alone. You can't fight this battle alone. We can't have you going off the deep end, like what happened with Johnny…"
Dallas flinches. The wound is still fresh when Johnny died. The memory still stings.
"Maybe not now, but know this, Dal." Darry pats his shoulder.
"We'll always be there. It's a Greaser promise."
"Yeah, Dally. We're here, come hell or high water. We'll be there. Just say the word." Tim says. Dallas nods his head, fighting the emotions bubbling up in his body. He's thankful for their support, but he doesn't know if he'll find the strength to give the word.
Instead, he clutches Shirley's warm hand, hoping to get an ounce of strength from her so he could go on.
He's failed Johnny.
He refuses to fail Shirley.
Dallas was dreaming and sleeping deeply when he feels warmth spread at the side of his hip. He wakes up, turns on the lamp and yanks off the covers, and sees the wet spot where Shirley lays.
He gently shakes her awake. Shirley jolts with a startle, sees Dallas and relaxes.
"Baby," Dallas sighs, "you did it again." He points to the wet spot. Shirley's face contorts in shame.
"Oh, shit. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so…so…"
Dallas shushes her.
"It's okay, honey. Get up. I'll throw 'em in the washer and wipe down the plastic cover. C'mon."
Shirley slinks out of the bed, embarrassment evident on her face. Dallas swoops up the sheets and blankets in record time, exposing the thick plastic covering protecting the mattress from further abuse.
"The blankets and sheets will be in the closet. I washed those this morning." Dallas huffs, taking a hot rag and wiping down the urine that managed to pool in the crevice of the plastic. Shirley makes her way to the closet but he stops her.
"Hop in the shower, doll. I'll throw your clothes in the washer, okay?"
She nods, taking off her nightgown and soiled undergarments. She hands them to Dallas, who tosses them on the pile. When she's out of sight, Dallas sits on the carpet floor, sighing deeply and running his fingers through his hair in exhaustion.
This had been going on for at least a week since that night; it had gotten to where Dallas had become Shirley's caretaker than her lover. The bubbly waitress is now skittish, constantly looking over her shoulder and needing Dallas within her line of sight to keep her calm. It had put a strain on the couple; Dallas needs to work more hours to pay the rising costs of living yet Shirley needs him now more than ever.
He's stuck between a rock and a hard place; be there for Shirley and risk losing his job, or crank out the long hours at work and abandon Shirley in her time of need?
She has no more family to turn to; Uncle Red doesn't even want her around his family because of Dallas and no amount of hoping and wishing is going to make them come around any sooner. She could stay at Darry's, but Dallas doubts Darry wants to share a home with a stranger, despite Darry insisting he doesn't have a problem with it. There's Tim's, but he asks too many questions and he's not exactly the most social; his train-wreck of a family would be the final nail in the coffin. Buck is too reckless, Sylvia is a definite no, his last option has to be…his father.
He throws the linens in the washing machine, cranking up the dial to 'hot'; he wants the smell of piss out of the sheets permanently. He drowns the washing machine with washing powder and slams the lid shut while it washes. As the clothes wash, he rifles through the cabinet for a towel and makes his way to the shower.
He knocks softly; she's become more sensitive to sound these days.
"Shirley, I'm coming in the shower, okay? I'm going to wash up with you while the water's still hot."
Pause.
"Okay."
Dallas peels back the shower curtain and sees Shirley's naked body glistening under the water and fights his anger. He sees those ugly red and purple marks on her body, especially those deep, deep bruises in the shape of handprints lingering on the swell of her hips.
"If I see those fuckers again, I'm going to kill them. I'm going to make them pay for what they did to you." Dallas whispers against her neck. He kisses it softly, wrapping his arms around her. Shirley relaxes with a sigh, holding on to his arms.
"What good will that do? You'll be locked up or dead and they'll come after me. That's how they are." She kisses his palm.
"They can't get away with doing that to you, for putting us through this. They deserve to rot in the worst hell God has to offer."
"And they will. They will answer to God for what they did. The God I believe in isn't as forgiving as I am."
"They don't deserve your forgiveness, Shirley. They don't." he kisses her neck again, pulling her closer. He kisses her collar bone, her cheek, and the side of her lips. He works his way up to her temple and leaves his lips there.
"Oh, Dallas." She shudders in a breath, her voice cracking. She breaks down crying.
"Why me? Why did it have to be me?"
"I don't know, honey. I don't know." He buries his face into her hair.
"I ask myself that question every day."
"Dallas, can I talk to you for a second?"
Dallas was busy painting the lips on another doll when he hears his boss. He puts the doll down and looks at him.
"What's the problem?"
"Follow me in my office."
"Are you fucking serious?" Dallas grinds his teeth, murder in his eyes. His boss slinks back in his chair.
"Dallas, you are a great worker, the best of my employees, but I'm going to have to let you go. You've been coming in late for the past week and your presence has my employees distracted. You're creating unnecessary conflict with your home life."
"Boss, I've been working my ass off. My girlfriend had been raped and beaten nearly to death. She needs me…"
"…but you need this job more. And frankly, I can't have you bringing that drama to the workplace."
"So you're going to fuck me over because some bitch employee complained to you about shit that has nothing to do with my work ethic?"
"I'm sorry, Dallas. If there's any comfort to you I can refer—"
"Save your fucking pity. You done cut off the arm I use to feed myself and you have the nerve to tell me you're sorry. Fuck you." He storms out the office and slams the door as hard as he could. Every employee stops what they're doing and looks at him.
"To whoever decided to rat on me about my private life, go eat a dick." He spits at the ground and exits the factory.
Two Weeks Later
Dallas crosses off yet another Help Wanted ad in the newspaper, massaging his aching temples. Shirley rubs his back in smooth circles, offering him yet another cup of coffee.
"Just keep throwing your net, baby. I'm sure you'll find one."
He instead huffs, balling up the newspaper and throwing it in the trash.
Ever since he got fired, finding work has been more difficult than he ever imagined. It's either he's underqualified, got too much of a criminal record, or his relationship with Shirley got wind and they had to cut him loose because of their beliefs. Bills are rising, they've been eating chocolate cake (courtesy of Sodapop) for weeks and it's starting to make them sick. Buck's car broke down and it costs some serious dough to fix it, and the rodeos stopped calling him.
These are hard times.
Dallas tosses his coat on.
"Where you're going?" Shirley asks.
"Out." Dallas huffs, slamming the door.
He finds himself at Buck's once again, in his old room, drinking the bottle of whiskey he hid in the floorboards and lying back on his old ratty mattress where Bettie Page's naughty face winks at him through the harsh red lighting.
He doesn't want to think for the most part. He just wants to black out and escape, just for a moment. He'll get back to reality, he'll think of a plan, he'll…
"Look what the cat dragged in. Dallas-Motherfucking-Winston. I'd never thought I'd see your face in these parts. You got enough of that jungle fever and decided to come to the light?"
"I don't want to hear it, Sylvia. I want you out of my face before I—"
"—Before you what? 'Beat the tar outta me'? You sound like a broken record, love." Sylvia slinks over to him, trailing her long fingernail down his chest.
"You know I'm just teasing. It's always good to see you."
That long black hair falls over his face like a curtain, the smell of her cheap perfume bringing back memories of happier times. Those cherry red lips seem to glow in the light, inviting and tempting for him to taste. Her lips ghost over his, playful.
"I miss you, you know." She's straddling him now, her panties peeking through her short skirt. Dallas feels his mouth get dry.
"You were always so, so good to me."
She rocks against him slowly, making all his troubles disappear. He finds his fingers slide underneath her top and peel it off of her.
He wants to forget for a while.
Her lips are kissing his neck, nipping at the parts that get him hot…
He doesn't want to think about Shirley, his apartment, his family, his problems.
He's kissing back, guiding her delicate hands to his zipper…
He needs this, he needs this so much.
He slams her body against the mattress, her creamy legs wrapped around his bare hips…
It's wrong, so wrong.
"Dallas, faster, faster, faster!" Her nails dig into his back…
But it feels too good to stop.
In all his bad luck, he deserves to feel good for once.