Chapter Twelve

Charles Redman, Jr. was 26 years old. He attended Nathan Hale until his sophomore year. He was a beloved son, brother, and friend. That was about all his obituary said. The article about him getting shot in front of Mark and Douglas was much longer. It seemed odd that his life got a few short sentences, but his death got a quarter of the front page.

Mark didn't go to the funeral, but my brothers and I did, because you always go to the funeral for the grieving. Evie was crying. Gina was drunk. Angie was there too, holding Gina's hair back as she vomited into the church's bushes by the time we left. I felt so bad for Gina. Losing a brother, I thought, was the worst thing that could ever happen to a person.

I had no idea what to say to Gina, so I didn't say anything. I still feel bad about that. You'd think I'd have known how to offer condolences by then, but I didn't. I was so sick of tragedies. Besides, nothing anyone can say can make something like that better.

They were already a broken family and I knew that Charlie wasn't the only one who wouldn't survive his death. We'd barely seen Steve since, he was spending his time at their trailer, trying to fix something unfixable.

Life is so fragile. When we were little, Dad would always tell us the most important part of any fight was protecting your head. One of his brothers took a carjack to his head once and died instantly. The bad luck of one blow and that was it. He'd never get in another fight or do anything ever again.

Mark had just gotten his stitches out. The wound was still pink and a little puffy, but I could only see it when I ran my fingers through his hair. I wanted to be there for him, and in a way, I thought this was another way that we could relate to each other. I could understand what that was like for him, with everything I'd seen. But I should have known he felt things differently than me, if he felt anything at all. I didn't know if he was still in shock or he just didn't care that much. Everyone deals with loss their own way – I've had enough of it to understand that. I think grief might make us more of who we are. I don't know. Mark seemed untouched. Still, I decided I'd be there for him however he wanted. As long as Soda was at work, I could be there with Mark. Unfortunately, Mark was mostly concerned with drumming up more business.

We pulled into Terwilliger Heights, an old neighborhood built with oil money, near mid-town. It was mostly college students renting at that time. It had all these beautiful old houses, all sorts of styles, not like our neighborhood where most of the houses looked more or less the same. There were houses with brick and stone siding and porches and columns. We pulled up next to one of the smaller homes, still it had two stories and lush greenery, though the lawn needed mowing badly. We walked past a hippie van that was parked in the driveway and stepped onto the porch, which had a sloppily written sign that said "LOVE" hanging from it. Can you get any hokier? Not to mention they used crimson and chartreuse. Anyone with eyes should know they clashed.

We walked right in, no one really paid us much mind, even though we weren't hippies. But then, hippies were trying to dress poor so maybe we did blend in.

The room was dimly lit, a haze of smoke hanging heavy in the air. I hadn't expected it to be so packed. It was Saturday, but it was clear this wasn't a party, just a bunch of kids lounging around, smoking, and lost in their own worlds. The place reeked so bad it made my nose wrinkle involuntarily. Mark moved with purpose, zeroing in on a tall guy with long mousy hair and an equally mousy beard in the kitchen. I followed, sticking close because I wasn't sure what else to do.

Then the tall guy turned, and I froze.

"Pony!" His voice was a mix of surprise and something that sounded almost happy.

"Randy?" I asked incredulously. It took me a second to recognize him. It really did. In dirty Levis and a beard no cleaner, he was an entirely different person. This wasn't the Randy Adderson I remembered from before. The one who used to be Bob's best friend, the jaded asshole. This Randy was a stranger, older but more naïve.

Before I could react, he stepped forward and hugged me. I stiffened, glancing at Mark over Randy's shoulder. Mark's face was stolid, but he quirked an eyebrow.

Randy let go, but didn't step far enough away. He didn't smell like English Leather anymore; he smelled of patchouli and grass. It was all I could do not to choke on it. Some people can smoke a lot of marijuana, and you wouldn't know it by smelling them, but some people always smell like they've been swimming in bongwater. Maybe it has to do with how much they wash their clothes. I reckon that Socs probably don't know how to do their own laundry, so it might be worse for them.

"You know this guy?" Mark asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

"I know a lot of guys." I could have kicked myself as soon as the words left my mouth. I just didn't want to get into it with Mark. I might pay for it later, I might not. I never knew.

Mark ignored me and turned to Randy. "Remember me? You gave me and my buddy a ride to the hospital a few months back. You told me about this place, so I thought we'd check it out." By this he meant that he pushed drugs, hippies did drugs, so here we were.

Randy nodded, his eyes flicking back to me. I wondered if he really remembered Mark. "Everyone's welcome here," he said. "We don't have much formality. Have a look around."

He didn't have to tell Mark twice. He turned on his heel, and I was about to follow him out the door.

"Pony, stay back, brother. I want to talk with you," Randy said.

I was surprised when Mark actually left us alone. He gave me a look, something that might have been a warning or just his way of saying "watch your back," but then he was gone, blending into the crowd with ease.

"How have you been?" Randy asked, his voice softer now, almost tentative. The last time I'd seen him, I was scared at the hearing and the last time we had really spoken, I'd been delusional in bed. Those weren't exactly my finest moments.

"Probably about the same as you."

We were quiet for a second. "You hungry? It's my night to cook." He pulled out a pot from a cupboard.

I actually was really hungry. I was making weight for wrestling, which had started back up. But I said, "I don't think we're gonna be here that long."

"I read about your friend in the paper." So he did remember Mark. "The bartender that got killed with him—"

"Charlie," I corrected him, my voice flat.

"You knew him?"

"I know the family."

Randy shook his head and poured some beans into the pot. "I'm just so sick of all the violence. It just doesn't end. That bartender that got killed… it's just one more in a long line."

I nodded, a little annoyed. I knew he dug okay—I had learned that last year—but I forgot. I forget a lot of things.

"His sisters are devastated." I told him, to let him know that Charlie was a real person, not just another tragedy in the Tulsa World. "He just got out of the draft, 'cause of his record. They were all really happy."

"And that damned war. It's not enough to be killing each other here, they want us to kill civilians over there."

Us? I didn't see how he could know the first thing about it. I glanced around the kitchen, my eyes landing on a dreamcatcher hanging from the knob of the cupboard behind his head. It was one of those tacky ones, all feathers and beads. It made me even more bothered. He may have traded in his Mustang for a Volkswagen bus, but he was still the same Soc.

"We can't all run away, have our parents pay for us to go to college and get a deferment," I said, my tone more curt than I intended. I couldn't help it. Randy's new hippie persona felt so phony, and I wasn't buying it.

For a moment, a sardonic look passed over his face, and I could see the rich kid underneath, the one who had followed Bob too far, too cool to feel anything. But then it was gone, replaced by something still sincere.

"It's a crying shame," he said, his voice low.

I nodded, suddenly tired. We let the moment pass, as Randy fiddled with his beans. I could tell he really didn't know how to cook.

"Cherry said you're in Creative Writing with Syme," Randy said after a moment, his tone conversational.

"Yeah."

"It's funny I didn't used to read, and now I'm majoring in English. I'm really starting to appreciate how important storytelling is. Cherry says you're really talented."

I felt a little odd, because I talked with Cherry quite a bit in class and I had no idea she was still in touch with Randy, much less that they talked about me.

I felt odd about it and wanted to change the subject. I didn't want to talk to him about how sacred storytelling was to me. I almost asked him if he had a girlfriend, but instead I asked, "How are Bob's parents?"

"His mom hasn't been around much. She's been in Switzerland with exhaustion." He gave me a meaningful look, but I was more taken aback by the fact that people could just go to Switzerland. It's funny; at the time, New York was a world away. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd ever see Europe.

"And his dad?" I asked, with a forced neutrality I had perfected this past year.

"Art's been around, but last time I'd seen him, he was lonely. Bob's was always the house, you know. We'd go there because his folks let us do anything. It must be real quiet there now." He hesitated, then added, "They aren't bad people, you know. They could have made the trial a lot worse for you."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I didn't know what made someone a bad person anymore.

We were quiet for a moment.

"Pony," Randy said suddenly, cutting through my thoughts. "I'm sorry. For everything."

"Me too." There wasn't much else to say.

Mark reappeared then, his expression unreadable as he glanced between us. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah," I said, because it wasn't really a question. "Thanks, man."

Randy nodded, his eyes meeting mine. There was something in his gaze, something that didn't quite look like pity. "Stay gold, Ponyboy."

Mark laughed and I shoved him out of the kitchen.

On the way home, Mark wanted to talk about someone called M&M, who I didn't know. So I nodded along and thought about how torn up Randy was about Bob, how that appeared to have changed everything for him. Watching someone you care about die changes you. For most people.

Darry was already back from work, and when I got home. We were settled in for the evening. I was reading In Cold Blood and Darry was starting dinner. The house was quiet with Soda gone to Buck's, the kind of quiet that we'd grow to abhor someday.

Then I heard it—the low rumble of an engine cutting off outside. I didn't look up. The houses were pretty close together. It wasn't unusual to hear people coming and going. But then the door swung open a minute later, and sure enough, there Soda was. He didn't kick his shoes off and I didn't bother to look up.

"Where ya been, Ponyboy? You were supposed to be at the library. I've been looking everywhere for you."

Darry let me keep the library clerk job into the school year. I only did a few hours a week, and I could even do my homework there most of the time. It wasn't a ton of money, but I had other sources if income those days. So I was mostly using the library as an alibi and an excuse for putting in an inordinate amount of cash in the coffee can above the fridge. (I was skimming from Mark. It only seemed fair.) If Darry ever realized, he never mentioned it. Maybe he thought Soda put it in.

But now I was caught in another lie. I lied so much those days. I prepped another easy, but didn't get a chance to deliver it.

Darry came in from the kitchen, and I thought he was gonna start in on me too, but for once he kept his attention was focused on Sodapop and Soda let it go. "What is that?" Darry asked, peering out the window, where a Triumph motorcycle was parked in our driveway.

Soda fixed his face in that kinda fake enthusiastic way he did sometimes. "It's perfect, is what it is," he said, obnoxiously self-satisfied. "We don't have to worry about us all leaving at the same time, who has the truck for what. Especially with Pony driving soon."

Darry didn't seem all that convinced, but all he said was, "A motorcycle."

"Yep." Soda looked at me and asked, "What d'ya think, Pony?"

I glanced up from my book, then shrugged. I didn't care about his stupid bike.

"Dad had one," Soda said, his voice a little softer now. I could tell he was trying to connect, but I wasn't. I kept reading, trying to tune him out and think about Perry Smith..

"Before he married Mom," Darry interjected.

"Then I'll get rid of it once I get married," Soda added with an easy grin, but I could see he was watching me, trying to gauge my reaction.

"If you live that long," Darry muttered. He folded up the paper and set it aside, staring at Soda with that look he gets when he's about to start lecturing. "You take the curb on that, you wipe out. And that's it. Nothing between your skull and the asphalt."

Soda just waved him off. "Relax, Darry. I know what I'm doing."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at that. Soda always thought he knew what he's doing, and maybe sometimes he did, but that didn't make him invincible. I could tell Darry was thinking the same thing, but he didn't push it. He just shook his head and said something under his breath that I couldn't make out.

Soda turned to me again. "Just come on out and see it." Darry sighed and stood up, but I stayed put. "Pony?"

"I'm good." I did my best to look at him, unaffected.

He was disappointed.

There was a time where I would have jumped right up and raced Soda to it, that I would have begged for him to take me around the block. Motorcycles were tuff, but I wasn't in the mood. I didn't want to accept any olive branches from Soda. I was too stubborn to let up or pretend things were okay between us. I thought I had more important things to worry about. And I was too hungry to be reasonable.

What did he want? I wasn't gonna be kept on a short leash or follow him around like a dog.

I pretended to go back to my book, but listened to them through the storm door, which was letting in crisp winter air, until Darry shouted at me to close it.

I think about that bike a lot these days. You know I have regrets.

There's a lot I can't tell you about that winter. Not like I'm trying to hide it from you. I just can't remember. Maybe I'm just trying to hide it from myself.

When I first started hanging around Mark everything had felt so meaningful, so real, so vibrant. But you can only stare at the sun before it fucks up your vision. I couldn't see anything clearly anymore. All the emotion was wrung out of me, like a dirty washcloth. I was left weary.

Mark had big plans to become a kingpin. He had always been cocky, but his sense of grandeur became unnerving. I was blinded by Mark probably more than anyone, but even I could see he was living in a different world. It was my fault, because I protected him. When it looked like he wasn't gonna be able to sell enough pills to repay his supplier, I got the money. So he went back and got even more pills, and we were stuck in this cycle. And I kept helping.

I went with him to Jack's, to hippie houses, or to the Ribbon to push. It was actually pretty tedious, most of the time. They really made being a criminal look more exciting on Dragnet.

That's what we were doing that day. I played look-out at a drive-in on the Ribbon, while Mark was in a Rambler he hotwired. He'd chose it so no one would suspect he was selling drugs in there. Ramblers were rank, the sort of cars you'd expect to smell like mothballs and be driven by an old man named Elmer.

There was a commotion and someone shouted something about calling an ambulance. So I rushed over and rapped on the car window, our established code to beat it out of there. Because if an ambulance came, you knew the fuzz would turn up too.

We abandoned the car and tried to blend in to the crowd of looky-loos. They were circled around some girl, who I had recognized as one of the kids Mark had seen in the Rambler. I didn't have the best view of her, though, I couldn't tell what was wrong.

"Hey, what happened?" I asked some guy.

"She started falling over and ralphing. They think she's on something."

It was us, I thought. It was us, we sold her the sass.

"We should see if she's okay." I turned to Mark. "What if it's a bad batch —"

"It's fine, Pony. No one else has complained. She probably just took too many. It's not our problem. We didn't make the pills and we didn't make her take 'em."

"Mark—"

"Come on, we got to get to Terry's." He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me along.

Terry Jone's house was pretty close to Mark's, but we didn't go to Mark's because Douglas's mom was around. The house was dark when we arrived, and the front door was locked. This didn't deter Mark, who led me to the back and jimmied open the back door. I didn't worry about breaking and entering, because I knew Jones wouldn't object to anything Mark did.

Since we didn't dare spend time together at my house and chance Soda finding out and Mrs. Douglas was back home from the hospital, we hadn't had too many opportunities to be alone. We had plenty of frantic, foolishly too public encounters, but we never got to relax. I think Mark got kicks out of almost getting caught, but I didn't. I'd rather hold up somewhere away from society and just get to be and not worry. I craved alone time. I wanted to live out in the country, or maybe in the woods by one of the lakes. I must have told Mark all this at some point.

After he shouted to confirm the coast was clear, I didn't resist as he grabbed me by the back of the neck and kissed me, manhandling me to Jone's parents' bedroom.

We fooled around, and I tried not to worry about the girl at the drive-in. I did my best to ignore the guilt, but I know better now how serious it was. It's the stuff that could mess up lives, get people killed. And I'm sorry.

We hadn't heard anything, until Jones yelled something from outside. We pulled on our clothes and rushed out, without bothering to put on our tennis shoes.

We ran outside and he and Williamson stood back from Douglas, who was lying on the ground. He had almost been beaten beyond recognition. He wasn't moving. He looked dead.

I kneeled down and put my face close to his. "He's breathing!"

Mark and me dragged him into the house, and I remembered how much easier it was for me and Douglas to help Mark out of hospital after the dance. Douglas was kinda a big guy. We laid him on the unmade bed we'd just left.

There was so much blood running down his face, down his neck onto the Mr. And Mrs. Jones's bunched up Chenille bedspread. I went to get a wet rag from the kitchen to clean up the blood, ignoring Jones's perplexed expression at the state of the bedroom.

I handed the rag to Mark, who started cleaning Douglas up. Normally people look a lot better once you get the blood off. Douglas didn't. He looked bad. Almost as bad as Johnny had that day in the vacant lot. He needed stitches. Both eyes were swollen shut, and his entire face was a puffy, shiny purple. You couldn't even see his eyes; they were swollen shut. I'd seen loads of people beat up, but I still didn't like it.

I looked for my shoes, mostly so I didn't have to look at Douglas. I can't stand to see anyone hurt like that.

"Bryon, you okay?" At the question, I heard Bryon shift like he was gonna sit up, but Mark said, "Don't move, man." Mark's voice was tight.

I found my shoes and put them on. Crouched down, I worked on tying my laces. I had to untie them first. They were knotted too tight.

Douglas made a guttural sort of sound, like he was trying to stay quiet.

"What happened?" Mark's voice was sharp now, more anger than worry. "Who did this to you?"

Douglas's breath was coming in shallow wheezes. He didn't say nothing. I didn't think he was able to at first. His breath was labored and I'd wager he had a couple broken ribs. But eventually he managed to rasp out, "Shepards."

I paused and looked up.

The guys looked at me. Except Mark. He asked Douglas, "You want to go to the hospital?" And this time his voice cracked a little. It caught me off guard; Mark the only other time I'd seen him close to cracking was that day we fought at the vacant lot. He really did look upset. I felt a pang of bitter envy, I hate to admit. It was strange to see Mark like that—usually, he was so cool, so in control. But right then, he looked scared, like he'd be torn up if Douglas died. I wondered if he really cared about him. If he could care about someone.

"No," Douglas muttered, his voice barely audible. "Can I stay here?" he asked.

"Sure, man, you stay here," Terry said, from above me. "Brother, you look like you've been through a meat grinder."

"That's what it feels like too." He sounded like he was about to cry, but his mouth twitched a weak smile.

"I'll call the old lady," Mark said, his jaw clenched tight. "Then we'll go look up the Shepards."

"Mark!" Douglas cut in, forcing more strength into his voice than I thought he had left. "I want to talk to you, personal-like."

Mark hesitated, his eyes flicking to me and then back to Douglas. "Sure, buddy. Clear out, you guys," he said, waving us off.

Obeying the command, I stood and slipped out with the others, but not before catching one last look at Douglas. I think he might have been trying to play the tough guy. He was a wreck, though, so it didn't work.

We went to the living room, closing the bedroom door behind us.

"What happened?" Williamson asked like I had some inside information. I guess I knew the Shepards better than they would.

I shook my head. "I don't know." I knew the Shepards, and I know they weren't above jumping someone for kicks, but they wouldn't have jumped him this bad. Not without a reason. They always had a reason. Sometimes Curly's reason wasn't great, but if Tim showed up too, you can bet someone wronged them.

"So we'll go after the Shepards tonight, then?"

They were still asking me. I guess when Mark wasn't around, I was in charge of them, like a widow's succession.

I didn't really get along that great with Mark's friends. They bored me. Or maybe they seemed that way because I only really saw them around Mark and everyone was dull by comparison. (Or maybe, I wonder now, if he chose them because they were uniteresting by themselves. Mark always had a reason, too.)

I looked at Jones and Williamson. They weren't the kinda guys I'd want to have in a rumble.

"You ain't that tough," I told it to them straight. It was kinda mean, but I meant it. There was no way they could take on the Shepards or any of their guys.

Williamson looked insulted but Jones was looking anywhere but me. He started towards the record player, which was part of their TV console. It must have been his parent's who were listening to it last, because it was some Mel Tormé single that started playing with a midtempo setting and very restrained orchestral accompaniment.

We all waited for Mark to emerge. I sat on the couch and closed my eyes to discourage either one of them from trying to talk to me.

"I let my heart fall into careless hands / Careless hands broke my heart in two/ You held my dreams like worthless grains of sand, Careless hands don't care when dreams slip through—"

I knew Mark came in, before I opened my eyes. "Turn that fucking shit down!" He shouted.

Jones did. And Williamson jumped in and starting questioning Mark. Mark was annoyed by it, but Williamson wasn't picking up on it. He kept answering the questions with grunts.

Mark started pacing, breathing heavy. I could tell he was gonna get irate. I thought he might go on a tirade, though he normally only did that sort of thing in private. I stood up from the couch to try to calm him. Sometimes I could head it off, but it had been getting harder lately. The time between Mark's outbursts was getting shorter, but it's not like I had many friends by then and I was barely talking to Soda, so I put up with it.

"Mark—" I began, but he cut me off.

"You couldn't have manned up and fucked Angel." He backhanded me, there right in front of those guys, more humiliating than a closed fist.

The sting on my cheek spread through me like dread. "What does Angie have to do with this?"

Mark didn't answer. But I couldn't let this go. "What did you do to Angie?"

"It's her own damn fault, what does she think's gonna happen? Flouncing around, boozed all the time."

This terrified me, in far reaching ways that were probably born out understandings I had about Mark but couldn't acknowledge. I couldn't trust him. I'd be an idiot if I thought I could. Like a ringleader of a circus who thinks they've got a lion tamed. You could never tame something so wild.

I snapped. It was easy, because I took him by surprise. I shoved him up and on the wall, with my forearm against his throat. Turns out I wasn't tamed either.

I had him pinned. His breathing was constricted, but I pressed my arm firmer. The desire, perverse and irresistible in its vehemence. I wanted to kill him.

I was taller than him now, with a better build. You'd have thought I would have fought back more often, but nothing motivated me like hearing this. It took both Jones and Williamson to pull me off him. Mark slid down the wall and the photo behind him crashed onto the hardwood floor. The glass cracked down the center. It was a wedding portrait.

"What'd you do to her?" I bit out again, ripping out of their grasp.

"Chill out," Mark said, as he steadied himself, catching his breath. "We just cut her hair off."

"Her hair?" I was relieved but stricken.

He told me a story of what happened. It didn't make me feel any better. It made me sick. I remembered Angie's beautiful black hair. And Johnny saying that's what they took from you when you get arrested. How long it took for my hair to grow out how I liked it after Windrixville. That we had to cut our hair so we could go to school in Tulsa. Mark had done terrible things, maybe much worse than this, but this really disturbed me.

Mark went on, to try to make it sound like he did it for me. "You remember she sent that guy after you? I couldn't let her get away with that. And now her brothers' went and jumped my brother."

"Isn't Angie pregnant?" I asked. You should really leave pregnant girls alone.

"No, that's the kicker. She's not. Probably just lied to trap that poor sap, Smith."

I knew Wayne Smith. I didn't reckon he was the one trapped.

Mark sighed and sat on the couch. "But you don't want to get even, Bryon don't want to get even. Everyone's gone soft all of a sudden."

I had always been soft. I was just so sick of the violence. It just didn't end. Randy was right about that. I couldn't shake the sinking feeling in my gut. I didn't know if Mark was going to listen to whatever Douglas had said, but I did know Mark. If he thought the Shepards needed a lesson, he'd be the one to teach it, whether Douglas wanted him to or not.

"It's not what I wanted to see when I came here with Terry. And it was such a nice day at the lake picking up chicks." No one bothered to look confused at this revision. We all just accepted that Mark was in charge of everything, even reality.

So when he said, "Leave, Curtis," I didn't argue.

That was the last time I saw Mark, before he was arrested.

Notes:

Hey everyone! First off, I want to apologize for the long, long break—I can't believe it's been over 3 years since the last update! I can't thank you all enough for sticking around. Life has been a bit of a rollercoaster, but I'm excited to dive back into this story.

I'm incredibly grateful for all the comments, messages, and the quiet reads during the hiatus. Your support has meant the world to me, and it's really helped motivate me to continue.

Thank you again for your patience and for being such an amazing community. I can't wait to hear what you think about this chapter!