The Outsiders (17 page)

Nobody would write editorials praising Dally. Two friends of mine had died that night: one a hero, the other a hoodlum. But I remembered Dally pulling Johnny through the window of the burning church; Dally giving us his gun, although it could mean jail for him; Dally risking his life for us, trying to keep Johnny out of trouble. And now he was a dead juvenile delinquent and there wouldn’t be any editorials in his favor. Dally didn’t die a hero. He died violent and young and desperate, just like we all knew he’d die someday. Just like Tim Shepard and Curly Shepard and the Brumly boys and the other guys we knew would die someday. But Johnny was right. He died gallant.

Steve stumbled forward with a sob, but Soda caught him by the shoulders.

“Easy, buddy, easy,” I heard him say softly, “there’s nothing we can do now.”

Nothing we can do . . . not for Dally or Johnny or Tim Shepard or any of us . . . My stomach gave a violent start
and turned into a hunk of ice. The world was spinning around me, and blobs of faces and visions of things past were dancing in the red mist that covered the lot. It swirled into a mass of colors and I felt myself swaying on my feet. Someone cried, “Glory, look at the kid!”

And the ground rushed up to meet me very suddenly.

When I woke up it was light. It was awfully quiet. Too quiet. I mean, our house just isn’t naturally quiet. The radio’s usually going full blast and the TV is turned up loud and people are wrestling and knocking over lamps and tripping over the coffee table and yelling at each other. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite figure it out. Something had happened . . . I couldn’t remember what. I blinked at Soda bewilderedly. He was sitting on the edge of the bed watching me.

“Soda . . .”—my voice sounded weak and hoarse—“is somebody sick?”

“Yeah.” His voice was oddly gentle. “Go back to sleep now.”

An idea was slowly dawning on me. “Am
I
sick?”

He stroked my hair. “Yeah, you’re sick. Now be quiet.”

I had one more question. I was still kind of mixed up. “Is Darry sorry I’m sick?” I had a funny feeling that Darry was sad because I was sick. Everything seemed vague and hazy.

Soda gave me a funny look. He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, he’s sorry you’re sick. Now please shut up, will ya, honey? Go back to sleep.”

I closed my eyes. I was awful tired.

When I woke up next, it was daylight and I was hot under all the blankets on me. I was thirsty and hungry, but my stomach was so uneasy I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold anything down. Darry had pulled the armchair into the bedroom and was asleep in it. He should be at work, I thought. Why is he asleep in the armchair?

“Hey, Darry,” I said softly, shaking his knee. “Hey, Darry, wake up.”

He opened his eyes. “Ponyboy, you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I think so.”

Something had happened . . . but I still couldn’t remember it, although I was thinking a lot clearer than I was the last time I’d waked up.

He sighed in relief and pushed my hair back. “Gosh, kid, you had us scared to death.”

“What was the matter with me?”

He shook his head. “I told you you were in no condition for a rumble. Exhaustion, shock, minor concussion—and Two-Bit came blubberin’ over here with some tale about how you were running a fever before the rumble and how it was all his fault you were sick. He was pretty torn up that night,” Darry said. He was quiet for a minute. “We all were.”

And then I remembered. Dallas and Johnny were dead. Don’t think of them, I thought. (Don’t remember how Johnny was your buddy, don’t remember that he didn’t want to die. Don’t think of Dally breaking up in the hospital, crumpling under the street light. Try to think that Johnny is better off now, try to remember that Dally would have
ended up like that sooner or later. Best of all, don’t think. Blank your mind. Don’t remember. Don’t remember.)

“Where’d I get a concussion?” I said. My head itched, but I couldn’t scratch it for the bandage. “How long have I been asleep?”

“You got a concussion from getting kicked in the head—Soda saw it. He landed all over that Soc. I’ve never seen him so mad. I think he could have whipped anyone, in the state he was in. Today’s Tuesday, and you’ve been asleep and delirious since Saturday night. Don’t you remember?”

“No,” I said slowly. “Darry, I’m not ever going to be able to make up the school I’ve missed. And I’ve still got to go to court and talk to the police about Bob’s getting killed. And now . . . with Dally . . .”—I took a deep breath—“Darry, do you think they’ll split us up? Put me in a home or something?”

He was silent. “I don’t know, baby. I just don’t know.”

I stared at the ceiling. What would it be like, I wondered, staring at a different ceiling? What would it be like in a different bed, in a different room? There was a hard painful lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow.

“Don’t you even remember being in the hospital?” Darry asked. He was trying to change the subject.

I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”

“You kept asking for me and Soda. Sometimes for Mom and Dad, too. But mostly for Soda.”

Something in his tone of voice made me look at him. Mostly for Soda. Did I ask for Darry at all, or was he just saying that?

“Darry . . .” I didn’t know quite what I wanted to say. But I had a sick feeling that maybe I hadn’t called for him
while I was delirious, maybe I had only wanted Sodapop to be with me. What all had I said while I was sick? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember.

“Johnny left you his copy of
Gone with the Wind
. Told the nurse he wanted you to have it.”

I looked at the paperback lying on the table. I didn’t want to finish it. I’d never get past the part where the Southern gentlemen go riding into sure death because they are gallant. Southern gentlemen with big black eyes in blue jeans and T-shirts, Southern gentlemen crumpling under street lights. Don’t remember. Don’t try to decide which one died gallant. Don’t remember.

“Where’s Soda?” I asked, and then I could have kicked myself. Why can’t you talk to Darry, you idiot? I said to myself. Why do you feel uncomfortable talking to Darry?

“Asleep, I hope. I thought he was going to go to sleep shaving this morning and cut his throat. I had to push him to bed, but he was out like a light in a second.”

Darry’s hopes that Soda was asleep were immediately ruined, because he came running in, clad only in a pair of blue jeans.

“Hey, Ponyboy!” he yelped, and leaped for me, but Darry caught him.

“No rough stuff, little buddy.”

So Soda had to content himself with bouncing up and down on the bed and pounding on my shoulder.

“Gosh, but you were sick. You feel okay now?”

“I’m okay. Just a little hungry.”

“I should think you would be,” Darry said. “You wouldn’t eat anything most of the time you were sick. How’d you like some mushroom soup?”

I suddenly realized just how empty I was. “Man, I’d like that just fine.”

“I’ll go make some. Sodapop, take it easy with him, okay?”

Soda looked back at him indignantly. “You’d think I was going to challenge him to a track meet or something right off the bat.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned. “Track meet. I guess this just about puts me out of every race. I won’t be back in condition for the meets. And the coach was counting on me.”

“Golly, there’s always next year,” Soda said. Soda never has grasped the importance Darry and I put on athletics. Like he never has understood why we went all-out for studying. “Don’t sweat it about some track meet.”

“Soda,” I said suddenly. “What all did I say while I was delirious?”

“Oh, you thought you were in Windrixville most of the time. Then you kept saying that Johnny didn’t mean to kill that Soc. Hey, I didn’t know you didn’t like baloney.”

I went cold. “I don’t like it. I never liked it.”

Soda just looked at me. “You used to eat it. That’s why you wouldn’t eat anything while you were sick. You kept saying you didn’t like baloney, no matter what it was we were trying to get you to eat.”

“I don’t like it,” I repeated. “Soda, did I ask for Darry while I was sick?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, looking at me strangely. “You asked for him and me both. Sometimes Mom and Dad. And for Johnny.”

“Oh. I thought maybe I didn’t ask for Darry. It was bugging me.”

Soda grinned. “Well, you did, so don’t worry. We stayed with you so much that the doctor told us we were going to end up in the hospital ourselves if we didn’t get some sleep. But we didn’t get any anyway.”

I took a good look at him. He looked completely worn out; there were circles under his eyes and he had a tense, tired look to him. Yet his dark eyes were still laughing and carefree and reckless.

“You look beat,” I said frankly. “I bet you ain’t had three hours sleep since Saturday night.”

He grinned but didn’t deny it. “Scoot over.” He crawled over me and flopped down and before Darry came back in with the soup we were both asleep.

I
HAD TO STAY IN BED
a whole week after that. That bugged me; I’m not the kind that can lie around looking at the ceiling all the time. I read most of the time, and drew pictures. One day I started flipping through one of Soda’s old yearbooks and came across a picture that seemed vaguely familiar. Not even when I read the name Robert Sheldon did it hit me who it was. And then I finally realized it was Bob. I took a real good long look at it.

The picture didn’t look a whole lot like the Bob I remembered, but nobody ever looks a whole lot like his picture in a yearbook anyway. He had been a sophomore that year—that would make him about eighteen when he died. Yeah, he was good-looking even then, with a grin that reminded me of Soda’s, a kind of reckless grin. He had
been a handsome black-haired boy with dark eyes—maybe brown, like Soda’s, maybe dark-blue, like the Shepard boys’. Maybe he’d had black eyes. Like Johnny. I had never given Bob much thought—I hadn’t had time to think. But that day I wondered about him. What was he like?

I knew he liked to pick fights, had the usual Soc belief that living on the West Side made you Mr. Super-Tuff, looked good in dark wine-colored sweaters, and was proud of his rings. But what about the Bob Sheldon that Cherry Valance knew? She was a smart girl; she didn’t like him just because he was good-looking. Sweet and friendly, stands out from the crowd—that’s what she had said. A real person, the best buddy a guy ever had, kept trying to make somebody stop him—Randy had told me that. Did he have a kid brother who idolized him? Maybe a big brother who kept bugging him not to be so wild? His parents let him run wild—because they loved him too much or too little? Did they hate us now? I hoped they hated us, that they weren’t full of that pity-the-victims-of-environment junk the social workers kept handing Curly Shepard every time he got sent off to reform school. I’d rather have anybody’s hate than their pity. But, then, maybe they understood, like Cherry Valance. I looked at Bob’s picture and I could begin to see the person we had killed. A reckless, hot-tempered boy, cocky and scared stiff at the same time.

“Ponyboy.”

“Yeah?” I didn’t look up. I thought it was the doctor. He’d been coming over to see me almost every day, although he didn’t do much except talk to me.

“There’s a guy here to see you. Says he knows you.” Something in Darry’s voice made me look up, and his eyes were hard. “His name’s Randy.”

“Yeah, I know him,” I said.

“You want to see him?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

A few guys from school had dropped by to see me; I have quite a few friends at school even if I am younger than most of them and don’t talk much. But that’s what they are—school friends, not buddies. I had been glad to see them, but it bothered me because we live in kind of a lousy neighborhood and our house isn’t real great. It’s run-down looking and everything, and the inside’s kind of poor-looking, too, even though for a bunch of boys we do a pretty good job of house-cleaning. Most of my friends at school come from good homes, not filthy-rich like the Socs, but middle-class, anyway. It was a funny thing—it bugged me about my friends seeing our house. But I couldn’t have cared less about what Randy thought.

“Hi, Ponyboy.” Randy looked uncomfortable standing in the doorway.

“Hi, Randy,” I said. “Have a seat if you can find one.” Books were lying all over everything. He pushed a couple off a chair and sat down.

“How you feeling? Cherry told me your name was on the school bulletin.”

“I’m okay. You can’t really miss my name on any kind of bulletin.”

He still looked uncomfortable, although he tried to grin.

“Wanna smoke?” I offered him a weed, but he shook
his head. “No, thanks. Uh, Ponyboy, one reason I came here was to see if you were okay, but you—we—got to go see the judge tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “I know. Hey, holler if you see one of my brothers coming. I’ll catch it for smoking in bed.”

“My dad says for me to tell the truth and nobody can get hurt. He’s kind of upset about all this. I mean, my dad’s a good guy and everything, better than most, and I kind of let him down, being mixed up in all this.”

I just looked at him. That was the dumbest remark I ever heard anyone make. He thought
he
was mixed up in this? He didn’t kill anyone, he didn’t get his head busted in a rumble, it wasn’t his buddy that was shot down under a street light. Besides, what did he have to lose? His old man was rich, he could pay whatever fine there was for being drunk and picking a fight.

“I wouldn’t mind getting fined,” Randy said, “but I feel lousy about the old man. And it’s the first time I’ve felt anything in a long time.”

The only thing I’d felt in a long time was being scared. Scared stiff. I’d put off thinking about the judge and the hearing for as long as I could. Soda and Darry didn’t like to talk about it either, so we were all silently counting off the days while I was sick, counting the days that we had left together. But with Randy sticking solidly to the subject it was impossible to think about anything else. My cigarette started trembling.