Work Text:
It’s officially a drought, the radio says. Bad for the crops. Bad for the state.
“Sure wish we’d get some rain,” says the gas station attendant.
“Whew-ee, it’s hot out here for September, dontcha think?” says the grocery store clerk.
What does it matter, Darrel wants to say. What does it matter. What does anything matter when the people you love and who love you are here and then they’re not. They’re just dead, plain as that. Doesn’t matter about the rain, or the lack of rain, or the snow or the wind or the storms or the potholes that tripped up the old Ford. Who cares. What does it matter .
He’s on a roof and there is a drought in Oklahoma. Sodapop’s nineteenth birthday is tomorrow, except it doesn’t matter because Sodapop is dead.
Ponyboy is supposed to be starting college, but he isn’t, because you can’t ask that of him right now. Even though the scholarship didn’t have a carve-out for this scenario, and Darrel worries that they’ll yank it on back if they realize he didn’t go to the first week of classes. But he can’t say that, because what kind of brother would he be if he added that to Ponyboy’s mind right now. If he scooped up more reasons to stay awake all night and force it down his throat.
He does his job instead and tries not to think about Ponyboy at home, on the couch, staring at the cartoons. Or worse, crying. No, that isn’t worse, that’s probably better. He doesn’t want him bottling it up and getting sick.
Darrel hasn’t really cried, except in the shower or in the darkness of his room, or maybe a little bit in the Ford driving down the busted up streets.
The Army paid for the funeral and for the casket. When mom and dad died, he’d had to find money for those things and the graves were small and simple. Too simple. He feels bad about that a lot, actually, but what was he supposed to do. What was he supposed to do about any of this.
The work day ends and he’s soon off the roof and sweating. He guzzles some water, turned hot in the sun. He nods at some of the guys and heads to the Ford. There’s a hole in his t-shirt on the shoulder and every time he wears it it gets a little wider, a little more frayed. He could sew it, he knows how, basically. But what was the point. Who cares if his shirt was falling apart when he wore it up on a roof.
At his car, god knows why, is Paul Holden. Darrel stops short, feet planting in the dusty ground.
“Darrel,” says Paul, and his voice is deep, and his button down shirt his clean and fits him well.
“Paul,” says Darrel, and he thinks about how if he was a girl and had long hair, it would hide the hole in the t-shirt, probably. But he isn’t and his hair doesn’t. “Somethin’ I can help you with?”
Paul studies him for a moment. “I drive by here most days and see you working,” he says. “I got a job downtown, little accounting firm. It gets a little hairy during tax season but it’s mostly alright.”
Darrel says, “Okay.” What is he supposed to say?
“Yeah,” said Paul, scratching the back of his head. “Guess I was surprised to see you back at work so soon. I heard about Soda.”
It’s hot, the sun is baking down on them. It shouldn’t be this hot in late September, it ain’t right. “Need the money,” said Darrel, defensively. “Some of us don’t got money in the bank to take vacations.” He had no money in the bank to speak of, his money was at home in dollar bills.
“Darrel,” Paul was saying, and his voice sounded strange to Darrel, who stared back at him. “I’m really sorry about Soda. I know you guys were close, especially after your folks died. I didn’t even know he was drafted. Feels like a lot of guys from school were-,”
“-Guys from my neighborhood,” Darrel interrupted, and he knew his voice was coming out angry. But he was angry, he was realizing as he spoke. “Not yours. I got more friends over there right now. Maybe they’ll die, too. Ain’t that the way it is, huh?”
Paul winces at this but recovers and shakes his head. “It’s not right,” he agrees. “The whole war.”
There was a drought, there was a war, he was on a roof and then he wasn’t. “Alright,” he says, stepping towards the Ford. “I gotta get home.”
He puts his tools in the truck bed and opens the driver’s side door, grabs his keys from out of his pocket. The steering wheel is worn down to metal. Paul walks over and he’s standing next to the door, and he’s got his hands in his pockets and he looks…Darrel doesn’t know what he looks like. Unsettled, maybe. Guilty? He can’t tell. He doesn’t really care.
“I know it’s been awhile since we were friends,” says Paul. “Probably spent more time as strangers than we did as friends, I figure. But I always drive past you working and I think, what if we got a beer sometime, you know? When we both get off work.”
Darrel stares at him. He’s lost his damn mind. His brother is dead and his other brother isn’t in college like he’s supposed to be and now this. “When I get off this job,” he says, real slow because he thinks Paul might have gone dumb, probably from shotgunning too many beers at Oklahoma. “I go to my other job. And I when I got off that job, it’s damn near midnight and I gotta eat and shower and sleep so I can get up and do it all over again the next day.”
Paul says nothing but he’s frowning now, and nodding a little at the ground. “Alright,” he mumbles. “I’m just really sorry about Soda. I heard about it and I’ve been sick about it, if you have to know. You already lost your folks, and then there was all of that a few years back with your kid brother, and now this. I just…you couldn’t take any time off? Not even to grieve?”
Darrel is real mad now. He feels hot pressure behind his nose and squeezing behind his eyes, he thinks it might shoot out of his ears like he’s in a comic strip. “No one is gonna pay my bills but me,” he says, real slow and real pointed. “I took a day off for the funeral.”
Paul sighs. “Well, I’m sorry to hear it, is all,” he says. Darrel grunts and starts up the engine. “You know, there was a time where you would’ve come to me and–you know. You would’ve come to me.”
The hot pressure intensifies. He watches the guys file out to their trucks. Most of them have taken off. “Ain’t been like that in a long time,” he says, and he hears that his voice has gone low and gravelly. “Not for a long time. Maybe you remember that.”
“I ain’t proud of that,” says Paul immediately, like he was waiting to say it. Darrel scoffs and closes the door with a yank. “Look, I’m not gonna…if you want to get a beer or, you know, if you need someone…I’m just saying I have a phone, okay? I’m working downtown.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Darrel says impatiently. He’s done with this. It’s gone on too long. “You got your fancy job. Congratulations. You want me to buy you flowers?”
“No,” said Paul, exasperated. “Darrel, for Christ’s sake. I know you. I know how much you loved Soda. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, but it ain’t good, and I see you out here doing this damn job and I just imagine you going home and there’s nobody…” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Alright. This wasn’t meant to be a whole circus. This is my phone number, okay? If you need me.”
He holds out a damn business card and on the back he’s written a phone number, like he would do at a bar trying to pick up a girl. Darrel stares at it. “Why?” he asks after a long delay. It’s so hot. He’s suddenly too aware of the sweat drying on his skin like tacky paint, of the hole in his t-shirt, of the flannel in the backseat that Sodapop won’t ever wear again.
“Just-,” Paul shoves the card in the truck. It falls in the little crevice between the seat and the door. “Alright. You take care, Darrel.”
He walks off, back to his car. Darrel watches him for a minute and then pulls away and onto the road. When he gets where he’s going, he opens the door and the card falls out. He picks it up. He puts it in the glovebox, on top of spare napkins and a few pennies. He closes the glovebox.