Chapter Text
He’s taking a roast pan out of a hot oven the first time he hears a ghost.
Sitting around campfires, folks always talked about ghosts as being on the quiet side. He would have expected a ghost to sound sort of like how folks talk to babies, all hushed. Or maybe like it was just part of the wind. And actually he wouldn’t have expected to hear a ghost at all seeing as how he didn’t believe in that kind of a thing, of course.
“Soda?” says the ghost, loudly. Soda almost drops the roast pan because damn it if that doesn’t sound just like Johnny Cade, of all people. Johnny Cade, dead for going on four years now.
“What was that?” Soda says, jumping back and maintaining just enough presence of mind to let the roast pan fall heavily on the counter. He rips the oven mitts off his hands and turns wildly around, as if expecting to see–to see what, exactly? He doesn’t know. What he sees is Darrel and Ponyboy looking back at him, both bewildered.
“Soda?” But this time, it isn’t a ghost, it’s Ponyboy. “What was what?”
“Did you burn yourself?” Darrel follows up, standing up from the armchair, yesterday’s newspaper in hand.
Soda looks at both of them. “You didn’t hear that?” he asks. He stands in the kitchen wearing his too-big flannel and mismatched socks next to a roasted chicken. He watches Darrel and Ponyboy exchange a look. He knows what that look means. “I think it was Johnny,” he blurts out, and then immediately he thinks, why did I have to say a thing like that?
“Johnny?” Ponyboy and Darrel echo at the same time, only Ponyboy says it softly and Darrel says it like he’s angry about it. But he isn’t angry, Soda knows immediately, he’s concerned. And so is Ponyboy, because he’s standing up from the table and now both of his brothers are walking over to him.
Soda steps back against the lower cabinets reflexively, like he always does now when he feels cornered. “I guess I imagined it,” he says and finds it within him to slap on a sheepish grin. “Sorry. In my own head again.” His brothers stand there and say nothing but they exchange another look between them and Soda feels embarrassed. “Think the chicken’s good to eat,” he adds.
“Maybe you oughta lay down,” Darrel says but Ponyboy rolls his eyes and then smiles warmly at Soda, stepping forward to start collecting forks and knives and a plethora of half empty condiments.
“It’s real windy,” he says, still smiling at Soda. “Sometimes I think I hear mom singing when it’s windy.”
This seems to disturb Darrel even more and he shakes his head as he grabs the milk and a few glasses. “You both should spend more time on Earth,” he grumbles. “Soda, bring the big knife over and I’ll carve the chicken.”
Soda collects their biggest knife and an extra fork and lays it down on the table across from where Darrel always sits. He lets Darrel be the one to carry the roast pan over to the table since he’s not always so steady on his feet these days. Even now he feels a little dizzy as he sits down and tries to shake off the sound of dead Johnny Cade’s voice in the kitchen.
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Later he’s on the porch and it’s a little warm for October. He watches some kids ride by on their bicycles, and sees a mangy looking cat slink lazily across the street.
It’s hard not to think about the war when he’s out here like this in the evening, for some reason, even though it’s perfectly pleasant and Tulsa is pretty far from Vietnam. But the war usually finds him anywhere he happens to be when things are still like this. He talks to Steve about it sometimes. Steve was there longer than him, because he didn’t get hurt and then discharged and sent home, he served his whole deployment and even said once he considered staying over there. That hadn’t made any sense to Soda, and not just because of his head injury.
Ponyboy joins him after a bit and hands him a glass of chocolate milk. “It’s the rest of it,” he says. “Wasn’t enough to put back in the refrigerator.”
It’s nearly a full glass, but Soda appreciates it and it tastes good even on a full stomach. Ponyboy is drinking a beer, which Soda doesn’t much like for some reason, but his kid brother’s a real adult now and in college and everything. “Sorry I brought up Johnny like that,” Soda says turning around so his back is facing the street. “I shouldn’t said that, I know you don’t like to think about him.”
“I think about him all the time,” says Ponyboy with a slight frown. He’s tall now, taller than Soda. Soda doesn’t much like that, either, but what can you do. “I think about what he’d be doing now.”
Soda can’t help himself. “I don’t think he’d have done too good in Saigon,” he says. He wishes he wouldn’t bring up the war this much but words just happen to him sometimes.
Ponyboy takes a long swig of the beer. “Does anyone?” he asks darkly. He’s real opposed to the war. He’s gone to protests on campus, Soda knows (but Darrel doesn’t). “Truth is,” Ponyboy continues, and he sounds sad to Soda but in a smart kind of way, like he’s being wise, not like he’s being tragic. “I can’t really picture it, you know? It’s like he was never meant to exist longer than he did.”
“Oh,” says Soda, because he doesn’t know what to say to that. That’s happening more and more now that Ponyboy is in college.
Ponyboy lights up a cigarette, takes the first drag real slow. “I miss him,” he says simply. That, Soda understands. He sits down next to him and rests his head on Ponyboy’s shoulder. “I guess what I mean to say, is you can talk about him. Anyone can. It won’t upset me. I’m–it feels different now that I’m older.”
“So old,” Soda hums, and Ponyboy gives him a mock offended look as Soda laughs. It’s a nice night for sitting outside on the porch with your brother.
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He’s brushing his teeth when he hears it again, just as loud. “Soda!” This time, it’s not like a question. “Soda, you can hear me!”
Soda practically jumps out of his skin and he drops his toothbrush after jamming it up against the roof of his mouth. “What the hell!” he exclaims, swallowing most of the toothpaste accidentally as he finds himself tripping backwards over the toilet bowl.
He makes a bit of a commotion and it draws Darrel’s attention as he’s using the shower curtain to pull himself up. “What happened?” Darrel asks, taking in the scene. “Did you fall?” He steps into the bathroom and reaches out to grasp Soda’s forearm to steady him.
“Did you hear that?” Soda demands, a cold sweat sitting tacky on his skin.
“Hear what?” Darrel asks, and he’s yet to let go of Soda’s arm. He’s looking at him real critically, worriedly. “Soda, what’s going on? Is your head bothering you?” He reaches out as if to touch the scar that cuts jaggedly across the side of his skull, but Soda flinches away and yanks his forearm back.
“No,” he says. “It’s not that, Darry. It’s like what I heard in the kitchen.”
“The wind?”
“No,” now Soda is frustrated. “I don’t think so. It ain’t even windy.” Then they both stand there in the bathroom, Soda looking around as if he could see–see what, exactly? A ghost? Some kind of floating head? Darrel is frowning and glances at his watch.
“I think you should get some sleep,” he says finally. “Maybe you’re tired.”
It’s true Soda doesn’t sleep well these days. “Maybe,” he allows, still unsettled. He lets Darrel guide him out of the bathroom but before the light switch is turned off, he stares into the mirror. His reflection stares back. For a second he thinks, is that smoke? As a layer of translucent mist seems to settle around the edges of the mirror, but then it’s gone and he blinks. He is tired. It’s awful hard to sleep these days.