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Darry heard crying when he got home. He’d hurt his hand at work and was sent home early, by orders instead of choice. And as soon as he closed the squeaky front door, his ears caught what was unmistakably crying.
He set his bag down and took off his shoes, then held his left hand with his right. As quietly as he could, he followed the noises down the hall until he came upon Ponyboy and Soda’s room, the door a bit ajar.
Darry peeked inside, holding his breath despite himself.
Ponyboy was facing away from the door, half-swathed in his and Soda’s sheets. His shoulders shook, his entire body trembling, the back of his bleached head curled in towards his chest. It was like he was drowning, gasping for air, though he was on dry land.
Ponyboy was holding something blue to his chest, his face partly buried in the material. Each sob seemed directed into the object as Pony choked on his own grief. This was the closest Ponyboy would ever get to his best friend again.
Darry didn’t know how Ponyboy had gotten Johnny’s jeans-jacket, but would never ask. This seemed like a ritual of sorts, something so sacred and private that violating it would be the worst thing he’d ever done. Worse than hitting Pony that night.
Gone With the Wind was next to Ponyboy. The book and the jacket were the only things Pony had left of Johnny, that and his blond hair. But soon Ponyboy’s auburn would grow back in and he’d be left with only these two things and his memories.
The sun was setting outside the window, swirling colors like mixed paint, orange and red and white and gold. The house was starting to get dark.
Darry swallowed, watching his younger brother sob. Ponyboy was always saying he was okay. But he wasn’t. And Darry felt helpless, unable to fix it. He was so good at fixing things like their rusty fence, or the leaks in the ceiling when Oklahoma had one of its rare rains, but when it came to things like his brother, Darry was about as useful as a sweater on a hot day.
He knew he should go in and comfort Ponyboy. But comforting was something he lacked skill in; it must have been a sacrifice in order to be so good at everything else. Anything Darry said would only make things worse. What was he supposed to do? Hug Pony? Pat his back? Say, 'I’m sorry your best friend died'?
If only Soda was here. Soda was good at this kind of thing. But the middle Curtis brother didn’t get off work until six, and he wouldn’t be home before six-thirty. Ponyboy used to stay out in the evening, too, before Johnny and Dally had-
Darry backed away from the door. He leaned against the wall with his eyes closed and listened to Pony’s pain. It hurt him, hearing this kid that he loved so much cry. Pony needed Johnny, and no amount of time or comforting words or reassurances that Johnny was in a better place now would change that.
Darry slowly walked down the hall. He made mushroom soup, Ponyboy’s favorite. His injured hand hurt but he ignored it. Some kinds of pain went deeper than others.
He couldn’t comfort like Soda, or heal like Johnny, but at least he could show Ponyboy that he cared.