Chapter Text
Darry stood in the kitchen, feeling the thick silence settle around him. A silent house went against the natural order of things, and it made his skin crawl. His hands white-knuckled against the counter, bracing against the stubborn hope that someone, anyone, would come barging in the door, breaking the awful haze of stillness that surrounded the Curtis home. He knew this was a futile hope - Pony was away at college, Steve was at work, and Two-Bit was busy canoodling with Marcia. And of course, Soda wasn't home. But Darry couldn't think about where Soda was, or he risked breaking down in sobs, never to get up again. He had done so well - he hadn't cried at all since they found out - or at least hadn't cried where anyone could see him. He had kept being the big, strong older brother the greasers needed him to be. And as long as the house stayed loud and busy, he could keep that up. It was only in the silence that you could hear his heart break.
Darry stayed at the kitchen counter as time dragged endlessly on, tensing his jaw and his grip and his heart for as long as he could, as long as it would take to convince himself that Soda was just at the DX, that Pony was just out at the drive-in, that either of the Curtis brothers would come stomping in at any moment. After an eternity, he pried his fingers off the counter, his stupor broken only by the rumble of his stomach.
Working off instinct, he grabbed a box of cereal, to hell with the fact that the sun was going down, and turned towards the bowls. He shook out the cereal, and was halfway to sitting down at the table when he paused and looked at his hands - each carrying a bowl, overflowing with Lucky Charms. One for him, one for Soda. The bowls both clattered out of his hands as he sank to the ground, his body wracked with all the tears he'd been holding back. A lifetime of being the oldest brother, three years of being the man in charge - he didn't know how to turn that off. The sound of his sobs bounced off the walls of the empty, empty house, each echo mocking him in turn. He would give anything to turn back the clock, just one week. Just one day. Just one more moment with Soda.
From his spot on the kitchen floor, Darry could see the television they'd all been gathered around when it happened. Could almost hear Soda, calling in to him as he washed dishes. It had been months, but it still felt like yesterday.
"What channel is it on, Darry?"
"CBS. Channel 6," Darry replied. He heard a burst of static as Soda fiddled with the dial, then clear sound: a somber reporter, in the middle of an explanation.
"19-year-olds will report to draft boards in the order that their birth dates are drawn tonight. Based on previous years, we can expect that men with the first hundred or so birthdays drawn will be asked to report. Beginning in January, those men will be inducted into the military and report to basic training, barring deferments."
"What's a deferment?" Steve asked.
"Gets you out of going," Soda said. "But it's hard to get. You have to be in college, or have some condition where you can't work."
"Or be taking care of your two kid brothers," Darry chimed in, joining his friends in the living room. It had seemed like the draft board hadn't wanted to give Darry his deferment, especially after he passed all their exams with flying colors, but it was hard to argue with two minor dependents.
He settled into an armchair and watched the small screen. A group of men in suits clustered around a desk and a drum filled with oblong blue capsules. Darry found his gaze locked on the drum, wishing fervently that the capsule with Soda's birthday, October 8, was buried. Far enough down that the army would fill its ranks before Soda would never need to report.
The shot switched back to the somber reporter, who began to rattle off the qualifications of the suited men—this congressman, that senator, would be drawing from the drum.
Two-Bit fidgeted. "Glory, you'd think they'd know to get it over with."
Soda didn't respond. Darry looked closely at his brother, who was tightly coiled on one side of the couch, his whole body still, and felt a spike of worry.
"And we're going to ask him to choose the first."
Darry looked back to the TV screen as one of the men reached in and removed a capsule. He handed it over to another man, who pulled it open, revealing a small roll of paper. He unfurled it.
"October 8," he read.
There was a close-up shot of the man's hands, tacking the slip to a large board. October 8. October 8. The camera lingered, but the words swam in Darry's vision.
But then Soda was crying, and Pony was calling from college in a panic, and Darry was holding Soda tight and trying to talk Ponyboy down and Two-Bit was swearing up a storm at the CBS reporter. They almost didn't realize that Steve was safe when his birthdate was drawn, all the way down at number 273, but it barely mattered—he choked out, "I wish it was me. I wish it was me instead."
No time to cry, Darry thought, forcing himself to keep his voice even and his hands steady. There was never any time.
The TV had sat darkened ever since. Soda reported to the draft board, which hadn't found a single damn reason he shouldn't serve, and none of the greasers were quite in the mood for cartoons after that. And Darry couldn't bear to watch the evening news anymore. Those images of the jungle—and even more so, those casualty numbers.
He tried not to think about the deaths. He canceled the daily Tribune delivery, but the headlines confronted him from the newspaper racks. "Wounds in Vietnam War Fatal to Tulsa Soldier." "Oklahoma's Vietnam Toll Reachers 1,030." "Vietnam Bloodbath." His coworkers all had stories. And he couldn't go near Johnny and Dally's graves—there was always a funeral happening. American flags draped over caskets.
It had been so bad before, in those five months, Soda's deployment creeping closer and closer. Soda getting the letter to report to Fort Leonard Wood, in Missouri, in January. Pony coming home for the holidays and refusing to leave Soda's side for the entire month. The looks of pity from the others on his crew. The gang's grief was so loud, voices layering over each other, each in their own pain but always overlapping. It was hard enough getting through the loud grief. Darry didn't realize the quiet would be worse.
But of course, it was.
Soda had shipped out to basic training yesterday afternoon. Steve and Two-Bit had hung around afterwards, awkwardly cracking jokes and trying to pretend that they also weren't falling apart. Darry let Steve pretend the wetness under his eyes was sweat. Steve let Darry pretend his bleeding knuckles were from work. Two-Bit did his best, poking at them both, trying to ask how they were doing, trying to let them know how much he was hurting too. His efforts were met with a stiff "I'm fine, lay off". Eventually he gave up, and let them all escape into a poker game. At around ten, Steve and Two-Bit had headed back to their own places, drawing out goodbyes until they couldn't anymore, and the door shut, and Darry was alone.
Darry had never spent a night by himself. First it was him and his parents, then there was one brother, then Ponyboy came along and there were two. Then there was Steve, and Two-Bit, crashing in and making the house their own. Dally and Johnny had been constant presences, each running from a hard life to a soft spot on the couch. After their funerals, the house had gotten quieter. After Ponyboy went to college, it got quieter still. But there had still been the rest of the greasers, and when there was no one else, there was always Soda. Last night was the first time in his life Darry had slept in an empty house.
Last night had been the worst night of Darry's life.
Today, as he sat crumpled on the kitchen floor, snot running down his face and spilled cereal in a heap in front of him, he knew one truth, down to his bones, down to his soul. He couldn't take another night alone in this house. He couldn't possibly tolerate that.
At this realization, his sobbing quieted. With sudden determination, he pulled himself up from the floor, a frantic energy fueling him. He hurried into his bedroom, grabbing his ratty old duffel bag off the shelf. This duffel bag was supposed to carry him to college. He figured that packing it now was the closest he was ever going to get. He haphazardly threw clothing into the bag, grabbing whatever he saw off the floor - clean or dirty, old or new, shirts, underwear, pants, it didn't really matter. He was moving too quickly to double check anything. Stopping felt like death, like giving in to the silence of the house.
When he finished grabbing what he saw in his room, he moved into the room Ponyboy and Sodapop had shared. Here, he moved slower - there wasn't much strewn about after both boys had moved out, not as much worth taking. On the nightstand, though, there was a photo. The Curtis family - younger, happier, before. Their mom and dad were smiling in the background, arms around each other's waists, twinkling eyes fixed on the boys as they played. In the foreground, a young Darry had Pony on his back, spinning away from Soda, who was attempting to tackle Darry to the ground. All three had grins spread across their entire faces, slightly blurred because the photographer couldn't get them to stand still long enough for a photo. It was one of the few pictures they had of their entire family, and it melted Darry's heart every time. Pony had left it in his room when he went to college, saying it belonged with the Curtises as a whole, not just him. Soda didn't have room for a large, fragile item like that photo, having to instead opt for ripping out yearbook photos of his brothers. Darry picked up the photo in its glass frame, carefully wrapping it in an old sweatshirt Soda had left behind, before sliding it on top of his clothes.
With a final look at the bedrooms behind him, Darry stepped back into the kitchen. He slid the duffel bag on the table while he grabbed a broom, quickly sweeping the Lucky Charms into the trash. Picking up the duffel, he was about to leave when he paused in the doorway, suddenly pivoting back to the kitchen counter, where he grabbed a notebook and a pen and scribbled down a message in all caps.
Satisfied, he capped the pen and ripped the page out of the notebook. As he strode out the door, he folded the paper in the mail slot, where Steve or Two-Bit would be sure to notice.
"DOOR'S UNLOCKED," the message read. "I'LL KEEP PAYING MORTGAGE. CRASH ANY TIME. YOU'LL KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME. - DARREL"
Darry left the Curtis home, feeling a modicum of peace for the first time since he heard Soda's birthday on the TV set. Sliding into the front seat of his Ford pickup and slinging his duffel onto the seat next to him, he sighed. He was never going to put himself through the silence of that house again. The only thing that mattered was escaping. Escaping, and Soda.
Darry dug through his glove box, finally landing on a worn atlas. The route still stood out from the last time he had done this drive, highlighted in bright yellow.
He would just start driving, he told himself. He wouldn't think about how it was lucky that Soda had given his truck a once-over before he left, just in case, because they couldn't afford a mechanic other than the one in the family. He wouldn't think about the last time he had made this drive, with Soda in the passenger's seat and Pony in the back—
He cried all the way out of the city limits.
After a few hours of driving, crying, and driving some more, he realized he had crossed into Missouri. I-44 East to just outside of Joplin—the same route Soda would have followed on that army transport bus, less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Darry forced himself to focus, gritting his teeth and forcing the truck into the lane for Exit 18. Even if he went to Fort Leonard Wood, they wouldn't let him stay with Soda. And he didn't want to trade an empty house for an empty hotel room.
Just six hours to go, he reminded himself.
At four in the morning, he hit the Iowa border and pulled into an all-night diner for a cup of coffee and a few minutes of rest in the backseat. But he didn't really feel like he needed sleep, still wired from the burst of energy that had brought him this far. He soon returned to the highway.
He pulled into Grinnell just as the sun started to crest over the horizon. Leaving the highway, the landscape turned into lush green fields and big skies as far as he could see.
His route took him just past the edge of campus—pretty empty at this time of morning, but a nice view of the brick buildings with their pointed roofs and the sidewalks cutting through a quad.
He was aiming for an address on the northwest side of Grinnell, on the aptly named Prairie Street. A professor owned the small but well-kept house and rented it out to students for dirt cheap. You could walk to campus, but couldn't hear the whistle of the train that ran through town.
It was early, but Darry spotted a light already on in one of the windows on the top floor and decided that meant he could knock. He headed around to the back of the house and rapped hard a few times on the back door, hoping the sound would carry up the staircase. A few seconds later, he heard the pounding of someone coming downstairs, and felt his racing heart start to slow.
The door swung open, and his brother stood there, wearing sneakers and his track team jacket.
"Hey, Ponyboy," Darry said, giving him a tired smile. Judging by Pony's expression, he looked like hell anyway. "I need to borrow a toothbrush."