Chapter Text
It was moving day in the Curtis household and I was itching to get on the road and put Tulsa behind me. Darry’s decision to sell the family house and buy a farm in Walker Ridge, a town about three hours south of Tulsa, came as a shock to everyone except Soda and I. Being the country boys we are, we gave the plan our full approval. The others weren’t so sure.
“I never took you for a farmer, Darry. I can’t picture you out in the fields milking the moo-cows.”, Two-Bit’s eyes were full of laughter but his left eyebrow was cocked in question.
“It ain’t a livestock farm, Two. There’s one horse and a few chickens; I think I’ll manage. The real cash cow is the wheat field. Once I get everything set up, I’ll be raking in the dough.”, Darry cracked his knuckles and continued, “Besides, I reckon some fresh air and time away from the city ought to be good for Pony’s condition.”
“Condition” is the word Darry uses to refer to the inoperable cancer they found in my lungs, the result of many sleepless nights spent chain-smoking under a starless sky. Though the counselor we saw said that we should all feel comfortable talking about my cancer, truth be told, I didn’t like to talk or even think about it, and neither did my brothers. As long as I didn’t think too hard I could pretend it was all a bad dream – a technique I picked up after Johnny’s death.
Anyways, I didn’t even feel sick so I don’t know what good the country air would do me, but I would move to the farside of the moon if it meant finally getting out of Tulsa.
The place was called Blackbird Farm. It had belonged to some old man who passed away a few months back. The man’s only son lived in Colorado and he had no idea how to run a farm. He wanted to sell the place as quickly as possible. He didn’t seem to bat an eye when Darry’s offer was below asking price.
And that leads us to today. Moving day. The gang promised to help us pack, but Dally never came. I knew when Two-Bit and Steve walked in the door without Dally that he wasn’t gonna show, just like he didn’t show for Johnny’s funeral. There was a time after Johnny’s death when I thought we might lose Dally too. I saw him around less and less, and one night I heard the gang talking about him. They must’ve thought I was asleep, and I should’ve been, but I heard them talking in the kitchen, about Dally. They thought Dally had gotten into drugs. Not like the mary jane that Soda sometimes came home reeking of. They meant hard drugs, the kind people died from. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw him but my overactive imagination kept conjuring up images of him lying dead in some gas station bathroom and not being found for days. Needless to say, I woke Soda up several times that night. Then one day, about a week after my diagnosis, he showed up at the house for dinner. During the meal I couldn’t quit staring at him; I was looking for some sorta clue as to where he’d been. People on drugs were supposed to look different, right? But he just looked like regular ol’ Dally to me, maybe a bit thinner from when I last saw him. He caught my eye and gave me one of his classic wolf-like grins, and I felt my shoulders relax.
After that he was around a lot more. In fact, I saw him nearly everyday. Which is exactly why it hurt so much that he wouldn’t come to see us off, and I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling that way.
“Soda, he ain’t coming.”, Darry’s stern voice from the driver’s seat of our rented truck stirred me from my daze.
We had finished loading up our last boxes and had said our goodbyes to Steve and Two-Bit. The latter had given me a bone-crushing hug and I could tell it was all he could do to hold back the tears as he assured me he would come visit as soon as he could. Steve’s hug was quite the opposite; it was surprisingly gentle, like he thought I might snap in half if he wasn’t careful.
I could see them both now, sitting on the curb in front of our eerily silent house that no longer belonged to us, as they waited for our truck to pull away. I had claimed the passenger seat, leaving Soda to sit in the middle. The only problem being that he refused to get in the truck at all.
“He said he was gonna be here. What’s the rush anyways? We can’t wait a few minutes for an old friend?”, Soda appealed.
“His word don’t mean what it used to, Soda. He knew what time we were leaving and he ain’t here, so there’s your answer.” Darry didn’t pull punches.
I felt my face mirror Soda’s as disappointment clouded his eyes. He begrudgingly went to the back of the box truck to slide the door shut (he had insisted on keeping it open until Dallas arrived).
Suddenly I heard Steve cry out, “He’s headed your way!”
Sticking my head out the window, I turned to see what he was pointing at.
Sure as anything, there was Dallas Winston bounding down the street like a damn jackrabbit. As he got closer, the first thing I noticed were the fresh bruises on his face, then the large backpack slung over his shoulder, and finally I noticed that he wasn’t slowing down. I thought he was gonna run right past us and keep going, but then I heard a heavy thunk sound that told me he had entered our box truck.
“Dally, what the hell?!”, Darry shouted. A fair question, I thought.
I heard Dally’s muffled response from the back of the truck, “The cops are after me, man! Don’t just stand there gawking, Soda! Shut the door and let’s go!”
I could only imagine what Soda’s face must’ve looked like as I heard the door slide shut.
And that was how Dallas came to live with us on Blackbird Farm.