The Outsiders (11 page)

I leaped out the window and heard timber crashing and the flames roaring right behind me. I staggered, almost falling, coughing and sobbing for breath. Then I heard Johnny scream, and as I turned to go back for him, Dally swore at me and clubbed me across the back as hard as he could, and I went down into a peaceful darkness.

When I came to, I was being bounced around, and I ached and smarted, and wondered dimly where I was. I tried to think but there was a high-pitched screaming going on, and I couldn’t tell whether it was inside my head or out. Then I realized it was a siren. The fuzz, I thought dully. The cops have come for us. I tried to swallow a groan and wished wildly for Soda. Someone with a cold wet rag was gently sponging off my face, and a voice said, “I think he’s coming around.”

I opened my eyes. It was dark. I’m moving, I thought. Are they taking me to jail?

“Where . . . ?” I said hoarsely, not able to get anything else out of my mouth. My throat was sore. I blinked at the stranger sitting beside me. But he wasn’t a stranger . . . I’d seen him before . . .

“Take it easy, kid. You’re in an ambulance.”

“Where’s Johnny?” I cried, frightened at being in this car with strangers. “And Dallas?”

“They’re in the other ambulance, right behind us. Just calm down. You’re going to be okay. You just passed out.”

“I didn’t either,” I said in the bored, tough voice we reserved for strangers and cops. “Dallas hit me. How come?”

“Because your back was in flames, that’s why.”

I was surprised. “It was? Golly, I didn’t feel it. It don’t hurt.”

“We put it out before you got burned. That jacket saved you from a bad burning, maybe saved your life. You just keeled over from smoke inhalation and a little shock—of course, that slap on the back didn’t help much.”

I remembered who he was then—Jerry somebody-or-other who was too heavy to get in the window. He must be a school teacher, I thought. “Are you taking us to the police station?” I was still a little mixed up as to what was coming off.

“The police station?” It was his turn to be surprised. “What would we want to take you to the police station for? We’re taking all three of you to the hospital.”

I let his first remark slide by. “Are Johnny and Dally all right?”

“Which one’s which?”

“Johnny has black hair. Dally’s the mean-looking one.”

He studied his wedding ring. Maybe he’s thinking about his wife, I thought. I wished he’d say something.

“We think the towheaded kid is going to be all right. He burned one arm pretty badly, though, trying to drag the other kid out the window. Johnny, well, I don’t know about him. A piece of timber caught him across the back—he might have a broken back, and he was burned pretty severely. He passed out before he got out the window. They’re giving him plasma now.” He must have seen the look on my face because he hurriedly changed the subject. “I swear, you three are the bravest kids I’ve seen in a long time. First you and the black-haired kid climbing in that window, and then the tough-looking kid going back in to save him. Mrs. O’Briant and I think you were sent straight from heaven. Or are you just professional heroes or something?”

Sent from heaven? Had he gotten a good look at Dallas? “No, we’re greasers,” I said. I was too worried and scared to appreciate the fact that he was trying to be funny.

“You’re what?”

“Greasers. You know, like hoods, JD’s. Johnny is wanted for murder, and Dallas has a record with the fuzz a mile long.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jerry stared at me as if he thought I was still in shock or something.

“I am not. Take me to town and you’ll find out pretty quick.”

“We’re taking you to a hospital there anyway. The address card in your billfold said that was where you lived. Your name’s really Ponyboy?”

“Yeah. Even on my birth certificate. And don’t bug me about it. Are . . .”—I felt weak—“are the little kids okay?”

“Just fine. A little frightened maybe. There were some short explosions right after you all got out. Sounded just exactly like gunfire.”

Gunfire. There went our gun. And
Gone with the Wind
. Were we sent from heaven? I started to laugh weakly. I guess that guy knew how close to hysterics I really was, for he talked to me in a low soothing voice all the way to the hospital.

I was sitting in the waiting room, waiting to hear how Dally and Johnny were. I had been checked over, and except for a few burns and a big bruise across my back, I was all right. I had watched them bring Dally and Johnny in on stretchers. Dally’s eyes were closed, but when I spoke he had tried to grin and had told me that if I ever did a stupid thing like that again he’d beat the tar out of me. He was still swearing at me when they took him on in. Johnny was unconscious. I had been afraid to look at him, but I was relieved to see that his face wasn’t burned. He just looked very pale and still and sort of sick. I would have cried at the sight of him so still except I couldn’t in front of people.

Jerry Wood had stayed with me all the time. He kept thanking me for getting the kids out. He didn’t seem to mind our being hoods. I told him the whole story—starting when Dallas and Johnny and I had met at the corner of Pickett and Sutton. I left out the part about the gun and our hitching a ride in the freight car. He was real nice
about it and said that being heroes would help get us out of trouble, especially since it was self-defense and all.

I was sitting there, smoking a cigarette, when Jerry came back in from making a phone call. He stared at me for a second. “You shouldn’t be smoking.”

I was startled. “How come?” I looked at my cigarette. It looked okay to me. I looked around for a “No Smoking” sign and couldn’t find one. “How come?”

“Why, uh,” Jerry stammered, “uh, you’re too young.”

“I am?” I had never thought about it. Everyone in our neighborhood, even the girls, smoked. Except for Darry, who was too proud of his athletic health to risk a cigarette, we had all started smoking at an early age. Johnny had been smoking since he was nine; Steve started at eleven. So no one thought it unusual when I started. I was the weed-fiend in my family—Soda smokes only to steady his nerves or when he wants to look tough.

Jerry simply sighed, then grinned. “There are some people here to see you. Claim to be your brothers or something.”

I leaped up and ran for the door, but it was already open and Soda had me in a bear hug and was swinging me around. I was so glad to see him I could have bawled. Finally he set me down and looked at me. He pushed my hair back. “Oh, Ponyboy, your hair . . . your tuff, tuff hair . . .”

Then I saw Darry. He was leaning in the doorway, wearing his olive jeans and black T-shirt. He was still tall, broad-shouldered Darry; but his fists were jammed in his pockets and his eyes were pleading. I simply looked at him. He swallowed and said in a husky voice, “Ponyboy . . .”

I let go of Soda and stood there for a minute. Darry didn’t like me . . . he had driven me away that night . . . he had hit me . . . Darry hollered at me all the time . . . he didn’t give a hang about me. . . . Suddenly I realized, horrified, that Darry was crying. He didn’t make a sound, but tears were running down his cheeks. I hadn’t seen him cry in years, not even when Mom and Dad had been killed. (I remembered the funeral. I had sobbed in spite of myself; Soda had broken down and bawled like a baby; but Darry had only stood there, his fists in his pockets and that look on his face, the same helpless, pleading look that he was wearing now.)

In that second what Soda and Dally and Two-Bit had been trying to tell me came through. Darry did care about me, maybe as much as he cared about Soda, and because he cared he was trying too hard to make something of me. When he yelled “Pony, where have you been all this time?” he meant “Pony, you’ve scared me to death. Please be careful, because I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

Darry looked down and turned away silently. Suddenly I broke out of my daze.

“Darry!” I screamed, and the next thing I knew I had him around the waist and was squeezing the daylights out of him.

“Darry,” I said, “I’m sorry . . .”

He was stroking my hair and I could hear the sobs racking him as he fought to keep back the tears. “Oh, Pony, I thought we’d lost you . . . like we did Mom and Dad . . .”

That was his silent fear then—of losing another person he loved. I remembered how close he and Dad had been,
and I wondered how I could ever have thought him hard and unfeeling. I listened to his heart pounding through his T-shirt and knew everything was going to be okay now. I had taken the long way around, but I was finally home. To stay.

N
OW THERE WERE
three of us sitting in the waiting room waiting to hear how Dally and Johnny were. Then the reporters and the police came. They asked too many questions too fast, and got me mixed up. If you want to know the truth, I wasn’t feeling real good in the first place. Kind of sick, really. And I’m scared of policemen anyway. The reporters fired one question right after another at me and got me so confused I didn’t know what was coming off. Darry finally told them I wasn’t in any shape to be yelled at so much and they slowed down a little. Darry’s kinda big.

Sodapop kept them in stitches. He’d grab one guy’s press hat and another’s camera and walk around interviewing the nurses and mimicking TV reporters. He tried to lift a policeman’s gun and grinned so crazily when he was
caught that the policeman had to grin too. Soda can make anyone grin. I managed to get hold of some hair grease and comb my hair back so that it looked a little better before they got any pictures. I’d die if I got my picture in the paper with my hair looking so lousy. Darry and Sodapop were in the pictures too; Jerry Wood told me that if Sodapop and Darry hadn’t been so good-looking, they wouldn’t have taken so many. That was public appeal, he said.

Soda was really getting a kick out of all this. I guess he would have enjoyed it more if it hadn’t been so serious, but he couldn’t resist anything that caused that much excitement. I swear, sometimes he reminds me of a colt. A long-legged palomino colt that has to get his nose into everything. The reporters stared at him admiringly; I told you he looks like a movie star, and he kind of radiates.

Finally, even Sodapop got tired of the reporters—he gets bored with the same old thing after a time—and stretching out on the long bench, he put his head in Darry’s lap and went to sleep. I guess both of them were tired—it was late at night and I knew they hadn’t had much sleep during the week. Even while I was answering questions I remembered that it had been only a few hours since I was sleeping off a smoke in the corner of the church. Already it was an unreal dream and yet, at the time I couldn’t have imagined any other world. Finally, the reporters started to leave, along with the police. One of them turned and asked, “What would you do right now if you could do anything you wanted?”

I looked at him tiredly. “Take a bath.”

They thought that was pretty funny, but I meant it. I felt
lousy. The hospital got real quiet after they left. The only noise was the nurse’s soft footsteps and Soda’s light breathing. Darry looked down at him and grinned half-heartedly. “He didn’t get much sleep this week,” he said softly. “He hardly slept at all.”

“Hhhmmmm,” Soda said drowsily, “you didn’t either.”

The nurses wouldn’t tell us anything about Johnny and Dally, so Darry got hold of the doctor. The doctor told us that he would talk only to the family, but Darry finally got it through the guy’s head that we were about as much family as Dally and Johnny had.

Dally would be okay after two or three days in the hospital, he said. One arm was badly burned and would be scarred for the rest of his life, but he would have full use of it in a couple of weeks. Dally’ll be okay, I thought. Dallas is always okay. He could take anything. It was Johnny I was worried about.

He was in critical condition. His back had been broken when that piece of timber fell on him. He was in severe shock and suffering from third-degree burns. They were doing everything they could to ease the pain, although since his back was broken he couldn’t even feel the burns below his waist. He kept calling for Dallas and Ponyboy. If he lived . . .
If?
Please, no, I thought. Please not “if.” The blood was draining from my face and Darry put an arm across my shoulder and squeezed hard. . . . Even if he lived he’d be crippled for the rest of his life. “You wanted it straight and you got it straight,” the doctor said. “Now go home and get some rest.”

I was trembling. A pain was growing in my throat and I wanted to cry, but greasers don’t cry in front of strangers.
Some of us never cry at all. Like Dally and Two-Bit and Tim Shepard—they forgot how at an early age. Johnny crippled for life? I’m dreaming, I thought in panic, I’m dreaming. I’ll wake up at home or in the church and everything’ll be like it used to be. But I didn’t believe myself. Even if Johnny did live he’d be crippled and never play football or help us out in a rumble again. He’d have to stay in that house he hated, where he wasn’t wanted, and things could never be like they used to be. I didn’t trust myself to speak. If I said one word, the hard knot in my throat would swell and I’d be crying in spite of myself.

I took a deep breath and kept my mouth shut. Soda was awake by then, and although he looked stony-faced, as if he hadn’t heard a word the doctor had said, his eyes were bleak and stunned. Serious reality has a hard time coming through to Soda, but when it does, it hits him hard. He looked like I felt when I had seen that black-haired Soc lying doubled up and still in the moonlight.

Darry was rubbing the back of my head softly. “We’d better go home. We can’t do anything here.”

In our Ford I was suddenly overcome by sleepiness. I leaned back and closed my eyes and we were home before I knew it. Soda was shaking me gently. “Hey, Ponyboy, wake up. You still got to get to the house.”

“Hmmmmm,” I said sleepily, and lay down in the seat. I couldn’t have gotten up to save my life. I could hear Soda and Darry, but as if from a great distance.

“Oh, come on, Ponyboy,” Soda pleaded, shaking me a little harder, “we’re sleepy, too.”