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The white of their porch is the first thing I notice about their house. It’s chipped, dark wood shadowing the steps where people step the most.
The lights are on, yellow, shining through the windows. Even with the curtains and the still light of the street, you can see just how many lamps and lights they’ve got on. Daylight savings just happened, so I guess it makes sense.
Mr. Curtis, Darrel? I think that’s his name; he has his palm resting on my collar and is waiting for me to take the first step, push open the metal gate, and step inside his home for a “real meal since it’s clear you haven’t been eating well, young man. It’s cold where I’m standing. Where are your parents?”
I guess getting into a fight with three others guys wasn’t my brightest idea, but I had them. I just needed to get that big guy with the overlapping bunny teeth out of my face and on the ground. I can’t remember what the fight was about; maybe I was in their area, being too loud, or whatever. Guys will fight over everything, I swear. I can’t remember their names, but it started with a ‘B.’
Even from the street, I can hear the ruckus inside the house. There’s yelling about something, laughing, and if I strain, I can hear the clinking of plates and a shrill, distinctly feminine voice call for dinner. I can feel Mr. Curtis’s hand squeeze my collar, right where a dog's nape would be, silently urging me to take that first step and go inside.
The gate is cooled against my hand as I push it open. Mr. Curtis follows me, almost like he’s ensuring I can't run away. The feel of him on my back, his warm body so close to mine, creeps me out. He’s taller than me, at least one hundred pounds heavier, and I know he’s got a family in there, but what if he tries to hurt me? Who’ll help me?
When I push open the rickety wooden door, I feel eyes on me before entering the room. I curse under my breath and step into what looks like the living room, trying to keep my head down as I step to the side and allow the strange man into his house.
The door closes softly; the unending and sudden silence chills me more than the howling wind. Before I can even reach back to my blade, Mr. Curtis is talking:
“This is Dallas Winston; he’s going to be our guest for the evening. Everyone be polite.” I could barely see them all nod before returning to doing whatever they were doing before I interrupted them. In an instant, all the boys nod, and Mr. Curtis seats himself in a worn brown leather chair.
A red-headed kid who looks older than me sitting in front of the tv watching mickey mouse, and beside him is a brown kid with black hair who looks too small for his face. He seems too skinny, sickly, like one of those kids you’d find on those ‘feed America’ ads that always run right next to the job listings in the paper.
Another ginger kid is sitting in the corner of the room furthest from the tv, an old, tattered book in his hands with his knees to his chest. I can’t see his face, but I can see the freckles that line his cheekbones. He and the other ginger could be brothers, I think. They look most like each other.
In the dining area, two boys sit at the table across each other and play cards over white plates, silver knives, and forks. One has brown hair, light, almost like wet sand. He looks around my age, if younger, and he’s pretty. He’s got brown eyes, downturned, almost like a doe my dad would always tell me not to shoot when it was still hunting season in Virginia. The boy across from him is black, his hair is curly, and I can’t see his face, but by his height, I think he’s around my age, too. Even though I’m still pretty short for my age. The boy with the doe eyes, I think, is related to Mr. Curtis. There are so many kids here, though it’s hard to tell.
I take a step towards what I think is the kitchen. It smells of meat and sauce; I hear water bubbling and an oven timer beeping on the counter. It smells good, expensive. My family would only have this on special occasions in New York or on holidays in Virginia. I’d be lucky if I were even allowed a piece of meat, much less something like pasta or bread.
Suddenly, with the rattling of a shelf, an older boy comes out of the kitchen, holding a large tray of food, and sets it on the table. The hot cheese bubbles and the smell gets even more intense. The tray is so large that no one man could finish that off in a reasonable time, but with -I take a mental count of the people in the house- seven people, I don’t even know if it’s enough food.
Then, a woman dressed in a pleated skirt and blue blouse, white pearls rolling against her throat, and an award-winning smile on her face comes out with a tray of garlic bread, and I start to think that this will be enough food for everyone.
She’s pretty, and I’m sure she’s the wife of the man who brought me here. She’s older, a few grey hairs peaking from the curls breaking out of her ponytail sitting at the top of her head. She looks delighted with herself like she couldn’t be happier just to be serving her family food. My mother would call her a natural mother-woman, a woman who was meant to have children and devote her life to her family, starting the day she was born and ending the day she died.
I can’t remember the last time I ate anything fulfilling or flavorful or slept well. My stomach rumbles, even when I try to press on it and suck in my stomach to stop the sound. I know I shouldn’t eat some stranger's homemade food, but it smells so goddamn good, and what if I die from it? At least I’ll die with a full stomach.
As soon as the pan hits the pads on the table, the group of boys is seated in an instant. Thankfully the table is preset, so there's no gathering around the mother while we beg for at least a scoop of food. I stay where I am, pressed against the wall, watching, invisible against the faded floral wallpaper.
When Mr. Curtis returns with a spare chair from the basement, I’m given attention. He clears his throat and motions for freckle-face and the brown boy to move over and give me some room. It’s awkward and quiet as I step forward and sit in the old wooden chair, chipped at the legs and some kind of oak from the lightness of the finished wood. I’m handed a plate that is already full of food by the freckled boy, and the older redhead smiles at me.
“I’m Two-Bit,” He says in a chipper voice, cracking a little at the end, “it’s nice to meetcha.”
“Two-Bit,” I sound his name out on my tongue just to see how it fits behind my teeth. Two-Bit is one of the strangest names I’ve ever heard, and I wonder why the guy's poor parents would ever name him something like that. Well, Two-Bit must’ve read my mind or something because his voice is breaking through the air again: “My name ain’t actually Two-Bit, but Darry over here,” Two-Bit nods to the boy who looks like the spitting image of Mr. Curtis, “called me it one day and it stuck. My real names Keith, but everyone calls me Two-Bit.”
I nod in response, not knowing what to say. He already knows my name; he doesn’t need to know anything else. Nobody here needs to know anything more about me. The more discreet I can stay about this entire thing, the better. I don’t want the police to find me and take me back to where I came from.
They go around the table like that, introducing themselves. I learn about Two-Bit, Mrs. Curtis, and Mr. Curtis -who always sit together and not at the head of the table. Darrel -who got his father's name- and it’s only when fucking Sodapop introduces himself that I choke on my water.
Sodapop’s the pretty boy with the brown doe eyes and charming smile he probably got from his mother. He looks like every normal kid, except his name is fucking Sodapop. My eyebrows furrow, and I stop the fork loaded with lasagna mid-air when he introduces himself.
“Yeah, I know, but mom wanted something unique, and she was craving a soda pop, and when she asked the nurse for one, the nurse thought that she was telling her my name, so my name is Sodapop now.” Sodapop shrugged like it was completely normal to be named Sodapop.
I nod slowly, continuing to chew my bite and not comment further on it.
We get to Ponyboy next, and I almost lose my shit.
“Is there any backstory on your name?” I try to crack a joke, but it’s not received that well. Tough crowd, I think.
“I-” Mrs. Curtis interjects before Ponyboy can finish his sentence, and my eyes widen. Can you just interrupt people without getting a smack on the back of your head or a kick to your shin? Even if a woman is older than her son, I was always taught that women are lesser than men, including the very sons they’ve given birth to. It must be different here.
“Well, we wanted to keep with the unusual theme since Darrel here already got what he wanted, an heir to his name, so we decided to name him Ponyboy after a stallion we saw at a race.”
I can barely nod, biting my lips to keep from laughing aloud. Couldn’t they have changed either of their names? Are they just strange people? Am I safe right now? This is the weirdest day I’ve had.
Arrive in Tulsa, get into a fight trying to find a place to sleep, get pulled out of a fight, and get taken home to a random house by the guy who saved you to have lasagna with his family. I wasn’t even asked if I wanted to go, he just said to hop in, and he’d take me to his house for dinner and a patch-up. Now that I’m thinking about it, I put my fork down on the edge of my plate and set my hands in my lap, running a thumb over my left hand's bruised and swollen knuckles. It stings, and I know I’ve probably broken something. I always manage to whenever I get into a fight. I’m thankful that nobody noticed, or they’re just too polite.
The last one to introduce himself is Johnny, who sits beside me. He looks like a sick dog, timid but kind. He hunches his shoulders to his ears, and by the way he’s twitching in his seat, I can tell he’s sitting on one of his feet. He looks ready to die when his voice wavers and says his name: Johnny C-something. Unfortunately, the kids on my bad side. I can’t hear him at all. I lost about sixty percent of my hearing in my left ear after a bad ear infection as a kid. I repeat the kid's name, just trying to see if I got it right, knowing I haven’t.
“Johnny Cake? Is that your name?” I immediately regret asking the kid because even with his brown skin, I can see a flush take over his face, and the entire table busts out in laughter. My own blush creeps up on me, and suddenly we’ve both got our heads bent toward our laps as the group chuckles die down.
“Man, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before,” Steve says, eyes twinkling and breathing deep as he goes to catch his breath before taking another bite of his lasagna.
“In my defense, it wouldn’t exactly be unheard of at the table.” The entire table laughs at that again, and I give the kid a soft smile at the success of diverting the attention away from him. It’s pretty obvious that he likes going through the world unnoticed, and I like that, admire it, even. He’s small and skinny, unnoticeable. It’s the same way I’ve lived for the past few years.
“His name's Johnny Cade,” Mrs. Curtis smiles, cutting into the last piece of her lasagna before dipping some bread in the red sauce and eating it.
I hum, copying her actions. I’m sure I’ve seen that in a movie once or twice, but I’ve never done it myself, and it tastes pretty good. I like the sourness of the sauce with the almost plainness of the bread, and it brings a good flavor pallet together thats more tolerable than expected. I do it repeatedly, scraping the plate clean of sauce and leaving it almost clean looking, if not for the occasional crumb that I fight not to lick off. The food was really good, the best I’ve had in years, maybe my entire life. The fact that something this hearty and filling exists in the world is surprising. The best food I’ve had before this is chicken that wasn’t exactly seasoned right, or it might’ve gone bad, and boiled potatoes.
Soon enough, everyone’s finished, and Darrel takes the plates from everyone with his mother, probably going to wash them. I decide to follow the group into the living room, but I stop when I feel a hand on my shoulder, warm and steady, right against my nape. It’s large, and I know who it is before I turn around.
“Come with me, son,” I don’t even think about saying no or running straight for the door. I turn around, following the father into the bathroom. He allows me in first before stepping in himself, motioning for me to sit on the toilet as he closes the door and steps towards the cabinet, bending down with a crack of his knees that make me flinch. He pulls out a MedPAC of some sort. It’s clear with a few bandages, bandaids, and anti-septic wipes. He sets the pack on the counter and opens it up carefully, trying not to send the lighter things flying.
He takes out the gauze, anti-septic wipes, and tape to wrap my knuckles. He rips the anti-septic package open, taking the moist cloth out and grabbing my left hand, careful in how he cups my wrist and holds it in place as he presses the singing fluid to my open wounds. It feels like hellfire hounds are howling up from my veins, sending burning pinpricks of needles to the most sensitive places on my hand.
He wipes carefully, ensuring to get around my fingers' webbing, checking the palm for any dirt, mud, or blood. Then, he throws out the wipe, opening the gauze with the same tearing motion. The gauze is soft, but it’s still pressure that makes my hands shake with the fissions of pain. I try to hold back my cries, but a few grunts make it through to the surface before I can stop them from forming.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” Mr. Curtis says softly, almost like a coo. It makes something within me warm, and the tears that threatened to fall down my face start bubbling over. I’ve never been called kiddo before; making me think about everything. My mother, my father, my brother, where are they? Do they miss me?
Virginia to New York to Tulsa in a span of two months. I was only supposed to be in New York for three days for a relative's funeral, but I guess my parents hated me since they didn’t buy me a return ticket. I’ve spent the last two years living on the streets in New York.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to live here, yet at the same time, I never want to leave. How am I supposed to go back to my father, who doesn’t care enough to make sure we’re fed when a stranger's family just fed me, and they haven’t tried to use me yet?
Yet.
Suddenly I feel sick. A stinging pain rises in my throat, resting right at my uvula, and I suddenly get cold, sweating, and shaking. Mr. Curtis must see that I’m not doing well because he immediately stops dabbing at my knuckles and wraps his arms around me, crossing over my shoulders and lifting me off the toilet to set me on the floor, lifting up the toilet seat so that if I need to, I can throw up.
“Son?” Mr. Curtis says, and I throw up. The word in that fatherly voice that settles right over my shoulders and blankets me in the best feeling in the world makes me sick. I throw up everything I ate just minutes before. My hands clutch the toilet seat, digging my nails into the perfect porcelain.
Mr. Curtis holds my hair back for me. It’s been a while since I’ve cut it, and it’s gotten so long that it's at my shoulders. I’m grateful for the touch.
I stay hunched over the toilet for a few minutes while I stop dry heaving. There’s not a lot in my stomach, just the dinner and a half-eaten apple I spotted back in New York. It was the first thing I’d eaten in what felt like years, and despite the obvious grossness of it, it was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted.
I lift my head up, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, panting. I’m sweating, and I feel too cold and too warm. I’ve always hated these flashes, and when I look at Mr. Curtis, who relieves the hold on my hair, he gives me the worst look I’ve ever seen:
Sympathy.
I hate sympathy. It’s worse than sadness or judgment. I hated begging for food or pocket change on the streets of New York, not because of the judging glares but the sympathy older people would give me when they would hand me a few cents. They’d always say, "Here you are, boy.” “Oh, bless you. Jesus, take care of him.” I hated it.
“It’s okay, Dallas,” Mr. Curtis rubbed my back as I caught my breath, wiping the tears off my face. His hand, which felt so huge and aggressive before, now felt comforting, like it was always meant to be there. I allowed myself to think that maybe, it was.
“Let’s get that hand wrapped, and you changed, yeah? Can’t imagine that those jeans are that comfortable.” I nodded, exhausted and about ready to pass out.
As Mr. Curtis put me back on the toilet, opening up another sani wipe and cupping my wrist, I realized that maybe this could be home. Or home could be wherever I wanted it to be, whoever I wanted it to be.
When Mr. Curtis let me change into Sodapop’s clothes, I wondered for a moment if there were father-men.