Trotter Ross

Tragedy

Part I

Chapter 1

Lanky, body soaking rhythm, green eyes jaded angelic no longer, he strode the busy halls, his length a subtle series of waves. He was coming from trig, he was going to Latin, and coming around a corner out of the windowless locker-sided alley he entered a short hallway connecting the new and old parts of the building. This part was light and large with windows that on the right looked out over a withered lime-green expanse of sparse Bermuda grass, and past that the Cyclone-fenced track. To his right was an empty patio without furniture, people or greenery. It was useless and never inhabited, except by janitors who weekly picked up scraps of paper dropped or thrown out of windows onto it. The door to it, on the other side of the building, was always locked. He passed a few couples leaning against window ledges – boys awkwardly shifting their weight, girls, poised and still, touching the boys’ notebooks or shirts.

Trotter had been one of them before. He doubted that he would ever be one of them again, not here. Last night had finished that. He had gone through the motions of grief, but that was over, not because he had purged himself of the girl’s memory, but because he simply did not expect the relationship would be resumed. A chunk of the past was gone.

He glanced at the window-lechers and at others he passed in the hall. Several spoke his name. He acknowledged them with his eyes, but without gesture. He continued through the hall, his head dipping gently, and was now loping into shadow. He bent left and it got even darker as the grey lockers resumed. The noise was no different in this part but the air was still and seemed, suddenly, strangely heavy.

He was approaching a gang of boys, all of them shorter than he was, some of them with crewcuts, others with oily pompadours and ducktails caressed by stubby hands and dirty chewed fingernails. There were five of them. Trotter knew they were supposed to be tough. Coming toward them, he glanced at them and saw that two of them were looking at him. He slowed down but did not pay much attention to them until he heard one of them say something about Morrison. He did not know at first they were talking about his uncle, but he stopped anyway, pretending to straighten a book slanting out of his grip. He listened and, hearing the name again, felt their eyes on him. Then one of them began mumbling, saying something about something or someone queer.

Trotter glanced at the group. One of them was getting louder, but he kept slurring his words. The texture of his face was rough. A good-sized boy-man, Trotter thought. Richard Alcorn. Boxed in the Golden Gloves each year. Kept talking about Morrison, as if he were daring Trotter to listen to something being said about his uncle. So Trotter looked at him directly and, hearing the boy-man saying queer again, he stepped up to the gang.

See something you want? Richard said.

Trotter kept staring, burning himself at them.

You know it ain’t polite to listen in on private conversations, don’t you? one of the others said.

Trotter paid no attention to him. He kept looking at the talker who stared back at him. From both directions, students passed them. The other four in the group glanced suspiciously at the passersby. It was at least five minutes before the next class began so there was no rush.

Squinting, Richard said, sneering, I said is there something you want?

Trotter said nothing.

One of the others said, Smart ass.

What’s the matter? You don’t like what we’re talking about?

We’ll talk about what we damn well want to talk about — you understand?

Richard’s eyes were brown and small. The bridge of his nose was a block; it had been broken several times, and there was a knife-scar below his right ear. The skin was red and puckered around the indentation.

We was tellin’ fairy tales. Anything else you want to know?

Trotter still said nothing.

Don’t worry, one of the others apologized nastily. It weren’t about you.

Naw, it weren’t about you at all. Huh. Maybe about somebody you know. Huh. But not about you — least not directly we hear, and there came then muted cackles of laughter.

Lowering his head, Trotter noticed Richard’s half-clenched fist. The palm-butt was facing him. Richard grinned, and noticing him flexing his hips, Trotter knew where Richard’s fist would go when it struck. Noticing that Richard was rolling his shoulders now, Trotter glanced up and saw him grinning snakily, lipping silently: Queer, fuck-ass, queer, fuck-ass, queer.

The silence began churning to a rumble. Slaps on the brain. Flush on the face. The lipping kept coming, its shapes incoherent, but the bulbous lips kept mouthing, fishlike and ugly, blowing invisible puffs of junk, and, all of a sudden, a terrible spasm, Trotter dropped his books from his right hand, grabbed Richard’s shirt with his left, yanked him toward him, pushed him back, and another spasm, all in a moment, flipped his chin with his fingernails and blasted his pitted jaw with his right fist, bone and puff substance of smash, and Trotter yanked him back up before he fell, Richard’s eyes rolling crazily, and with both hands twisting his shirt, he slammed him back crashrattling against the lockers. Stepped back, going over the broad defensive fist, he banged his ear solidly, and, instantly stiff, Richard went down. He coughed, lurched, collapsed into a misshapen ball. Setting his feet to kick him in the head if he had to, Trotter cocked himself to prepare for the others. Their hands making fists, releasing the fists quickly as if there were glass in their palms, they looked dazed, horrified even, were inching away.

All at once, a crowd was around them. Richard was up on his knees. Someone stepped between them. There were sounds coming out of the other four now. Their voices were unnaturally high. Trotter kept up his guard, then they were lost in the crowd, their voices replaced by others trying to find out what had happened. Trotter inhaled deeply, then knelt to gather his books. Richard was staring at him obliquely, glazed-eyed, full of fear twisted with hate. Scraping his books back toward himself, Trotter continued to watch him, and his eyes were amazingly clear, receiving everything the other one was sending him. And then he relaxed. It was over. Back against the lockers now, Richard, still dizzy, was trying to get himself straight.

Then Trotter saw Mr. Riddle, the shop teacher, standing beside him. Riddle was bald and lean; his wire-rimmed glasses made him look stern. While another teacher shooed the students away and helped Richard up, Trotter went with Riddle to the dean’s office. On the way neither one of them spoke.

Businesslike, Trotter walked into the office.

Trotter and Mr. Jobe had known each other for about ten years. The principal, through whom they had met, was a friend of Trotter’s father, stepfather, Randel; to him the three terms were synonymous.

Morning, Trotter said.

Gravel-voiced, the shop teacher explained what had apparently happened. Looking stunned, Mr. Jobe shook his head, then leaned back. After a while the shop teacher left and Trotter sat down. Another teacher opened the door and brought Richard in. He was told to wait in the other room.

Curious, the two eyed each other, but Mr. Jobe kept lowering his eyes and stroking a pencil in his hand. It needed sharpening.

What happened, Trotter?

Pretty much what Mr. Riddle said. Rocky – whatever his name is – we had a fight – rather, I hit him a couple times.

What was it about?

Trotter hesitated.

Uneasy in silence, Jobe continued, I’m surprised you’d even mess with that kind of fellow. He’s not exactly in your league. I don’t mean boxing either.

I know. But this didn’t have anything to do with economics.

What did it have to do with?

Trotter said he didn’t want to talk about it, as far as he was concerned, the trouble was over. Jobe said it wasn’t that simple. They sparred for a time longer, but all Trotter would say was that what had actually caused the fight was irrelevant to whatever you have to do with me.

Don’t be difficult now.

I’m not being difficult. I just don’t think it would be appropriate to talk about it.

If that’s the way you want it.

Thank you, Trotter said, getting up, but Jobe told him to sit back down.

I’ve got some more questions.

All right, Trotter said, looking across the desk. Amused, he smiled. Jobe was still stroking the pencil. It occurred to Trotter that he would not fight for Jobe, then it began to be clear that it was not simply family honor or reputation he had defended. Something more personal was involved.

Jobe, in time, explained to him that there would have to be some punishment. We just can’t allow people fighting in the halls. Trotter said he understood. Jobe quickly added that according to what you’ve told me – which isn’t very much – it won’t be anything so drastic as expulsion. I guess we ought to give you a choice – detention hall or licks. Trotter said it didn’t really make much difference to him which it was. Licks would be faster. Mr. Riddle’s the one who handles that department, isn’t he? Jobe said yes. Trotter asked when. Jobe suggested they wait until after school was out. Trotter said that was fine.

He started to get up again, but Jobe motioned for him to stay. Trotter glanced around the room. There were several framed diplomas and certificates on the right wall interspersed with three photographs of state championship football teams. On the left wall was a large dusty print of a clump of blooming prickly pear cactus growing out of red clay spattered with scrub grass. Clear bars of light came through the venetian blinds.

You know, Jobe began, I knew your father.

Frowning, Trotter for some reason did not think he meant Randel.

"I mean-I knew your father. Marshall."

Trotter ground his teeth.

Of course, you never knew him. He was a good man.

Trotter said, Most everybody is, don’t you think?

Do you know much about him? Trotter shook his head. "I guess what happened a while ago made me think of him. We were in school together, you know. He – I started to say he was a strange sort, but that’s not what I mean. He really wasn’t strange at all, considering his father and some of the other people in the business.’’

Trotter leaned back. He was not interested in hearing about the old days of the oil business.

You Rosses, the nitroglycerin people, were a different breed. Trotter cut his eyes. This was not what he expected to hear. Of course, to be in that business you had to be different. Your grandfather, I understand, was one of the best, but things had changed by the time your father was ready to go to work. I guess you know all about it, though, don’t you?

Trotter shook his head no.

You mean you don’t know what kind of work they did?

He indicated Jobe ought to continue.

Well, back in the old days things weren’t as sophisticated in the fields the way they are now. Trotter had never thought of oil people as sophisticated at any time, but he did not try to stop him. Jobe said, I don’t know much about it myself, but the way I understand it, if you weren’t a wild man, you’d go insane, the nitro people, I mean. You see, in order to blow a well they had to lower these cylinders of nitro down the shaft. That’s what your grandfather was in charge of. And then when the well blew everybody stood back, of course – stood back in the nearest town most times, at a bar or some such – except the nitro people. They stayed by the well, and when it blew they had to still stand there and catch the unexploded cylinders as they came up. Because some of them wouldn’t go off, and they stood there grabbing these cylinders shooting up and they’d put them down and grab another one and from what I understand they didn’t even hope to God they wouldn’t go off because if you did that no telling what you’d start thinking about and maybe miss a cylinder or drop one and if that happened you might get blasted all to you-know-where and back. It doesn’t even sound real, but that’s what they did.

Trotter smiled.

Aw, Jobe said, you hear a lot of talk about how rough the people were back during the boom, and maybe by our standards they were, but there wasn’t anybody like the nitro people. I guess you’d call them arrogant too, because they didn’t usually associate much with the other people, except of course in the saloons – and then it was just when they’d go in and clean house, so to speak, just to relax. The casualty rate was pretty high. But those that lived got rich or went crazy, sometimes both. Sometime when we’ve got more time I’ll tell you some good stories about them. I’ve thought about even making a book about them, but I probably won’t ever get around to it.

Holding his chin, Trotter said, I thought you were going to tell me about my father.

I just did.

Then I must’ve missed something. I just heard you talk about the nitroglycerin people.

That’s what I mean. That’s what your father grew up around. Your grandfather was one of the best, at least from what I hear. Smart man, too. Didn’t get married till he was forty-five. Your grandfather.

I know who you’re talking about, Trotter said sharply. Marshall – my father – got married when he was nineteen.

Eighteen, Jobe said, correcting him.

Trotter looked surprised. What else do you know?

Smiling, Jobe said, He might not’ve ever lifted any nitro, but he was one of them.

How do you mean?

Oh, let’s put it this way. I went to Grandfield with your mother and daddy when they got married. They – Jobe stopped; he looked suddenly uneasy.

It’s no secret – they eloped. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.

So you know.

Know what?

That they eloped.

Sure. You just said they did.

No, I didn’t.

Sure you did. Nobody gets married in Grandfield unless they’re eloping.

He snuffed. You don’t miss much, do you?

Hell, Mr. Jobe, you spend one semester at KHS. and you know all about Grandfield, and Lawton too.

What about Lawton?

That’s where the whorehouses are.

Jobe shook his head, and it was clear to Trotter why Jobe admired the nitro people.

I guess you should get back to class, he said.

Going to the door, Trotter turned back around.

Yes?

Why did you mention my father?

Jobe wiped his face. Oh! I just thought it might help explain some things. Like what happened out in the hall. I just thought it might help put things in perspective.

I see.

By the way, you should report here this afternoon for – for –

Right. Corporal punishment, Trotter said, smiling.

Twenty licks.

Trotter slow-loped into the hall.

Turning up the stairs, he heard Jobe calling him. He went back and Jobe handed Trotter a square of pink paper. Your permit. I forgot to give you your permit – to get back in class.

Approaching the classroom, Trotter smiled faintly. He had just decided that Aeneas was probably too self-conscious to have been one of the nitroglycerin people.

That afternoon he reported to Mr. Riddle. He said he would take the licks seven at a time.

Sure you don’t want to make it five?

I’ll let you know.

Mr. Riddle took the unvarnished paddle off a nail on the wall. It was hot and the sawdust smell was pleasantly strong. KHS was branded on one side of the paddle. Trotter asked him to use the other side. I’d prefer not to be tattooed.

Mr. Riddle agreed. He took a breath. Okay, son, grab ankles.

Oh no, Trotter said. You might bust my nuts. I’ll just grab my crotch and bend over.

He did so, then stared dispassionately at the shop teacher.

You’d better not miss, Trotter said.

Mr. Riddle glared for a moment, as if to say you’re asking for it talking that way. Unmoved, Trotter watched the door. The licks began. Trotter kept his eyes open. He took a deep breath and held it before each lick. After seven, the two rested for a while. After fourteen, Trotter was numb and Mr. Riddle said, You’re taking these good.

I have a high resistance to pain, Trotter said and bent over for the final six.

When they were finished, Mr. Riddle asked him how he felt. Trotter said, Part of me’s sore, but another part itches. He rubbed his buttocks and stuck back in the hippocket of his Levi’s the wallet he had removed before bending over.

Well, Ross, I’ll tell you this – you’re not a whiner.

No, sir.

I just wish I knew what gets into you young men. Especially someone like you, Ross. That other fellow – I can understand someone like him – but not someone who’s an honor roll student like you.

For a while Trotter didn’t reply, then after rubbing his buttocks again, he said, Maybe we just distinguish each other incorrectly.

What do you mean?

I just don’t see the connection between the honor roll and the fight.

Maybe so.

Without saying anything else, Trotter began leaving.

Hey, Ross!

Trotter turned around.

Mr. Riddle’s eyes flickered behind his wire-rimmed glasses. You know in the old days they used to use barrel staves for this kind of work.

I know, Trotter said, and the punishment wasn’t over until the staves broke.

Some people call those the good old days.

Some people, Trotter said as he turned again to leave.

As he walked south down the asphalt drive between the back of the school and the track, the sun steamed down on his right shoulder. He had a mile-and-a-half walk home. It was the middle of November, but the air was not crisp. It still had considerable weight, as if with its own invisible force it was holding onto itself, restraining itself from the substanceless winter.

Martha B. would be waiting when he got there – no, not waiting, Trotter said, but busy with some kind of woman’s business, the kind of activity she said insured civic progress. A touch of breeze tippled by, flirted around his head and was gone. The windbreath was like a line dropped from some mass above him, too light to fall, alone and thin, independent of rush, and part of itself a retainer of its source.

Two cars passed him roaring from behind, spraying dust from the unpaved road behind the track where Trotter was now. Rocket-tone mufflers, dual exhausts, ground-out heads. Trotter smiled and waved. Someone in the backseat thrust a triumphant fist out the window. Trotter supposed it was some kind of salute-who knew for what? Flipping his palm to acknowledge it, he remembered something that used to happen years ago. Morrison would take him into a closet, pull out his pocketknife and threaten to cut off his ears. That used to scare him into shivers. Now it seemed rather funny.

"Tempus fugit, tempus fug-it," he chanted as if he had suddenly uncovered a secret lost by civilization years and years ago. "Tempus fugit, tempus fug-it, tempus fugit, tempus fug-it."

He wiped his sweatsticky forehead and rubbed his palm against the back of his pants. There was still a bit of itch back there.

Chapter 2

Martha B’s hair was greyblack and tightly waved. Sometimes Trotter asked her why she didn’t use larger rollers and let it hang lower in back. She said, I’ll fix it the way I want to fix it, and, teasing her, Trotter said he doubted if she wanted to fix it any way, You’ve just gotten in the habit of having tight waves and you don’t know if you like them or not.

Maybe not, she said, but I’m comfortable with my hair the way it is, and till that changes I’m not going to change.

You’d look better if you fixed it more casually.

She smiled primly, a quick elongation of the lips which just as quickly contracted. Leaving the room, he told her she could be very good looking if she tried.

I haven’t heard any complaints, she said.

You never listen, he told her. She was such a delight to tease.

But she had work to do. She did not have time to listen to foolishness. Her stepson’s suggestions, however, did not offend her. She liked it when he was familiar with her. She had tried to be a good mother and she thought she was. She did not mind him calling her Martha B. Perhaps she even liked it. It was natural for him to call her Martha B.; he always had, from their first Christmas together in 1950, three days after she and Randel were married. She remembered the gift, an African violet he had picked out himself at the florist’s. To Martha B. – Love, Trotter. He was eight then; she was his second mother, Randel his second father; Trotter had never seen his first one; Marshall had been killed in an oilfield accident before Trotter was born. Maybe his calling her Martha B. sounded unusual to some, but then Trotter’s family situation itself was unusual. Since he was two he had lived with a man whose name was different from his own. When she knew she was dying, Lydia, Trotter’s mother, told Randel she wanted her son’s last name to remain Ross, and Randel respected her wish. Martha B. thought that was appropriate; besides, things had worked out well enough. As far as she could tell, Trotter had no problem having a name different from his parents’.Good heavens! I’ve got to get to work, she said to herself.

It was Saturday morning, her day for volunteer duty at the hospital. She patted her hair in back to touch it into place, grabbed her purse and left. That was Saturday. Monday was her Woman’s Society group, Tuesday she played bridge, every third Wednesday in the month she helped at the Opportunity Workshop, Thursday was Woman’s Forum, and Fridays were usually free, except at night in the fall when she followed Randel to the high school football game.

She had many things to do but none of them oppressed her, not because her activities were so exciting but because – well, she just didn’t, she often said, analyze them or herself very often. There was no need to. Life was staying busy, exchanging opinions and avoiding extremes, which was not always easy to do since several of the women in her groups, she admitted, were bigoted, narrow-minded in religion and scabrous in their politics. She had no desire to straighten them out because she was not always sure that they needed