http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37wR_TWdVy0
so here's the next installment of:
The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch
III
Roxanne was sitting in her room at the Trenton’s house when Mr. Trenton came home from work. “Call me Tom,” he’d said when Claire had brought her to meet them for the first time. She could hear their muffled voices slowly rising as they always did, becoming barely restrained shouts before the back door slammed and the garage radio came on.
“Roxy,” Mrs. Trenton pecked on the door before pushing it open and sticking her head inside, “You can call me Becky, its short for Rebecca,” Roxanne remembered that day, learning all those names and faces. “This is our daughter, Millie, and these are our foster children, Matt, Sue, and Charlie.” She had gestured to a toddler that clung to her leg, a small wiry boy with a mess of strawberry blond hair, an effervescent seven-year-old whose dark hair swept back and forth as she fidgeted on the sofa, and a bespectacled young man with large brown eyes whose tan face conveyed a rebellious expression. Just now Mrs. Trenton was crossing the small distance between the foot of the bed and the door.
“Listen, honey, I know that this has been a hard adjustment for you, but you need try a little bit more. You’re never gonna feel like a member of the family if you don’t keep trying. Now, I’ve never asked for a whole lot. But, I’d like you to come on down and help me with dinner, maybe this time with us will make you feel a little more at home,” she tried to look calm, but Roxanne could tell that Mrs. Trenton was upset. She wondered what they had been arguing about.
“Okay, I guess I could help a little, but I have to finish this report, so I can’t chase Millie all night,” she replied, pushing her books and papers aside and throwing her feet over the edge of the low bed.
“I’m not asking you to chase Millie, I just need a little help, that’s all, honey,” Mrs. Trenton turned and headed out into the hallway, ignoring the upward roll of Roxanne’s eyes.
Roxanne thudded down the carpeted stairs and around the corner into the kitchen where Mrs. Trenton was cutting round steak into small cubes and throwing them into a pot on the stove, “You can just jump right in here, I need these cans opened and, see if you can find that brown gravy mix in the cabinet up there, hon.”
Dinner in the Trenton household consisted of Mrs. Trenton serving her husband at his recliner while he watched whatever sports program happened to be on at the moment, the boys gathered around the large battered coffee table to watch as well. Mrs. Trenton ate her dinner standing at the kitchen counter, finishing quickly and leaving Roxanne to keep watch over the girls while she fled to the upstairs bathroom for a shower, or to sneak onto the patio outside to chain smoke.
Roxanne went back to her room as soon as Mrs. Trenton returned, first pulling Millie from her high chair and instructing Sue to finish her snack. Roxanne had never had any brothers or sisters before, and the little ones seemed to drink up that fact, pouncing and prodding and pushing her limits in new ways every day. But Roxanne missed her mother and father. No matter how nice the Trentons’ were, no matter how loving all the children were, she couldn’t help but wish she was at home, back in her old room with the purple patterned wall paper. Her mother had helped her pick it out, and her father had kept careful count of the weeks until he could afford to go to the hardware store and order it, coming home with a bed spread and sheet set ordered to match. She remembered that day, the way the large sack he carried nearly hid his wide grin as he hoisted it up from the trunk of the car. The plastic zippered bags were perfectly intact, no clearance aisle merchandise that day. Roxanne had thrown her arms around her father and cried incessant thanks until he insisted that she open the packages and make her bed immediately. Afterward, father, mother, and daughter lay back against the full sized headboard, squeezed tightly together and wondered aloud how hard it would be to hang the new wall paper.
Roxanne thought about that day, how it was the last before they went to jail. Her room had been pretty and perfect. All she worried about back then was what new lip gloss she wanted to buy, finding the perfect handbag, or seeing who was in the food court. Now she was thrust into the awkwardness of a brand new family. She became sister and babysitter in one fell swoop.
IV
When Carl was in college he ran cross-country, his high school success providing him with a full academic and athletic scholarship. He often ran along the trails in the large state park just north of the city, his knowledge of the paths giving him an advantage during home meets. Plenty of girls found his athletic body and vibrant charisma quite charming; he and his buddies had their parties, when they weren’t running, and he found that he had an ease with women, an ease that came with having sisters.
During his senior year, he was dating a girl named Layla. His friend Drew had introduced them at a coffee shop on campus, later confessing that she had been his high school girl friend. Layla was a tall, broad-shouldered swimmer with a cascade of auburn hair and a classically beautiful face. Layla had sort of highly sculpted cheekbones that framed her impeccable green eyes. She knew she was beautiful, and most of her days were centered on swimming and running. Just like many other student-athletes, her days were micromanaged and wind-suit clad, often going from activity to class and back.
One crisp autumn night Carl drove Layla to a friend’s cabin, up in the mountains about an hour out of the city. The cabin was large, easily accommodating ten overnight guests or a few dozen partygoers with sleeping bags. Inside they were greeted by a throng of their friends and they were soon separated, easing into the crowd shouting greetings. Later, Layla found Carl crammed between two voluptuous, barely clothed blondes.
“You’d think that with the low tonight of 35 degrees, you sluts would have some warm clothes on,” Layla’s face had blossomed red, her hands shaking with anger.
“Whoa, hold on a minute, here, honey. We were just getting acquainted. These girls were just telling me they were thinking about joining an intramural team this fall….” Carl said, pushing up from the loveseat.
“I think I would like you to take me home now, Carl.”
“Hey, baby, it’s all good. It’s not like we were fucking right here in the living room or anything,” Carl pulled at Layla’s waist, nuzzling her neck.
“Get off me! Just forget it. I’ll find Drew, he’ll give me a ride home,” she extricated herself from Carl’s grip and was only a few steps away when he snatched her with both hands and whirled her around.
“Come on, honey, I wasn’t doin’ anything, really,” pleaded Carl, embarrassed. He pulled her face close to his and kissed her.
“Get. Off. Me!” she shouted, pushing him away and wiping at her mouth. Every conversation in the room ceased, the music thudding loudly amongst the quiet crowd. Drew was making his way through the crowd, taking long strides and pushing people out of the way.
“What the fuck is going on, anyway?” he said, leveling his narrowed eyes at Carl, who released Layla and balled his fists.
“Listen, man, I was just sitting here and she came up and made a rude remark to my new friends. But it’s all right, man. I was just about to take Layla home,” Carl said, unfurling one of his hands and placing it on the small of her back.
Layla swept his hand away and stepped aside, “I’m not going anywhere with you, you’re drunk.”
“C’mon, Layla, I’ll give you a ride,” and turning to Carl, Drew said, “I think you should go back to entertaining your new friends.”
“And I think you should mind your own business,” replied Carl, stepping forward, so close that Drew smelled his sour whiskey breath.
“Layla is my business,” Drew pushed Layla behind him possessively and inched forward until they were almost nose to nose. Carl caught him by surprise with an uppercut to the jaw. Drew went down swinging, but Carl took the advantage to kick him with his hiking boots, landing several blows to Drew’s ribs. Layla and some other women were screaming in the background, but no one stepped forward to stop him as Carl pounded Drew’s head and upper body angrily. Layla screamed over and over, but Carl didn’t seem to hear her. After a couple of minutes, when they saw Drew wasn’t going to be getting up, a couple of big guys who looked like line-backers, stepped forward and pulled Carl away. Drew lay curled in the fetal position and Layla rushed to his side, “Get out of here, Carl,” she said, tears streaming down her face.
Layla took Drew to the hospital where the doctor wrapped his broken ribs and stitched his bleeding face. Layla never saw at Carl again, avoiding him at school functions and refusing his apologetic phone calls. Carl’s lawyer arranged a deal with Drew; Carl agreed to pay all of Drew’s medical bills in return for dropping the assault charges against him.
Carl tried to forget about the incident. He managed to control his anger most of the time. He still had his parties with friends, but he rarely drank whiskey anymore. But every time he saw a woman toss her long auburn hair, Carl remembered Layla’s tear-stained face as she crouched over the bleeding man on the floor—all the anger and embarrassment flooding back to him as if it were happening all over again. Carl had promised himself that he wouldn’t let his anger consume him ever again.
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