She entered the school office to check her mailbox as school regulations required. Julie Krouse bustled quickly over, motioning for Lin to come closer to the counter where they could talk undisturbed.
Julie was the lowest ranking secretary. Her job title was clerk-typist, but her duties consisted of anything the other secretaries preferred not doing.
They were old friends, dating back to diaper days, and as Lin leaned across the counter, she wondered if there shouldn't be a regulation that educators not be allowed to teach in their home towns. Too many people recalled far too much about a teacher's younger and more careless days.
Julie wanted to talk about Ben Troop. Well, it was little wonder; nothing half as exciting had happened in the school since the girls' gym teacher had been found in a too intimate clasp with one of her senior girls.
She listened to Julie Krouse review the fight as she saw it. Lin could appreciate how quickly Ben would tire of discussing it and hearing about it. When Julie had come to an excited close, Lin injected her own point of view that "Not only was it time Tom Ruby got put in his place, but that Mr. Troop should be decorated for undertaking the mission."
Julie was not too pleased with Lin's response. "Well, Lin, we can't have teachers just punching students into the hospital, no matter how bad they are!"
"Julie, if Tom Ruby had hit almost any other teacher two times the way you say he tried to hit Ben Troop, we would have a teacher in the hospital. Now which is better?"
"Well, I don't see why he had to hit him so hard."
"I really don't know just how hard a person is supposed to hit another in defending himself, do you?" She stopped, trying not to say too much, but unable to help adding, "I think it's going to be pretty easy to stand safe and sound with all the time in the world and judge just how hard Mr. Troop should have punched. I'll bet it wasn't so easy when Mr. Troop had to react instantly to an attack that was supposed to break his jaw."
"Oh, you teachers all agree with each other anyway!"
"We're all part of the same school, Julie, and if we undercut each other, we won't have much left, will we?"
"Well, I heard Mr. Boden calling board members. He's certainly worried over it."
"Aren't we all! It's too bad about Tom Ruby, but I'll bet it will cool off a lot of other kids that have been getting out of line."
"Oh, I suppose you're right, Lin, but I just know the whole town's going to be mad about it, Tom being a football star and all. Not many are going to take Mr. Troop's side, that's for sure."
"Well then, it's all the more important that the school stick together behind him, Julie." She spoke confidingly, making their interests one and placing the town outside their own special realm. "What do those people in town know, Julie? All they can think about is winning a ballgame. Half of them hate the school anyway." Julie's head was practically bouncing up and down in solid agreement. "Didn't you ever notice it's always the old time drop-outs and the town gossips who try to pick the schools apart?"
She thought she might have gone too far, but Julie continued to nod agreement and Lin decided that she might have added a little positive thinking to Julie's willingness to spread her inside knowledge around Newport. She knew that as soon as work was over Julie Krouse would be head to head with her favored listeners, and she could only hope that Julie would espouse Ben's cause to them.
"Listen, Julie, I've got to run along. I've got a million things to do before supper."
"Husband home, Lin?"
Had there been a hint of tartness there? Lin doubted it, but the eyes and ears of Newport were all encompassing. She wished she and Ben could meet in some neutral place far from Newport, but that never worked out.
"No, thank heaven! I suppose I'll get a dozen calls about this Troop thing from everybody in town. Maybe I just won't answer the phone tonight." Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Julie. Linda O'Day is so annoyed by calls about the Tom Ruby thing that she won't even answer her phone.
She walked to and from school because it was only a few blocks. She walked swiftly, covering the distance without awareness, allowing her thoughts to drift.
As she fumbled for her door key she was startled to hear stereo music intruding on her consciousness. Despairingly, she realized Frank was home. God, he was supposed to be in Pittsburgh at least through Saturday.
He greeted her with an impersonal peck on the forehead and a quick hug around the waist; both notable for their indifference. She struggled to assume her wifely role even as her mind churned. Appreciative of her own outward composure, she heard herself say, "What a nice surprise. All finished in Pittsburgh?" She found the words stale and soiled even as she uttered them.
Frank seemed mildly gratified at her interest and as usual launched into an account of his business activities. She listened with a corner of her mind, scheming on getting away. She might claim shopping, but the time would be too short; better a school function. That was it! Scheduled home visits to talk with parents. That would do it.
Having a plan relaxed her and she listened more closely, finding herself momentarily touched that Frank could be so intense about his work and so utterly unconcerned, in fact, just blah about everything else. Not that she discounted his business and the good things the money earned could bring them. Their combined salaries offered a substantial future and she recognized its importance.
He rambled on, describing a sales coup, and she found herself comparing him to Ben Troop. Frank did well in comparison. He was young where Troop was middle age. A good looking man, Frank lacked the toughness of Ben, but when stimulated, as he was now, he appeared sharp and vigorous.
Physically, there could be no doubt that Troop possessed an animal-like competence that her husband could never approach. Yet, what did that matter? Their world was not one of bared claw and fang. Or was it? She thought of Tom Ruby.
Frank was too typical. He fitted neatly among the thousands of other young business men struggling ever upward, there was no mystery or excitement to men like Frank. They were as interesting as chain restaurant hamburgers. Without tasting, you knew exactly what was coming,
There was excitement to Ben Troop. Some, like John Luther, were repelled. Others responded more positively; Ben's students were among those. In her own case, she supposed she had succumbed wholly.
Not for the first time she considered a life with Ben Troop. She evaluated it without expectation. Of course passion would cool; she supposed it always did. But with such a man there would be few dull moments. Even his casual conversations were provocative. It was hard to be a clod around Ben Troop. Inevitably, if Troop chose to comment, people paused to listen and were quickly caught up in the subject.
Yet Ben Troop was not merely a philosophical tinkerer. He had an uncanny knack of reducing a discussion to a few salient and practical points that were rarely susceptible to casual refutation. The fact was, she learned from Ben Troop. He avoided chattering about subjects that everyone reiterated so exhaustingly; he spoke mostly in ideas. He was a vault of diverse concepts, of unsuspected approaches, and of previously unsensed possibilities. Conversation with Ben was never dull.
However, life was not all stimulating exchanges. A life with Ben Troop might prove transient. Unlike Frank, he put down no tap root. His roots, extensive though they might be, lay close to the surface where they could be easily and painlessly freed for replanting elsewhere. He neither sought nor accepted community ties. Few would have been greatly startled if Ben Troop had announced that he was leaving to teach at the South Pole.
The thought of him leaving jarred her and brought her back to her husband's words.
"Look, Lin, I just dashed home for a few minutes. I can't wait for supper. I'm going down to York and finish up that end. But I'll be home early tomorrow and we'll make an evening of it, Ok?"
She agreed, and faked protestations that she could fix him a snack before he left. In a few minutes he was gone. She watched his car back into the alley behind the house and pull away. She wond
ered at her lack of any feelings of betrayal and feared to examine the lack too closely.
She had completed her shower and was nearly dressed when she realized that making an evening of it with Frank would prevent her from attending the school board meeting. Damn! Maybe she could explain the importance of the case to him and go anyway.
No, that would be foolish. Frank had no interest in her school activities and too often resented their demands. Ben Troop must not be brought to her husband's attention, anyway. Ben would understand, but she hated to miss that meeting! Well, she'd think about it. Maybe Frank would change his mind. There ought to be a way.
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Share's Snack Bar stood on the town square almost directly across from the ladies antique shop. To Bob Share, the snack bar's strategic position had long been a recognized advantage. From behind his counter he commanded a superior view of all that went on in the heart of Newport. Share was able to identify everyone entering or leaving the tavern on the corner and he knew who did business in the nearby furniture and appliance mart.
The square had always been a gathering place for the citizenry and, in more recent years, young people had taken the corner closest to the snack bar as their own. The older set had moved to the corner by the bank. The young people chose their corner partly because of the soft drink machines Share placed outside his restaurant but mostly because of the superior angle parking near that corner.
The parking spaces in front of the snack bar were usually filled when the rest of the square stood empty. The cars varied in quality as much as did their owners. The favorites were, of course, the big powerful machines usually named after ferocious jungle animals.
Bob Share loved the cars. He appreciated the business he got from the operators of the vehicles, but the cars themselves he genuinely savored. Share could be depended upon to exclaim over any new or different automotive equipment that appeared. The speed-minded knew that there was always a discussion of cams, radials, quarter mile times, or dirt track results available with Bob Share any time one was desired.
Bob Share loved cars. He loved racing in general. His life revolved around racing men and their machines. He felt he himself could have been a successful driver if he had not inherited the snack bar. Share often wondered if the inheritance had been a blessing. His living from the snack bar was not overly rewarding, and he envisioned himself as more capable in other fields, primarily as a race car driver.
However, except for the lack of racing opportunity and the marginal income, the snack bar provided a varied existence for Bob Share. Born in Newport, he knew everyone of importance or interest—the two were not always the same. Little that happened in the town got by him and he was privy to countless local problems and secret adventures. Bob Share knew many things. Some of them he knew because he rarely spoke of such things to anyone. He was closemouthed except where it concerned racing. Unlike many in a small town, he watched with interest but spoke to few of his observations and knowledge.
From behind his counter, Share could look directly into the alleyway that gave entrance to Troop's flat. The far end of the block long alley opened against the side of a large white building. Anything within the alley became immediately noticeable as a strong silhouette against the alley exit. Bob Share knew of Lin O'Day's excursions to Ben Troop's apartment. If bandied about, Share's knowledge of Mrs. O'Day's visits could have forced both teachers out of Newport, but Share spoke of it to no one.
Share, in fact, liked Ben Troop. The teacher regularly dropped into the snack bar for breakfast and sometimes supper. Troop chose times when the school students were seldom present. Share supposed a teacher saw enough of them during the day and wished to eat without having to constantly greet pupils with whom he had already spent hours. The choice of slack periods afforded many opportunities to talk casually and at length with Ben Troop.
Behind Share's lunch counter were posted myriad photographs of great racing cars, hopped up street jobs, and customized hotrods. Scattered through the collection were photographs of famous drivers as well as autographed mug shots of local stock car drivers who performed on nearby tracks. The autographs showed an alarming lack of originality, nearly all being signed "To Bob Share, a real fan" with wild, looping signatures that endeavored to be totally illegible. The collection was conscientiously maintained by Share and, unlike most such accumulations, was not allowed to become dusty and wrinkled.
The pictures initiated many of Share's favorite conversations, and in Ben Troop he had found one of the few people to whom he could talk intelligently about the more classic days of racing. Share's attempts to interest local friends in road racing had always flopped. They were tuned to the local stocks and, of course, the annual Five Hundred at Indianapolis. Bob Share hungered to exchange views about the great racing drivers from distant lands.
Troop had opened their racing discussions by recognizing a magazine photograph of the great driver, Tazio Nuvelari, whom Share felt to be the finest road racer of all time. So Ben Troop meant something to Bob Share.
Sooner or later everyone came into the snack bar. Across Bob Share's counter flowed countless conversations. Singly, they were mere chitchat. Cumulatively, they interwove to form a massive web of opinion, fact, and thought which made Share holder of a more complete catalog of local feeling than anyone else in the community.
Share listened but rarely added his own comment. One man had, however, approached him and without equivocation said, "Mr. Share, I need your help. I'm much like a policeman; I never know about an incident until it's over, and even then, few are willing to become involved. I need responsible men with whom I can sit down and discuss problems; men who will tell me what they think. I'll not always agree, but I'll always weigh your opinion and I will value it."
Share had considered the proposal for some months before becoming one of Boden's sources. He had waited until he felt sure that Boden was as straightforward as he appeared.
Over a period of some years, the bond had strengthened between the two men and Boden's entrance for a cup of coffee regularly preceded lengthy conversations. Share often wondered how many other contacts the superintendent had established. He suspected Boden had many, but doubted any of them were as accurate as he.
Share often thought how horrified the school board would be to know that his humble opinion went into the same pot with theirs, and in the stirring, his just might come to the surface. He knew Doctor Shanks would be confounded; he recognized Shanks' opinion of him as merely a local nut who drove too fast. The fact that Boden chose him verified his personal sense of responsibility and he observed his town with increased objectivity.
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From the inside, the printing on the upper glass of the door made no sense. Earl Roebuck often sat, half-listening to a client, and tried to make words out of the backward letters. He never got past "Civil liberties." Backwards letters failed to have any pattern. Occasionally he wondered if they meant anything when read forward. He guessed he believed they meant something or he wouldn't be cornered in the drab office listening to one or another of the "Great unwashed" tell how the world was abusing him.
Roebuck was a very blond young man. His skin coloring was so fair and his hair so light that strangers turned to stare. He supposed his hair should really be called white although he preferred to think of himself as blond. Even his eyes complemented his almost albino look. They were not purple, violet, or anything so dramatic, but a washed-out Irish blue that until examined at close range seemed colorless.
In many ways the fair complexion was helpful. Earl Roebuck stood out in a crowd, and when before a court, no one ever confused him with the opposition.
Perhaps it was his different appearance that had first given him interest in the Civil Liberties Union or maybe he was just interested in the troubles of minority groups. He did not like recalling the cruel jibes of other children on the playground or his nickname, 'Whitey'.
When he attended high school at Dickinson, the lack of pigmentat
ion had brought him to the fore. Once he had dated a black girl and a friend had snapped their picture at Opossum Lake. The contrast was remarkable. Although the photograph had never been published, it had served to focus his awareness on the problems of those who were somehow different.
Most of his fellow attorneys felt Roebuck was foolish to squander time serving the poor in a volunteer capacity. They were busily engaged in building the most complete and high-grade law practices possible. They served as public defenders only when so appointed by the court and saw limited merit in listening to the troubles of people whose entire lives seemed little more than inseparable problems and who almost invariably could not pay what the hard driving young lawyers considered reasonable legal fees.
Sometimes Roebuck thought they were right. Too often he listened to completely invalid complaints or tried to convince an individual unversed in law that he had no case. He listened too regularly to the whining of the undeserving. Often the hours he labored in the drab offices of the union appeared wasted. Those hours he resented.
Still, because of the occasional valid case, he kept returning and listing his name on the roster of available attorneys. Sometimes the poor were abused and sometimes he could make a case of it. Then, he regularly found himself opposing some old friend who received a fat fee for his services, while he, Earl Roebuck, was paid only in satisfaction . . . except when he lost! Which was too regularly, for the courts were not geared to legal perfection. Wealth, position, or influence could, at times, overwhelm the forces of righteousness. Then the bitterness of the poor would become his own, his anger at power and privilege would be great, and his disgust for the establishment strong.
Earl Roebuck was not so dedicated that he ignored regular practice to serve only the needy. No, Roebuck and Reedy prospered, but Terry Reedy recurringly expressed a desire that Earl Roebuck put in more time at their joint law office and a little less at civil liberties. Roebuck in turn tried to draw Reedy further into the services offered by civil liberties and had succeeded to the extent that Reedy would now occasionally help out on a case, provided he thought it possessed sufficient evidence for presentation, which was, after all, a quite reasonable position.
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