The Wanton Troopers

by Alden Nowlan

  “I’m sorry I called yuh a liar, then,” Kevin said dully.

  For no reason that Kevin could understand, the other boys laughed. They formed a half-circle behind Av, dancing with eagerness, their lips drawn back from their teeth. Illogically, Kevin noticed the pigeons at the other end of the graveyard: silver and steel-blue, their heads bobbing as though they pecked at grain, falling like invisible manna from the air.

  Av giggled. “Yuh know somethin’, Key-von? I think yer a snotty-nosed little pimp. Don’t yuh think that’s jist about what yuh are, Key-von?”

  “You tell ’im, Av,” Alton Stacey yelled.

  Kevin noticed that an empty rum bottle lay on the grave nearest the road. No doubt a drunken automobile driver had thrown it there during the night. Or perhaps some mourner had brought rum instead of flowers? He tried to concentrate on other things — things like the weathervane on the church roof — anything that would take his mind away from his tormenters.

  “Don’t yuh agree that yer a snotty-nosed little pimp, Key-von?”

  Av shook him, banging the back of his head against the wall.

  “Don’t yuh agree with me, Key-von?”

  “Yeah,” Kevin moaned.

  The boys howled.

  “Say it, Key-von. Say it!”

  “Say what?”

  “Say: Key-von O’Brien is a snotty-nosed little pimp.”

  Kevin took a deep breath. He concentrated desperately on the jittery, mud-coloured sparrows near the windowless rear wall of the church. From the other end of the world, the steps of the church, he heard Mrs. Cranston and another teacher laughing.

  “Say it!” the boys whooped. “Say it!”

  Humiliation was like a bottomless well.

  “Kevin O’Brien is a snotty-nosed pimp,” Kevin repeated.

  Some of the boys laughed so hard they threw themselves on the ground. The universe reverberated with laughter.

  Av licked his lips. The hands, gripping Kevin’s shoulders, were moist with sweat.

  “Say: Key-von O’Brien is a stinkin’ stuck-up lantern-jawed bastard.”

  “Kevin O’Brien is a stinkin’ stuck-up lantern-jawed bastard.”

  “Say: Key-von O’Brien’s mother still has tuh change his dirty didies.”

  “Kevin O’Brien’s mother still has to change his dirty didies.”

  He gave the responses quickly, almost eagerly, wanting to hasten this liturgy of humiliation to its end.

  “Say: Key-von O’Brien ain’t never been weaned yet.”

  “Kevin O’Brien ain’t never been weaned yet.”

  The boys whooped, their eyes bright and pitiless.

  “Put yer thumb in yer mouth, baby.”

  Like a robot, Kevin thrust his thumb into his mouth. He vowed that when they let him go, he would find a rope and hang himself.

  “Now say: Key-von O’Brien’s mother is the biggest old whore in Lockhartville.”

  There was a moment of silence. Even Av seemed a little shocked by what he had said.

  Then: “Make ’im say it, Av! Make ’im say it!”

  “Ever’body knows it’s true! Make him say it!”

  “Make ’im say it, Av! Make ’im say it!”

  At this instant, Kevin’s mind was engulfed by a great cataract of light. For a moment, he believed that a falling star had landed in the churchyard, almost at his feet. Then the darkness surged up around him and the earth under his feet rocked like a teeter-totter. With a wail of despair, he tore himself free of his impotence and struck Av’s Adam’s apple with all the strength in his fist.

  Clutching his throat and gurgling, Av fell back. He stared at Kevin in disbelief.

  “Why, yuh little bastard,” he said. “Why, yuh little bastard.”

  “Don’t you say anythin’ about my mother,” Kevin croaked through dead dry lips.

  Av stepped forward. “I said once she was a whore and I’n say it again, Key-von. Yuh wanta try and stop me?”

  Accustomed to Kevin’s stupified meekness, Av half-turned his head and winked at Alton Stacey. As he did so, Kevin lunged forward and kicked — Av roared in pain and rage. “Fight fair, damn yuh, yuh yeller little bastard!”

  Almost casually, he drove his fist into Kevin’s face. Pain rose like sheets of searing red-gold flame, blinding him. He fell to his knees and, as he fell, Av kicked him in the chest.

  “Come on, give it tuh ’im, Av!”

  “Come on, Av!”

  “Paste the yeller little bastard, Av!”

  In his conscious mind, Kevin believed that anyone in the world, no matter how weak, could thrash him. He believed, as he had always believed, that he was an anemic poltroon. But that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that he strike out until, at last, he was downed and killed. Av would kill him — he was certain of that. And he wanted to die. He babbled meaningless syllables through froth-dampened lips.

  As he staggered to his feet, Av struck him again. Again he fell. The other boy was stronger than he, tougher, the winner of a hundred schoolyard battles. Rising, Kevin aimed a kick at Av’s groin. Av caught his ankle and sent him spinning —

  He did not know how many times Av knocked him down. But each time he staggered to his feet, his mouth full of the jungle-taste of blood, and each time he leapt upon Av, butting, striking, kicking, scratching, and biting. From a great distance, he heard a boy yelling, “God, looka that crazy look he’s got on his mug!” But his fists, feet, and teeth found Av’s body. Av’s cheek might have been clawed by a cat and blood trickled from his nostrils.

  Av pounded him to his knees and brought both fists down on his neck. Again, Kevin dragged himself to his feet. He was weeping now, howling, the tears blinding him, but once more he fell upon Av.

  “Give it tuh the sonovabitch, Av!”

  “Let ’im have it, Av!”

  And now Kevin was so frenzied with insanity that some of the boys fell back. He did not attempt to guard his face or body. Even had he been sane, he would not have known how. Not one of Av’s blows missed — and each time Av struck, Kevin went to the ground.

  Time and again, Av knocked Kevin to his knees or sent him sprawling on his back. The skin was torn from his palms, blood gushed from his nostrils and dribbled from his mouth. All his consciousness was permeated with pain.

  But he got up. And Av, whose injuries were comparatively slight, was baffled. In one of the flashes of awareness that cut like lightning across the blind madness of his frenzy, Kevin saw in Av’s eyes the slow darkening of fear. The small spark of reason still flickering in his mind recognized this fear and was amazed by it. But the murderous, insane part of his mind did not care. Prone on his belly in the grass, he grabbed Av’s ankles, tripping him. Av fell and, like a cat, Kevin leapt upon him.

  They rolled in the dirt, wrestling. Wrenching his hands free, Kevin seized Av’s throat. Av struck out at his face, kneed his belly, grasped his wrists, and tried to jerk his hands away. But Kevin would not let go. He choked Av until the boy’s face reddened, until his eyes became as weird as those of a trapped and dying animal, until he ceased to struggle but only stirred weakly, his arms and legs trembling spasmodically.

  “Git up, Av! Git up and paste him!”

  Then, unbelieving, Kevin heard this, “Give it tuh ’im, Kev! Make ’im say he’s had enough.”

  Straddling Av, Kevin released his hold on his throat. Methodically, with the terrible impatience of the homicidal insane, he pounded his fallen adversary’s face. The head jerked from side to side. But Av did not try to dodge. He lay helpless, moaning, as Kevin beat him. Pausing a moment, Kevin saw a stone lying near Av’s head. With a sly, spine-chilling grin, he reached out his hand for it —

  “He’s had enough, Kev!”

  This was Alton Stacey, standing over him. Slowly, the light returned to Kevin’s mind. The barn, the grass, the church, the sky emerged from the darkness. He saw the boys, standing silent and awed, looked down at Av’s smashed and whimpering face.

  Shaking like on
e naked in an unbearable cold, Kevin got unsteadily to his feet. Dear God, don’t let me faint, he prayed. Dear God, don’t let me faint.

  “He ain’t said he’s had enough yet, Kev,” one of the bystanders cried eagerly.

  “Shut up,” Alton Stacey said. “Jist shut yer mouth.”

  Av raised himself to a sitting position and looked around him. Seeing Kevin, he started back in fear.

  “Yuh leave me alone,” he whined. “Yuh jist leave me alone.”

  “Yuh had enough, Av?” Alton asked.

  Av did not answer. Oh, please God, Kevin prayed, I don’t want to have to fight him again. Please God. He had sunk back into his old paralysis. Had Av risen now and attacked him, he would have stood with his hands by his sides and taken whatever was meted out to him. For he was not brave. His fury had sprung from a source beyond bravery, a source beyond his understanding. A falling star had struck the earth at his feet — “Yuh had enough, Av?” Alton insisted.

  Kevin was amazed by Alton’s grin. The girl-faced boy seemed amused by the defeat of his friend. Suddenly, Kevin realized that his school mates did not care who was the tormenter and who the tormented. Had he bullied Av, they would have laughed and wriggled exactly as they had laughed and wriggled when Av had bullied him —

  “Hit ’im again fer luck, Kev,” somebody yelled.

  “Yuh had enough, Av?”

  “Yeah,” Av muttered through thick lips. “Yeah, I’ve had enough.”

  Thank you, God, Kevin prayed silently, thank you.

  He looked down at his ruined clothes: at his blazer and shorts, torn, muddy, grass-stained, and bloody. Dismayed, he wondered what his mother would say when she saw his clothes . . .

  Eighteen

  At recess, next day, Riff Wingate and Harold Winthrop herded Kevin and Av into the woodshed. Riff pinched the muscle of Kevin’s arm and whistled in mock admiration. “I hear tell yer one helluva fighter, Key-von,” he snickered.

  Kevin grinned sheepishly. A dark, secret part of him was coyly proud of his victory. But he did not like Riff’s sneer and the eyes that glinted like sharp pebbles under rippling creek water.

  “Yessir, I hear yuh licked the livin’ bejaysus outta Avie boy, yesterday. Is that right, Key-von?”

  The others — Dink Anthony, Jess Allen, Alton Stacey, and Harold Winthrop — nudged one another and winked. Av Farmer glared at the toes of his sneakers.

  “— Is that right, Key-von?”

  “I don’t know.” Kevin blinked and shuffled his feet in the bark, chips, and sawdust covering the dirt floor. The onlookers seated themselves on the chopping block, on the saw horse, on the tiers of crocodile-barked, dry maple logs.

  Riff laughed soundlessly and slapped his thigh. “He don’t know! Hear that, fellers! Joe Louis here licked Av half tuh death and he don’t even remember doin’ it! Man, that Key-von is jist like a grizzly bear!” Riff stepped away from Kevin, shielding his face with his hands and feigning fear. “Say, Avie boy, do you happen tuh remember it?”

  “He’s lucky tuh be alive tuh remember it!” Dink Anthony tittered. At times such as this, Dink, an alder-thin boy in ragged overalls who spent hours jack-knifing obscene symbols into the wood of his desk, alternately giggled and licked his lips like a famished dog.

  Av did not look up. “Go tuh hell,” he muttered.

  Lazily, Riff reached out and slapped Av’s face.

  “Hey! Whatja do that fer?”

  Riff smiled gently. “I thought mebbe yuh was talkin’ tuh me, Avie boy,” he said.

  Av massaged his cheek. His eyes were moist and luminous with self-pity.

  “I wasn’t talkin’ tuh you, Riff. I was talkin’ tuh Blabbermouth Anthony there,” he complained.

  For an instant, Kevin enjoyed Av’s pain. He half-hoped Riff would slap him again. Then he felt only pity and shame.

  “Now, Key-von, you and Avie boy is gonna fight again,” Riff announced. “Yer gonna show us how yuh beat him yesterday. That okay with you, Key-von?”

  Oh, please God, no.

  “— That okay with you, Key-von?”

  Please God. Please.

  “Speak up, feller! That okay with you?”

  “No. I don’t wanta!”

  Kevin tried to edge away, but Riff grabbed his arm. “What’s yer hurry, Key-von? What’s yer hurry, eh?” He turned toward Av. “What about you, Avie boy? Yuh ready tuh fight Key-von again?”

  Av buried his fists in the pockets of his shorts and kicked at a chip. “We fought once,” he mumbled. “There ain’t no need fer us tuh fight again.”

  Riff snorted. “My Gawd, Avie boy, ain’t yuh never heard of a return match? Why, prize fighters is allus havin’ return matches. This here is gonna be a return match between you and Key-von.”

  “Billy Conn and Joe Louis!” Dink Anthony howled, running his tongue over his lips hungrily.

  “Eh? Yeah. Billy Conn Farmer and Joe Louis O’Brien. Harold there is gonna manage Billy Conn Farmer and I’m gonna manage Joe Louis O’Brien. Ain’t that worth fightin’ fer, Avie boy?” Riff looked at Harold and winked. Harold scratched excitedly at the ripe pimples under his chin. “Bring yer prize fighter over here, will yuh, Harold boy?”

  Harold laid hold of Av’s shoulders and, despite his protests, thrust him forward. Kevin and Av, their knees, chests, and chins almost touching, stood in the centre of a tight circle of grinning faces. Av looked as tragic as a young bull whose horns had been sawed off. His eyes were dark with bewilderment and shame. Suddenly, Kevin felt a great rush of pity for the other boy. He would almost have preferred to face the old Av — the fox-eyed, arrogant tormenter.

  He is just as scared as I am, Kevin thought wonderingly. He is every bit as scared as I am.

  “Fight!”

  “Fight!”

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  “I guess we’re gonna have tuh manage ’em, Riff.”

  “I guess yer right, Harold boy.”

  Harold stepped behind Av, while Riff stationed himself behind Kevin. The two fifteen-year-olds seized the wrists of the smaller boys and, “Now, fight!”

  Kevin’s limp arm was lifted and driven into Av’s face. Then Av’s dangling hands were brought down on Kevin’s head like a club. The onlookers roared.

  “Now a right tuh the jaw!”

  Kevin’s lax, imprisoned hand struck Av’s jaw.

  “— And now an upper-cut!”

  Harold jerked up Av’s hand and drove it against Kevin’s chin. The smaller boys were rag dolls being manipulated in a violent, ludicrous pantomime. Then Riff forced Kevin to slap his own face —

  “Whoa! Whoa, there Key-von! Yer supposed tuh be hittin’ the other feller. What yuh wanta do, knock yerself out, boy?”

  Laughter was like the bellowing of cattle in a burning barn.

  “— And a left tuh the jaw!”

  Ho! Ho! Hee! Ho! Hee! Ho!

  “— And a right tuh the chin!”

  Ho! Ho! Ho! Haw! Haw! Haw!

  “— And a left tuh the ear!”

  “Now, fight! Fight, damn it! FIGHT!”

  “Hey, Riff, I jist thoughta somethin’.”

  “What’s that, Harold boy?”

  “Well, if they ain’t a-gonna fight, don’t yuh think mebbe they oughta kiss and make up?”

  “Damn good idea, Harold boy.”

  “Come on now, Key-von, let’s see you and Avie boy kiss and make up. Come on now —”

  With Riff holding Kevin’s neck and Harold grasping Av’s, their faces were shoved together —

  “Ain’t that sweet! Ain’t it sweet tuh see them two little fellers kissin’ like that!”

  Kevin’s teeth rattled against Av’s.

  Ho! Hee! Ho! Haw! Hee! Ho!

  Then the bell rang. Five minutes later, seated in class, Kevin’s mouth was still full of the salty, fear-scented taste of the kiss . . .

  *

  When Kevin started home that afternoon, he saw that Av was following him. His first impulse was to run.
/>   “Hey, Kevin! I wanta talk tuh yuh!”

  He stopped and waited for Av to catch up to him.

  Av’s eyes were sly and he made little nervous movements with his head and hands.

  “Look, I mean . . .” The voice trailed away. “Well, I mean . . . Look, damn it all tuh hell. I’m sorry I called yer old lady . . . bad names.”

  Kevin flushed in embarrassment. He knew that it had been painful for Av to make this apology. He almost wept for sympathy with him.

  “It’s all right,” he stammered. “It don’t matter none.”

  “No, yuh licked me and I had it comin’, I guess.”

  They walked for a while in uneasy silence, watching one another out of the corners of their eyes.

  “Riff Wingate is a bastard,” Av declared murderously. “Some day I’m gonna stick a knife in him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didja see how Stacey and Anthony and Allen howled their goddamn heads off this mornin’ — didja see that, eh?”

  “Uh-huh, I saw it.”

  “Well, I guess me and you couldn’t fight Riff and Harold. The big, overgrown sons-a-bitches would knock hell outta us. But what duh yuh say we knock the livin’ Jesus outta Anthony and Allen tomorrow?”

  They had come to the mill. In the thunder and roar of the engines, they had to shout to make each other hear. Inside the mill, Kevin knew, the men learned to read lips . . .

  “Yuh beat me and if yuh can beat me yuh can beat Anthony. He’s got a yeller streak a mile wide down his back. And I’d jist love tuh give that Jess Allen a mouthful of fist. What duh yuh say, eh?”

  The splitter saw screamed. Some men — Judd O’Brien was one of them — could identify the variety of wood being sawed from the sound of the saw’s scream. Steel tearing maple made a different sound than steel tearing spruce . . .

  “Oh, gosh! I mean it wasn’t them that made us fight, Av!”

  “But they laughed! Yuh hear ’em laughin’.”

  Again the splitter saw screamed. The men in the millyard ran to and fro like the members of a bucket brigade. Eben Stingle cracked his black whip over the drooping heads of his yellow oxen. The old mare tugged at the scarlet sawdust cart, a boy scarcely older than Kevin driving her. The boy whipped her with the reins as she staggered up a great yellow-green hill of sawdust. The top of this hill, Kevin knew, was a desert: a desert where sand-coloured cones of sawdust rose like dunes. He watched the scarlet cart reach the top and disappear . . .