CHAPTER TWO OF SIX THAT EXPLAINS JUST WHO TRIXIE IS.
The marriage started on the wrong foot and never got pointed in the right direction. If their trip to Vegas was a fever dream, reality came cold and clear the minute they returned to Fort Stockton. Kirk’s boot prints barely had time to dry on the porch of Unit #6 before he started disappearing again—to the Lucky Lady Lounge, to ranch work in God-knows-where, to anywhere that didn’t involve being married to a 16-year-old with more grit than tolerance.
Most nights he came home drunk, full of wild stories and wild turkey, tracking dust and regret across the linoleum Trixie scrubbed every Saturday like her life depended on it. She could smell beer on his breath before she heard the F-250 in the gravel. It got to the point where the sound of the truck didn’t even raise her head.
The only time he was ever on time was for disappointment.
One afternoon, while Trixie was folding laundry outside, a beat-up orange Bronco rolled into the park and stopped with a crunch of gravel. The truck looked like it had survived a tornado, a bar fight, and a divorce—cut fenders, a white bikini top stretched taut over a rusted roll cage, dual exhausts barking low and angry, and a caved-in driver’s side door that squealed when it opened. The windshield had a crack running across it like a lifeline, and the paint had surrendered to the West Texas sun.
The woman who climbed out had a toddler on her hip and Junction in her drawl.
“You Trixie?” she asked.
Trixie nodded, squinting into the sun.
“I’m Darla. This here’s Trace. Kirk’s boy.”
Trixie stared at the little one. Same sandy hair. Same cowlick. Same smirk. And the way he looked her up and down with that Kirk Kilgore appraisal—Lord have mercy, it was like looking at a drunk little mirror. Trace even had the same slightly lazy left eye Kirk got when he was lying.
Darla didn’t mince words. “I came for the child support he promised. Said he was sendin’ checks. Ain’t seen one yet. My mama’s been helpin’ out but it ain’t her job to raise his mess.”
Trixie took it all in with a stillness she didn’t know she possessed. She offered Darla a glass of water, watched the boy run his fingers along the rust-pitted porch rail, and said she’d take care of it.
That night, when Kirk stumbled through the door, reeking of cigarettes and Coors, she let him have it. He denied it, then laughed it off. And when she pushed back harder, he slapped her. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but hard enough to leave a line.
He pulled the bottle of Jim Beam from the pantry, took it straight to the head, and passed out on the bed, boots still on.
When Kirk woke up, he was stark naked, spread eagle, tied to all four corners of the bed. His hands bound to the headboard, his ankles to the footboard. A rope cinched tight around his testicles like a noose with purpose. A straight razor lay delicately between his thighs, the blade glinting.
Trixie was sitting beside him, legs crossed, calm as a Sunday morning. “Two mistakes,” she said. “One of ’em’s mine. One of ’em’s yours.”
She reached forward, traced the tip of the razor gently until it made contact with his skin. He flinched.
“First,” she said, “I blame myself for not knowin’ better. All the signs were there. That kid from Junction? Dead ringer. You could’ve branded him with your belt buckle and nobody’d be surprised.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she gave the rope a sharp tug. That shut him up.
“Second mistake?” Her voice dropped. “You hit me. Just once. But you’ll never do it again.”
She laid out his options with the precision of a lawyer and the soul of a butcher. “You’re gonna leave. Town, preferably. My suggestion? Go to Junction. Clean up that mess. I don’t care. Just leave me a forwarding address so I know where to send the divorce papers… and your overdue electric bill.”
She stood, cut loose the ropes at his wrists and ankles, and grabbed her keys.
“You got thirty minutes to clear out. If you’re still here when I get back,” she said, grabbing her purse, “I’ll be armed. And if you think for one second Jesus is gonna want to meet you after what I do, you’re outta your damn mind.”
The rope around his balls stayed right where it was. Tied with a Girl Scout’s pride and a vengeance born of every bad decision she’d seen her mother make.
He wasted twenty of his thirty minutes just trying to cut himself free. When he finally stumbled out the door, still naked, clutching his jeans and boots, he didn’t even look back. The Highboy fishtailed out of Modern Manors in a storm of dust and shame.
Trixie drove straight to the Dairy Twin and found Sister Thelma at her usual table, sipping iced tea and working a crossword.
“I need your help,” she said, her voice shaking but not from fear. “I need to find a home for the child I’m carryin’. A good one. With people who’ll break the cycle. I can’t do this the way I was raised.”
Thelma didn’t flinch. “We’ll find someone,” she said, sliding the tea aside and taking Trixie’s hand. “We always do.”
As it turned out, there was already a couple in Lampasas—a teacher and a machinist—who had been trying to conceive for three years. They’d lost one pregnancy early and had been let down by two failed adoptions. Thelma knew them through her sister-in-law. Good people. Steady. God-fearing, but not the kind that made you feel like you were born wrong. The kind who kept a garden and made cinnamon rolls from scratch. The kind who would treasure what Trixie couldn’t keep.
Back at the trailer, Trixie gathered what Kirk had been too stupid or too slow to take. Three brown Piggly Wiggly bags of clothes, tools, a boot with no mate, and that damn cassette tape labeled “Trixie’s Mix.”
She took the bags to the burn barrel out back of the laundromat. Squirted them with lighter fluid and tossed a match.
The explosion sucked in air like a gasp, then bloomed into fire. The heat hit her face and made her eyes water, but she didn’t blink.
It was a metaphor. For everything.
She wasn’t broken. She never would be. Claudia had let men define her, weaken her, control her. Trixie had vowed early that she’d never follow that path. If life tried to grab her by the balls, she’d cut the damn things off.
And she had the knots to prove it.
7 responses to “TRIXIE’S TALE, CHAPTER TWO: Burn Barrels and Razor Wire”
I hope the “Reply” segment here gives me time to think and write as I compose – not like on BaT (Grrr).
First, Captain, when writing a reply, does one have to fill out all the little blanks below? It looks like if one is a member, it would automatically fill in.
I’m in my mid 80’s, so I know about all the realities of life that are good and bad. And, that there are folks who are good and bad. Holy Moly, my personal life story (and my wife’s) are full of stuff. Capttnemo, I was raised in what is now popularly known as Fifth Ward in Houston – back then it was lots of poor country folks moving to the city to better their lives.
I probably bore friends to death when I get on my box about education. I look at my wife’s story. I look at my story. I then say if WE could have done it (success), anyone could do it. My question is always, “How do you motivate kids? How to promote fire-in-the-belly? How to enable each to be the best that they can be!”
About the educational system: I was driving in Houston one day, just inside the West Loop, and noticed a fairly large building, and then read the sign, Houston Ind School District Administration. My question became how many people work there? How many EdD are there? What are their salaries? But most importantly, what do they produce?
My point (my 2 cents): hire only the best person to be a teacher. Degree not required. Must be a highly motivated person, highly skilled “teacher”. [and on and on and on]
Pay them, very, very, well! Kids are more better! Parents are more better. Parents are involved
[and on and on and on]
Do you remember your favorite teacher in school, who had you reaching for the moon.
I’m out of time!
One last thing, “success” covers a lot of bases – think positively about the definition.
Keep them coming!
My morning ritual of coffee & Captain My Captain Blog post nearly always leaves me grinning, pondering, sometimes wondering WTF? A couple a times, I damn near teared up, but I blamed that on low testosterone levels. Point is, we have, what I consider a reasonable literary blend of Larry McMurtry, James Lee Burke, James Crumley & Rick Riordan, serving up a fine selection of written words every morning, in essentially, his own unique weathered West Texas Voice. Or should I say words. Since I have to wait for those afore mentioned authors to publish, I enjoy opening every one of Cap’s offerings.
Cap, I’m beat up with some of your stories. I don’t like them. I don’t like the people and their lives.
I like happy! I like success. Life has its ups and downs, but I like happy endings
I would prefer to send this privately, but I don’t know how.
Well, Ajax, that’s an interesting take.
Happy’s fine—smooth streets, smiling faces, perfect hair. But the stories from there? No grit. No potholes. No fight. Fort Stockton’s got all that, and that’s what makes a tale worth telling.
Everybody I know has faced trials that nearly broke them. That struggle is the story. Sometimes folks make it to Happy, but it’s never guaranteed.
Trixie did—she survived, became part of the lore. But the road was rough, with breakdowns, detours, and a few villains along the way. (Cue Mayor Goodman.)
Not every story ends in sunshine. Mine sure don’t skip the shadows. And if clean streets and neat endings are more your style—there’s always Hallmark.
Hey Ajax – Are you familiar with the Captain’s seven part series “HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS”? It’s become a holiday tradition to replay the series around here at Christmas; much like watching Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life”. I think this year will the 3rd time. Maybe skip ahead and read it (or reread it). It has a pretty damn good happy ending. (spoiler alert). Starts on page 65.
I’m with you, Ajax…I like happy stories myself.
But I’m a child of privilege. No silver spoon in my mouth, but always comfortable. But there are kids who don’t grow up like that…I can’t imagine being Trixie, or even Kirk, but that is reality for some kids. The Captain, whom I suspect also grew up comfortable, can imagine.
Sometimes the gritty tales remind me, when I get up on my high horse and start pontificating about “Why don’t they do better?”, that I really don’t know what my life would look like if I didn’t grow up the way I did.