Last of the Dixie Heroes (17 page)

She said: “Okay, then,” or something like that. And then to Rhett, “Why, you’re filthy.”

The cop repeated what he’d said, but Roy moved around the car anyway, up on the curb, turned Rhett around, gave him a kiss on the top of his head, a kiss meant for his forehead, the middle of his forehead, that was what he’d had in mind, but off-target in all the confusion.

Marcia took Rhett’s hand. “The flight’s on time.” She looked at Roy. “I left the phone number and address on your machine.”

Roy didn’t know what she was talking about. Rhett stood beside her, eyes on Roy.

“Bye, son,” Roy said.

Rhett nodded.

Marcia took him inside.

The cop said what he had to say one last time.

At home, Roy listened to Marcia’s message on the machine, wrote down the New York address and phone number, stuck them on the fridge. There were two other messages, both from Ms. Steinwasser, asking him to call the school. Roy had just finished listening to them when the phone rang. Roy picked it up, thinking, Rhett, trying out one of those plane phones.

But it was some man he’d never heard of. “Are you aware of what happened at the school today? That little scumbag of yours ambushed my son. Cody’s in bed right now—practically knocked unconscious.”

“With what?” Roy said.

“What the hell kind of question is that? Your son walked up to my son and punched him right in the face.”

“I’m sure you know there’s been provocation,” Roy said; at the same time remembering Rhett running out of the school five minutes early, his skinned knuckles, and the boxing lesson in the barn before that. All made sense, but much too late, maybe the only way things made sense to him.

“Now I see where it comes from,” the man said. “It may interest you to know I’ve got an office full of lawyers just waiting to take a bite out of the likes of you.”

“Are they licensed to practice in New York?” Roy said, and hung up.

Roy didn’t have beer, didn’t have anything to drink. Didn’t want beer anyway, wanted Old Grand-Dad, so he went out and got some. Never even tasted Old Grand-Dad, but that was what he wanted. Drank a bit, then a little bit more. Much later, late at night, sitting in the darkened kitchen with the gun on his lap again, he decided to take another crack at the rebel yell. He rose, laid the gun on the table, took a deep breath—had no trouble taking it, for some reason, filling himself with air like never before—then yelled that rebel yell at the top of his lungs. At the top of his lungs, his throat free and open, all his strength turned into sound. His body went cold from it. The house shook from it. And after, in the silence, he pictured his little house from high above, a tiny square in an endless grid of tiny squares, the rebel yell escaping through the roof, rising into the night.

EIGHTEEN

Wearing the uniform with the little hole in the front and carrying the leather-bound chest on his shoulder, Roy climbed a slope on the east side of the battlefield at Chickamauga. With the sun just coming up, he walked in shadow, following a suggestion of a path through grass bent with dew. The soldiers of 1863 had fought over this very slope, a slope, as Jesse explained when Roy called for directions, not exactly within the military park itself, the Park Service almost always forbidding reenactments on hallowed ground, but on private land close by, rented for the weekend with money from registration fees. The wind blew in the trees, a cool wind for the time of year, but other than that there was no sound, just as it might have been, Roy thought, back then.

An obvious thought—he knew it at the time—but a few steps from the top of the rise, Roy heard a sharp snap, and looking up saw the Union flag flying straight out against the sky. From his angle he couldn’t see any more, just the flag in unmarred blue, an empty sky as it might have been, back then. A little chill, perhaps from the cool wind, ran down his shoulders and back. Roy felt another one when he realized he’d thought of the Stars and Stripes as the Union flag.

Roy rose out of the shadow and into the pearly postdawn light, head, body, legs, in three steps. Thick woods lined the horizon, mist rising off the crowns of the trees. Closer lay a field with three or four rows of tents, the nearest tent, about ten yards away, flying the flag high above. Closer still stood a Porta Potti and next to it a man in blue, his fly unbuttoned, pissing in Roy’s direction. He gazed at Roy—a bearded man with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve, as big as Sonny Junior but with a paunch, hanging freely at the moment—and said: “Little lost there, Reb?”

Flaps opened here and there, other men half-dressed in blue emerged, stretching, brushing their teeth. “I’m looking for the . . . other camp,” Roy said.

“Thought so,” said the man. “I can tell you’re an ace already.”

“I don’t get you.”

“At reenacting,” said the man, shaking off. “Real rebs couldn’t read maps neither, ninety percent of them being illiterate.”

“Does it take being literate to know you piss on the inside of these things?” Roy said.

The man’s cheeks reddened above his beard. He started buttoning up, had a little trouble, was forced to look down to do it. Uncircumcised, Roy noticed, and was thinking to himself, Another period touch? when a man—no, a large boy—came out of the nearest tent, a red-white-and-blue drum slung over his shoulder.

“Dad?” the boy said. “Where’s the peanut butt—” He saw Roy and his eyes brightened. “You got a prisoner already?”

“Not yet,” the man said. He gave Roy a look longer than Roy thought polite, as though committing some object to memory. “The battle don’t start till three.”

The other camp lay in a clearing in the woods, about half a mile beyond the Yankee tents. Roy encountered no pickets or sentries on the way, and no one was up when he arrived. He sat between two rows of tents on his leather chest, his face to the sun, or where the sun would be if not blocked by the trees. Once or twice it found a little gap between the branches and Roy felt the added warmth on his skin. He was almost at peace there for a moment. But only a moment: there were other things he should be doing. Roy didn’t have the will to even list them in his head. The taste of Old Grand-Dad was still in his mouth.

Roy grew aware of snoring close by. A bird called, then another. This one made a different sound, harsher and more drawn out, not the kind of thing he usually noticed, if ever. He didn’t know birdcalls, or the names of trees, wouldn’t even have been sure of his orientation if the sun hadn’t still been rising.

A low sound, almost inaudible, came from the tent directly behind him; a woman’s sound. Then a man spoke, just a whisper, but it was so quiet in the clearing that Roy heard him. “Just this once,” Gordo said.

“Not that,” Brenda whispered back.

“But I might be dead by nightfall.”

Brenda laughed, soft and muffled. Roy was already up and moving away when he heard her make another sound, not pleasure, but not quite pain either.

The flap of a tent bigger than the rest opened and Earl came out in full uniform, except for his sword and plumed hat, going at his ear with a toothpick. He laid eyes on Roy and beamed. “Am I still dreamin’?” he said. “Or is the battle good as won without me making a single command decision?” He tossed the toothpick away, patted Roy on the back. “That the uniform?”

“Yes.”

“Up and down my spine, the chills,” Earl said. “Way it fits you. Welcome to the regiment, Roy. And there’s no need to call me sir when it’s just us two having a private jaw like this.” He called, “Hey, Lieutenant.”

Jesse came out of the next tent, in his gray pants with the stripes down the leg, but still shirtless, a silver Star of David nestled in the hairs of his chest.

“Here’s ol’ Roy,” Earl said. “Goin’ to be our day, for sure.”

“We knew that already,” Jesse said, shaking hands with Roy, “this being Saturday.”

“You duplicate the original results?” Roy said, remembering from his first visit to the regiment that Chickamauga was a qualified Southern victory.

“What would the point of that be, in the end?” Earl said. “This is just Lieutenant Moses funnin’ on his superior officer.” He smiled at Jesse as though he were having fun, except for his eyes, which got smaller.

Jesse ignored him. “South wins on Saturday, North on Sunday,” he told Roy.

“In the reenactment world,” Earl said.

“Or living history world, as some prefer,” said Jesse.

They looked past Roy at each other, the expressions on their faces reminding him of things he’d seen at work. He didn’t get that: they all earned the same money, which was zero. His mind was sinking back into Globax, set to go over things again and again, when a bird, dark and quick, shot up from the woods and caught his attention. Then came a light, brisk sound like the clattering of dry sticks, a sound that grew in volume, became drumming, and a little troop of men in blue came out of the woods, falling in step behind the drummer boy. The biggest one—the drummer boy’s bearded father—carried the flag. Roy went still. They all did. The Yankees—Roy didn’t know how else to think of them at that moment—looked so real.

“Fuckers are already up,” Earl said, “and I haven’t even had my goddamn breakfast.” He raised the tent flap, paused with his eyes on Jesse. “That neck ornament, Lieutenant,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Maybe on the farb side?” He turned to Roy. “
Farb
being our word for anachronisms.”

“Believe it or not,” Jesse said, “this ornament actually predates the war.”

Earl frowned, appeared to be about to reply, but the Yankees were already nearing the outskirts of the camp. He ducked into his tent.

“By about two thousand years,” Jesse said. Silence from the tent.

The Yankees halted in front of Roy and Jesse, the drummer boy ending with a little flourish, his father towering over him with the flag, the sun cresting the trees at that moment and glowing on his yellow stripes. Then came a command that Roy didn’t catch; the soldiers went through a routine that ended with them all standing still, guns at their sides. An officer with thick muttonchop sideburns—had to be an officer, Roy thought, because he wore a holster on his belt and gold bars on his shoulders—stepped forward and saluted. Jesse saluted back, not as crisply. Roy stood beside him, feeling a little silly.

“Captain Peterschmidt of the Fifteenth New Jersey presents Colonel Finnegan’s compliments and requests an audience with your commander,” said the officer.

Jesse turned to the tent. Everyone followed his gaze. The canvas bulged at the side for a moment, something metal fell and rolled around on the ground inside, and Earl came out, plumed hat now in place but struggling with his sword. Captain Peterschmidt saluted again. Earl muttered something, gave up on the sword, thrust it at Roy, who almost dropped it, and saluted back, not even as crisply as Jesse, a motion that reminded Roy of President Reagan bidding good-bye as he got on a helicopter. Captain Peterschmidt presented Colonel Finnegan’s compliments again.

“Where’s Finnegan?” Earl said.

“The colonel sends his regrets,” said Peterschmidt.

Pause. “You’re a captain,” Earl said.

“Correct, sir,” said Peterschmidt.

“Normally,” Earl said, “a colonel talks to a colonel.”

“Unfortunately Colonel Finnegan couldn’t make the trip, due to a last-minute closing.”

“Closing?” Earl said.

“On a condo in North Bergen.”

Earl looked wary, as though suspecting a Yankee trick.

“They had to move it up,” Peterschmidt said. “The buyer was going to lose his rate lock.”

Earl understood at once. “Fucking banks.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peterschmidt.

“And don’t get me started on Alan Greenspan,” Earl said. Was it Roy’s imagination, or did Earl pronounce the
s
in his name as
sh
? Jesse’s face was expressionless. “Do you know how much money the son of a bitch cost me personally last year?” Earl said.

“Captain Peterschmidt is here to discuss the battle,” Jesse said, and Roy knew he’d heard it too.

Earl turned to him. “Then maybe you could bring us out a table and some coffee so’s we can have our little parley like civilized men.”

“Certainly,” said Jesse, adding, “sir,” after a beat or two. “Give me a hand, Roy?”

Roy moved to give the sword back to Earl. Earl looked at him as though they’d never met. “Yes, Private?” he said.

“Your sword, sir,” Roy said, and almost laughed out loud because he’d come close to saying
my liege
instead of
sir
.

“Thank you, son,” said Earl.

Roy followed Jesse into his tent. There were rough blankets on one side, an old table on the other. “Got your own tent?” Jesse said.

“No.”

“You can bunk in here.”

“Thanks.” They each took an end of the table, facing each other; their eyes met. Roy lowered his voice. “How did Earl get to be colonel?”

“How do you think?”

“Showed up in his colonel uniform?” Roy said.

Jesse nodded. “They were sold out of general’s.”

They sat at the table, drank coffee perked over a pit fire, drank from tin cups everyone carried on his belt, and planned the battle—Captain Peterschmidt and the big sergeant, Earl, Jesse, and Roy, at Jesse’s invitation. Roy said nothing, just drank his coffee and watched their faces, soon losing track of the conversation. The earthiness of the coffee, its heat, inside him and radiating through the cup, the little buzz it created: coffee was suddenly important, a blessing, and he wondered whether this brew had been made with special beans or water or some Civil War method, because he’d never tasted better. That feeling of almost being at peace came over him again. The men around him all began to look natural in their uniforms, even Earl. The sun shone on his own uniform; it wasn’t at all itchy, even though it looked like it would be, and warmed him like a blanket.

“That it, then?” Earl said, rubbing his hands together; Roy noticed a pale circle on his little finger, usually covered by his pinkie ring, no doubt too farb for the occasion. “Then let’s get it on, like the brothers say,” Earl said.

In the silence that followed, Roy saw the expression change on every face but Earl’s, as though some invisible negative wave had passed over the field. Then everyone rose. There was more saluting. Captain Peterschmidt approached Roy.

“Can I ask you a question, Private?”

“Sure.”

“Did you get that online?”

“Get what?”

“Your uniform. I haven’t seen anything that good at any of the sutlers.”

“No shit,” said Earl. “That there’s the original uniform worn by Roy’s great-great—Roy’s ancestor at this very battle. Roy Singleton Hill—rode with Forrest, the God’s truth, completely documented.” He took a loose bit of Roy’s sleeve and rubbed it between his finger and thumb.

“Is that so?” said Peterschmidt. “Sergeant Vandam’s great-great-grandfather fought here too. First Michigan Light Artillery.”

The drummer boy looked up at his father. A muscle twitched in the sergeant’s arm.

“First Michigan,” Jesse said, putting his finger on the map. “Overrun by Liddell on the morning of the nineteenth, right about here.”

“Overrun is one way of putting it,” Sergeant Vandam said, talking to Jesse but looking at Roy. “He took a bullet in the head.”

“Sorry for your loss,” Earl said.

Roy glanced around to see if anyone else found that a bit weird. No one seemed to. Earl and Peterschmidt shook hands.

“And come out fighting,” Earl said, leaving the brothers out of it this time. “But safety first. I got a job to go to Monday mornin’.”

“What is it you do, again?” Peterschmidt said.

Earl reached inside his jacket, handed Peterschmidt his card.

“My girlfriend drives one of these,” Peterschmidt said.

“Can’t beat it for the money,” Earl said. “Seen the new convertible?”

“They’ve got a convertible?”

“Fact is, Captain, we do a shitload of out-of-state business. In case you’re tempted to drive back over the Mason-Dixon line with the wind in your hair.”

The regiment formed two companies in the woods, Company A led by Jesse, company B led by a lieutenant Roy hadn’t met. Jesse placed Roy beside Gordo at the end of the line, just in front of the second sergeant.

“Any questions?” Jesse said.

“Maybe I should just watch,” Roy said.

“Everyone gets a little nervous the first time.”

But it wasn’t that. “I don’t know any of this stuff—the drilling, the formations, the saluting.”

“Makes you just about perfect,” Jesse said.

“How’s that?”

“Drilling, formations, saluting—that’s all Yankee shit,” Jesse said.

“All’s we know is how to fight,” said the second sergeant, right behind Roy; his breath smelled of mints and tooth decay.

Jesse stepped outside the column. Everyone turned to him. Roy noticed for the first time the lack of uniformity even though they were all in uniform: everyone’s jacket a slightly different tone, no two hats the same.