Last of the Dixie Heroes (20 page)

TWENTY-ONE

”Looks like you lost some weight there, cuz.”

”I don’t think so.”

”Gonna have a six-pack like mine sooner ’n you know it.” Sonny Junior tapped the hard ridges of his abdomen; muscles popped up in his chest. “Girls’ll be swarmin’ all over you, they aren’t already.”

They stood in a patch of sunlight partway up the mountain, shirts off and tied around their waists an hour or two before on the long climb from where the last dirt lane petered out. There was no path, just trees, rocks, underbrush, the sound of running water and these occasional sunny openings, some of them, like this one, with a view.

“And you’re not even huffin’ and puffin’ yet,” said Sonny Junior, “which is pretty strange for a city boy.”

It was true. Not only no huffing and puffing, but Roy had the odd sensation that his lungs had plenty in reserve. He felt the weight of the inhaler in his pocket, couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it.

“Some view, huh?” said Sonny Junior.

“Yeah.”

“A real—what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“No idea.”

“Starts with
p
,” Sonny Junior said. He took out a flask, drank from it, passed it to Roy.

“Vodka and Tang?” Roy said.

Sonny Junior gave him a look. “You havin’ fun on me, cuz?”

“Nope.”

“This here’s the good stuff.”

Roy took it, drank: the good stuff. “Panorama,” he said.

Sonny Junior’s eyes widened. Then he clapped Roy on the back, hard enough to move him off his feet a bit. “Got the looks and the brains both, don’t you, Roy? Panorama. Son of a bitch.” He surveyed the view, all green and gold under a sky so densely blue it seemed to be made of something material. “You can see seven states from here,” he said.

Roy scanned the distant vistas.

“Two or three, anyways,” Sonny said. “You know what ticks me off, Roy? This view was ours.”

“Views don’t belong to anybody.”

“Fuck they don’t. Ever been to Malibu?”

“No.”

“Every good view on the planet is bought and paid for. What I want to know is who took ours away?”

“That doesn’t make sense, Sonny.”

“Why not?”

“Whatever happened was . . . a long time ago.”

“So?”

Roy didn’t answer.

“I’m right and you know it,” Sonny said. A lone bird, hawk or eagle, rose up and up on a thermal, shrank to almost nothing. Sonny took another draw from the flask, passed it to Roy.

Roy drank. “This Old Grand-Dad?”

“From the bottle I inadvertently brought Uncle Roy there at the end, him not having a chance to finish it for obvious reasons. Want another hit?”

Roy didn’t.

They climbed on, back in dense woods for a while, then up a steep section with fewer trees but wildflowers everywhere, red and white. The steep section rose to a towering ridge, all covered with moss, seeping water. They made their way around it, on hands and knees a couple of times, and at the head of the ridge stepped across a narrow stream that came bubbling out of a hole in the rocks a few feet above. Sonny Junior bent down, drank from cupped hands.

“Is that a good idea?” Roy said, remembering a scary article about microbes or parasites or something.

“Huh?” said Sonny.

Roy dipped his hand in the stream. How fast the water ran through his fingers, icy and energetic. He cupped his hands and drank. It stunned him: the best water he’d ever tasted, even better than the water from Chickamauga. Tasting was the wrong word. Tasting meant the taster was the master and the tasted was a thing. This water was the master: the best water he’d ever put inside himself, cleansing, purifying proof that all those eco-people were right about the earth being a living thing.

“This here’s the source of the crick,” said Sonny Junior.

“What crick?”

“Why, ours, Roy, that used to be ours, the crick what run the mill, way down below.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Course it has a name,” Sonny said. “Every crick has a name. This is the Crystal.”

“Crystal?”

“What’s so strange about that?”

“I camped by a creek with that name years ago.” With Marcia, but Roy left that out. “It couldn’t be the same one.”

“Course it could. This here bitty thing goes all the way into the Tennessee River.”

Remember that time up in Tennessee? What was the name of that crick?
Crystal: Marcia naked, sitting on a log, leaning back a little, legs spread a little, bare feet in wildflowers, her eyes right on him as he came out from his swim. How they could have done what they’d done in the next twenty minutes, half hour, and then ended up like this, Roy didn’t understand.

They circled the ridge, found themselves in an up-sloping meadow with knee-high grass and more flowers, red and white. The meadow rose sharply at the end, then leveled out abruptly onto a broad plateau. Not far back on the plateau stood a dark-green grove of what looked like fruit trees, and in the green shadows Roy caught dappled glimpses of stone walls, a door frame, a wagon wheel.

“Not much to see,” Sonny said as they got closer.

Not much to see: stone walls, but crumbling, and the roof gone; door and window frames, but no doors and windows; a wagon wheel but no wagon. Roy went through the front door, smelled dampness and rot, looked out at Sonny Junior watching him through the doorway.

“Like I told you, a fallin’ down ruin.”

“What do you think they used it for?”

“Who?” said Sonny Junior.

“Roy Singleton Hill. I know he came up here.”

Sonny stared at him. “You’re gettin’ one of them psychic feelings?”

“He talks about it.”

“Uh-oh,” said Sonny. “You’re startin’ to scare me.”

“There’s nothing psychic about this,” Roy said, but even as he did, he recollected that crying sound he’d heard just before he opened the leather-bound chest for the first time. He took the diary from his pocket, stepped outside, opened it so Sonny could see.

Sonny ran his eyes down the page, his lips moving once or twice. “A fuckin’ illiterate,” he said. He turned the page; half of it flaked away, drifted down like a leaf.

“Easy,” said Roy.

Sonny’s gaze came up in a measured way, settled on Roy. “What’s that, cuz?”

“It’s old, Sonny. Delicate.”

“Don’t trust me with it, Roy?” Sonny handed back the diary.

Roy didn’t take it. “What’s up, Sonny?” he said.

“Don’t trust me because you’re thinking I screwed you out of your inheritance,” said Sonny.

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” A bee darted down between them; Sonny smacked it out of the air with the back of his free hand. “Uncle Roy’s goddamn place and you thinking I jewed you out of it, is what.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s not what you think?”

“It’s not what I think, but I meant don’t say ‘jewed.’ “

“Not keeping up with you there, Roy.”

“You didn’t screw me out of the place, leave it at that,” Roy said.

“He did it all on his own.”

“I believe you.”

“I went in there with the bottle and those Cheetos. Forgot the briefs, did I mention that? Right away he was poppin’ off with all this negative shit about you.”

“Such as?”

“I already told you. About you never being much of a son to him, what with the naming of little Rhett and all. I didn’t say a word, Roy, I swear—just kept my mouth shut and handed over the bottle when he was good and done.”

“Thanks,” Roy said.

“So you’re not pissed?”

“I got my inheritance,” Roy said.

Sonny Junior gave him a long look. “You mean that in some kind of deep way, right?”

Roy smiled, held up his hand. They had one of those arm-wrestling handshakes.

“You’re deep, Roy, that’s what I’m realizin’,” said Sonny Junior when they were still locked in it.

“That’s a first,” said Roy.

The sun shone suddenly through a rocky space where a window had once been, lighting up a complex spiderweb, first making it visible, then making it gold. “Only thing on God’s earth that spooks me,” said Sonny Junior.

“Spiders?”

“I ain’t going in there.”

* * *

They sat under a blossoming apple tree beside the Mountain House, their backs to the trunk, and checked out the diary.

“He was our what, again?” said Sonny Junior.

“Great-great-grandfather.”

“Meaning my ma and Uncle Roy’s father’s father?”

“One more.”

Sonny laughed. “What a pain in the ass.” He ran his eyes over a page or two. “All’s he talks about is the rain. And the thunder.”

“Thunder’s his horse.” Roy turned the pages. He came to 18 September 1863.

“Can’t even read that,” Sonny said.

“ ‘Zeke done cut me with the razor.’ I think that’s
razor
,” Roy said. “ ‘No time for larning him different. We found Yankees at Reed’s Bridge, showed ’em by God.’ “

“What’s that all about?” said Sonny.

“Reed’s Bridge is the start of the battle of Chickamauga, where he took a battery by himself.”

“How do you know that?”

“The next day, I think it was.” Roy read the next day’s entry. “ ‘In the woods all day and hot. No water.’ “ He scanned the next few lines, looking for words like
battery
or
cannons
.
Got me three mebbe for. One of em spoken wen I lent don but I coont here cownt of noyz. Took his Water offn im. Bad bad thirst all day.

“Anything about the battery?” Sonny Junior said.

“I’m not sure.”

He read on:
20 sep fitin on Lafayet rd. Thunder all cuvrd in Blod but warnt hisn. Yankees runin and Forest angry as Hell. no Water.

“I don’t get any of it,” said Sonny Junior.

“Forrest was their commander. He wanted to pursue the Yankees after Chickamauga but Bragg ruled against it. We ended up losing Chattanooga. That gave Sherman control of the railroads, setting up the march to the sea.”

Sonny Junior turned to him in surprise. “How do you know?”

“I’ve been spending time with a regiment.”

“What regiment?”

“Roy Singleton Hill’s regiment—the Seventh Tennessee Cavalry.”

Pause. “Like in your imagination or something?”

“It’s a re-formed unit for reenactors.”

“Play fighting kind of shit?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Or just plain drinking, like that buddy of yours?”

Roy closed the diary.

“I piss you off, Roy?”

Roy stood up, looked down at Sonny. “Ever think how things would be if we’d won?”

“If we’d won what?”

“The war. What do you think we’ve been talking about?”

“The Civil War?”

Roy’s voice rose a little. “What other war is there for us?”

Sonny Junior gave him that surprised look again. Roy was a bit surprised too. “You are deep, Roy. What’s a thinker like you doin’ in a family like this?”

Roy almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of that label. Sonny held up his hand. Roy took it, pulled him to his feet, felt Sonny Junior’s strength. Sonny must have bumped the tree a little standing up, because the next moment a cloud of blossoms drifted down, wafting around them, nestling in Sonny’s long hair, and in Roy’s, still close to Globax length.

“We’re like a couple of goddamn flower children,” Sonny said.

“That’s a good one,” said Roy.

Sonny Junior flicked the blossoms out of his hair as though they were gnats. “I reckon I get what you’re driving at,” he said. He waved his hand over the view of the seven states, or two, or whatever it was. “This would still be ours, right?”

Not what Roy had meant.

* * *

Sonny Junior took him to a bar halfway between Ducktown and Roy’s father’s old place. There were a couple of pickups and motorcycles outside; inside, a jukebox, a knotty pine bar, the men leaning on it looking like they could be friends with Sonny, and two women at a round table with wooden kegs for chairs.

Roy and Sonny went to the bar. “Two beers, two Old Grand-Dads,” said Sonny. “On ice, Roy?”

“Sure.”

They stood at the bar, drinking Old Grand-Dad and beer. One or two of the men at the bar glanced at Sonny; they knew him, all right, but maybe not as friends.

“Got anything to eat?” Sonny said.

“Cheetos,” said the bartender.

“Cheetos, Roy?” said Sonny.

“Not for me.”

Sonny got himself a pack of Cheetos. He was chewing on a handful, orange powder dusting his lips, when one of the women came up behind them.

“Where you been keeping yourself, Sonny?”

Roy and Sonny turned to her. She wore a halter top revealing the upper half of a tattoo that promised to swell into something elaborate farther down.

“Where you can’t find me,” Sonny told her.

“That’s not very nice, Sonny,” she said.

“Don’t know what got into me,” said Sonny, washing down the Cheetos with beer. The woman was no longer paying attention: her eyes were on Roy.

“Gonna introduce me to your friend?” she said.

“No one’s stoppin’ you doin’ it yourself,” said Sonny.

“Hi,” the woman said to Roy, “I’m Tyla.”

“Roy,” said Roy.

“I like that name. Where you from, Roy?”

“Atlanta.”

“The big city.” She glanced back to the table where the other woman, also in a halter top, also with a tattoo, was watching. Some little eyebrow signal passed between them. “How about joining us for a drink?” Tyla said. “We got a big ol’ pitcher of Bud we could never finish by ourselves.”

“Five bucks says you could,” said Sonny.

Roy and Sonny joined the women at their table. On the way over, Sonny spoke in Roy’s ear: “Feel like gettin’ laid tonight, cuz?”

Roy shook his head.

“You’re too deep for me, Roy,” Sonny said, watching Roy as they sat down.

“Deep how?” said Tyla, pouring beer. “Roy, say hi to Tonya; Tonya, Roy.”

“Don’t see no ring on your finger, Roy,” said Tonya.

“Deep meaning he’s got a brain in his head, unlike some,” said Sonny. “Roy here’s my first cousin.”

“You never mentioned no first cousin, Sonny,” said Tyla.

Sonny paused, glass halfway to his lips. “You questioning my veracity?” he said.