Last of the Dixie Heroes (4 page)

Marcia turned to Roy. For a moment her eyes didn’t appear to be seeing him at all; then they did, although the look in them seemed a little funny, maybe too thoughtful for the middle of the night.

“Barry?” Roy said.

“Don’t be silly, Roy. That was the doctor.”

“What doctor?”

“Why, Dr. Nordman, the lip doctor. Doing his post-op check.”

“Isn’t it a bit late?”

“He just got out of surgery.”

They looked at each other. He waited for the return of the expression he’d seen in her eyes before they fell asleep, a look not unlike the one she’d had on that trip down Crystal Creek. It didn’t come back.

“Who’s Grant?” he said.

“Dr. Nordman’s Christian name. That’s why I didn’t recognize him at first.”

She picked up her bra, slipped a strap over her shoulder, shrugged one of her breasts—he’d be able to picture them now—inside.

“You going?” Roy said.

She turned, smiled. “Can’t very well stay all night, now can I?” She laughed. “Isn’t this the craziest thing?”

“How do you mean?”

“Like an affair, or something.” Shrug, and her other breast disappeared from view.

“What happens next?” Roy said.

She leaned forward, patted his arm. He could smell her; she smelled good. “We go from here,” she said.

“How, exactly?”

“We’ll think of something.” She kissed him on the mouth, but quick, and turned off the light on her way out.

Roy thought he heard Rhett crying in the night. He got up, went down the hall, looked in Rhett’s room. Rhett was in his bed, crying in the night. Roy lay down beside him.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said. He felt hope inside him, a good feeling, almost like happiness.

The crying stopped soon after.

FOUR

Rhett’s eye looked a little better when Roy woke him in the morning, a lighter shade of purple and not so swollen.

”Not going to school,” he said.

“Got to,” Roy said.

“Why?”

“You’re eleven. Going to school’s what you do on school days.”

“That’s the reason?”

“Yeah. What else are you going to do?”

“Hang out.”

“And go back to school when?”

Rhett shrugged, one shoulder slipping out of the neck of his T-shirt, those knuckle-shaped bones on top almost sticking through his skin.

“Got to go to school,” Roy said.

“You’re an inflexible jerk,” Rhett said. “Like Barry.”

Inflexible
was a favorite of Marcia’s. Roy probably should have been angry; he even wondered a bit why he was not. “Maybe a jerk,” he said. “But not like Barry.”

Rhett gave him a long look, then sat up and started getting out of bed.

In the car on the way to school, Rhett said: “How tall are you?”

Roy told him.

“What do you weigh?”

“Haven’t weighed myself lately.”

“How many push-ups can you do?”

“Not many.”

“Like what?”

“Twenty, maybe.” That seemed reasonable—in his football days, high school and that one year in Athens, he’d been able to do a hundred, winning free beers sometimes at parties. The air supply problems came later.

“That’s all? Cody can do thirty-one.”

And you? Roy thought. That’s what counts. He didn’t say it. Rhett was making his tight little fists again.

“I’ve got something for you,” Roy said, reaching into his pocket. “Something you can show the kids.” He handed Rhett the oxidized lead bullet.

“What’s this?”

“A real bullet from the battle of Kennesaw Mountain.”

Rhett gazed without much interest at the bullet resting on his palm. “It doesn’t look like a bullet.”

“It’s old,” Roy said. “You know about the battle of Kennesaw Mountain?”

“No.”

Roy tried to recall the details of the battle and failed. “They haven’t got to the Civil War yet?” he said.

“Mrs. Pullian calls it the War Between the States. That’s what she says—’the War Between the States, or as some folks like to say, the Civil War.’ “

Roy remembered he’d had one or two teachers like that too. “You like history?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Is it one of your favorites?”

“Favorite what?”

“Subjects.”

“What are the subjects?” Rhett said.

“Like math, science, reading.”

“I hate all the subjects,” Rhett said, as Roy pulled up to the school.

“But your last report wasn’t too bad.”

“So what? They give you a break for self-esteem. I suck at school.”

Roy checked the time; he was already an hour late for work. He didn’t know what to say, heard himself trying, “But you like football.”

“Football’s not until the fall.”

“Practice starts in August. Be here before you know it.” He reached across the front seat, opened Rhett’s door. “You’re walking home after school, don’t forget.”

“Where?”

“Home to momma. Get on, now.”

Rhett didn’t move. “Were there bullies back in your day?”

“They rode up on dinosaurs.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Sure there were bullies.”

“But you were big, right?”

“I was built kind of like you.”

“You were?”

“Yeah.” Roy motioned to the open door.

Rhett didn’t move. “Did any of them pick on you?”

“No,” Roy said, but then he had a funny memory, a taste memory, the taste of blood in his mouth. His own blood, and the inside of a barn, one of those sagging old barns with the cantilevered additions they have in east Tennessee. “I got into scraps, like any other kid.”

“Did you win?”

“They weren’t serious.”

“But did you beat the shit out of them?”

Kids were streaming into the school. “Git,” Roy said.

Rhett was watching the kids. “You saw my touchdown, didn’t you, Dad?”

“Sure did.”

He turned to Roy. “I picked up that fumble.”

“And took it in for six.”

“I didn’t hot dog.”

“Course not. You’re a classy kid.”

Rhett took a deep breath. He got out of the car.

“See you,” Roy said.

“When?”

“Got a second?” Curtis said, popping out of nowhere as Roy hurried across the floor. Gordo was standing in his cubicle, his hand half raised as though he had something to say.

“I know I’m a little late,” Roy said, following Curtis into the glass office. “It won’t—”

“Take a seat,” Curtis said. He was rubbing at some stain on his French cuff with a silk handkerchief, hadn’t been listening. “Truth of the matter,” Curtis said, folding the handkerchief so it came to a point and sticking it in his breast pocket, “Bill doesn’t really think you’re ready.”

Who was Bill? That confusion tempered Roy’s initial disappointment. Then he remembered:
Pegram, VP tech personnel,
and felt its full force. He’d been stupid, let down his guard, forged crazy chain links deep in his mind, like: promotion, money, emeralds, Marcia. Gotten ahead of himself. One of his mother’s favorites:
Now, Roy, don’t you be gettin’ ahead of yourself
. He’d loved that voice of hers, the way the
y
in
Roy
was hardly a sound at all, more like flowing air, a breeze.

“Thanks for thinking of me anyway,” Roy said, getting up.

Curtis waved him back down. “Whoa,” he said. “Getting a little ahead of yourself.” The phrase gave Roy a shock. “Thing is, Roy”—the
y
almost exactly like his mother’s, another shock—“Bill doesn’t think you’re ready, but I do. And since—how can I put it?—questions of maturity have been raised about his preferred candidate, Bill’s agreed to go along with my choice.”

Roy wasn’t following this too well, the meaning of it, but all of a sudden the disappointment was gone. “Have you made it yet?” he said.

“Made what?”

“Your choice.”

“Why, it’s you, Roy. That’s what I’m trying to communicate here. Feeling all right?”

“Yeah,” Roy said, already thinking, Promotion, money, emeralds, Marcia.

“ ’Cause you’re usually a little sharper than this. Don’t you even want to know what the job is?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?” Curtis smiled. “You crack me up sometimes.” Curtis glanced down at some notes on a legal pad, made a check mark. “Know where we’re weak, Roy? Where we
were
weak? Chemerica, I’m talking about.”

Roy wasn’t sure.

“Eastern Europe,” said Curtis; Roy remembered hearing something about that. “Dates way back to the Cold War. Now, with Globax, we start shaking that tree. Going to demand a lot of my time. New York’s designating a new post, regional supervisor or area manager, name’s not set yet, to take some of the pressure off. I’ll be spending half my time up on seventeen, so we’ll get another desk in here for you.”

“Another desk?”

“Meaning you’re it, Roy. The new regional supervisor, area manager, whatever.”

“I’ll be in here?”

“With bells on. Congratulations. Only reason I’m not shaking hands is they’ve got big eyes down there on the floor, and we’re keeping things under wraps until New York makes everything official.”

“What’s everything?”

“A little reshuffling, no concern of ours.” Curtis made another check mark on the pad. “Now, we get to the nitty-gritty.”

“What’s that?”

“Why, the money, Roy. Any idea what you’re going to be making? To start, that is.”

Roy shook his head.

“Guess.”

Roy thought. “I just don’t know.”

“Take a shot.”

“Fifty-three thousand.”

Curtis smiled. “Seventy-two seven, Roy. And that’s before bonuses.”

Roy was stunned. His first reaction was childish: if only he could tell his mom, just to see the look on her face. Seventy-two seven, before bonuses. Bonuses! He’d never had a job that paid bonuses, unless you counted the case of beer the landscapers sometimes got when they worked late on Saturdays, that first year of scrambling around after he’d left Athens. “Bonuses?” Roy said.

“Never less than ten percent of base, in my experience,” Curtis said.

Eighty grand. Roy’s lungs filled so full of air he thought he’d rise off the floor.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Curtis said. “ ‘What’s the catch?’ “

That hadn’t occurred to Roy.

“No catch, my man. Do good work, get rewarded. Things are straight up more often than people think.”

That was what Roy liked about Curtis, right there.
Things are straight up more often than people think.
Roy believed it too, not because of this wonderful break in his life, and not because he’d made a careful study of human behavior and come to that conclusion, but because he just did.

“Thanks,” he said. “Whatever you had to do with this, thanks.”

Curtis’s phone buzzed. “We’ll tend to the details in the next week or two,” he said, reaching for it. “For now, just enjoy the feeling.”

Roy rose, glanced quickly around the glass office, soon part his. Outside, down on the floor, the cubicles shrank row on row into the distance, like a science project demonstrating perspective. Roy’s gaze found his own cubicle, empty, and Gordo’s right beside. Gordo’s face was turned up, very small from where Roy was, but Roy could tell Gordo was watching him.

Questions of maturity have been raised about his candidate.
Closing the glass door, Roy looked back at Curtis. Curtis was talking on the phone, and dabbing again at the stain on the white cuff. Roy walked across the floor. He spotted the little flag sticker on Gordo’s wall from a long way off.

“Son of a bitch give you the boot?” Gordo said, leaning over the cubicle wall the moment Roy sat in front of his screen.

“The boot?” Roy said. The cubicles were small: he could smell the sourness of last night’s alcohol on Gordo’s breath.

“The boot, Roy. Canned, fired, sacked.”

“Why would he? That’s the first time I ever left early in eight years.”

“Not that,” Gordo said. “I thought maybe he got wind of what went down after.”

Roy lowered his voice. “The nitrate?” he said.

“Fuckin’ right the nitrate,” said Gordo, much too loud. “Coulda blown a nice little hole in the map of Asia, good buddy.”

“How? Watertight’s in the specs. I double-checked.”

“Over there they say it wasn’t. Some scene went down—rain clouds rolling in, train off on a siding, coolies, tarps, the first drops coming out of the sky—you get the picture.”

Roy got the picture. It took away his air supply, tinged everything yellow, like he was going to faint. He watched his yellow fingers, as though from far away, tapping on the keys. The ammonium nitrate order popped up on the screen, the letters all yellow. He didn’t get it: there it was, beyond doubt, the water-reactive codes in place. Roy read the order three times before he glanced up at the dateline and caught the mistake: BEI. BEI was Beijing. The nitrate was sent from Shanghai—SHA—but his order had gone to Beijing. A mistake, big, undeniable, unaccountable. How had they even cleared the shipment, gotten it on the train?
Just don’t tell me it’s a big bang somewhere.
Roy dug out the inhaler, squeezed a shot down his throat. In front of Gordo: but he had to. Promotion? Forget the job he had now.

“But hey,” said Gordo. “He didn’t get wind of it, not to worry. It’s all taken care of.”

“All taken care of?”

“I’m a pro, Roy. Who taught you the goddamn ropes? And that K. C. Chen guy, subagent in Shanghai? No problems there. He’s not even upset. Turns out he’s even got a sense of humor. I emailed him that parrot joke.”

“What parrot joke?”

“The one about the Viagra Olympics.”

“K. C. Chen’s a woman,” Roy said, starting to feel better.

“A woman, huh?” said Gordo: drinks after work at Sportz. “She emailed me back one of those sideways smiley faces.”

“I hate all that Internet shit,” said P.J., going to the can.

Roy ordered another round, paid the waitress.

“Wasn’t that my turn?” Gordo said.

“Not today.”

“Hey,” said Gordo. “You’d of done the same for me.”

Roy clinked glasses, his beer against Gordo’s JD on the rocks. “I owe you.”

“No owing,” Gordo said, downing half his drink. “I’m having a pretty good week, is all.”

“How’s that?” said Roy.

“First of all, I save your ass. Second—just between us—I think something good’s about to happen careerwise. Can’t tell you how I know, so don’t ask. Third, Brenda’s not so ticked off about the regiment anymore. Fact is, she’s spending Saturday night in camp.”

“Camp?” said P.J., sitting back down beside Roy. The air in the bench cushion went hissing out.

“With the regiment,” Gordo said.

“They have women?” said P.J.

“Civilian reenactors. A whole ’nother thing. The women wear long skirts and bonnets, cook over wood fire pits. But it’s authentic—they had wives in the camps, especially at the start of the war.”

“Brenda’s going to wear a bonnet and cook over a wood fire pit?” P.J. said.

Gordo leaned forward. “One of the guys—an old guy, been married thirty years—told me things get pretty hot in those tents. Like some kind of transformation takes place.”

“Any single women?” P.J. said.

“Come and see.” Gordo looked at Roy. “The both of you.”

“My great-great-great—can’t remember how many greats—grandfather fought at Chattanooga,” P.J. said.

“So did mine,” said Roy.

Gordo paused, drink halfway to his lips. “You never told me that.”

Roy shrugged.

“What was his name?”

“Same as mine,” Roy said. “Roy Singleton Hill.”

“Singleton?” said P.J. “What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know,” said Roy.

“But you’re named after him,” Gordo said.

“My old man was too,” Roy said. “It’s just kind of a family—”

“Tradition,” Gordo said.

“Yeah.” He’d been about to say
thing
.

Roy drank four beers, more than he’d had at one sitting in years. He felt pretty good on the way home:
Seventy-two seven
. Before bonuses. That crazy emerald idea took hold again, and half an hour later he was in Phipps Plaza, the kind of place he never went, gazing through a jewelry store window. Then he was inside. Then someone was saying, “These are really quite special,” and Roy was examining a necklace that didn’t even look like emeralds.