Last of the Dixie Heroes (11 page)

“You’re talking about the Civil War?”

Lee smiled; a quick flash lit by the dashboard gauges. “Is that a surprise?” he said. One of his hands left the wheel, made a broad arc. “Sherman razed all of this, down to the ground.”

Roy looked out, saw the suburbs.

“Too bad he can’t come back and do it again,” Lee said, “now when it might do some good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just take a look,” Lee said. “Couldn’t be a better demonstration of what we lost.”

“You really think of it as we?”

Lee turned up the road to the camp, slowed down. “The very fact you can ask that shows how total the conquest was.”

“How so?”

“They’ve occupied your mind.”

Roy laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“You make it sound like one of those alien possession movies.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.”

They pulled into the parking lot. The headlights swept over the empty pavement, shone on the lone vehicle, a motorcycle leaning on its stand near the beginning of the path. Lee stopped beside it.

“When I say occupied your mind, I’m not talking about your soul. That’s a different issue.”

“Are you a college professor, something like that?” Roy said.

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“This,” Lee said. “The regiment.”

“I didn’t know it was a paying job.”

“It’s not.” Lee turned to him, shifting easily, even gracefully, on the seat. “This mind and soul dichotomy—I’ve done some thinking about it, in reference to Gordo.”

“Yeah?” Roy hadn’t dwelled much on either aspect of Gordo, not in any analytical way.

“It’s the cause of all the problems he’s having. He can’t succeed at that place of yours—what’s it called?”

“Globax.”

“There we go,” said Lee. “A Yankee thing. They’ve imposed their way of life on us, even fooled us into believing it’s our way of life too. That’s the mental part. But we can never do it properly, never really compete, never be happy. That’s the soul part.”

“The soul part?”

“Unconquered, unoccupied, waiting.”

“So we’re like the Bosnians?” said Roy, not buying it. Why would he? Seventy-two seven, before bonuses! If that wasn’t competing, what was?

Lee didn’t laugh at his little joke, didn’t smile. “It’s much worse than that. They’re just Bosnians. Look who we were.”

“Slave owners,” Roy said.

Lee went still for a second or two. Then he reached out, touched the back of Roy’s hand, lightly, briefly, almost not at all. “You have to get that out of your mind,” he said. Then he got out of the car, mounted the bike, roared away, leaning low around the corner.

No helmet.

Roy opened the door to his house, smelled something sizzling. He went into the living room. Gordo was where he’d left him, but not alone. A big, long-haired man was bent over him, going through his pockets. Adrenaline shot through Roy’s body. Maybe the big man felt it too. He wheeled around: Sonny Junior.

Big smile. “Hi, Roy.” He held up Gordo’s wallet. “Just IDing this dude in case he’s some kind of perp.”

“He’s not a perp, Sonny. How did you get in?”

“Happened to have a key that fit. Lucky thing, what with the way this guy’s responding. What’s with him?”

“He’s a Confederate reenactor.”

“Got the blind drunk part down pretty good,” Sonny Junior said, dropping the wallet on Gordo’s chest. He came forward, gave Roy one of his arm-wrestling handshakes, pulled him into an embrace. “Cousin,” he said. “Son of a bitch.”

“How’s my father?”

“Right. We should eat pretty quick. I saw you were having steak tonight so I threw them on the stove. Case you were hungry when you got home, you know?” Sonny Junior went into the kitchen, Roy following. Sonny Junior had the three steaks frying in a pan, the Creole sauce bubbling around them. He drew a knife from his pocket, cut a piece off one of the steaks, speared it, popped it in his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said. “Where’d you get this sauce?”

“Why should we eat pretty quick?” Roy said.

Sonny Junior took down two plates—he seemed to know his way around already—put a steak on each, cut the third one in two, slid the slightly bigger portion on Roy’s plate. He sat down at one end of the table, Marcia’s place, actually. “Dig in,” he said.

“You didn’t answer my question, Sonny.”

“This is so fuckin’ good.” Sonny Junior chewed on a big mouthful, talked around it. “Yeah, your question. It’s about Uncle Roy. He’s not doing too well.”

“He’s had a relapse?”

“A relapse, yeah. I didn’t want you to think it was my fault, which was why I came down personally.”

“Why would it be your fault?”

“Against my better judgment I brought him that ol’ bottle from up over the sink. The one he wanted. Turned out he had some kind of reaction.”

“How bad?”

“The worst kind. My heartfelt condolences, cuz.”

TWELVE

”Sorry for your troubles,” said Curtis from his car phone that night. Roy recognized voices in the background: Carol and Jerry. “Do what you have to.”

“But what about the forty-eight hours?” Roy said.

“What forty-eight hours?”

“Till the announcement. About my . . .” Roy didn’t want to say it.

“Since when have you been such a worrier, Roy?” Curtis said. “You can take this one to the bank. See you the day after tomorrow?”

“Seven sharp.”

“We’ll announce it then. Picked out that chair yet?”

The gravediggers were black, very dark-skinned, like pure Africans. They leaned against the bulldozer, waiting for the preacher to finish. The preacher was a very white, almost pigmentless man, old and emaciated, with wispy hair and a wispy voice. He spoke against a strong breeze, and only a few prayerful scraps reached the mourners facing him on the other side of the hole: Roy, Sonny Junior, and Rhett in the middle.

When it was over, they each threw in a shovelful of earth because that was what the preacher seemed to be motioning them to do. Roy remembered how his mother’s coffin had looked, down in a hole like this, and the agony of that day. He didn’t feel much of anything now. The preacher came around to their side, stepping carefully past the dirt pile at one end of the grave. The bulldozer bumped up the path, blade descending.

“This the grandson?” said the preacher, looking down at Rhett.

Rhett showed no reaction.

“Nice to meet you, boy,” said the preacher, offering his hand.

“Shake hands,” said Roy.

Rhett shook hands.

“Fine-looking boy,” said the preacher. “How’d you come by the fat lip?”

Rhett looked blank.

“I was asking myself the same question,” said Sonny Junior.

Rhett’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Football,” he said.

“Good game,” said the preacher.

“Good autumn game,” said Sonny Junior, stressing
autumn
.

The bulldozer operator revved the engine. The preacher glanced at it with annoyance. “Used to be a good game,” he said. “Wonder if you folks have a moment. Like to show you something interesting, while you’re up here.”

They followed him across the cemetery, away from the chapel, toward wooded hills rising on the other side. A flock of crows swept down on them, shot into the trees, vanished. The gravestones grew smaller, simpler, more worn. Names repeated themselves: Searle, McTeague, Nevins, Teeter, Hill. The preacher came to the edge of the trees, kept going. Gravestones pushed up here and there through dead leaves and fallen branches; with just their rounded white tops showing, they might have been giant mushrooms. The preacher stopped before one of them, set near the base of a tall tree that blocked the sun.

With a groan, the preacher got down on one knee, cleared away brush, exposing about half of the stone’s face. It had sunk a little into the ground, or the ground had risen up. The preacher dug at the earth with his hand.

“Give me some help here, boy,” he said.

“Me?” said Rhett, looking at Roy.

Roy nodded. Rhett knelt by the preacher. They clawed the dirt away, moist brown earth, easily clawed.

“That’s the spirit,” said the preacher. He scraped a few clods off the stone with his fingernails. It read:

Roy Singleton Hill

1831–1865

Hero

“You can read that, boy?” the preacher said.

“Uh-huh,” said Rhett.

“Read it out loud.”

“Roy Singleton Hill,” said Rhett. “Eighteen thirty-one dash eighteen sixty-five. Hero.”

“Dash?” said Sonny Junior.

“Very nice,” said the preacher, ignoring Sonny Junior. “That’s your great-great-great-grandfather what’s laying there in his eternal peace.”

“Why was he a hero?” Rhett said.

The preacher smiled at Rhett, revealing a mouthful of brown-edged teeth. “A bright youngster,” he said, tousling Rhett’s hair, leaving a few particles of earth behind. “He fought for his people,” the preacher said. “Gave his last full measure. That’s what makes a hero.”

“So he’d be my what, exactly?” said Sonny Junior.

“Great-great-grandfather, of course,” said the preacher, “same as his.” He nodded at Roy. “A crying shame, you fellows not knowing that. Who are you, anyways, if you don’t know your own past?”

“Never thought of that,” said Sonny Junior. “True he owned a lot of land around here?”

“The very ground we’re standing on,” said the preacher. “All the way down to the crick. And back up”—he pointed into the woods—“past the old cart path, the copper works, on up to what they called the Mountain House.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Sonny Junior. The preacher’s eyes, narrow to begin with, narrowed more. Sonny Junior gazed down at the gravestone. “Kind of makes you reverent,” he said. A crow cawed, somewhere up the hill.

“Nothing more to see,” said the preacher. “Just remember what they say about the past—whosoever forgets it is condemned to repeat it.”

“Is that from the Bible?” said Sonny Junior.

“Might as well be,” said the preacher. “Donation box is on the left side as you go in, hard by the door.”

The distant crow cawed again. This time another crow responded, much closer, possibly in the very tree under which they stood.

Roy had an appointment with the attorney.

“How about I take Rhett back to the place?” said Sonny Junior. “We can meet up later.”

“Rhett?” Roy said, figuring Rhett would want to stay with him.

“Okay with me,” Rhett said.

The attorney had a one-room office in a strip mall off the Cleveland ring road. When Roy walked in, he was alone inside, smoking a pipe and working on a newspaper puzzle.

“My condolences,” said the attorney, waving Roy into a chair. “Last time I saw you, you were this high. Your father and I went to high school together, or maybe you knew that already.”

“No.” The room was hazy with pipe smoke. Roy started having air supply problems.

“Course he was a popular kid—do you believe I still remember that powder-blue Chevy he had? Whitewalls. And a big old bull horn mounted on the hood. Not a loudspeaker—I mean a real horn from a bull. Whereas I was what they’d probably call a nerd nowadays, ’cept there was no word for it then. Like a lot of things.”

He sucked on his pipe, waited for Roy to say something, maybe ask some questions about his father. When Roy did not, he picked up the will.

“All pretty straightforward,” he said. “He really didn’t have a whole lot at the end, enough to pay the funeral expenses, my fee, sundries. And the place, of course, but it’s got a mortgage.”

“I’m going to sell it anyway,” Roy said.

The lawyer gazed into the glowing bowl of the pipe. “Mind a personal question?”

“Go on.”

“You paid him a visit over at Ocoee Regional the other day.”

“That’s right.”

“Anything unusual happen?”

“Like what?”

“I know he could be a mite cantankerous. Specially when he was hitting the bottle.”

“He was all right.”

“Would you say he was of sound mind when you saw him?”

“Sound mind?”

“Not crazy.”

“He didn’t seem crazy. I wasn’t there long. I drove up to the place for a few things, ran into Sonny, and he took the stuff back.”

The attorney nodded, his eyes shifting to the will. “Reason I asked is that’s grounds for breaking a will, if you can prove unsound mind.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Thing is,” said the attorney, “next morning, morning after you paid that visit, he called me in to add a codicil.”

“I don’t know that word.”

“Means like an amendment. Has the full force of any other clause, long as it’s drawn up right, and it was.” He handed Roy the will, open to the last page.

Roy read the codicil:

I replace clause 2(c) with the following:

(c) Title to the above-mentioned item shall pass to my nephew Sonny Nevins, Jr.

“What’s the above-mentioned item?” Roy said.

“Just a legalism saves me retyping if changes come up,” said the attorney. “Refer back to two B.”

Roy referred back to 2(b). The above-mentioned item was his father’s place, the house and the barn at the end of the long dirt road. His eyes moved down the page to the original 2(c):
Title to the above-mentioned item shall pass to my son, Roy Singleton Hill
.

Roy looked up. The attorney was watching him through a cloud of pipe smoke. “Which is why I was wondering if anything unusual took place when you paid that last visit.”

Wasn’t the whole thing unusual, hardly seeing your own father all your life? What would be unusual after that? “Not really,” Roy said.

“You didn’t say anything might have pissed him off? He got pissed off kind of easy, maybe you didn’t know.”

Roy shook his head, but at the same time he was remembering:
Why’d you go and give him a name like that?
Couldn’t be, could it?

“Thought of something?” said the attorney.

“We were estranged, I guess you’d say. That’s all.”

“Okey-doke,” said the attorney. He opened a desk drawer, took out a key. “As for what you do got coming to you,” he said, “check two D.”

Roy read 2(d):
The old trunk under my bed, with contents, is for my son, Roy Singleton Hill. The key to the trunk will be delivered to him by my executor.

The attorney handed Roy a key. “Any questions?”

“Just one,” Roy said. “Does Sonny know about this?”

“Not from me. Wanted to talk to you first, see your reaction, in terms of the sound mind part.”

“I get the idea you kind of want me to contest the will,” Roy said.

“I could never take a position like that,” the attorney said. “You’re a family man, that’s all. And Sonny’s . . . Sonny.”

But Roy knew he wouldn’t do it. Didn’t sit right with him, contesting a will. And whatever money was involved didn’t matter—money wouldn’t be a problem, not with the new job, and Marcia and him back under one roof. Roy rose.

“Best of luck,” said the attorney. As Roy moved to the door, he added, “Don’t suppose you can help me with
vreans
.”

“Vreans?”

“Got to rearrange it into a word for the Jumble.”

Roy had no idea. He’d never been good at puzzles.

Roy drove back to the place, Sonny’s place now. He kept the windows open the whole way but the pipe smell was still with him when he parked at the end of the dirt road and walked past the washer, engine block, broken TV, hubcaps, and up to the house. No one was inside. Roy started across the field to the barn, was halfway there when he heard laughter. At first, he didn’t realize it was Rhett laughing, a sound he hadn’t heard for some time.

Roy went into the barn. Rhett and Sonny Junior were way at the back, in the shadowy part where a few shafts of light crisscrossed over their heads from the windows in the loft. Roy made his way around the demolition derby car, past the drums, close enough to see that Rhett and Sonny Junior were both stripped to the waist and wearing boxing gloves. Sonny Junior threw a slow looping left a foot over Rhett’s head. Rhett stepped inside and bounced two quick left jabs and a right cross that surprised Roy with its strength off the ridges of Sonny Junior’s abs. Sonny Junior said something, of which Roy caught only one word: “pisspot.” Rhett laughed again, a real happy sound, unrestrained. While he was still laughing, Sonny Junior caught him a pretty good one upside the head, not a real punch with the force he was capable of, but real enough. Rhett blinked. Then his lower lip started to quiver, just the tiniest tremor, but Roy saw. Roy raised his hand—in fact, it came up by itself—but before he could say anything, Rhett lowered his head, stepped inside again, and hit Sonny Junior with another right cross, this one even better than the last, and a little higher up. Sonny Junior said something; Roy caught “sack of shit” and “peckerhead.” Rhett laughed again, but kept his hands up this time. Then they were both laughing. Sonny Junior saw Roy, waved.

“Ding,” he said, lowering his hands. Rhett lowered his hands too. Sonny Junior threw a savage punch, quick as the strike of some predator on top of the food chain, just past Rhett’s ear. Rhett flinched after the fact. “ ’Member to keep ’em up after the bell, case some asshole’s lookin’ to clock you by surprise,” said Sonny Junior.

He came over to Roy. “A quick learner, my little nephew,” he said.

“It’s cousin,” Roy said. “We discussed this.”

“Same diff,” said Sonny Junior. “He’s a good kid, all I’m saying.”

“Thanks,” said Roy.

“No thanks necessary—rubs off on me too,” said Sonny Junior. “How’d it go in town?”

Roy told him what had happened. As the story unfolded, Sonny Junior’s forehead wrinkled, then his eyes got wider, finally he shook his head.

“That’s bullshit,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Place belongs to you, Roy. All I was hopin’ would be you’d let me stay up here, take care of it, like.”

“Did he let on at all, when you brought him the stuff?”

“Stuff?”

“Briefs, Cheetos, the bottle.”

“Shit,” said Sonny Junior, “I forgot the briefs.”

“Did he let on?”

“I only saw him for a minute or two. All’s he went on about was that business of the name.”

“What name?”

Sonny Junior glanced back—Rhett was throwing punches at one of those mote-filled rays of light—lowered his voice: “Rhett’s name.”

That was that.

“I’ll give it back to you if you want,” Sonny Junior said. “Say the word.”

Roy said, “No. I would have sold it anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“But you’re going to live here.”

“I just might,” said Sonny Junior. He loosened the strings of his boxing glove with his teeth. “No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings.”

Sonny Junior pulled off the glove. They shook on it, arm-wrestling style.

Rhett approached.

“Uncle Sonny?” he said. “Can I try the drums?”

“Can you try the drums,” said Sonny Junior. “Does the pope shit in the woods?”

Rhett laughed. Sonny Junior helped him off with his gloves, led him toward the drum kit.

Roy went up to the house, entered his father’s bedroom, switched on the red light. No rat on the pillow this time, but everything else was the same, crumpled Cheetos packages and an empty bottle of Old Grand-Dad on the unmade bed, plus one or two balled-up tissues that Roy hadn’t noticed before. The old trunk was underneath. Roy pulled it out, a leather-covered trunk, the leather dry and cracked, wood showing through it. The key fit. He opened the lid.