Last of the Dixie Heroes (14 page)

Roy looked down at Marcia, covering her breasts. A bruise was already rising to the surface of her upper arm. She was shaking. He was too. He turned and walked away.

Roy went home. Where else? He could go to a diner, a bar, the gym: all dismal. He went home, dismal too. He paced in one room, then another. He sat down. He remembered the night Marcia had slept with him, the night that began their brief affair, as she’d called it, and how Grant, Dr. Nordman, had phoned her cell. How fast he’d worked, or she, or the two of them together: she hadn’t even known his first name that night. Roy got up, paced some more. Pacing was better than sitting.

Roy tried to think. He thought: I can bear losing my job. I can bear losing Marcia. But Rhett? No. Not because if he didn’t have Rhett the past eleven years would add up to nothing, although that was true: but just because he had to be with him, his son.

He called Curtis.

“Hi, Roy. How are you do—”

“I want that New York job.”

“There were no guarantees, Roy. The opportunity to apply is what’s being offered.”

“Good enough.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’m going to fly up today.”

“Fly where?”

“New York. To meet them.”

“Meet who?”

“Whoever’s doing the interview, for Christ sake.”

“I don’t even know if the job’s still available.”

“Find out.” Roy was dimly aware that he’d said that much too loud.

Curtis spoke more softly, balancing it out. “I’ll call you back,” he said.

The phone rang within five minutes.

“They like the sound of you,” Curtis said.

“Thanks, Curtis.”

“You don’t have to fly up. They can do a video interview.”

“When?”

“Next Tuesday, one thirty.” He heard Curtis take a deep breath. “Or today, at four forty-five. But that’s pretty short notice, and everyone will understand if—”

“I’ll be there.” Roy checked his watch. Three fifty-two.

“Sure you wouldn’t prefer Tuesday, Roy? Maybe take a little time to collect your—”

“I’m on my way,” Roy said.

Roy parked in the visitors lot, checked in at the security desk in the lobby, received authorization from Curtis. He rode the elevator to the seventeenth floor, alone all the way. Curtis met him at the top.

“That’s how you’re dressing for the interview?” Curtis said.

Roy looked down at himself. He was still wearing the chinos he’d had on in the morning, but the collared shirt with buttons and the tie with the blue diamonds, his best one, was gone. He was wearing a faded and frayed T-shirt with
Georgia Football
on the front, a T-shirt he hadn’t worn in years, had forgotten he owned. When had he put that on?

“Come into the bathroom,” Curtis said.

Roy followed Curtis into a bathroom with a marble floor and marble sinks. Curtis took off his suit jacket, his tie with the blue diamonds, identical to Roy’s, his silk shirt, finer than any shirt Roy had ever worn, with French cuffs and gold cuff links. “Here,” Curtis said.

Roy put on Curtis’s shirt. He could smell deodorant, and under that, the smell of Curtis. Did Curtis notice him smelling it? Maybe. The shirt was too tight across his shoulders and chest, and because of that he had trouble tying the tie. Curtis did it for him: a tie just like his, had to be a good omen. He’d never worn cuff links before; Curtis did that too. Roy put on the suit jacket, made of the softest material he’d ever felt, but as tight as the shirt, or tighter.

Curtis stepped back, looked him over. “That’s more like it,” he said. “Except for your face.”

“My face?”

Curtis pointed to Roy’s cheek. “What happened there?”

Roy checked the mirror, saw three parallel scratches on the side of his face, like red war paint. “Nothing,” he said, going to the sink, dabbing with a damp paper towel.

Curtis, standing behind him in suit pants and a sleeveless undershirt, watching in the mirror, said, “Why don’t we postpone this till Tuesday?”

Roy shook his head.

Curtis sat him down at one end of the long table in the conference room. A technician placed a microphone in front of him, said, “One, two, three, New York, can you hear me?”

“Yup,” came the reply from speakers Roy couldn’t see. An image flickered on a screen suspended from the ceiling: a conference table like this one, but darker and shinier. A camera hung from the screen; it swung around until the lens pointed at Roy. The red light blinked on.

“Video, New York?” said the technician.

“Gotcha,” said the voice.

“Need me here?” the technician asked Curtis.

“Call you when it’s over,” Curtis said. The technician left the room. Curtis moved to the far end of the table, sat down. The camera on the other end tightened on the New York table, focused on a yellow legal pad, a red pen, a green soda can from a maker Roy had never heard of.

A man came into the shot, sat behind the legal pad. He had a shiny bald head, a bushy mustache, purple bags under his eyes. He looked right at Roy.

“Name’s Ferrucci,” he said. “Assistant VP, tech personnel. We’ve got five minutes for this, tops. You’re Roy Hill?”

“Yes.”

“Speak up a little.”

Roy wasn’t used to the TV talking to him personally. He loosened the knot on his tie, undid the top button of the too-tight shirt. “Yes, I’m Roy Hill.”

Ferrucci gazed at him. “We got an opening here you might be the man for. It’s on the shipping floor in Jersey City, East Asia section, which sounds pretty close to what you’ve been doing already. Familiar with the V-trak program?”

“We’re just starting to use it.”

“Any problems?”

“None so far.”

Ferrucci checked the legal pad. “Played football for Georgia Tech?”

“Georgia.”

“Who was the coach?”

Roy told him.

“They say he was a real asshole.”

“He treated me all right,” Roy said.

Ferrucci nodded. “Willing to relocate, Roy?”

“Yes. Jersey City—is that anywhere near Park Slope?”

“Park Slope? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s supposed to be a residential neighborhood.”

“Not one you’ll be able to afford. Pay on this job’s the same as yours, plus two point five cost-of-living adjustment. Still interested?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your boss says you can do the job. Gonna need more than that. Gonna need hitting the ground running.”

“I promise,” Roy said. He glanced down the table. Curtis gave him a thumbs-up.

“What’s that on your face?” Ferrucci said, squinting at him on the screen.

“Nothing.”

“Tell you what we’ll do, then,” Ferrucci said. “If you can get up here by the—” He stopped, looked off camera, listened to something Roy couldn’t make out. Someone handed him a sheet of paper. Ferrucci read it, the top of his shiny head glaring from the screen. When he looked up, he had a new expression on his face. The air began leaking from the room; Roy’s lungs felt it right away.

“Know K. C. Chen?” Ferrucci said.

“The subagent in Shanghai?” Roy said. Without taking his eyes off Ferrucci’s image, he was aware of Curtis’s forehead wrinkling. He reached for his throat to loosen the tie, unfasten the button, found he’d already done that.

“Correct,” said Ferrucci.

“I’ve worked with her.”

“She a straight shooter?”

“I’ve never had any problems with her,” Roy said.

“It’s not mutual,” said Ferrucci.

“I’m sorry?” Roy said. His hand was in his pocket, wrapped around the inhaler.

“She says you hung her out to dry”—his eyes went to the paper in his hand, then locked on Roy—“with three freight cars of ammonium nitrate. Three open goddamn cars, running loose through the rice paddies.”

“But—” Roy couldn’t get a breath. He fumbled with the blue diamond tie, struggled with it, tore it off. “But—” No air, no air at all. Roy jerked himself out of the jacket, ripped open the shirt, still couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe, but could somehow smell his smell and Curtis’s smell mixed together in the silk of the shirt. “Just a minute, I’ll ex—” Then he had the inhaler to his mouth, sprayed it down his throat, took a deep breath. He was still taking it when Ferrucci spoke to someone off camera and the screen went black.

“Wait,” Roy said. He picked up the microphone, rose so the camera had a better view of him, leaned his face right into it. “I can explain, Mr. Ferrucci. It’s just a misunderstanding, nothing came of it, there was no harm—”

Curtis snatched the microphone from his hand. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

Roy looked at Curtis, up at the black screen, back at Curtis. Was it over? It had to be some technical difficulty, maybe an electrical—

Curtis grabbed a handful of Roy’s shirt—his own shirt—pulled him close. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

Because you’re just a dumb nigger.

But maybe there was a God: Roy didn’t say it out loud.

He left without another word, bumping something, table, chair, on the way. A gold cuff link fell to the floor with a bright clinking sound.

Roy sat in his kitchen, frozen to a chair. Night fell but he didn’t turn on any lights. He opened the bottle of Chardonnay, the only booze in the house. He drank some, didn’t like it, drank more. What he wanted was Old Grand-Dad, and he’d never even tasted it. When the bottle was empty, he got up and went through his dark house and into his dark bedroom. He took off his Georgia Football T-shirt, his socks, shoes, chinos, boxers, lay on his bed, passed out. His mind went blank.

Roy thought he heard crying in the night. He sat up. That would be Rhett, down the hall. Poor kid. Roy got up. The moment his foot touched the cold floor, he remembered everything: Rhett, Marcia, job—gone.

Roy stood there, naked and still, for a long time. He became aware of a shadow in the corner of the room, a squat shape he couldn’t identify, didn’t remember being there. He went over, laid his hand on it. The old leather-bound trunk. He gazed down at it, and as he did, thought he heard crying again. Impossible: but crying, and close by. Roy opened the trunk. Everything went silent. He got on his knees, dug through the layers of thick wax paper, found the uniform, held it; heavy in his hands.

Roy put on the uniform. A complicated uniform, with things he wasn’t used to, like a button fly, suspenders: but he had no trouble with it, none at all, even in the darkness. The uniform fit him like a glove. His finger found the little hole in the jacket right away, poked through, felt his own beating heart.

FIFTEEN

Roy heard the phone ring, heard the click of the answering machine picking up. It didn’t all come back to him, no coming back necessary. It was all there now, securely fixed inside, ready to be a part of him the instant he awoke. Securely fixed inside, but maybe not totally understood, because he could still think: Curtis, Marcia, Ferrucci, Cesar—someone calling to make things right!

It was Gordo.

“Rise and shine, good buddy. We got job huntin’ to do. How about we start with bacon, eggs, and brewskis? Get back to me.” Beep. Gordo: cheered by all the company he suddenly had.

Roy tried to sink back into sleep. He couldn’t do it. Memories were waiting now, little shards of them, coming in waves. The clothing memories alone—blue-diamond tie, silk shirt with cuff links, Georgia Football T-shirt, red bikini top—were enough to drive sleep away all by themselves. But how he wanted it, the unconscious part, at least.

Roy got up, went into the bathroom, gave himself a shock. There he was in the mirror, fully dressed in his inherited uniform. He’d forgotten that part, the final act of a long day. He stared at his image, had a funny moment of not quite knowing it was him, as though he were looking in the mirror and seeing someone else. More than a moment, actually; he wasn’t able to snap out of it, not completely. And the battle-weary look that Lee had worn in the photograph beside the cannon: the man in the mirror had it too.

The phone rang again. He heard a woman’s voice coming over the answering machine, missed the first part of what she said, caught, “calling from Globax. You can reach—”

Roy hurried out of the bathroom, snatched up the phone.

“Roy Hill here,” he said, unbuttoning the uniform jacket, shrugging off the suspenders.

“Oh, you’re there.” She introduced herself. “I’m with human resources,” she said.

“Human resources?” Were they offering him a job in human resources? He didn’t know anything about human resources. He knew shipping.

“All terminated employees are entitled to free career counseling. I’m booking appointments.”

“For what?”

“A forty-five-minute career-counseling session, at Globax expense. We outsource it to several companies so you can actually choose the one you want. As luck would have it, two happen to be quite close to you.” She named them. “I can book either one, your choice.”

“Then what?” said Roy.

“Then if you decide to add extra sessions, Globax subsidizes the cost on a sliding scale depending on the number of sessions.”

Not what he’d meant. He’d meant: How long till I get a new job?

“Still with me?” said the woman. “This sliding scale goes from fifty down to ten in even increments. Percent, is what I’m talking about, Ray, depending—”

“It’s Roy,” Roy said, and too loudly. “Roy Hill.” He came very close to saying
Roy Singleton Hill
.

There was a pause. Roy could hear a stock market report from a TV in the woman’s office. “Sorry, Roy,” said the woman. “I’m just trying to inform you about the counseling opportunity, that’s all. A lot of people have found the program very helpful.”

“Helpful for what?”

“Why, resumes, retraining, interview skills, networking, job search—everything you could possibly want.”

Roy had a vision of Mr. Pegram puking on his shoes.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” said the woman, “based on twenty years’ experience. A lot of people in the same boat as you end up in much better jobs. They look back at all this fuss and muss as the beginning of a positive period in their working careers.”

Roy caught his image in the bedroom mirror, a full-length mirror beside the closet, in front of which he and Marcia had once—he throttled that memory right there. He saw that the uniform was back on properly, suspenders in place, jacket all buttoned up: when had he done that?

“So I can book you an appointment?” the woman said.

“What kind of appointment?”

“At one of these services.” She named the two near him again.

Roy shrugged.

“Hello?” said the woman.

“Yeah?” said Roy.

“What about it?”

“I guess.”

“Which one would you prefer?”

Roy took the first.

“All set,” said the woman. He could hear the squeak of her felt pen making a check mark. “Three-fifteen this afternoon okay for you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Squeak.

Roy took off the uniform, folded it away in the trunk between layers of the thick wax paper. He flossed and brushed his teeth, showered, shaved; groomed himself like any other office worker. What were you supposed to wear for career counseling? Roy dressed the way he did for the job, minus the tie. He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it again. Not hungry.

Roy boiled water in the kettle, poured it in a cup. He didn’t make coffee or tea with it, just drank it as hot water, something he’d never done before, never even thought of doing.

The front door buzzer buzzed. Roy put down his cup, almost dropped it in his hurry, thinking, Some kind of good news, although he couldn’t imagine what. But it wasn’t good news, just Lee, in his denim jacket and jeans, motorcycle parked in the driveway.

“Thought you might be ready for some black powder shooting,” Lee said.

“Not today.” Roy didn’t feel like talking to anybody, not if they weren’t in a position to make things better.

“No?” Lee said. “From what Gordo told me, I thought today might be good.”

“What did he tell you?”

“About Globax. Sorry, Roy. Not that I was surprised.”

“Why not?” Roy said. “I’m good at my job.”

“I’m sure you were. I’m talking about the mass firings. That’s the nature of the beast.”

“What beast?” Roy said.

“Put it this way, Roy—where’s the headquarters for Globax?”

“New York. But it could be anywhere, and the work ended up in Miami.”

“A model Southern city,” Lee said. He held out a paper bag. “I brought you some muffins.”

Roy stood there, not taking the bag. Not hungry.

“Baked them myself,” Lee said.

Roy took the bag. “Cup of coffee or something?” he said.

“Sounds good.”

Roy didn’t think he’d made it sound good at all. He moved aside, let Lee in. Lee went by him with a light, springy step. He reminded Roy of a kid he’d played high school football with, one of those too-small but very fast kids who get to play safety or wide receiver. Roy’s teams had always had big kids just as fast, so this one had been cut, but not before one preseason ninety-yard punt return Roy could still see in his mind.

“Instant okay?” Roy said.

“Sure.”

But he was out of instant. All he had was a foil bag of beans he’d bought at Starbucks in preparation for Marcia coming home. He thought of returning it, getting his money back: an idea that filled him with self-disgust but also opened a window on a possible future and its meanness. He got busy with the grinder, the coffeemaker, filter basket.

“Who did these?” said Lee. He was standing by the fridge, looking at the artwork taped to the door.

“My son.”

“They’re pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“His number’s fifty-six?”

“How did you know?”

“Fifty-six has a kind of prominent role in these pictures, Roy.” Roy went over to look. “I like the way all the helmets are too big,” Lee said. “Must be how it feels to him inside one. And see those eyes between the face mask bars?”

The eyes looked scared. Roy hadn’t noticed before. “You think he has talent?”

“I’m not competent to judge,” Lee said. “What’s his name?”

“Rhett.”

Lee turned to him quickly.

“It’s his name,” Roy said.

“A fine name,” Lee said.

“My wife chose it. I like it too.”

Lee looked at him for a moment, his gaze fixing on Roy’s cheek. The scratches: Roy had forgotten that part too. “That makes three of us, then,” Lee said.

Roy heard sounds from the coffeemaker. He turned away, filled two mugs. One was an Olympics souvenir; the other said
Globax
. He noticed that too late, after he was done pouring, took the Olympics mug for himself.

They sat at the kitchen table.

“This is a nice house,” Lee said.

Roy watched the steam rising from his coffee, the way it bent in a little plume, then disappeared. A nice house, with a big first mortgage, a maxed-out home equity loan—the emeralds!—no savings, no paycheck.

“Muffin?” Lee said, reaching into the paper bag, taking out two: small light brown muffins with dark red berries poking out here and there.

With an effort, Roy took his eyes off the rising steam. The smell of the muffins reached him. “You baked these yourself?” he said; he himself had never baked muffins, doubted he knew another man who had.

Lee nodded.

Roy tasted one, just to be polite. Not hungry at all, even though he hadn’t eaten since . . . when? He couldn’t remember. But that feeling of not being hungry left him the moment he tasted the muffin. Had he ever tasted a muffin this good? Just sweet enough, just tart enough, light and firm at the same time, and the berry so close to being bitter, but not quite. He was ravenous by the time he finished it.

“There’s one more,” Lee said.

Roy shook his head. Lee took the third muffin from the bag, slid it across to Roy. He thought of the steaks and Sonny Junior.

“Split it?” Roy said.

“All yours,” said Lee.

Lee watched him eat. “Picked the berries yesterday,” he said.

“Berries this time of year?” Roy could hear his mother asking the same question, the same way.

“Mountain winterberries. There are still some around my place.”

“Where’s that?”

“Not far. We can do some shooting while we’re there.”

Roy finished the second muffin. It had a strange effect on him: he was still ravenous, but now felt himself warming up inside. “I’ve got a gun,” he said.

“What kind?” said Lee.

“I’m not sure.”

“Where is it?”

Roy looked at Lee: he had a fine face, open and honest, as far as Roy could judge. Roy didn’t want to get into the whole leather-bound trunk thing, but neither did he want to sit by himself in the house all day, waiting for his career counseling opportunity. “I wouldn’t want this generally known,” he said.

“You can trust me.”

Roy took Lee into the bedroom.

The bedroom was dark, still smelled of sleep. Lee put on a pair of glasses, the kind with small lenses that Roy associated with European revolutionaries or hippies from the sixties. Lee didn’t look at all like a hippie—he had short dark hair and was smooth shaven, almost like a boy who hadn’t started shaving. His gaze went to the bed, one side unslept in, the other in disarray.

“What else did Gordo tell you?” Roy said.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

“Just that they fired everybody. All he doesn’t understand is why he was the first to go.”

“Anything else?”

“Like what?”

Roy opened the leather-bound trunk. “My father died.”

“I’m sorry.”

Roy shrugged. “I got this.”

“Can I look?”

Roy didn’t see why not.

Lee bent over, started going through the trunk. “My God,” he said, straightening up, the uniform jacket in his hands. He went to the window, examined the threads, then pressed the jacket to his face, breathed in deeply.

“There’s more,” Roy said.

Lee went back to the trunk, pulled out the gun, Roy Singleton Hill’s gun with
death
carved on the wooden stock. He examined it from several angles, ran his fingers along the barrel, tested the hammer with his thumb.

“Is it a carbine?” Roy said.

“Oh, yes, one of the very best—a Sharps fifty-two-caliber breech-loading carbine made in eighteen fifty-nine, as it says right here.” Lee raised the gun in an easy, economical movement and took aim at something across the room; a pillow at the head of the bed—Marcia’s, actually.

“Will it still work?” Roy said.

“No reason why not. I can check it out for you, if you like.”

“Course there’d be no bullets,” Roy said.

“Bullets are easy to make.” Lee handed Roy the gun, started folding the jacket, paused. He felt in the pockets, turned the jacket upside down, gave it a gentle shake. Bullets fell out, eight or ten, landed on the sheets where Roy had been sleeping. They were smaller than Gordo’s bullet and not as completely oxidized, glinting dully here and there with lead. Lee cupped them in his hands, held them out for Roy like they were nuggets scooped from a stream.

“Let’s do some shooting,” he said.

Roy checked his watch. He didn’t see why not.

Mountain winterberries, picked yesterday: Roy in his Altima, the Sharps breechloader in the backseat, following Lee on the motorcycle, assumed they were on their way to one of the expressways out of town. But Lee went under the connector, turned up Northside, entered Buckhead.

Buckhead, but not Marcia’s Buckhead. This was the part Sunday drivers liked to tour, especially when they had visitors from out of town. The houses got bigger, but how much bigger was hard to tell because they were set farther and farther from the road. Lee rounded a bend, much too fast, Roy thought, disappeared from view. By the time Roy picked him up again, he was darting through gateposts a quarter of a mile ahead, leaning low.

Tall brick gateposts, Roy saw as he drove between them, joined by a brick arch. Two stone eagles stood side by side on top of the arch, one facing forward, one back. The lane Roy followed was brick as well, a long lane that took him past perfect lawns, blooming gardens, more lawn, a house that seemed low and massive, but was four stories tall in the central section, possibly with another half story above. Lee kept going, down a curving grade, past a pond with floating purple flowers, to a small brick house with purple shutters, a purple door, leaded windows, brass fittings.

“Welcome,” Lee said, coming to Roy’s car.

Roy got out. “This is your place?”

“This is my grandmother’s place, Roy. I live in the guest house.” Roy glanced toward the big house, mostly hidden by a grove of low trees. Roy could see shiny red berries clinging to the nearest branches. “Got the gun?” Lee said.