Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“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.”

”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.