Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“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.”