Peter Abrahams: Last of the Dixie Heroes

“Mr. Hill?” A woman; Roy didn’t recognize her voice. Ten years ago he would have said she was from up north, hadn’t been raised down here, but now, at least in the city, it was getting harder to tell.

“Yes,” said Roy.

“This is-” Ms. Somebody. Roy didn’t catch the name-a long one, maybe Jewish; which was odd because he was used to catching all kinds of strange foreign names. “I’m the assistant principal at Buckhead Middle School,” the woman said.

Roy caught everything after that. He said stupid things like “But I thought my wi- I thought Marcia-” and “What do you mean, incident?”, but he caught it.

He checked the time: 1:37. You didn’t leave work at Chemerica-Globax-at 1:37. Not on a Monday, not when things were this busy, not for personal reasons. It wasn’t part of the corporate culture. Roy called Marcia’s work, was told she wasn’t in today, tried the cell and home numbers, got voice mail each time, said nothing. Who else to call? There was no one. Roy rose.

Gordo glanced up at him over the padded wall. “What’s up?”

“Something with Rhett.”

“Like what?”

“Got to go get him.”

“Now? What’s wrong?”

Roy left his cubicle, crossed the floor, went up the steps to Curtis’s glassed-in office. Curtis had someone in there: a silver-haired guy, the kind who worked on the seventeenth floor. Roy hesitated outside. Curtis waved him in.

“Speak of the devil,” Curtis said.

Roy didn’t know what to make of that.

“Just talking about you, Roy, Bill and I. Know Bill Pegram?”

Roy didn’t know Bill Pegram. They shook hands.

“Mr. Pegram’s VP tech personnel.” Tech personnel included shipping.

“Curtis’s been saying some nice things about you, Roy,” said Bill Pegram. “Real nice things.”

Roy wasn’t taking this in very well. He had to get out of there.

“You’re doing a fine job for us, Roy,” said Pegram. “How you likin’ it?”

“Liking it?”

“Working for the company.”

“It’s a good job, Mr. Pegram.”

Pegram nodded. “I know you’ve been passed over a few times when it comes to promotions, Roy. Doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate your good work. The competition is tough. Didn’t make you bitter, did it, Roy?”

“Not at all.” Where the hell was this going? He fought the urge to check his watch.

“Glad to hear it,” said Pegram. “Bitterness is like the snake that bites his own damn tail.” He paused, waiting for a response.

Roy nodded, maybe a little too impatiently. The snake idea came from a motivational speaker they’d had last year, or the year before that.

“That’s the boy,” said Pegram. “If you can keep this under your hat, there may be a few things opening up soon. Nice things, Roy.”

Roy got it: he was being considered for promotion at last. He should probably say he was grateful or they wouldn’t be disappointed or something like that. He said: “Curtis, can I talk to you a moment?”

Pegram looked puzzled, the way some people do, half lowering one eyelid. Curtis was doing the same thing. “About this?” he said.

“Something’s come up,” Roy said, moving toward the door, almost taking Curtis by the hand; he didn’t know how else to get him alone.

Curtis followed him out. They stood on the other side of the glassed-in office, Pegram watching from within.

“Just don’t tell me it’s a big bang somewhere,” Curtis said. The big bang-an explosion caused by some shipping error-was their worst fear.

Roy told him what it was.

Curtis’s eyelid fluttered down again, came back up. He gave Roy a look. “If you can get someone to cover for you,” he said in the kind of voice used for someone you don’t know well. He went back inside.

Roy started down Curtis’s stairs. He tried not to turn back, but couldn’t help himself. Curtis was talking to Pegram. Pegram was watching Roy. His face seemed to get narrower.

Gordo covered for him. “And Roy?” Gordo said. “Here’s a little present for the boy.”

Gordo handed Roy a stained white thing, maybe an inch long, rounded at one end, surprisingly heavy. Lead, probably, oxidized lead. “What’s this?”

“A bullet, Roy. A real bullet from Kennesaw. One of ours-you can tell by the two rings.”

“You found it?”

“In the souvenir shop,” Gordo said. “Seventy-five cents.”

Roy put it in his pocket, took the elevator down to employee parking on S5, went to his space, found it empty. Empty. He felt real funny for a moment, like some bad fate was happening, then recalled he’d driven in with Gordo. Therefore-what?

Taxi. Roy went to the elevators, saw they were all at seventeen, hurried up the ramp on foot. He was running by the time he came to the exit booth.

No taxis on the street. Roy hardly ever took taxis. In the movies they were always cruising up and “Hey, Roy,” said the attendant in the booth. The old guy who always wore a Braves cap, and in fact looked a little like Henry Aaron, as Aaron might have looked if he’d developed a drinking problem.

“I need a taxi.”

“Yes, sir,” said the old man, picking up his phone.

Roy rode in a taxi. He checked the time: 2:27. One of the side mirrors was tilted up at a useless angle, reflecting the image of the new sign high above. He’d been right about one thing: the letters were bigger. They’d also changed from red to blue. globax was already in place, except for the big blue X, rising on a crane. From the window of the taxi, the whole city seemed unfamiliar, as though Roy had touched down somewhere new. He started getting less air, reached for the inhaler, felt Gordo’s bullet instead. It had a nice shape, felt comfortable in his hand. He held on to it like a prayer bead.

Rhett lay on the couch in the school nurse’s office, holding a bloody tissue over his nose. One eye, swollen and purpling, was closed; his open eye stared at the ceiling. The nurse was on the phone, laughing softly at whatever she was being told.

Roy stepped in front of Ms. Steinwasser and walked over to him. The nurse got off the phone.

Roy didn’t know what to say. “Hey.” That was what he said, the word coming out a little deeper than he’d intended, and a little ragged.

Rhett’s good eye moved, found him. Roy saw a lot of emotion in that eye, far more than he wanted to, far more than he could read. “I got in a fight, Dad.” Rhett’s lower lip trembled and so did his voice, but he didn’t cry.

“I can see that,” Roy said. Maybe he should have said something else.

Rhett cried then, just one sob before he got a grip.

Roy put his hand on Rhett’s shoulder, so bony. “Hey,” he said again.

“Take me home, Dad.”

That meant Marcia’s. “Now you’re talking,” he said.

The nurse was on her feet. “I’ll just check on that nosebleed one last time.”

Roy turned to Ms. Steinwasser. “I’m still not clear on what happened exactly.”

“As I mentioned, Mr. Hill, there was a fight at recess. The fields are very well supervised here at Buckhead, but unfortunately the boys got behind the big magnolia by the wall and no one saw them right away.”

“How many were in it?” Roy said.

“In it?” said Ms. Steinwasser.

“The fight.”

“Just two,” said Ms. Steinwasser. “Which was quite enough, as you can see.”

As you can see: Roy didn’t quite get that part. Was she saying that Rhett’s face was convenient proof of some theory of hers? “Where’s the other kid?” Roy said.

“We sent him home.”

“Who started it?”

Ms. Steinwasser’s tone changed slightly, but enough to bring back memories of his own schooling. “We haven’t really found it productive to dwell on issues of that sort,” she said. “The rule is that fighting for any reason is forbidden.”