Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“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.