Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“Don’t say fucking.”

Rhett mimicked him. “Don’t say fucking.”

Roy turned from the window. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he said.

“Everybody else does.”

That knocked the life out of Roy for a moment. Then it came rushing back, and he was rushing, had his hands on the polo shirt, had Rhett up off the floor, the boy’s eyes widening. The buzzer went.

Roy froze with Rhett in the air, their gazes locked together, Rhett’s eyes turning frightened, Roy with no idea what his were like. He lowered Rhett to the floor, not gently, not hard, just lowered him, and went to the front door, fighting for breath.

Gordo, with Jesse Moses and Earl Sippens standing slightly behind him: Jesse in a suit and carrying a briefcase as though he’d just come from work, Earl wearing a pink blazer and smoking a cigar, perhaps coming directly from work as well.

“Hey,” said Gordo, “the man.”

They were all looking at him funny, gawking the way the guys from shipping had gawked at Dan Marino one night when he’d walked into Sportz. “I’m kind of busy right now,” Roy said. What were they gawking at-the way his body trembled, aftereffect of laying hands on his son?

“A crack shot, for Christ sake,” Gordo said. “Who’d of guessed?”

“It’s not true.”

“Fuckin’ dead-eye dick is what I hear,” said Earl, pushing his way up onto the top step with Gordo. “Oops, there, son, sorry about that F-word, didn’t see you.”

Roy turned, saw Rhett watching from the kitchen door. Earl went past Roy, into the house.

“This your boy?” he said.

“Yes, but-”

“How’s it goin’, son? Earl Sippens.” He grabbed Rhett’s hand, pumped it up and down. “What’s your name?”

“Rhett,” said Rhett, but not clearly; Earl probably didn’t catch it.

“Have one of these already?”

“No,” Rhett said.

“Take it,” said Earl, handing Rhett something Roy couldn’t see.

“Thanks,” said Rhett, pocketing it.

Earl poked his head in the kitchen. “Fine place you got here, Roy.”

Roy turned back to the stoop, looked past Gordo, beaming in that way he did when he’d had a few but no more than a few, to Jesse.

“Maybe if we could just have a quick peek at the carbine,” Jesse said.

Roy brought the gun into the living room.

“Sharps new model eighteen fifty-nine,” Jesse said, “and brass mounted too. Know how many of these they made?”

“Hundred thousand?” said Earl.

“Not brass mounted,” said Jesse. “Thirty-five hundred.”

“Worth some shekels, then,” said Earl.

Jesse paused, his long and finely shaped finger tracing the outline of those five letters on the stock. “But who would want to sell it?” he said.

“Missed me with that one,” Earl said.

They clustered around the gun, passed it back and forth, aimed it out the window at the streetlight.

“Pretty cool, huh, Rhett?” Gordo said.

“It looks old,” Rhett said.

“Course it’s old,” said Gordo. “Belonged to your great-great-whatever he was.”

“One of the best marksmen in the South,” said Jesse, “according to the documentation.”

“And a talent passed on to your daddy, seems like,” said Earl.

They all looked at Roy; Rhett followed their gazes, up to his father.

“Any pellet primers in that patch box, Roy?” Earl said.

Roy didn’t understand the question.

“Lee used musket caps,” Jesse said, opening a bit of filigreed brass in the stock that Roy had thought was just decoration. There was a little hollowed-out box underneath. Something fell from it, dropped on the floor.

Gordo picked it up.

“Pellet primer?” said Jesse. “Wonder if the compounds are intact.”

But it wasn’t a pellet primer, unless pellet primers looked like keys. Gordo held it on the palm of his hand, a brass key, small and simple, with a ring for a handle, a thin cylinder, two little teeth at the end.

Earl took it. “What’s it open?” he said, squinting at it under the light.

No one had any ideas. Jesse put it back in the patch box, handed the gun to Roy.

“We’ve got an event this weekend,” he said. “Up at Chickamauga.”

“Be some Yankees there,” Gordo said.

“Mostly from Pennsylvania,” Jesse said, “but some all the way from New Jersey and Connecticut.”

“Gonna have us a fun time,” Gordo said.

“Shooting contests and the like,” said Earl, “aside from the battlefield reenactment. Sure be nice to show those Yankees a thing or two.”

“We’ve talked this over, Earl and I,” Jesse said. “You could tent with us. Not necessarily joining the regiment-”

“No obligation whatsoever,” Earl said.

“-but getting a better perspective than the ordinary spectator,” Jesse said.

“And having some fun,” said Gordo.

“This weekend is out,” Roy said.

“Maybe later then,” Jesse said.

“When’s Lookout Mountain?” Earl said.

“This is a busy time for me in general,” Roy said.

From the way Earl and Jesse were looking at him, Roy knew they’d heard all about Globax.

“Help me with something for a second, Roy,” said Gordo, drawing him into the kitchen. He closed the door. “Might do to reconsider about Chickamauga,” he said. “Take your mind off things.”

“What things?”

“Come on, Roy. I know what you’re going through.”

“Do you?”

“Even worse, in my case-I was headed for promotion.”

“The fuck you were.”

“Huh?”

“Forget it.”

Gordo came closer, close enough for Roy to smell his boozy breath. “What’s that mean, the fuck I was?”

Roy didn’t say anything, probably wouldn’t have, if Gordo hadn’t repeated the question, a little louder, jabbing a finger at his chest this time, almost touching.

“The job was mine,” Roy said.

Gordo’s face got all confused. “You didn’t get fired?”

“You stu-” Did he himself appear to Barry, say, the way Gordo appeared to him now-slow, dull, out of it? He toned himself down. “Yes, I got fired. But before that, you were Pegram’s choice, I was Curtis’s. Curtis won.”

Gordo’s face went through another stage or two of confusion-Roy could feel him adding it all up-then returned to normal. “Curtis,” he said.

“Don’t start.”

“Were you ever going to tell me, good buddy?”

“Probably not. What difference does it make now?”

Gordo thought that over. “If it does, I’m not smart enough to see it.”

“Me neither.”

They shook hands.

“Come this weekend,” Gordo said.

“Marcia’s taking Rhett to New York.”

“With that Barry guy?”

“Someone else. To live.”

Gordo didn’t know what to say.

After they left, Roy called Marcia.

“You mean he’s not in his room?” she said. “We-I just got home.”

“Better come get him.”

“But how did he get there?”

Roy hung up, turned to Rhett.

“Why did you have to do that?” Rhett said.

“Think about it.”

“I’m not going.”

Roy went over, put his hand on Rhett’s shoulder. Rhett shrugged him off.

“There’ll be opportunities I can’t give you.”

“Why not? You’ve got a good job.”

Roy didn’t say anything: how would the truth help Rhett?

“Grant’s an asshole,” Rhett said. “Not an asshole like Barry, another kind.”

“How would you describe the difference?”

Rhett looked at him for a moment. Then he started laughing, loud unrestrained laughter of a kind Roy had never heard from him before. Roy caught a glimpse of what he might be like as a man.

A taxi pulled up outside, Marcia in the back. The driver honked.