Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“Hi,” the woman said to Roy, “I’m Tyla.”

“Roy,” said Roy.

“I like that name. Where you from, Roy?”

“Atlanta.”

“The big city.” She glanced back to the table where the other woman, also in a halter top, also with a tattoo, was watching. Some little eyebrow signal passed between them. “How about joining us for a drink?” Tyla said. “We got a big ol’ pitcher of Bud we could never finish by ourselves.”

“Five bucks says you could,” said Sonny.

Roy and Sonny joined the women at their table. On the way over, Sonny spoke in Roy’s ear: “Feel like gettin’ laid tonight, cuz?”

Roy shook his head.

“You’re too deep for me, Roy,” Sonny said, watching Roy as they sat down.

“Deep how?” said Tyla, pouring beer. “Roy, say hi to Tonya; Tonya, Roy.”

“Don’t see no ring on your finger, Roy,” said Tonya.

“Deep meaning he’s got a brain in his head, unlike some,” said Sonny. “Roy here’s my first cousin.”

“You never mentioned no first cousin, Sonny,” said Tyla.

Sonny paused, glass halfway to his lips. “You questioning my veracity?” he said.

“Not so’s I know,” said Tyla. “You never mentioned him is all. I can see you’re cousins with my own eyes.”

“You can?” said Sonny.

“Which one’s better looking, Ton?” said Tyla.

“They’re both pretty good-lookin’,” said Tonya. “But we all know Sonny Junior, and this one’s”-she patted Roy’s knee-“an unknown quantity.”

Tyla laughed, spraying just a little beer. “Unknown quantity-no such animal in a man.”

Tonya kept her hand on Roy’s knee, under the table; gave him a little squeeze, in fact. This was not the first knee she’d squeezed: there was something expert in her touch, sending a message that she already knew more than he did about his every bodily urge. He considered moving his knee away, but did nothing. “Got any tattoos on you, Roy?” she said.

“No.”

“I do.”

“If you say so.”

“If I say so? You blind or somethin’? Can’t you see this?” She thrust her breast at him.

“I can just make it out,” Roy said.

“And that’s only the half of it,” said Tonya.

“Give him a peek at the rest,” said Tyla.

“Want a peek, Roy?” said Tonya.

“Don’t go to a lot of trouble on my…”

Tonya, one hand on Roy’s knee, leaned toward him. He felt her weight. At that moment he thought of the emeralds, green like her tattoo, and everything started to go sour. But then her breasts rose up out of the halter top, and a little scene of a man and a woman-possibly two women-began to take shape. “Can you see right down to the bottom, Roy?” said Tonya, leaning forward more, her hand sliding up Roy’s thigh to support herself, her breast just inches from his nose. “That’s the best part.”

“It is,” he said, and heard the thickness in his voice. He foresaw a night with Old Grand-Dad and this woman’s flesh and no need to think a moment past that; a wild night with a stranger, the kind of night he’d never actually had, except maybe that once camping on Crystal Creek, and that was not a stranger but his wife-to-be.

“Don’t be shy,” said Tonya. “It’s art. Feast your eyes.”

Roy probably would have, suddenly seeing a night like this, or maybe many of them, as a way to get past the emeralds, past Marcia, past everything once and for all, to fuck his brains out, an expression he now understood, but at that moment the door opened and in walked Lee. Lee saw Roy right away, took in everything, went still.

”Does this look like a gay bar?” said Sonny Junior, not loud, but it didn’t have to be loud for everyone to hear in a little place like that.

“Easy, Sonny,” Roy said. His voice didn’t sound quite right. There was a strange undertone, almost a buzz, the threatening kind. Roy didn’t think: Must be the booze doing that; or stress; or booze on top of stress. It was much deeper than that: The gene is in me.

The room was quiet, the men at the bar watching. Tyla’s and Tonya’s eyes were open wide in alarm; their eyelashes were coated thick with makeup, their eyebrows plucked almost all away. Sonny Junior said, “Anything you say, cuz.”

Roy rose and went over to Lee.

“I’m interrupting something,” Lee said.

“Probably a good thing,” said Roy.

“I saw your car outside,” Lee said.

“Just passing by?”

Lee reddened. “I called your place again, heard the message on the machine, and came up here.”

“So it must be important,” Roy said, “whatever’s on your mind.”

“I wanted to thank you, that’s all.”

“For what?”

“The other night.”

“Comrades in arms,” Roy said. “No thanks necessary.” He glanced around, saw everyone watching. “Come meet my cousin.”

Roy took Lee over to the table, got an extra glass, introduced everybody. Lee nodded to the women, shook hands with Sonny. Sonny didn’t squeeze hard, Roy was watching, but all he saw was orange Cheetos powder spreading from Sonny’s fingers to Lee’s. Lee sat down between Roy and Tonya. Someone poured. Someone poured some more.

“Is that your bike outside?” said Tyla.

“Yes,” said Lee.

“Looks like a nice bike.”

“Thanks.”

“What kind is it?”

“Harley Sportster.”

“Oh yeah?” said Tonya, swinging around toward Lee. “Eight eighty-three or twelve hundred?”

“Twelve hundred.”

“Take me for a ride?” said Tonya.

“Sometime.”

“I like that name-Lee,” said Tonya. “Where you from?”

“Atlanta.”

“That how you know Roy?”

“We’re in the same regiment.”

“Regiment? Wouldn’ta taken you for military,” said Tonya.

“Civil War regiment,” Lee said.

“That sounds cool,” said Tonya. “Got any tattoos on you, Lee?”

“No.”

“I do.” She stuck her breast out at Lee.

Lee did something Roy wouldn’t have expected then, extending a finger, touching Tonya’s breast, tracing the beginning of the tattoo design, carefully, as though carrying out scientific fieldwork. Tonya’s mouth opened and stayed open, revealing crooked teeth with one or two gaps.

“Did it hurt?” Lee said, looking up at Tonya’s face.

Tonya licked her lips. “Did it hurt?” Another pitcher of beer appeared, and two fresh glasses of Old Grand-Dad. “No guy’s ever asked me that before. Nah, it didn’t hurt-I was so loaded I couldn’t feel a thing.” Tonya’s gaze rested on Lee’s face. “Know something? You’re the best-looking one of the bunch.”

“I second that emotion,” said Tyla, raising her glass, downing half of it.

“Isn’t he a mite scrawny for two big babes like you?” said Sonny.

“Scrawny?” said Tyla.

“Big difference between scrawny and lean,” said Tonya.

Sonny smiled at Lee across the table. “How tall are you, little buddy?”

“Five feet four inches,” said Lee.

“What do you weigh?”

“One hundred twenty-five pounds.”

“I’ve taken shits bigger’n that,” said Sonny.

It was quiet in the bar, and Lee spoke quietly. “That just makes you an especially big asshole.”

Sonny Junior went rigid: Roy could feel it, as though some powerful current had been switched on in the room. Then Sonny was up and on the move, brushing past Roy, keg chair topping backward. But not quite past Roy: Roy was up too, in his path. “Easy, Sonny,” Roy said.

Sonny grabbed Roy, lifted him right off the floor. “Three times now you’ve told me that,” Sonny said.

Roy looked in Sonny’s eyes-Sonny had pale eyes with red flecks in the blue-knew Sonny’d had him helpless like this once before, long ago in the barn. Eyes don’t change. As the memory stirred Roy went off, but inside, capped down tight; so tight that his voice sounded close to normal when he spoke: “I’ve got the gene too.”