“Stuff?”
“Briefs, Cheetos, the bottle.”
“Shit,” said Sonny Junior, “I forgot the briefs.”
“Did he let on?”
“I only saw him for a minute or two. All’s he went on about was that business of the name.”
“What name?”
Sonny Junior glanced back-Rhett was throwing punches at one of those mote-filled rays of light-lowered his voice: “Rhett’s name.”
That was that.
“I’ll give it back to you if you want,” Sonny Junior said. “Say the word.”
Roy said, “No. I would have sold it anyway.”
“Yeah?”
“But you’re going to live here.”
“I just might,” said Sonny Junior. He loosened the strings of his boxing glove with his teeth. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings.”
Sonny Junior pulled off the glove. They shook on it, arm-wrestling style.
Rhett approached.
“Uncle Sonny?” he said. “Can I try the drums?”
“Can you try the drums,” said Sonny Junior. “Does the pope shit in the woods?”
Rhett laughed. Sonny Junior helped him off with his gloves, led him toward the drum kit.
Roy went up to the house, entered his father’s bedroom, switched on the red light. No rat on the pillow this time, but everything else was the same, crumpled Cheetos packages and an empty bottle of Old Grand-Dad on the unmade bed, plus one or two balled-up tissues that Roy hadn’t noticed before. The old trunk was underneath. Roy pulled it out, a leather-covered trunk, the leather dry and cracked, wood showing through it. The key fit. He opened the lid.
First came thick sheets of what Roy took to be wax paper, although they were hardly waxy anymore. Roy removed them carefully. Under the bottom sheet lay a gun. An old gun, much shorter than Gordo’s reproduction musket; possibly a carbine, Roy thought, although he didn’t know much about guns. There was a word carved in the wooden stock: death.
Under the gun was another sheet of wax paper, and under that a small leather-bound book, this leather also dry and cracked, with RSH 1861–1865 burned on the front, possibly by some sort of branding iron. Roy opened it. The yellowed corner of the first page broke off in his hands, fluttered back down in the trunk. Roy turned the brittle pages. There was a lot of writing on the first few, very small and hard to read, then less and less. The last page had been torn out.
Roy knelt by the trunk, removed more wax paper, dug deeper. At the very bottom, he found a uniform, the gray faded almost white. It was a lot like Gordo’s uniform, or Lee’s or Earl’s or any of the others, but real. Roy couldn’t have said why. He ran his hand over the fabric of the jacket; wool, rough to the touch. The tip of his index finger caught in a frayed round hole on the left side of the chest. Roy started having air supply problems, maybe something from the wax paper. He went to the window, opened it, took a deep breath. Rhett and Sonny Junior were coming across the field, carrying fireworks.
Roy repacked the trunk, locked it, carried it out the front door to the car. As he put it inside, he heard a boom from the other side of the house, then another. The sound frightened the birds. They rose from their roosting places-bluejays and some small brown birds Roy didn’t know the name of-and flapped around in a circle. Then a crow flew up, a big one, and chased them out of the sky.
Roy went around the house.
“Time to get going,” he called.
Out in the field, Sonny Junior lit a match. He and Rhett jumped back. Another rocket went whistling high above, exploded in a green burst that would have looked pretty good at night.
Rhett and Sonny Junior came over, big smiles on their faces.
“Okay if I stay overnight? Uncle Sonny says it’s okay with him.”
“No,” Roy said.
“But I can’t go to school anyway.”
Roy shook his head.
“Some other time, killer,” said Sonny Junior. “You all’ll be back here real soon.”
Roy knew he’d never be there again.
Sonny Junior walked them to the car. Roy saw that Rhett had a box of firecrackers, let it go. Sonny Junior opened the passenger door for the boy. Something fell out. Sonny Junior picked it up.
“What’s this?”
“Furniture catalog,” Roy said. “I get to choose one of those chairs for my office.”
Sonny Junior looked them over. “Take the Cremona,” he said.
THIRTEEN
The phone woke Roy the next morning, before dawn.
”Roy?” said Marcia. “Where have you been?”
”Where have I been?”
“I must have called you five times yesterday. Have you got Rhett?”
“Of course I’ve got him. Didn’t Barry tell you?”
“We’re not speaking.”
“You’re not speaking?” It sounded like a line from some teenage movie.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Roy.”
“Rhett’s been expelled for the week-”
“You’re joking. I can’t even go away for two days without-”
“And my father died.” That part came out louder than Roy had intended. The silence that followed made it seem even more so.
“I’m sorry,” Marcia said.
“It’s all right. I took Rhett to the funeral.”
He heard Marcia letting out her breath, a long slow sigh, and could almost feel the pressure she was under. It made him a little sorry for her. He would do his best to take that pressure off, very soon. She and Barry not speaking was a good thing-further confirmation that they were finished. Roy checked the clock, sat up, started getting out of bed. This, he thought, the day of his promotion, could be an even bigger day than that if he handled it right.
“Why was he expelled?” Marcia said.
“It was partly my fault.”
“Your fault?”
“Why don’t I bring him over?” Roy glanced down at the bed, saw his rumpled pillow, and the other one, unused. “We can talk.”
“Now?”
“On my way to work.” He thought: Her head on that pillow tonight. And then some silly stuff: Champagne! The Cremona! “I’ll explain.”
“Explain what?”
“What I have in mind.”
Pause. “Are you all right, Roy?”
“Sure. Fine. Okay to stop in?”
Another long slow breath. “Okay.”
“Wake up, Rhett.”
