“So put that thing away.”
“I think he’s awake,” said the Northerner.
“Are you awake?” said the Southerner.
Roy sat up. That made the pain in his eyes spread through his head but he stayed sitting up, even considered standing.
“Whoa, there,” said the Northerner. “What’s his name, again?”
“Roy,” said the Southerner. “He’s a new recruit.”
“Why don’t you just lie back down, Roy,” said the Northerner.
“I’m fine like this,” Roy said.
“The major wants to examine you,” said the Southerner. He patted Roy gently on the shoulder. “Heard a lot about you, Roy. I’m the surgeon with the Twelfth Georgia-everybody calls me Doc.”
“You haven’t put that thing away, Doc,” Roy said.
The lantern shone yellow on the pointed teeth of the instrument. Doc laid it in a wooden box at his feet, giving Roy a quick glimpse of other sharp things inside. “I was just showing the major some of my things, Roy-he’s a doctor with the Second Connecticut.”
“Lie back down, son,” said the major. “This won’t take a moment.”
“No need,” Roy said, standing up instead, but the lantern light got unsteady right away, and Roy sat back down, maybe with some help from Doc.
“Easy, Roy,” he said. “You got dinged pretty good there.”
Roy raised his hand, felt the bandages around his head. His first thought was a weird one: Sonny Junior. Then he smelled piss. Then it started coming back to him.
“Might have a slight concussion,” said Doc.
“You a doctor?” Roy said.
“How do you mean?” said Doc.
“How do I mean? I mean a real doctor.”
“Real in the sense of…?”
“What you do for a living-that sense.”
“When I’m not with the regiment?”
Roy nodded. It hurt.
“I’m currently between jobs,” Doc said. “But I used to be a bartender at the downtown Ritz.”
“So what makes you think I have a concussion?”
“The major said so.”
Roy turned to the major. “You’re the maitre d’?” he said.
The major laughed. No way he was the maitre d’. Younger than Doc, who was kind of distinguished looking, with those wings of silvery swept-back hair long-ago movie stars had, the major was scruffy; unshaven, with acne scars and a blackhead on the tip of his nose. “I’m a neurologist at Columbia-Presbyterian,” he said.
“Where’s that?”
“New York.”
Roy sensed some kind of conspiracy. “You know Dr. Nordman?”
“Who’s he?”
“Grant Nordman. Another doctor from New York.”
The major shook his head. “There are thousands of doctors in New York.”
“This one beat you to the punch,” Roy said.
“I’m sorry?” said the major.
“Never mind,” Roy said. But that wasn’t strong enough, and besides, his eyes hurt and his head hurt. He revised it to: “Never fucking mind.” He gave the major a look.
“Maybe you should lie back down for a minute or two,” the major said.
“How stupid do you think I am?” Roy said.
“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” the major said.
“Then why would I trust a Yankee doctor?”
The major and Doc exchanged a glance. “Think he’s still in character?” said the major, lowering his voice.
“Because of the blow to his head?” said Doc, lowering his even more.
“Exactly.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” said Doc. “Like a whole movie, right there.”
“I think it’s been done,” the major said. They gazed down at Roy. “Ever play football?” the major asked Roy in a normal voice.
“Tight end,” said Roy. “I had a touchdown against LSU but they called it back.”
“LSU?” said Doc. “Who did you-”
“Ever get your bell rung?” said the major.
“Yeah.”
“How many times?”
“One or two.”
“Three or four, maybe?”
“I refuse to answer any more questions,” Roy said.
He lay back. The lantern began to swing slightly. Or maybe not: maybe it was just the shadows of Doc and the major sliding back and forth on the canvas walls. Or maybe something else. Roy closed his eyes. He saw black clouds in an orange sky. Smoke and fire. Atlanta.
Silence, except for the faint sound of the burning wick, like shredding cloth, far away. Then an owl hooted, very near. When had he last heard an owl? Roy couldn’t remember-possibly never, except on TV. He listened hard, hoping to hear it again. That effort, of listening hard, led him to imagine some connection between the owl and him, as if they were in this together, and the owl knew it too. He felt one of those strange new moments of almost being at peace coming over him.
“He’ll be all right,” said the major. “Time for the pig roast.”
“Dinty Moore for us,” Doc said. “More authentic.”
“Dinty Moore?”
“Authentic looking anyway.”
“Like that lantern’s authentic?” the major said.
“They had lamp oil,” said Doc.
“Not in the field. Much too heavy for the sutlers to cart in. But they did have pigs.”
“Maybe you,” Doc said. “We were starving.”
The wick made its shredding sound.
When the major spoke again, his tone was gentler. “Sorry about Vandam,” he said. “He pulled a stunt like this last summer at Antietam.”
“What’s his problem?”
“He and a few of the hard-core guys overdo it sometimes. They spend the winters getting all worked up at a bar he’s got in Hoboken.”
“What’s that like?”
“Hoboken? Kind of happening now, in parts.”
“I wonder if he’s hiring,” Doc said.
The owl hooted, a long, drawn-out sound that ended in a coo. Roy thought he heard owl breath after that. Then silence.
He felt something cool on his forehead. He pictured a hand, a cool hand: his mother’s when he was home sick.
“Roy? Are you awake?”
A woman’s voice: Marcia? Oh, that would be nice. But it wasn’t Marcia, wasn’t a woman he knew.
“No,” Roy said.
“I thought I heard you singing,” she said. “Something about the Milky Way.”
“Not me,” Roy said, and opened his eyes. He realized at once that he’d been dreaming this whole exchange,
