Roy’s middle, made him feel sick. But it could have been worse, could have been to the head, and Roy was landing one of his own at the same time, the first punch he’d thrown since childhood.
Vandam’s nose made a crunching sound, or maybe Roy just felt the crunch in his hand. Then came blood, black in the moonlight, and Vandam staggered back.
“Enemy in camp,” he called. “Enemy in camp.”
Roy snatched Lee off the ground, flung him over his shoulder, took off for the woods. A man with muttonchop sideburns-Captain Peterschmidt-stepped out of a tent, in Roy’s path.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said, fumbling a set of earphones off his head.
“Isn’t this on the schedule?” Roy said, and went right by him, past the tents, across the open field, into the trees, stronger than he’d ever been, dizziness gone, head pain gone, vision restored to its new hyperclarity.
“I’m okay,” Lee said when they were safely in the woods, his lips close to Roy’s ear. “You can put me down.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
Roy put Lee down. The crowns of the trees blocked the moonlight. There was no sound of anyone following them, no sound at all but the very soft one of fingertip ridges on rough wool. Roy knew what that had to be: Lee buttoning up his jacket. That brought back to Roy’s mind an image he’d seen for only an instant, an image his mind might not have registered, what with all the commotion. What had he seen when Vandam’s tackle from behind had popped open Lee’s jacket? Only a moonlit glimpse, but the memory was clear in Roy’s mind, he had it now: breasts; soft, pale, unmistakable.
Was Lee waiting for him to say something? He said nothing. There was no more talk. Roy and Lee walked in single file through the woods, Roy leading. They rounded the campfire, now dying, the two pickets asleep side by side, wrapped in their blankets, just touching. Roy heard the beating of heavy wings overhead.
TWENTY
The first thing Roy did when he got home Sunday morning-the commanders on both sides sending all the offenders out of camp for violating USV safety regulations-was check the machine for messages from Rhett. Four- oh-four: Rhett had written the area code on his hand. But there were no messages, none from Rhett, none from anyone else. After that, Roy sat at the kitchen table. For company he had the stack of bills he couldn’t pay, a critical mass ticking silently away, getting ready to blow up house, car, all his material things. He also had the sheet of paper with House Projects on one side and Bills and $ on the other. After a while, he crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash. He noticed a Popsicle stick in there, down at the bottom. Roy didn’t eat Popsicles; Rhett did. Roy reached in, took out the Popsicle stick. There were teeth marks on the end, not big. Roy put the stick in a coffee mug on the shelf.
He took off his uniform, folded it, laid it on the bed, went into the shower. He didn’t shave. Why bother? He opened his closet, the closet he’d shared with Marcia, now three-quarters empty, looked for something to wear. Nothing appealed; not that Roy wanted something new, more fashionable-he’d never been like that-but these clothes, the cotton shirts from the Gap, the khakis from some catalog, the jeans from another, didn’t quite seem like his. In some way, they weren’t even clothes, more like costumes from a play, a drab one he wouldn’t want to see. Roy took a few aspirin for his headache, pulled the shades, and got into bed.
He dreamed he was reading the war diary of Roy Singleton Hill, the cracked leather one with 1861–1865 burned into the cover. There was no writing in it, not even the dates, only red fingerprints, the whorls and ridges sharp and defined, page after page.
Roy woke up in his darkened room. The first thing on his mind was the missed career counseling session. The thought was accompanied by a little spasm of anxiety that got him up and out of bed. He raised the shades to let light into the room, to get him started on making plans. But no light came in-it was night, as dark outside as in. What night? It took him a minute or so to straighten the time out in his mind.
Roy gazed out at the houses, the street, the traffic. All those people, watching TV, talking on their cell phones, doing the things everybody did-he was losing his feel for them. For example, the term career counseling: why didn’t it make them sick, the way it was making him?
No answer to that one. Then came another question: Anything left in the Old Grand-Dad bottle? There was. Roy poured himself some, then made the mistake of letting his gaze wander to the fridge, more specifically to Rhett’s football paintings taped on the door. Number fifty-six in his big helmet: the next thing Roy knew, he was up in Rhett’s room, making an even bigger mistake.
Rhett’s room, with the new shelves, still smelling slightly of varnish, and the Pop Warner trophy with the hard-charging plated figure on top. Roy left it there. He wasn’t after the trophy, just the highlight tape lying next to it. He went
downstairs, stuck it in the VCR.
Music: the theme from Rocky.
The Renegades, at home, wearing their red jerseys and green pants. Number fifty-six, at outside linebacker, takes two steps to his right, falls down, and the ball carrier falls over him. Fifty-six, on the sideline, listens to the coach, who stands over him, hand on his shoulder pads, then turns and runs at full speed into the huddle.
The Renegades, on the road, in their white jerseys with the green pants. Fifty-six, after a twenty-five-yard run, helps chase down the opposing running back, is second or third on the tackle. The running back, getting up, says something to fifty-six that fifty-six doesn’t like. Roy can tell by the way fifty-six goes still for a moment before joining the defensive huddle; he hadn’t noticed that the only other time he’d seen the tape, a few weeks after the season.
The Renegades, at home against a team in brown and gold. The brown-and-golds have the ball on their own six- or seven-yard line. Some mix-up between the center and the guard and then the quarterback fumbles the snap. Fifty-six, at outside linebacker, although he’s lined up wrong, pinched in too close to the middle-in fact, Roy remembered thinking Get outside, get outside, they’re going to burn you because he’d seen the guard starting to pull-grabs the ball on one hop. More accurately, it jumps right into his arms. There’s a pause, a pause that feels very long, none of the players reacting, including fifty-six. Then-another thing Roy hadn’t caught before-comes a voice from the sideline, very faint: “Run.” Fifty-six comes to life, runs into the end zone, runs right through it actually, as though not quite sure where he is, almost collides with a woman walking by with a hot dog, then slowly turns just in time to be mobbed by his celebrating teammates. They all fall down. The camera makes a wild sideways and up move toward the scoreboard, briefly catching Roy on the sidelines. The theme from Rocky comes to its climax, the screen goes blank.
Roy rewound the tape to that shot of his own face, froze it there. There was absolutely no expression on his face, which couldn’t be right-he remembered what he’d been feeling inside. He remembered that, although he didn’t remember shouting Run even though that was his own voice on the tape. His voice beyond doubt, despite the thing he had about parents who shouted instructions to their kids on the field. Roy turned off the sound, watched the tape again, from the start.
And again. Once more. And once more after that. The best part was the moment fifty-six, football in both hands like something precious, begins to turn at the back of the end zone. The woman with the hot dog is off balance, the hot dog raised high, a blob of relish flying away, and the sun penetrates the shade of fifty-six’s oversize helmet enough to reveal the beginning of a smile. I picked up that fumble. Roy froze the smile right there, went closer to the screen to check it out. The smile turned into an arrangement of pixels.
Later, the Old Grand-Dad gone, Roy went back to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come, not close. No sleep, but a dream began anyway, the dream of red fingerprints in a diary, page after page. Roy didn’t like that, sleepless dreaming. That wasn’t him. He got up, went into the kitchen, drank water. The wonderful water he’d drunk from a canteen at Chickamauga, almost like a food, the water of 1863? This wasn’t like that at all. He opened the trunk, rooted around for the diary, opened it.
The diary was damaged, the leather cracked and flaking, the stitched binding loose in places. Now that he looked closely, Roy saw that a number of pages in the front seemed to have come loose and fallen out in their entirety; at the back, the last page had been torn out, leaving a narrow blank margin still attached to the binding.
