Something was digging into his leg. Another inhaler? He took it out. The cell phone.
Almost before he knew it he was calling Lee.
“I’m at home,” he said.
“Yes?”
Roy hadn’t worked out anything to say. “I wondered whether you’d like to come over.” Silence. “Or go out for coffee or something.”
“Outside 1863?” Lee said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Seeing each other not in the context of 1863, is that what you mean?”
“I guess so,” said Roy.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” Lee said.
“Why not?”
“I think you know.”
“I don’t,” Roy said. He followed that with something that shamed him as he said it, something he would probably have never uttered if that dream hadn’t shaken him up: “I thought you loved me.”
“I do.”
Roy waited for her to elaborate. She said nothing. He waited. Was she waiting too? What for? He clicked off.
The phone buzzed right away. She was going to clear this up. But it was Gordo, not Lee.
“Hey, Roy, been trying to reach you. Did you know your home phone’s out of order?”
“Must be some mistake.”
“Roy? Are you all right?”
“As rain.”
“You don’t sound too good.”
“Battery’s getting low.”
Pause. “Guess where I’m calling from, Roy?”
“Chickamauga.”
“Why would I be there now? I’m at Sippens Isuzu.”
“Trading in the Altima?”
“No, Roy, although I might, sooner rather than later-be getting a good deal now. I’ve started on the service desk.”
“You’re not making much sense, Gordo.”
“The job I was telling you about-Earl’s hired me.”
“He’s one lousy goddamned leader,” Roy said.
“Are you kidding?” said Gordo. “Sippens Enterprises made an after-tax profit of three million dollars last year-Earl showed me the books.”
“Who gives a shit?” said Roy. “I’m talking about in the field.”
Pause. “You all right, Roy?”
“What did I say the last time you asked?”
“Right as rain, something of that nature.”
“I’m saying it again.”
Roy heard Gordo take a deep breath; maybe he was having air supply problems too. “The thing is, Roy, I have it on pretty good authority that if you gave Earl a call he might be amenable to doing something for you too.”
“Lost me.”
“Call Earl,” Gordo said. “He’ll give you a job on the service desk.”
“And who would I be servicing?”
“Who would you be servicing? I don’t get you, Roy. The customers, the ones who bring their cars in for- Roy? What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Sounds like it’s coming from your end.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“An alarm maybe.”
Roy heard it now. He went upstairs. A high-pitched sound. Roy followed it into the living room, which was on fire.
“Roy? Roy? Everything okay?”
Or some other annoyance. Roy tossed the cell phone into the conflagration. Burn, he thought, burn until there’s nothing left but ashes, and out of the rubble would rise… what? Roy couldn’t find a good answer to that question. Then came a little vision from the future: Rhett’s face as he listened to the story of how the house he’d grown up in burned down.
The next thing Roy knew he had the garden hose pulled in through the window and trained on the fire, nozzle turned to maximum pressure. That got the flames angry; they swelled up, assuming individual personalities. Roy got angry too. He strode in among them, attacking the most belligerent first, shooting them down with water until they all flickered and died away. Smoke boiled up, filled the room. Roy ripped out the smoke detectors to stop the hideous noise, closed all the doors and windows, went into the bathroom.
He gulped water from the tap, splashed some on his face, glimpsed some disgusting loser on the shiny silver faucet. Could it be? Roy straightened, looked in the mirror, took in the shocking sight: a disgrace to the uniform, the heritage, the memory.
Roy stripped off his smoky, filthy underwear, had a long hot shower, shaved, had another shower, longer and hotter, then dried himself, combed his hair, shook on some powder, checked the mirror again. Better, but a long way from right. He put on the uniform: much closer. The disgusting loser was gone; the face, so weird before, was hardening into something he could live with. Roy left the bathroom-already moving in that free and easy way he had in his uniform-and smelled smoke in the hall. The intellectual part of him knew it was all that remained of the fire, now out. The soul part, to use Lee’s expression, recognized the smoke of his personal Atlanta, burned to the ground. He’d smelled this fire ahead of time, up at the Mountain House. Roy stuck his finger in the little hole in the jacket, worried at the threads. What else had she said about the soul part? Unconquered, unoccupied, waiting.
Someone was knocking at the door. Roy went to answer, preparing remarks about something left in the oven. He was feeling better now, better with every heartbeat.
“Nothing to worry about,” he began as he opened the door.
It was Curtis.
Curtis in the early morning, or possibly early evening. Roy couldn’t help staring, staring at that suit, that tie, that shirt, all so perfect, like a princely costume from an exciting era he couldn’t quite place. Curtis was staring at him too. Roy straightened his kepi.
“Maybe this isn’t a good time,” Curtis said.
“For what?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you, Roy.”
“Phone problems,” Roy said. “Very bad.”
“I couldn’t get you on email, either.”
“Nope.”
“Are you all right, Roy? Looks like you lost some weight.”
“Fatty tissue,” Roy said. He was going to add something about fighting trim, but reconsidered.
“I can’t help wondering about what you’re wearing,” Curtis said.
“Mutual,” said Roy.
“Can I come in?” Curtis said. “I’d like to talk.”
Roy was on the point of saying no, citing oven problems, when he happened to notice all the trash on his lawn. It confused him. “Why not?” Roy said. “You’re a good talker.” He motioned Curtis inside.
Curtis didn’t move. His eyelid fluttered, the way it sometimes did. “What do you mean by that?”
“I always liked hearing you talk,” Roy said. It was true. Curtis made sense, and when he got rolling he sounded like a preacher. Roy wondered whether he knew “Milky White Way.”
