“A bit messy,” Roy said as Curtis followed him inside. “Lacking a woman’s touch.”
“Everywhere’s like that nowadays,” Curtis said, “women or not.”
Roy understood perfectly. “That’s a Yankee thing,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.”
They sat down at the kitchen table. Curtis sniffed the air.
“Overcooking problem,” Roy said.
“The reason I wanted to talk to you,” Curtis said, “one of the reasons, is I got a report that you haven’t taken advantage of the career counseling program.”
“You know about something like that?”
“I make it my business to.”
“That’s a kindness,” Roy said, adopting for the first time in his life one of his ma’s pet phrases. “But there’s no need to worry about me.”
“You’ve landed on your feet, then?” Curtis said.
“All set.”
“What as, Roy, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Roy sniffed the air. He too smelled smoke. “Be right back,” he said. He went down the hall, opened the living room doors, looked in. The smoke didn’t seem quite so thick now, but little fires flickered here and there, harmless. Roy stamped them out and went back to the kitchen. Curtis was looking through the diary of Roy Singleton Hill.
Roy didn’t like that. Roy plural.
“That’s the war diary of my ancestor, Roy Singleton Hill,” Roy said. “The writing is typical of the period.”
“Probably better than mine,” Curtis said.
“Yours?” Roy didn’t get that at all: Curtis was known for the quality of his memos.
“My ancestors’ writing,” Curtis said. “They were… on the scene too.”
“One of those facts of life,” Roy said.
“Definitely.”
They stared at each other across the table. Roy realized that if the conversation went a certain way they could come to blows. He knew himself now, knew the Roy inside: Curtis wouldn’t stand a chance. Too bad because Roy liked him, always had. But why was Curtis pushing him like this?
“Are you a reenactor now, Roy?” Curtis’s eyelid fluttered. “Like Gordo?”
“No.” He didn’t like the way Curtis said Gordo’s name.
“There are slave reenactors.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Big contingent going up to Chattanooga for the Lookout Mountain event.”
“And that,” said Roy. “You thinking of joining them?”
“I hadn’t seen the necessity.”
“What necessity?” Roy said.
“Of making sure the blanks get filled in.” Curtis turned to the end of the diary. “Did you notice how the last page is torn out?”
“Looks that way.”
“Did you do it, Roy?”
“This is my inheritance,” Roy said. “Why would I damage it?”
“Maybe you didn’t like what was written there,” Curtis said. “Have you read these final entries?”
“Scanned them,” Roy said.
“Scanned them?”
“Looked them over.”
Curtis nodded. “It’s history, a diary like this.”
“A part of it.”
“Living history-isn’t that what reenactors say they’re up to?”
“Don’t know about that.”
“Do you know about Fort Pillow?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“What have you heard?”
“What’s written in there. It was a Union fort on the Mississippi.”
Curtis read: “ ‘Twelve April, 1864, Fort Pillow. Best day of this
…’ “ Curtis struggled to make out a word. “ ‘… conflict so far. Forrest asks for unconditional’-I think that’s what it says-’surrender but they refuse.’ “ Curtis read that part in his normal, educated voice. But as he went on, he began sounding more and more like a dumb cracker. “ ‘And thems tauntin’ us from over the walls. So’s we charge down from the east and Thunder takes a ball in the neck. I got my finger on the blood vessel and keeps ridin’ until Thunder goes down. We comin’ in over the walls shootin’ and hollerin’. Now theys thinkin’ twicet bout not surrenderin’ but we has our orders from Forrest and they was to-’ “ Curtis looked up. “Which is where the diary ends.”
“Correct.”
“What happened after that?”
“They took the fort. I don’t know the details.” Roy found himself gazing at Curtis’s dark hand on the last remaining page of the diary. “Do you?”
“I’m not an expert,” Curtis said. He closed the book. “And I didn’t come to talk about this.”
“You came about career counseling,” Roy said. “And I told you-I’m all set.”
“There’s one other thing, some potential good news that I’m not really authorized to discuss.”
“Then don’t.”
“Concerning new developments at Globax.”
Roy shrugged.
“I understand your being bitter, Roy, but it won’t help to-”
“I’m not bitter. Quite the opposite.”
Curtis put the diary on the table. “The plan is to spin off a few of the less profitable divisions in the next few months, perhaps involving employee ownership, but you can’t breathe a word.”
Spin-offs, Globax-these were nonsense words to Roy, scarcely words at all. “No problem,” he said. He just wanted Curtis to leave.
Curtis was looking at him, as though trying to convey some message. Whatever it was didn’t arrive. He pushed the diary away.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Roy said.
Curtis rose. A moment for handshaking came and went. Roy walked Curtis to the door, Curtis sniffing a couple of times on the way. “Stay in touch,” Curtis said.
“Bye,” said Roy. He noticed it was night again, or still.
Roy went into the living room, stamped out the fires. After that, knowing he must be tired, he lay down on his bed, that bed made for two. He thought about calling Lee again, now that he was in uniform, but did not. He wasn’t going to beg, was all through with begging or anything close. Did Roy Singleton Hill beg? No. Roy Singleton Hill yelled that rebel yell, fired the Sharps carbine, used his finger to plug the bullet hole in his horse while he rode on and on, attacking all the time.
So he wouldn’t beg, or anything close. That would be a disgrace to the uniform. This basic understanding settled him down a bit, but failed to bring sleep, no matter how tired he must have been. He tried putting on “Milky White Way,” but the player in the bedroom wouldn’t work. None of the players were working; in fact, there was no electricity in general. Roy packed up his Confederate kit-gun, diary, canteen-went into the tiny backyard, lay down under the stars.
Except there were no stars, and nothing that resembled the night sky in any way. The city made noises all around him, Yankee noises. The air above seethed with them. Plus those brown heads waited down below. Roy knew what Lee would say: They occupied your dreams.
Roy got up. He went out to the street, put his Confederate things in the trunk of the Altima, drove away. A
