But Lee said: “Yes.”
Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, soft and steady, from somewhere down in the gloom. The sound grew louder, sharper. Lee stepped behind a tree, musket trained down on the meadow. Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, and out of the deep blue haze and into the soft angled light of the setting sun marched Sonny Junior in his uniform, a long gun over his shoulder. A drummer boy, also in gray, marched beside him. Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat: crisp and steady. The drummer boy’s slouch hat was a little too big, drooped some over his forehead, which was maybe why Roy didn’t recognize him until he and Sonny had almost reached the top of the meadow. Should have been the other way around, that too-big hat, should have been a clue reminding him of the too-big helmet on number fifty-six.
TWENTY-SIX
”Did I do wrong?” said Sonny Junior.
The fire glowed bright in his eyes, more dully on the buckles and bayonets of the Irregulars. They sat around the fire under a sky more starry than black, Roy on one side of Rhett, Sonny on the other. The question-like all the details that had come tumbling out of Rhett’s mouth, and Sonny’s-didn’t really penetrate. All that penetrated was that first, and only, embrace with Rhett, who was actually sitting a little closer to Sonny right now.
And the details? That part reminded Roy of his last year of high school Spanish, the year when English wasn’t spoken in class and he’d had to make guesses, island-hopping over fuzzy seas. Roy made his guesses: guessing that Rhett hated the new husband, his school, the tutors for English and math after school; hated Bermuda, or the cruise to Bermuda, where hated ties were worn at dinner, even by eleven-year-olds; hated Park Slope, New York, the kids and the way they talked; hated his mother. Then came a fuzzy patch with a call to Roy, where Sonny’s number had been left on the machine; a call to Sonny’s; and after that: action.
The action Sonny took: a bus ticket? a plane ticket? Sonny went and got him? The stories they told didn’t quite match. And on the crucial issue of whether Marcia had been told anything, and if so, what, Roy found out that Rhett had left a note, or Sonny had talked to her, or some other not very credible connection had been made. Roy didn’t care: the meaning of crucial was changing. Even under the old meaning, what harm could there be? It was only for the weekend, or a little longer.
“You did right,” Roy said.
Sonny Junior grinned, patted Rhett on the back. Rhett, staring into the fire, didn’t seem to notice.
“More to eat?” Lee said.
Rhett nodded.
“Hardtack or Slim Jim?”
“Slim Jim.”
Lee passed him one. They all watched him eat it, even Gordo and Dibrell, both half-drunk. The boy, in his uniform, leaning back on his drum, his skin smooth and golden in the firelight: they couldn’t take their eyes off him.
“He’s a natural,” Sonny Junior said. “Learned practically all the drum calls on the way up.”
“You know the drum calls, Sonny?” Roy said.
“Guy in the store showed me-basic stuff.”
“What do I owe you for the gear?”
“Don’t insult me, cuz.”
A flask went around again. Gordo, Dibrell, and Sonny drank; the others did not.
“I mean it,” Roy said.
“Me too,” said Sonny, taking a second hit, then another.
“Hey, new guy,” said Dibrell. “Save some of that for your superiors.”
Sonny gazed at Dibrell on the other side of the fire. He took one more swallow, longer than the others. “Superiors?” he said. “Way I count, you and me got the same number of stripes on our arm.” He flipped the flask through the flames to Dibrell, who made no attempt to catch it.
“You going to straighten him out, Lieutenant?” Dibrell said.
“It’s not a question of straightening out,” Jesse said. “There’s no way Sonny could know that changes in rank are voted on by the full regiment, and all recruits enter as privates, barring the odd exception.”
“I’m a private?” said Sonny Junior.
“Like Roy and Gordo,” Jesse said.
“And the little guy here?”
“Lee’s a corporal.”
“And I’m a private?”
“For the time being.”
“That sucks.”
“War means sacrifice,” Jesse said. His jacket was unbuttoned and the Star of David had worked free and now hung on the outside, picking up the fire’s glow. It caught Sonny’s eye. Roy saw he was about to say something, but at that moment Rhett slumped sideways, in Roy’s direction, fast asleep. Roy caught him, picked him up, carried him into the Mountain House.
An owl hooted, somewhere above. Roy laid Rhett on his blanket, covered him up with an extra blanket someone had brought, watched him sleep for a while. The owl hooted again, a long oo-oo-ooo that mixed in with the rat-a-tat-tat drumming that was going on in Roy’s mind, making a kind of song. Roy took off his hat, belt, brogans, lay down beside his son. The sound of voices came from the fire, but Roy couldn’t make out the words. After a while he couldn’t hear the sounds either. Rhett sighed in his sleep.
“Everything’s all right,” Roy said.
Rhett turned over. His hand brushed Roy’s shoulder, went still, gave it one little press, as though testing something. He was quiet after that.
Lying on his back, Roy saw the Milky Way. Something slid along it, blotting out stars in bird-shaped patterns that kept changing, wings going up and down. The song in his mind took up the beat. The words and melody leaked in from “Milky White Way.” Everything came together. The song was about a journey through time to put things right. That explained why it was so happy. Made perfect sense. He was happy too.
Roy heard feet running in the night. He may have been no more than a private, but he knew at once what was happening: Yankees come to take his son away. Hadn’t they already made off with his wife? He felt Rhett still beside him as he opened his eyes. A dark form loomed over him. They weren’t getting Rhett. Roy kicked out, heard a grunt of pain, rolled, came up with the carbine in his hands.
A man lay on the ground. “Don’ shoot,” he said. An unarmed man, not a Yankee, not in uniform at all, but Ezekiel, in his Bob Marley T-shirt and jeans.
Roy lowered the gun, felt the murderous urge within him subside, but slowly, as though there’d been a contest of wills inside his own head.
“I keep on havin’ to tell you not to shoot me,” Ezekiel said, “like one of them dreams happens over and over.”
“No one’s going to shoot anybody,” Roy said, his voice low. “What are you doing here?”
“You hurt my knee.”
“What do you expect, breaking into someone’s house in the middle of the night?”
“You calling this a house? You calling this breaking in when there’s hardly no walls?”
“Yes.”
“An’ how’s it your house? You said you was from Atlanta, hung with Ted Turner.”
Roy didn’t reply.
Ezekiel got up with another little grunt of pain.
“Quiet,” Roy said.
“Your roots is up here, ain’t they? What I thought from the very start.”
Roy nodded: he was home, no denying that.
“You and me needs to talk,” Ezekiel said.
“About what?”
