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That night, while his mother and sister were discussing the two of them in the kitchen, Willie asked Grandfather again—just to see if it jibed with earlier stories—what the weather had been like at Gettysburg.
Grandfather rubbed a finger beneath his nose, as if feeling for stubble, and ruminated. “Day One, cloudy and mid-70s. Not bad. Day Two, partly cloudy and 81. Still not bad. Day Three, the day of Pickett’s Charge, 87 degrees with the sun beating down on us like a hammer. And remember, we were in wool uniforms. We all stank of sweat.”
The weather report matched. So far so good. “Were you really there, Grampa?”
“Yes,” said Grandfather with no hesitation. He passed his finger below his nose and above his lip, then began to pick his remaining teeth with a yellow fingernail, extracting a few filaments of roast beef. “And lived to tell the tale. Many did not. Want to know about July 4th, Independence Day? People tend to forget that one because the battle was over.” He didn’t wait for Willie to answer. “Pouring rain, boot-sucking mud, men crying like babies. Lee on his horse—”
“Traveler.”
“Yes, Traveler. His back was to us. He had blood on his hat and the seat of his britches. But not his blood. He was unwounded. That man was the devil.”
Willie picked up the bottle on the windowsill (Heinz Relish on the fading label) and tilted it from side to side, enjoying the dry rustle of the dead fireflies. He imagined it was like the sound of the wind in graveyard grass on a hot July day.
“Tell me about the flag boy.”
Grandfather passed his finger between nose and lip. “You’ve heard that story twenty times.”
“Just the ending. That’s the part I like.”
“He was twelve. Going up the hill beside me, Stars and Bars flying high. The end of the pole was socked into a little tin cup on his belt. My mate Micah Leblanc made that cup. We were halfway up Cemetery Hill when the boy got hit spang in the throat.”
“Tell about the blood!”
“His lips parted. His teeth were clenched. In pain, I suppose. Blood squirted out between them.”
“And it gleamed—”
“That’s right.” The finger took a quick swipe beneath his nose, then returned to his teeth, where one pesky filament remained. “It gleamed like—”
“Like rubies in the sun. And you were really there.”
“Didn’t I say so? I was the one who picked up the Dixie flag when that boy went down. I carried it twenty more running steps before we were turned back not a stone’s throw from the rock wall the bluebellies were hiding behind. When we skedaddled, I carried it back down the hill again. Tried to step over the bodies, but I couldn’t step over all of them because there were so many.”
“Tell about the fat one.”
Grandfather rubbed his cheek—scritch—then under his nose again—scratch. “When I stepped on his back he farted.”
Willie’s face twisted in a silent laugh and he clutched himself. It was what he did when he was amused, and whenever Roxie observed that knotted face and self-hug, she knew he was weird.
“There!” Grampa said, and finally dislodged a long strand of beef. “Feed it to the fireflies.”
He gave the strand to Willie, who dropped it on top of the dead fireflies in the Heinz jar. “Now tell me about Cleopatra.”
“Which part?”
“The barge.”
“Ah-ha, the barge, is it?” Grandfather caressed his philtrum, this time with his fingernail—scritch! “Well, I don’t mind. The Nile was so broad we could hardly see across it, but that day it was as smooth as a baby’s belly. I had the rudder…”
Willie leaned forward, rapt.
On a day not long after the roast beef and the mashed potatoes that made a clown face, Willie was sitting on a curb after a rainstorm. He had missed the bus going home again, but that was all right. He was watching a dead mole in the gutter, waiting to see if the rushing water would wash it into a sewer grate. A couple of big boys came along, trading arm punches and various profane witticisms. They stopped when they saw Willie.
“Look at that kid huggin’ himself,” one said.
“Because no girl in her right mind ever would,” said the other.
“It’s the freako,” said the first. “Check out those little pink eyes.”
