Small Reward

FICTION Small Reward Jimmy Carl Harris HARRY'S NUMBER FIVE COUNTER WAS GONE, its socket covered by a skin graft. Every year, after a few drinks in the hotel bar, he'd hold up his four-digited lefthand and declare that it didn't matter, he stillhad enough for enumerating his rewards. Then he'd tick them off chronologically . Only losing a thumb on Peleliu. The house on Southside. Belle. Tina. Only once—it was the new rep from Nashville, at his first top salesmen convention—did someone note that Harry hadn't listed First States Casualty as something to be thankful for. The regional manager, aggressively into his cups, had pounced on the hapless freshman, noting that the thumb Harry needed for a five-count had been taken by the same bullet that pierced his best friend's brain. He went on to declare that Harry'd pushed enough policies to establish his loyalty to the company. Then, having reduced the new guy to a red-faced sputter of apology, hebought a round and proposed a toast to fallen comrades. The Nashville rep was permitted to hoist a glass because, at least, his National Guard unit had been called up during Korea. Exactly one month after V-J Day, Harry strode out of the L&N Station in Birmingham with enough mustering-out pay for one good party and a downpayment on ahome for Belle. Heboughtthe house severalweeks before the wedding—the only reason she married me, he always told people who knew them well enough to know better. It was already a mature house, a five-room bungalow of field stone, tucked into the eclectic Southside of similarly modest houses and near-mansions climbing Red Mountain. The house was situated so that the morning sun brought from it shades of brown and streaks of ocher. Harry was drawn to the solid comfort and security of this house of rock nestled in an enclave ofnarrow and twisting streets, sensed itwas a sort ofplace where the purr of lawnmowers would drive the scream of shrapnel from his mind. It would be, he told Belle, a great place to raise a family. His brideto -be agreed and began planning a garden of Jonquils and snapdragons. Harry had been on the road, buthe'd not forgotten. He wheeled his Buick into the parking place directly in front of the bakery and hurried inside. The old biddy behind the counter clucked at his request for a nice cake with no advance notice, but she complied, changing the 54 candle count on a three-layer red velvet with caramel icing. Harry had picked up a card in Montgomery and a gift in Tuscaloosa. He chewed a couple of Certs on his way home. Belle blew out thirty-six candles. She smiled at the ten-karat gold and ersatz gems of the bracelet, then became misty-eyed over the extra sentiment Harry had scrawled beneath Hallmark's pink and blue blather. She placed his hand on her swollen belly. "We won't lose this one. I can tell." Harry took the call and then dashed out with no explanation. Actually ran out on a million-dollar policy. When the client found out why, he signed anyway and sent flowers. Belle lifted the infant. "Harry, meet Tina. Our small reward for never giving up." The next morning, Harry traded his Buick convertible for a Mercury station wagon, a family man's car. He left his traveling companionbeneath the front seat of the Buick, a sour mash surprise for anyone who ended up with it. He swung by the hospital so Belle could see the tangerine and white magnificence in which she and Tina would be proudly displayed. Harry ended the day alone, slumped against the pristine naugahyde of the station wagon's couch-like front seat, glaring across his yards-wide expanse of 1959 sheet metal at a basement garage designed to shelter the narrow automobiles of the 1920s. Two days later, on their way home, Harry said the garage could be converted into a den and Tina could have her birthday parties there. The company plan sounded like a way to ensure college for Tina and a...