Southern Cross the Dog (28 page)

THERE IS ONE MAN, A
preacher, that sniffs around these parts, skimming up the poor souls. After days of trying, he'd managed to hunt me down. He come to me with his little black book and said that I was aggrieved, with my son lost and my wife ill, that if any soul needed comfort, it would be mine. Said the Lord was here to lighten my load if I was willing to let him. Then he opened up that little book, read some of I don't know what, then he said that God made man for living and dying both, that all that happens is part of the Lord's plan for me, and that we may all be rejoined in the kingdom of heaven, and on and on and on.

I told him that I surely wished that were true. But I am not a man for tall tales. My life is over. It begins and ends in the same place, where the past will keep happening.

And now it's you and me again, Etta. And there are days when I am here beside you, holding your hand, that a great lonesomeness falls upon me. But then there are those brief, stolen moments where you look on me with such kindness. Not love, but kindness. And in my mind's eye I can still see that cotton field, our bodies across each other, the scent of sweet clover in our lungs. And the grief becomes too much.

I look on you and I'm the one who has been left behind. Sometimes I can glimpse the world in which you live. It's a place better than this one—where our sons still live, and we are young, and your husband is a better man, strong, assured of himself, and not this damned fool beside you, holding out his nigger heart.

PART SIX

HOME

(1941)

R
obert fled through bristlegrass and acacia, along the hogback into a deep blue strath below the dell. There was no moon, only thatches of starlight through the cloudbreak. That morning he'd cut his beard with his knife, clearing the lice from his face and blooding the air. For days the Dog ignored the traps he'd laid—snuffling at the poisoned meat then loping into the bushes. No matter where he went, it was always ahead of him. He'd double back, change directions, but at every turn, he'd find evidence of its passing. A broken trail, paw prints in the soft black earth.

He had seen it only once. The third day out it rained, and the gulch he'd fled across had engorged. He pulled himself up to a weeded ridge—the powder of his rifle wet and clotted. He began to strip away his clothes, and as his shirt passed over his head, he saw two yellow eyes sheltered under the lantana. He did not move. They watched each other, the rain passing between them. His knife was on his belt, new and strange. He did not move.

The Dog yawned and flicked its tongue. After a while, it drew away. Robert drank his canteen empty then refilled it in the stream. Then he drank again, hungrily, his throat throbbing. When the rain stopped hours later, he continued, trying to avoid the fresh tracks in the mud.

Now the wind heeled through the grasses, his hair, his clothes. He shivered and his eyes began to water. The clouds broke and a lobe of moon cast down across a meadow. A hundred yards away, the forest began again, and he strained his eyes toward the darkness. Somewhere the Dog howled. It was ahead of him, how far he did not know. It howled again, lonesome and cold, sliding up through the gusts. The wind changed. It was on his back now and at once, the howling stopped.

He wiped the wet from his eyes and got to his feet. There, in the dark, he saw a shape. They regarded each other. He brought his rifle up slowly and leaned into the sight. It stepped toward him, then circled. His fingers were stiff in the cold and when the shot discharged, the barrel swung into the wind. He recharged the rifle, but the shape was gone.

There was a low whistle. He turned. Across the dell, a train ran along the blue hills—two lights racing behind skirts of dogwood and mayhaw. It threw up a steam plume above the forest, then disappeared around the bend.

He headed back into the forest and built a bivvy and a fire beside a fallen tree. He let himself sleep into the late morning before picking up the trail again. He headed north, northeast, toward the hills where the train came through. The Dog kept a pace ahead of him, a few miles at a time, resting in places, before continuing on again. It was mocking him. Soon the forest fell away, leading out to a grass valley and a dirt road along the train tracks. At the crossing, he found a mound of scat, jeweled with horseflies. It'd been left in the square of rails like an offering. A car came down the road and Robert stepped to the side. He waved it down.

It must've been a Sunday. Inside the car, a white family was in their church clothes. The woman was holding down her straw hat. The man had his blond hair standing on end from the wind blowing through it. There were two boys in the back, all stockinged and blue-eyed. They looked at Robert, disgusted.

You know where this road goes past these hills?

Town of Anguilla, the man said. He looked Robert up and down. It's got an ordinance.

Then the car sped off again.

Robert started walking.

Up the hill there was an old grain silo that hadn't seen use in some time. He pried his way in with a metal pipe and had a look around. The grain stores were eaten through and rotten with rats. The roof was falling apart so the ceiling was freckled with sky. He found a lamp with a little oil in it, and he broke it down to make a tiny fire pit there in the dirt. Then he slept with his back against a wall, the fire burning to keep the rats away. His sleep was dreamless and when he woke, it was already dusk. His throat was sandpaper, and coils of heat were searing his lungs. He stood himself up. His body felt like concrete. He picked up his gun, his pack—the whole weight of the world on a strap against his shoulder. He trudged on.

Three miles out, he could see where the town began—a cluster of clapboard buildings, run-down and slaughtered by the weather. There was music coming from one of the houses, something bright and full of longing. He followed it down the road and came to a juke house off the main road. Buckets of ice sat on the porch. Inside a Negro minstrel was sitting on a stool, working a cigar box in his lap. The front of it had been hollowed out and three steel cables stretched down from the top of a broom handle. The minstrel slid the back of a knife along the cables, making them sound. There were chairs arranged around him, a drunk splayed out on one of them, and on the side wall, the barman was chipping a block of ice into a tub. His shirtsleeves were rolled, and he looked up at Robert, wiped his mouth, and went back to his business.

Robert sat down at the counter and listened to the minstrel play. The man fretted the knife against the strings, rang the cables low and rusty, then glided into a high hum. Robert felt his soul rising out of him, leaving him empty.

When the music had finished, there came a loud snore. A man had passed out at one of the tables. The barman reached into a bucket for a piece of ice, then tossed it at him.

Jesus Christ, rise up, you son of a bitch.

He threw another.

The man jolted awake and squinted over at the counter.

It's near end of the month and you still haven't cleaned out that shithouse!

The man picked his head up. There was a deep bruise below his eye.

Hey, I'm talking to you, G.D.!

The man stood himself up and smoothed down the front of his shirt. He passed his fingers through his greasy hair. Robert watched him. The swing of his arm, the square of his jaw. The man crossed the room to a small cabinet, and he took a shovel and a kerchief. He tied the kerchief around his face so it was only two eyes then, two brown centers, the rest full of white, the dark angry slashes of his eyebrows.

Robert followed him out behind the jakes. He watched him get down on his knees and work open the pit door. The smell hit the man and he turned to suck clean wind. Then he cinched the kerchief tight over his nose and mouth and leaned into the pit, hacking down with the shovel head.

It'll be a while. You can go across the way, the man said.

You don't remember me, Robert said.

The man struck the shovel down hard so that it stuck and stood himself up. G.D. pulled down his kerchief and balanced himself against the frame. His face was bright with sweat. He was looking into Robert's face, squinting, his brow beetling. Flies buzzed drunkenly on the rim of the pail. It took minutes but when G.D. recognized him, he let out a loud laugh and threw up his arms.

THE BARMAN SCOWLED WHEN HE
saw G.D. come in again. He shifted a wash rag back and forth between his hands. Then he smacked it hard against the counter.

You do like I tell you with those jakes?

G.D. ignored him. He went up on his toes and reached for a bottle of shelf whiskey on the wall. The barman grabbed his hand.

Drink's for those who can pay. Not drag-ass layabouts, G.D.

G.D. squinted into his face. He smiled broadly.

I said I'd clear them, so I'll clear them. I got a friend come see me just now.

He pointed with his chin and the barman looked at Robert, the rifle slung around his shoulder. The barman eased off his grip and G.D. wriggled his arm free. He gathered up the bottle and two glasses, and he and Robert set themselves down at an empty table. G.D. poured and they clinked their glasses, though they never said to what. The whiskey was hot and sharp, and it bit hard against Robert's throat. Tears rose to his eyes. G.D. looked at him and laughed.

So what? You some kind of bad man on the run from the law?

Robert shook his head. Just passing through.

Like the rest of us. G.D. nodded solemnly at his joke. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward.

Look at you. All growed up.

He smacked his hand hard against the table, then lifted it up slowly. He grinned at the squashed fly in his palm.

Well, you can see I'm doing well for myself, he said. He wiped his hand across his trousers. There was a long pause. His mood seemed to darken. He refilled their glasses and they drank again.

He leaned back on his chair so that it rested on two legs. He was talking, but Robert could not make out all the words. G.D. couldn't stop his mouth running. His talking circled on itself, never touching on anything straight. His long muscular arms gestured widely, described the room, punched the table, stabbed his finger at the air.

He talked quickly, heatedly. Robert could feel the eyes in the room bend toward them.

The barman told him to quiet down.

G.D. scowled. He threw the empty bottle toward the bar, smashing it against the wall. Suddenly everyone was rushed outside.

It was night then. Warm. Clear. There were so many stars.

A circle had formed around G.D. and the barman. Robert stood at the edge.
Just like when we were kids,
he thought. For a time the two men danced around each other, the crowd goading them on. G.D. jabbed wildly before the barman plugged him once across the jaw.

G.D. straightened, dazed. The man hit him again. G.D. took a hesitant step back and sat himself down.

The barman wiped his face and spit. He looked at Robert. Take him home, he said.

As the crowd made their way back inside, Robert lifted G.D. to his feet, holding him under his arm. He jammed a kerchief against G.D.'s battered nose. G.D. muttered something, then pointed down the road with a limp finger. Robert looped his arm around G.D.'s back, his shirt sticky with another man's sweat, and walked him toward his home.

G.D. lived out on a shotgun to the north of Anguilla about a mile from any of his neighbors. Robert could see it in the distance, sitting under all that sky, the land choked with creepers. The grass was hard-packed, gritty, dead. There was a light on in the window, and by the way it blinked he could tell there was someone inside, waiting on him.

They got to the porch and G.D. said, You'd better stay the night.

The blood had backed up into his nose, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and cottony.

Robert took him inside where a woman was waiting to collect him.

He's had too much, Robert said. The woman made no answer.

She was small, slender, beautiful. There was a streak of silver in her hair. G.D. grabbed her and kissed her roughly on the mouth. Then he stumbled over to the couch and laid himself out, boots and all. She snuffed the candle and climbed in beside him, paying no mind to Robert.

Robert did not recognize her right then. There was the vague tug inside of him, a sense that something important was happening. He ignored it, put it off on being still a little drunk. He thought about leaving, trying to get ahead of the Dog. Instead he went into the kitchen, where he set down his things and spread out his coat. He could hear them moving in the other room, the wood creaking under their shifting weight, G.D.'s night sounds. Robert lay down on the stiff fabric; the ceiling was turning. It dawned on him that this was where the Dog had been leading him. All the miles and roads and wearied passways had been laid for him in advance. He put his arm over his eyes and felt the blood in his face.

IT WAS MORNING AND ROBERT
lay there, awake but not moving. He heard the woman talking to herself, softly. He roused up his head and peered down into the next room. She was squatting on the balls of her feet, working a soapy rag across the floor. He saw her from behind, the morning light streaming in through the door. He watched her work, her round bottom bobbing, the blades of her shoulder flexing. She laughed lightly, chided herself, and then started to whisper.

Robert sat up and cleared his throat.

She turned toward him, startled.

Her mouth hung open. She looked down at the rag, folded the corners into its center, and then looked back up. Her hands were thin and slender, passing a slip of hair behind her ear. She looked like she was about to say something, but instead, she wiped her forehead and gathered the rag again and started polishing the wood.