Lost

by Devon, Gary;

  On the far side of the creek, some distance behind him, the Chinaman staggered up through the weeds and fell. And the cry rose again, an anguished throb in the air.

  Feeling weak in his knees, Sherman ran back across the stones. “Boy,” he said, “what’sa matter?” He reached for him but the dog drew his head back and growled. “It’s me! Chinaman, it’s me! What’s wrong? It’s too dark down here. I can’t see you, where’s it hurt?” But the black muzzle wrenched upward in yet another wail.

  At first, Sherman couldn’t grasp what had happened or what the trouble was. In the dark seeping light of the ravine, nothing showed. It seemed inconceivable to him that the Chinaman was really hurt. Slowly, speaking quietly, he was able to pat the dog and finally his arm went around the Chinaman and his hand fell across a wet, warm patch of fur. “Boy,” he said softly. “She hit you, didn’t she? It musta been that woman, that crazy old woman. You got shot.” He smelled the blood on his hand. The realization sank into him, deeper and deeper. Trembling, he looked frantically around. “We can’t just stay here,” he said.

  High above, through the wilderness of branches, the cold sky was gradually filling with light. Little by little, the shadows were abandoning the creek bank. Sherman withdrew his arm from the dog and stood. “Chinaman, get up. We have to wash you off. I’ll take care of you. C’mon, now, get up.” He backed away, still coaxing, and on the second try the Chinaman rocked upright on his paws. Pulling his shirttail from his pants, Sherman tore loose a wide strip of the cloth.

  “Chinaman,” Sherman said, “you’ll be okay.” Again he dipped the torn piece of shirt in the cold running creek, and a stain of blood darkened the water. He shook out the rag, folded it, and started to hold it against the Chinaman’s black chest, but the dog wouldn’t stay still. He squirmed and whimpered, trying to wipe at the hurt places with his big tufted paw. “Hold still,” Sherman said. “Come on, boy. Lemme look at you.”

  But everywhere Sherman looked now—across the dog’s face and shoulders, and down along his forelegs and chest—the Chinaman was bleeding. Only his back and hindquarters had been spared, and they glinted with long, thin slivers of glass. At least some of the blast from that old woman’s gun had caught the Chinaman as he stood at the windowsill. It looks bad, Sherman thought, wringing out the rag once more. It’s real bad.

  All over the Chinaman’s stubby nose and around his slanted eyes, the hair was cut in a web of bloody markings, and from the cuts bits of glass protruded, sparkling like ice. Grasping the worn collar with his bandaged hand, Sherman wiped the dog’s face with the cold rag and shook it out over the water, and the glass slivers fell with hardly a sound. He worked carefully, edging the glass out with the pointed end of the cloth, then shaking the cloth out and dipping it into the creek and beginning where he’d left off until his hand stung with the cold water. But he couldn’t get all the glass, the cuts were too many.

  There were other places, too, where the skin was hardly punctured and the blood just trickled out, and near them, Sherman could feel the lead pellets, hard foreign matter, lying under the skin. One place was particularly bad, a deep, torn wound on the Chinaman’s chest below the collarbone. There the skin was ripped open in a loose bleeding flap, but when Sherman tried to examine it, the dog snarled and bared his teeth. And Sherman backed off.

  In the far distance, the sun had risen a little higher; somewhere, dimly, one lonely rooster still crowed. Maybe you’ll feel better now, Sherman thought. Things always seemed different in the daylight. “Get a drink,” Sherman told him, and the Chinaman clambered up on his paws and padded to the edge of the creek, lowered his head, and drank. But he was still bleeding and he seemed more and more unsteady on his legs. Sherman stayed close to him, talking to him. “Damn that crazy old woman. See what happened? See what you caused? Now you’re hurt real bad.”

  An uprooted tree had fallen across the creek, and Sherman climbed it to its highest point and looked around. He didn’t know where he was. A sharp wind blew down the creek, sending eddies of water before it. “By nighttime, it’ll be freezin’,” he said. Behind him, on the ground, the Chinaman moaned and swiped at his face with his paws, and Sherman scrambled down to him. “Don’t do that,” he scolded, “Chinaman, don’t do that. I know it hurts. I’ll get you something.” He took up the rag and went back to work on the dog’s face, thinking, I don’t know what to do. The Chinaman sat very rigid under his hand, panting, whining, his weird trusting eyes gazing at Sherman through the web of cuts. “I wish you could talk.”

  With his good hand, Sherman scooped the slate-tasting water to his mouth and drank. Time was getting away. “We gotta find a town and get you some help.” He splashed a last cold handful of water on his face and wiped his eyes with his jacket sleeve.

  Not far away, car tires slip-slapped back and forth on a bridge. That would be a road. “Come on, boy. We gotta get over there. You hafta try. You’re too big to carry. C’mon. C’mon.” And together they followed the creek bank until it leveled beside a tended field and the Chinaman didn’t have to climb the embankment.

  At the end of the field was the road, and farther away a white steeple broke the rim of wintry branches. Crossing that bare strip of land seemed interminable; over and over Sherman stopped and talked to the Chinaman, went to his knees and patted him. Out on the road the few passing cars flew by like rockets. Somewhere, Sherman thought, on some road, that woman’s getting away. He could follow her in his mind—the road signs, the little towns flying away behind her speeding car.

  They came to the town and Sherman read the sign, DOOLITTLE FALLS POP. 530, and turned in at the first gas station. Among stacks of tires piled outside, he stooped and coaxed the Chinaman to lie down. “Stay here,” he said. “Stay right here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Then he went into the garage and said to the man, “My dog’s been hurt. I don’t know what to give him. Is there somebody in town where I could take him? Some doctor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then’ve you got anything to help him out?”

  The man asked what was wrong with him.

  “He got in some glass and cut himself up,” Sherman said. “He’s bleedin’ pretty bad.”

  “No, sir, there’s nothing here,” the man said, and went back to his work. Sherman stepped into the display room, and as he passed a dusty glass counter of cigars and candy bars, he noticed some tins of aspirin. Returning to the doorway, he said, “D’you think some aspirin would help him?” And the mechanic came forward wiping his hands. “Might,” he said.

  “Lemme try some,” Sherman said and laid his dime on the counter.

  Hobbled and weaving, the Chinaman had wandered to the edge of the drive by the time Sherman went outside. He had to lead the dog back among the piles of tires. “Here,” he said, “just wait a little bit longer. This’ll help you.” But he couldn’t get the aspirin tin open. At last he set it on edge and hit it with a rock until the small metal box sprang apart. Some of the pills crumbled under the impact, but from the smashed remains Sherman picked out an undamaged pill. He held it on the ends of his fingers and said, “Here, Chinaman, take this.”

  The dog sniffed at the aspirin and turned his head.

  “Come on, Chinaman, take it. This won’t hurtcha. You’ll feel better.”

  Again that terrible cry rose from the dog, building louder and louder, tearing through Sherman’s nerves like a drill, but there was nothing he could do to stop it—the sound went on and on, and he just had to wait until it ended. He kept patting him, catching glass slivers in his bandaged hand and flinging them off. Finally he clasped the Chinaman’s nose and forced his mouth apart and set the aspirin back on his tongue. And some time after that, the Chinaman leaned into him and settled down against his leg.

  It’s okay, he thought; we have to rest anyway. Slowly his pants leg, where the Chinaman’s head lay against it, grew bloody, but he didn’t move his leg. From behind the tires, Sherman listened to cars pulling into the drive for gas, heard la
ughter, heard the mechanic remark about the hellish weather, the deer count, and the minutes ticked by irreversibly. It had taken them all night to get just this far. Sitting there leaning back against the tires, Sherman closed his eyes for just a minute. With his arm around the Chinaman, feeling the dog’s heartbeat under his hand, he dozed.

  He awoke with the dog breathing on his face. He didn’t know how much time had passed. The Chinaman whimpered and nuzzled his cheek like his old self, but the wet blood hung matted on his chest in a frightening bib. Just seeing it made Sherman feel queasy and anxious. “Oh, Chinaman,” he said, “it’s gettin’ worse.” He wiped the sleep from his face and pushed himself up. “We gotta hurry and find another place.”

  In spite of the blood, the Chinaman at first seemed better. They took their time, walking slow, and the dog kept up with Sherman. Little bursts of shoppers, their arms full of boxes and paper sacks, split around them, but Sherman ignored them. At the sight of blood, women sometimes moved to the side, clutching their collars, gathering their children and drawing them off the curb to let the dog pass. A man in a blue apron came to a doorway. “Son, you ought to take him back through the alley. You’re tracking blood all over the sidewalk.” Another man leaned out of the cab of his pickup and yelled, “Hey, what’s wrong with your dog?” At the corner, they turned away from the stores and the noise. Taking the alleyways, they crossed through the end of town, without further notice, undisturbed. Sherman’s head was pounding. He pulled out his pill bottle and tapped out two pills, swallowed one, and bit the other one in two, then swallowed half and forced the other half into the Chinaman’s mouth. “This’ll make you feel good,” he said. The wind blew through the trees, bending branches back, dislodging a few of the last yellow leaves. The air was suddenly warmer; thaw softened the weeds.

  At a crossroads, they passed a sign—HAVERSTOWN 3 MI.—and they eventually got there, a town at the foot of a mountain. Leaving the dog outside for just minutes at a time, Sherman hurried into garages and filling stations and barbershops, anyplace where men were gathered, and he spoke to them plainly and in earnest, convinced that somebody would know how to help the Chinaman. “My dog’s been hurt,” he told them. “I think somebody musta shot him. He’s bleedin’ real bad. There’s glass all over him like he went through a window. Come here. I’ll show ya.” And a few of the men followed him out.

  At one place, a heavyset man chewed on an inch of cigar, as he looked down at the boy and the dog with skepticism. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do for him,” he said. “He’s tore up inside. See that little pink ring there on his nose? He’s breathin’ through blood. He might go on like that for a day or so, but he’s done for.”

  “You don’t know!” Sherman shouted, jamming his fist in his pocket to keep from striking out at the fat man. “He’s been trying’ to lick hisself. That’s what caused it. There’s gotta be somethin’ to help him.”

  The man shrugged. “If it was me, I know what I’d do. I’d put him outa his misery.”

  Sherman’s dread tightened like a coil. For a second, he stood staring at the man in utter refusal, then looked down. “No,” he said, his mouth as dry as wool. “You gotta be crazy. I couldn’t do that. He just needs patchin’ up.”

  “Suit yourself,” the man said.

  It was noon; then it was two o’clock. Sherman lost track of time. They were on a road. He didn’t remember coming to the road or how they happened to get there. The Chinaman was walking beside him, his claws ticking on the pavement. Now the blood was thick on his forelegs; once in a while, it blew in a dark trickle from his nostrils and made a harsh rasping noise in his throat. Sherman felt fear all over him. He couldn’t think what to do. “I wish this was over with,” he muttered. “I wish this’d never happened.”

  Nothing was straight in his mind. He shook his head trying to clear it. They’re all against me, he thought. He saw how the men drew away from him, turned away from the Chinaman when he asked them what he should do. They knew what to do but they wouldn’t tell him. The world was smarter than he was. All Sherman knew right now was how to get to that woman. “I know her,” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t tracked her this far without getting to know her—she had her weakness just as much as he did. And this time he knew where she was heading.

  It was his last chance. He knew that. He couldn’t go on and on, not with the Chinaman as hurt as he was. And he had to be careful. If he scared her off again, he’d never find them. Time was running out. His headaches kept getting worse; the pills didn’t help much any more. Sometimes he saw things. He had to stop her and end it. Had to! Had to get Mamie and get away and then … Suddenly from behind him came that sound again, that sound unlike any other, the Chinaman’s anguished howl. It cut through Sherman, and he whirled around. A few yards behind him, the Chinaman had fallen at the edge of the pavement. He was trying to pull himself up. Down the road, a truck appeared out of a curve and closed very fast toward them. Sherman plunged for the dog but couldn’t reach him, threw his hands up in the air just as the truck swerved to miss them and slammed past. The turbulent air blasted around Sherman, nearly hurled him off balance.

  Again the Chinaman’s howl reached him, a curdling wail. Sherman ran, dropped to his knees, trying to gather the dog in his arms. In the concrete under his knees, he felt the road strumming, and abruptly lifted his head. A car flew forward, sizzling on the pavement, bearing down on them. Sherman shot up, stepped deeper into the road, waving wildly, but the car veered, horn blaring—snaked by them. “You bastard!” Sherman yelled and swung his fist after the speeding car. He pivoted, and ran back to the Chinaman. “Get up!” he cried. “Chinaman, get up!” He grabbed the dog’s collar and tugged at him and the terrible wail struck him like a strap. Another car was coming. Then another. “Please,” Sherman gasped, “you gotta get up!” Tears stood in his eyes, blurred his sight. “Chinaman! You gotta! You gotta!” And then, hardly aware that he was doing it, with his arms wrapped under the Chinaman’s forelegs, Sherman had lifted him, lifted his dog that was bigger than he was, and dragged him off the road, and for those few moments the dog felt insanely light. With loud, hollow noises, the cars blew past them, tires throwing grit and dirt into Sherman’s hair and jacket.

  The pure wintry silence returned.

  At the side of the highway, the Chinaman slowly, feebly, hauled himself up. Sherman heaved for breath. Nothing seemed real. The highway was empty. In the distance, not the suggestion of a car appeared.

  Sherman knew what he had to do. It seemed as if he had known all along. And yet everything in him went on resisting it. He drew the dog into his arms, stroking the thick coat. No thought, no words came to comfort him. Waiting for a ride, they stayed there, close together as they had been for so long, while the afternoon light fled into the trees.

  In the gray dusk, a coal truck slowed on the outskirts of Gentryville, Kentucky. The high door on the driver’s side opened and the driver stood down, turning toward the back of the truck where Sherman had dropped to the ground, talking softly to the dog. The driver helped him lift the Chinaman down. Slowly, laboriously, the dog rose to his feet. The driver pointed to a mailbox and a lane. “If you take this lane up to that white house, somebody there might help you. Ask for old Tom Phelps.”

  Sherman watched the truck pull away.

  They followed the lane marked off by evergreen trees and entered a cluster of white buildings edging a beautiful wide lawn of frosted grass. In the main house, lights glowed through the windows. Sherman went to the door and knocked.

  Wiping her hands on a dishcloth, Mrs. Phelps turned from the casserole on the drainboard and went to answer the front door. As she approached the door, a formless shape shielded its eyes and peered into the foyer. Mrs. Phelps saw the outer edge of an upheld hand pressed to the glass. She flipped on the porch light. It was not until the boy stepped into the hall that Mrs. Phelps could have sworn with any certainty that the figure on the porch was indeed a boy. There was blood on him. Huddled in
his shabby jacket, without looking up, he said, “It’s my dog. He’s hurt real bad.” His voice sounded weak with exhaustion. “That truck driver said maybe you could help. I’m s’posed to ask for Tom.” The boy lifted his head and glanced at her, and the look in his eyes caused her to step back quickly. But just as quickly his expression dissolved and his pupils seemed to soften and catch reflection like the eyes of a changeling. There were tears in his eyes.

  His head was spinning. He tried to focus, watching her lips as she spoke. “The doctor’s not here,” the lips said. “I’m his daughter-in-law. I keep house for him.” She was still talking. “Ben Sizemore’s mare is in foal,” but Sherman turned blindly and stepped out onto the porch.

  With his back to her, he gulped down two more of his pills. And the woman, grasping the door to shut it, saw the dog sitting at the edge of the light, head bowed nearly to the ground, its chest covered with blood. It took her breath. “Oh, dear God.” Suddenly she felt herself drawn into the boy’s desperate predicament and she hastily added, “You could wait. Tom’ll be back any minute.”

  Sherman’s head had started to clear. He looked at her, then glanced through the evergreens at the highway and the fringe of lights from the town. “Okay,” he said.

  She pointed to a shed and told him to take the dog to it. “There’s a light switch just inside the door and some old gunnysacks you can use to make him a bed. You wait there,” she said. “I’ll send Tom out just as soon as he gets home.”

  Speaking to the Chinaman, Sherman twice looked back at the woman in the doorway with the light streaming around her. Mrs. Phelps closed and locked the door and went back to the kitchen. She wished she could do more to help him. There were sandwiches in the refrigerator, which she had made that afternoon, and apples in a bowl. With paper napkins she lined the bottom of a small basket and set three of the sandwiches in it and an apple. And that poor dog. She drew warm water into a pan and pulled out some housecleaning rags to take to him. Through the kitchen window, she noticed that the light was on now in the shed. She had the basket on her arm and had lifted the pan of water before she set it all down and went to the telephone.