by Jesmyn Ward
The few dirt-scratched yards and thin-siding houses and trailers of Bois Sauvage seem a sorry match to the woods, like pitting a puppy against a full grown dog. Here, there are swimming holes that are fat puddles and some the size of swimming pools fed by skinny clear creeks, but the earth makes the holes black, and the trees make them as filthy with leaves as a dog is with fleas. There are clusters of magnolias that are so tall and green and glossy, they are impossible to climb, and the air around them always smells like peaches. There are oaks so big and old that their arms grow out black and thick as trunks, which rest on the ground. There are ponds that are filled with slime and tall yellow grasses, and at night, frogs turn them teeming, singing a burping chorus. There are clearings where deer feed, startle white, and kick away. There are turtles plowing through pine straw, mud, trying to avoid the pot. Marquise told us once that he went out into those woods with Bone and Javon after a hard rain to find some mushrooms they could take, and they came across a wolf, lean as a fox, dirty gray, who looked at them like they’d shot at him, and then disappeared.
The trail that leads into one of the deeper parts of the woods is up the road away from the house. China leads us, relaxed at the end of her chain; the leash is dull steel, the collar chrome. Skeetah stole it. He has reshaved his head, and he wears a hand towel around his neck like a scarf. Big Henry carries Junior on his shoulders, and Randall trails, a big stick in his hand, which Skeetah laughed at him for picking up when we were jumping the ditch, saying, That ain’t going to do nothing against these dogs. Then he pointed at China and said, But she will. Randall carries the stick anyway. Marquise is probably already there with his cousin. Crows caw. I listen for the boys and the dogs somewhere out in these woods, but all I can hear is the pine trees shushing each other, the oak bristling, the magnolia leaves hard and wide so that they sound like paper plates clattering when the wind hits them, this wind snapping before Katrina somewhere out there in the Gulf, coming like the quiet voice of someone talking before they walk through the doorway of a room.
A cloud passes over the sun, and it is dark under the trees. It passes, and the gold melts through the leaves, falls on bark and floor: foil coins. Soon we reach a curtain of vines, which hang from the lowest branches to the needle-carpeted earth, and we crawl. Skeetah dusts China’s breasts off, waves us on. We have been walking for a long time when I hear the first tiny bark.
“You tired?” Randall asks.
“No,” I say. My stomach feels full of water, hurts with it, but I will not tell him that. I push aside a branch, let it go, but it still scratches my arm. Medea’s journey took her to the water, which was the highway of the ancient world, where death was as close as the waves, the sun, the wind. Where death was as many as the fish waiting in the water, fanning fins, watching the surface, shadowing the bottom dark. China barks as if she is answering the dog.
The clearing is a wide oval bowl, which must be a dried-up pond that grows wide and deep when it rains; the bottom is matted with dry yellow reeds, and the trees grow in a circle around it. The boys and their dogs talk and smoke in clumps, pass blunts and cigarettes from one to another, ask How old is yours or Where you got that collar or How many she done had? There are around ten dogs here, around fifteen boys. I am the only girl. Marquise’s little brother Agee is here, and he and Junior begin competing to see who can climb the fastest up a gray, low-limbed tree outside the circle of game dogs and game men. The dogs are brown and tan, black and white, striped brindle, red earth. None of them is white as China. She glows in the sun of the clearing, her ears up, her tail cocked. The dogs nap, pace, bark, strain against the leash, and lean out into the clearing where they will fight, trying to get into the sun, to feel it on their black wet noses. They will all match today, one dog against another. The boys have been drawn by gossip of the fight between Kilo and Boss to the clearing like the Argonauts were to Jason at the start of his adventure. They will throw their own dogs into the ring, each hoping for a good fight, a savage heart, a win, to return home from the woods, their own dangerous Aegean Sea, to be able to say, My bitch did it or My nigga got him. Some of the boys are nervous; they put their hands in their pockets, take them out, swing their sweat rags in the air and swat at gnats. Some of the boys are confident: shoulders round and grinning. Big Henry wipes at his face with a sweat rag he’s pulled out of his pocket, and Randall leans on his stick, frowning at the frolicking dogs. A hawk circles in the air above us, turns, vanishes.
Marquise is standing next to a boy who must be his cousin; they both are the color of pecans, both have their ears pierced with gold loops, and both are short, but the cousin is a little fatter. His T-shirt is so big it swallows him.
“What’s up?” Marquise asks. “This my cousin Jerome.”
“Cuz told me about y’all little problem.” Jerome glances at Marquise, and then wipes his head with a rag, already wet, that he’s pulled out of his pocket. “You ain’t got to worry.” He flicks his leash and his dog, Boss, gets up from where he has been laying in the sun, walks to Jerome’s side and sits. He is black all over with a white muzzle.
“You said he was big, cuz, but…” Marquise’s whisper trails off to a laugh. “I didn’t think you was talking this big.”
Boss is huge. He is fat and tall, and his front legs are so bowed the front of him looks like a horseshoe. Where China’s hair is silky, Boss’s hair is coarse, so coarse that I can see the fight scars on him that have healed, black and fat as leeches. He lets his tongue hang out, smiles. His sides whoosh out and in as he pants, and he breathes so hard, he ripples Jerome’s shirt.
“Where the other dog at?”
Marquise rises from petting his own dog, Lala, whose ears he has clipped and put earrings into, loops like his own, to nod across the clearing. Marquise never fights his dog, Lala. She is a soft tan color, and she is almost as clean as China. She lays in pine, cocking an eyebrow at us. Skeetah once told me that Marquise’s dog sleeps in the bed with him, in the house, every night. Skeetah had shrugged and sort of smiled when he told me, but the way one side of his mouth had gone up while the other side of his mouth had gone down made me think that if Daddy weren’t here, China would sleep at the foot of Skeetah’s bed every night, too.
Across the clearing, Kilo is straining at a leash that Rico holds. He is sniffing at the ground, looking as if he is amazed, and then digging his paws into the dirt. It flies up and out between his back legs: he is tunneling through the dry grass and down through the bed of the pond. I wonder if there are frogs down there, dry and cool, hiding in the cracked mud. If they are trying to flatten themselves to hide from the sharp paw. Rico is half in the sun, half out, laughing toward Manny and some other older dark boy who has worn white shoes that look new to a dogfight in the woods. Rico’s grill is bright, but Manny, his arms folded, is more gold than Rico’s smile, and I hate him for it.
“I done fought Boss all the way from Baton Rouge to Pensacola,” says Jerome. “He won more than he lost.” Boss lays down in the pine straw again, snorts into it, so it flies up like feathers in front of his face. “He ready.”
I edge in the shade next to Randall, who is stabbing his stick into the clay earth, again and again. Big Henry plucks his shirt away from his front, airs it out. He grins at me. Skeetah stands in the sun, the only boy in the yellow clearing who braves the light with the dogs. He ignores us, looks past us off into the woods, still as China at his side, who ignores us and looks off as well, standing, never sitting. I wonder if he has trained her to do this, to stand at his side, to not dirty even her haunches with sitting so that they gleam. China is white as the sand that will become a pearl, Skeetah black as an oyster, but they stand as one before these boys who do not know what it means to love a dog the way that Skeetah does.
The boys meet in the middle of the circle, careful to keep their dogs at the edge; they hand their leashes to friends. They huddle to hammer the matches out.
“What the fuck you mean, you want Boss?”
&nb
sp; “Yours is too big for mine.”
“He a puppy, but he scrappy.”
“She can take on any of them. She ain’t weak.”
“I say a two-fight limit.”
“I say three.”
“Who gives a fuck what you say?”
“I say two, too.”
“Sugar got at least two in her.”
“Homeboy got three.”
“Ojacc can fight every one of them and whip all they asses.”
A chorus of groans.
“Buddy Lee, too.”
“Truck’ll run all y’all over.”
“Do you see Slim? Do you understand what he’d do to Kilo?”
“Ain’t noboby for Kilo but Boss.”
“Wizard want in on Kilo.”
“I said Kilo ain’t here for nobody but Boss.”
“Y’all heard the man. Kilo ain’t here for nobody except Boss.”
In the middle of the dead circle, the boys snap like the air before a storm. Skeetah and China stand at the edge. The boys’ arguing rises to an angry buzz, and the air that had been still before swoops and tunnels through the clearing, raising dust, making the boys close their eyes. Maybe Daddy is right; maybe Katrina is coming for us. Big Henry covers his nose with his rag. Did Medea bless the heroes before they set out on their journey? Did she stand on the deck of that ship like I stand in this clearing, womanly ripe, and weave spells for rain to cloak their departure, to cloak her betrayal? Had Jason told her he loved her? Manny holds Kilo’s leash and stares at China. Skeetah and China do not move.
“Let’s go,” Marquise says.
Skeetah and China leave the circle, stand to the side of us, but a little away, a little closer, Skeet’s shirt darkening wetly at the neck, down the middle of his back, China still except for her ears, which flick away gnats trying to land.
Skeetah fought China as soon as he figured she was full grown, at a year. There was always a clear winner to those fights with dogs owned by boys in Bois Sauvage, in St. Catherine. She has fought every one of these dogs. Except for two of her beginning fights, where China fought but still bled more than the other dog and had part of her ear sliced, she won by bearing down on the other dog, by grabbing his throat with her teeth, her face a fist. The other dog would yelp, and Skeet would call her off, and that is how everyone would know that China had won.
Now, no dogs sniff China. No dogs lope over to her and playfully snap, mouth her face or shoulder. She and Skeet stand apart, and when the first fight begins between the first two dogs, they are the only two that stand still. The fight is quick, messy. The dogs meet in the middle and tumble around the side of the pond bed, kicking up dirt and golden grass and sticks and blood. They twist and snarl and whine. The gray shrieks first, but it is the brown-and-white that falls, pulls away, wanting out of the harsh light, the burning bowl, the searing puffs of wind, the nail, the jerk, the tooth. The boys grab the dogs by the hind legs, pull them away from each other, cuss, let them go again. Junior is bouncing from foot to foot on his toes behind Big Henry, who wipes at his neck even though he is wiping so often there is no time for sweat to gather, to glaze. Randall, who had been flipping the stick over and over like a band major, has stopped, and he stares at the fight and holds the stick like a club. The gray is pulled away, yelping, while the brown-and-white one still strains against his boy’s hands. Skeetah pets the watching China once, just a touch to the head, and she licks his finger. She never pulls away.
“Ojacc got him,” the gray’s boy says, admitting defeat. The brown-and-white’s boy smiles, rubs his dog’s head.
Marquise’s dog, Lala, hops like a rabbit into the bowl, her gold bars flashing, and barks toward the brown-and-white dog as if she wants to congratulate him. Ojacc is still eager. He twists like a question mark, yanks one leg from his boy’s hand, and bites. Lala skids to a stop, but the brown-and-white still sinks his teeth into her leg like a stapler. His boy pulls, and Marquise yanks Lala’s leash with both hands. The brown-and-white lets go, growling.
“Hold!” his boy yells.
“Son of a bitch!” Marquise screams, and Lala limps to him, yelping. He kneels over her and she melts into him, true to her butter color. The dogs bark and rise up on their hind legs, pulling at their leashes, and the boys strain against them. China shifts on her feet and her breasts sway. Skeetah shakes his head, spits. The boys curl the leashes around their wrists, weave them up their arms. The dogs choke themselves to a standstill, laying their chins on their paws on the straw and grass. Marquise’s dog will not stop whimpering, and when he puts his hand over her lips, slob runs through. After the next fight, Marquise lets her go and she sits with her back to his legs, facing the woods, and bows her head. Junior runs over to her, pets her head. By the time all the dogs but Kilo and Boss have fought, Lala is sitting with her bottom in Marquise’s little brother’s lap, her head on Junior’s thigh, and she is licking his leg.
Rico and Kilo walk into the bowl. The other dogs and boys are breathing hard, bloody, wearing sweaty coats. Rico smiles as Kilo grins, stocky but tall where his master is short; his coat is red as the dirt under the pine needles, clean and dry as that. Rico winds the leash around his fist, winds Kilo in, pats him along the rough length of his side, looks up, and says, “We ready?”
Jerome leaves us. Boss waddles next to him. They stop a few feet away from Kilo and Rico. Boss flings his head up twice at Jerome, tapping the leash with his forehead, smiling, and Jerome squats next to him, slowly, whispering in his ear. Across the circle, Rico mouths something in Kilo’s ear, but the wind blows again, and a cloud covers the sun, and their voices are lost in the whispering shuffle of the trees around us. And then the wind lags and catches again, and the cloud moves, and the clearing is a bright ball, and Jerome hollers “Ready!” and unhooks the leash from Boss as Rico backs away from Kilo. Boss and Kilo aren’t tethered to anything or anyone and they are rolling across the bowl, furious at the other who stands in their eyesight, who has not lowered tail or head.
“Get him, son!” Jerome yells. He claps in exclamation marks, over and over. “Get him!”
They meet at the middle. They rise up on their hind legs at the same time, front legs meeting shoulder to shoulder like they are dancing. Boss’s head, dull black, whips around first. His is the first bite. Kilo rears back and twists away. He snaps as he falls and sinks his teeth into Boss’s neck.
“Shake him! Shake him!” Rico yells, leaning so far over that he looks like he is going to fall facedown in the circle.
Kilo ignores him. Kilo bites and lets go, snaps and bites again. His teeth flash white, flash red, flash again.
“Grab him, boy!” Rico yells.
Boss does not want to be grabbed. His head is a knife, and he cuts a leaking gash on Kilo’s shoulder. He sets Kilo to running red. He is slower than Kilo. But he is strong.
“Come on, son!” Jerome yells.
They both fall, separate. Kilo jumps up before Boss, growls, rushes back in. Boss lumbers to his feet and meets Kilo. They are teeth to teeth. They chew at each other’s face, kissing. They growl into each other’s throats.
“Come on, son!” Jerome yells.
But Boss thinks he has been called, that he should run to Jerome. He whirls and pours through the air, black as burnt oil, and jerks to a puddle in the dirt because Kilo has borne down on him, his teeth in Boss’s back. Boss flings himself back at Kilo, his growl a great rip.
“Call him!” Jerome yells. The fight is no longer clean. Jerome has made a mistake.
“Kilo!” Rico shouts, and he grabs Kilo by his hind legs. “Kilo!” It is more a cough than a yell. Kilo lets go, tosses his head through a cloud of dust and hair and droplets of blood. Jerome grabs Boss by his front leg. Rico drags Kilo by his hind legs across the bowl, away from Boss. Both dogs are peppered in cuts. Rico’s shirt is not so white anymore.
Jerome kneels, presses his rag into the wound on Boss’s back. It shows black through the rag, and when he wipes the gash, the blo
od runs clean. He presses again, waits until it is a trickle. Boss’s white muzzle is streaked with red. Jerome nods at Rico.
“Again?” Jerome calls.
“Yeah,” Rico says.
Junior lets Lala’s head fall in the dirt.
“I’m going back to the tree,” he says to Marquise’s little brother. “You coming?” They leave Lala to sit up, looking confused. Big Henry stands with his arms crossed over his chest. Randall stares at Boss’s back, his stick hanging at the side of his leg before he flips it up to rest on his shoulder, and he sighs.
Jerome slaps Boss on his haunch, and he is off across the clearing to meet Kilo. The two dogs blur into one. They have two heads, four legs, two tails. They are an ancient beast, fierce, all growling hunger, rising up out of the sea. Boss’s head whips back, distinct for a blink, and he buries his teeth behind Kilo’s shoulder.
“Shit,” Randall breathes.
Kilo gurgles and bends himself almost in two, grabbing Boss’s front leg.
“Shake him, son! Shake him!” Rico yells.
“Get him!” Jerome shouts.
They are boiling, red against black. Kilo is trying to shake blood loose. Boss growls and shakes his head again and again, giving back to Kilo what he is given. Neither rips; neither folds.
“They’re even,” Big Henry says.
Boss and Kilo’s teeth are grinding into each other with each asking and answering jerk. They are sharpening the knives of their canines on a whetstone of flesh. Both hold. Neither will give.
“Call it,” Skeetah says.
“Boss!” Jerome yells, and grabs Boss’s back leg and drags.
“Kilo!” Rico grabs.
The dogs pull apart, are dragged away. Boss has many cuts, and his white muzzle has never been white, has always been red. Kilo’s red shoulders look spread with redder yarn, a ratty maroon shawl, and his breathing is the loudest sound in the clearing, over the dying and rising wind. Daddy’s hurricane is sending out feelers.
