by John Vigna
He could not sleep. His head droned with random thoughts, none of which Sonny could corral into a single coherent idea. He tossed and turned to relieve the itching on his arms and legs and imagined that the beetles were gnawing away at his house, crawling over his skin and burrowing into his bed, chewing his flesh. He slipped out of bed, got dressed, grabbed a heavy balled-up wool sock tucked away at the back of the dresser, and stepped outside.
The sharp air stung his face and refreshed him. Bacon Face lay in a tight curl on the doormat. He lifted his head. “Sshh, you keep put.” Sonny took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, the fog of his breath a thin veil over the stars above him. He set off across his property to Bojan’s house, studied the stump for galleries but saw none. No beetles, either. He went to a nearby tree, pulled out his pocketknife, and cut into the bark. The sap leaked out slow and dense. He smeared it between his palms, inhaled the musk of the old tree. His father had once told him that sap, like blood, is eternal. It courses through you like blood, it runs through the land; it was here before you were born, it will flow long after you are gone. Sonny buttoned his jacket against the cold.
The front door of the Inn was locked. He walked around to the back and tried a window, but it was fastened. He punched it with his elbow; the glass shattered the silence and crumbled to the floor. Sonny unlatched the window, lifted it, swung his leg over the sill, and climbed inside, his boots crunching on the broken glass as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
A streak of moonlight trickled in. He made his way to the election table, grabbed Bojan’s jar, and shook it. The beetles scattered about. He picked out the pennies and dumped them into his own jar, then carried Bojan’s jar to the restroom, emptied the beetles into the toilet bowl, and flushed. Sonny tore his name off the jar and replaced it with Bojan’s, sandwiched between the Invisible Candidate and Casey the Goat. He dug into his pocket and took out the wool sock, reached inside, peeled off five twenty-dollar bills, and dropped them in Bojan’s jar, and then scrawled a note to Lorne about the broken window, instructing him to take what he needed to replace it, and to give the rest of the cash to Bojan. Sonny left the roll of money on the bar beside the stuffed dog, and climbed out the back window.
The night clear. Moonlight like buttermilk. Stars scattered like a pinch of salt. The snags and ruins on the mountain gleamed like ghosts in the forest. He’d kept his promise to Norma not to fell widowmakers; never considered he’d be the widower instead.
Bacon Face greeted him on his porch. Sonny lifted him, careful to use his legs to absorb the dog’s weight.
“You’re getting stocky on me.” He backed into the door and pushed it open, carried the dog to the bedroom, and set him down on the bed. Bacon Face’s tail tapped against the mattress. He rolled onto his back and squirmed back and forth, turned over, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, open in a strange grin. He sneezed and licked his front paws.
“Don’t be getting too comfortable. This is a one-shot deal, okay?”
Sonny unlocked the drawer on his nightstand and slid it open, reached for a dusty shoebox fastened by rubber bands. They broke and fell away, the elasticity gone. He lifted the lid and pulled out a hand mirror with small jewels inlaid on its smooth back and ran his fingers along the teeth of the matching comb, set it down, and picked up the talcum powder. Unscrewing the lid, he raised the powder-puff and inhaled. The once strong floral fragrance was now musty. He sniffed it again, placed the powder-puff inside, and screwed the lid tight. He pulled out the silk handkerchief, unwrapped each of the four corners, and turned the hairbrush over in his palm where a few strands of long dark hair poked out. The filaments were soft and delicate between the pads of his thumb and forefinger, but he was afraid of breaking them and stopped touching them. He closed the drawer, the key jingled it its lock hanging from the hasp, and placed the mirror, comb, talcum, and brush on top of the nightstand, climbed into bed, and lay next to Bacon Face.
Sonny stroked the dog’s side, ran his hands along the ribs, under his neck, scratched his cheeks, paused at his ears. He caressed them and breathed in the earthy musk of his fur, the rise and fall of Bacon Face’s breath beside his arm, until they were breathing together.
The day before Norma had died, they had decided to leave their rifles in the camper and sat huddled through the pre-dawn cold in a tree stand, taking turns glassing for movement in the brush. Norma had noticed the bull first, looming like a massive shadow in the undergrowth, looking toward them but not directly at them. The rack was enormous. For a moment she thought two moose were standing next to each other. She kept her eyes focused on the moose; Sonny could almost hear her exclaim, what a gorgeous creature. She lifted the spotting scope, a wedding gift from Sonny, adjusted the focus, and pointed it at the bull and started counting silently. Sonny touched her knee, pretending to light a cigarette. She scuffed her boot on the wooden floor of the stand and lowered the scope. The moose raised his head, a trophy rack that had at least fifty points. It stared at them, majestic and terrifying and unblinking in its bulky beauty. Sonny estimated the rack to be about sixty inches across. He had never seen anything so stunning, so utterly satisfying in the calm of that moment before the moose bolted into the brush, its rack crashing a path through the poplars and aspens, laying waste a slaughter of branches and scarred trunks until the air was still.
Norma gasped and lowered the scope. Her eyes were damp when she turned to slap Sonny on the leg. “I hope you’re happy. We’re not going to get that close again this year, maybe never.” She grabbed the cigarette from his lips and tossed it on the platform. “I wish you’d quit those things.”
She climbed down from the tree and dashed ahead, glanced back, laughing, Sonny thought, although he was never certain. He tried to keep up, calling after her, anxious that the bull moose might still be near. She ran along the narrow winding game trail in front of him and jogged up a small rise where the trees closed behind her, their green limbs shivering in the grey morning light.
PIT BULLS
I
BRIAN WOKE IN the back seat of his battered Monte Carlo to the sound of dogs barking. The car reeked of ground coffee and stale sleep. He cracked the window to let in the chilly smoke of wood stoves from the valley, crawled over into the front seat to check his wallet, and prayed over the gas gauge.
Outside of his ex-wife’s doublewide, a dog lay eviscerated in the grass, its jaw frozen in a grimace, eye sockets hollowed. Two ravens yanked at its innards in quick, vicious tugs. Brian dug in the ashtray, found a roach and lit it, inhaled, and held the smoke before exhaling through the gash in the window. The barking gave him a headache, but the pot shifted his thoughts. The slaughter of a prized dog upset him, but he could replace it; losing the money hurt like hell and would be much harder to make up. He peered over the steering wheel at the porch. Loveseat, wickered wine bottle with candle wax bleeding down the neck, tricycle knocked on its side—a gift for his boy’s birthday bought before Brian’s UI claim had been cut off. The glare blazed off the corrugated steel siding. Too much to look at. Junegrass lay snow-crushed in the honeyed spring sun. Frosted pine branch tips and rough fescue melted slowly, misting the air. Brownness everywhere wanting to be green, ready to grow after a long, punishing winter of shovelling rooftops and scraping by.
He scanned the twenty acres he had inherited from his grandfather and had the landscape memorized as if he were standing on top of Buffalo Hump, the hummock that rose behind the trailer. To the east, the Elk River snaked along the bottom of the valley; to the south, densely packed forest thinned out near the border; across the valley, looking west, the runs on the ski hill scored the mountainside. Town sprawled out north of the property; far enough to be a dull flicker at night, a reminder of how good he had it here, tucked away from a life he could make no sense of, but close enough that he didn’t feel completely alone. That was before he met Tracy. He wanted to raise chickens and hogs, plant a cash crop on the south slope, and
build up on the Hump. But like most of his plans, they got lost in the dark details necessary to make ends meet, the shortcuts and half-baked ideas. In the end, the only way he could settle the child support with Tracy was to walk away from his birthright, the only land he had known, with a deal to lease back the chicken pens where he raised his dogs. Home sweet fucking home.
He pried open the glove box, grabbed the package of coffee he’d bought last night before he started drinking, and got out of the car. He nudged the dog with his foot, half expecting it to wake up. The ravens hopped off and squawked nearby. Despite being gutted, the dog felt heavy; Brian lifted the carcass by the hind legs and tossed it into the brush where the fescue and hawthorn and antelope-brush coming in concealed it. He felt a faint rage seethe in his chest and punched the smooth alabaster trunk of a pine with the package of coffee. Don’t be getting unhinged now.
Penny stopped barking and greeted him on the porch, yanked at the end of her chain, head and tail low. “Hey, princess.” He crouched to stroke the top of her head, let her sniff his hand. She wagged her tail and turned so he could scratch her ear. The chain dragged across the wooden porch boards, ripped up paint that was already peeling. She was a year old and the female pick of the litter. He had wanted the male but couldn’t afford him. At least with the female, he reasoned, she’d establish her reputation as a prized fighter and then retire early to breed. Then he could make some real cash. When he stopped petting her, she went back to her blanket at the side of the door. He tapped the screen with the coffee.
“Yeah,” Tracy shouted from inside.
He stopped the door from slamming with the heel of his boot, edged it with his hip until it clicked closed behind him. “It’s just me.” The heavy smell of fried bacon hung in the air. In the living room, a mess of broken cups, lumps of wrapped clay. Two steel shelves buckled beneath the weight of unfired plates and bowls and jugs. On the coffee table, a half-empty milk glass, Saltines scattered in crumbs, stubbies, their labels ripped off in strips, a blue sippy cup. He picked up the milk and sniffed it, palmed the crackers, and shoved them in his mouth.
Tracy entered in her housecoat, towelling her long brown hair.
“Brought your favourite.” He held up the coffee and tossed it to her. He wanted to tell her how pretty she looked, but instead pointed at the sippy cup. “What’s he still using that for?”
She stopped drying her hair, bent forward, wrapped the towel around her head, then straightened herself. Her breasts strained against the housecoat. She was getting a little thick here and there and she looked pale, but sweet Jesus, she was a dime in a nickel town. He glanced down, and she drew the robe together tight at her throat. “Like you care. I’m sick of that barking all the time. Christ,” she said.
“Anything else?”
She gave him a dark look. “You don’t want to start in on me, believe me, today is not the day.” She tossed the package of coffee on the counter and cleared the beer bottles. “You better bury that bloody dog.”
“Buried it before coming in.” He turned toward the sink, shook out the day-old grinds from the percolator, rinsed it out, measured out the coffee and water, plugged it in. As long as he kept his hands and eyes busy she wouldn’t see that he was lying. He dried his hands. “Where’s Junior at?”
“You really are incredible. Where do you think he is? In his room. He’s still upset.” Her tone stung like the slap of a palm.
The coffee burbled. “It’s just a dog.”
She studied him for a moment. “That’s the problem with you. You’d jump over a dead horse to leave your son in a burning barn.”
II
He stepped off the porch with a cup in each hand and walked through the brush behind the trailer. Chickens darted about the yard. It bothered him that she had turned down his coffee, something she had never done before. He clenched his cup tight and slurped from it.
A jute sack seared with the image of a moustached man in a sombrero dangled from a motorized steel arm, swinging in arcs. Three pit bulls sprinted around the carousel. Two bitches chased the sack, churned up dirt and cedar chips, their rippled bodies taut as clenched fists. They squealed with each lunge at the sack. Sean was dressed in his usual—sunglasses, soccer cleats, span-dex shorts, and a filthy Maple Leafs’ jersey. Brian handed him a cup and saw his reflection in Sean’s glasses. Small, unshaven, eyes narrow, hair flattened on one side of his head.
“What’s up with her this morning?”
“She’s not feeling well.” Sean sipped his coffee. “Freshly ground, just the way I like it.”
The red ran the fastest, her thick legs pounding the ground in a blur, the salt-and-pepper just off her shoulder. Behind her the stud lagged until Brian cut the switch. The two bitches leapt at the jute and tore at the man’s smile. But when the stud bolted toward them, jumped up, latching onto the burlap, the bitches dropped to the ground, circled him with their heads low.
Brian smiled. “He’s still got one more good fight left. Shouldn’t have gone with Taz last night.”
“It don’t do any good crying over spilled milk. It could have been whisky.”
“Maybe.” He knew Sean was trying to lighten him up. The guy was easygoing, didn’t seem to have any cares or worries, including the way he dressed himself. Maybe that’s why Tracy fell for him. Or maybe Sean didn’t have expectations.
“It cost me a fair chunk of change.” Brian kicked the dirt and whistled. The stud unlatched and dashed to Brian’s side, wagged his thin tail, and panted.
“Low on cash again?”
Brian kept his head down and stroked the dog’s ears. “Don’t say what you’re wanting to say. It’s too early in the morning.”
“Hell, it’s noon. And if I want to tell you to get a job, I’m going to tell you to get a job.”
Brian looked up at the long vertical green scars and treeless strips on the mountain. “That hill’s gonna be the death of this place.” He coughed and shook his head.
“Lots of work up there.”
“It’s driving property prices up. Hell, I can’t afford a proper motel room.”
“Still don’t see the problem.” Sean wandered around the pen, his arms outstretched, feeling his way along the fence posts singing ‘Amazing Grace.’
Brian winced. “You are truly butchering that song.”
“I once was blind...”
“Seriously, you need to shut up.”
“...but now I see.”
“Got me there.”
Sean dropped to his knees, took off his sunglasses and bowed. “Oh Lord, I can see. I can see!” He stood and staggered around, laughing, and then stopped. “Seriously, I’m building a pottery studio for Tracy. I could use some help.”
Brian surveyed Sean for a hint of sarcasm. “Worst part was seeing that goddamn Frenchy’s grin.”
“What kind of name is Jasmine? Christ, his momma must have loved flowers.”
“I bet his parole officer would have something to say about his dog hobby.”
“I’d pay you. Just don’t tell Tracy. Are you interested?”
“Maybe.” Brian had a vague recollection of Jasmine at the Northerner last night, buying shooters, sending one over, and winking before downing his shot. But what grated him was how Jasmine dominated the stage, singing one bloody awful karaoke song after another. His crude jokes and thick (or “tick”) accent had the bar laughing and clapping for him. “Encore,” they goaded. Brian smacked the dog’s nuzzle hard. “Go on, git.” He stood and faced Sean. “When do we start?”
III
They hauled lumber up the hummock behind the trailer and pens, a stack of two-by-fours between them. Brian’s son, Brian Jr, carried a small bucket of nails. Sean poked an extra notch in the boy’s toy tool belt so it would fit snug on his slim hips. After they dropped the lumber, Brian wanted to rest, but Sean turned around and trotted down the path. Brian Jr raced after him, belt flopping against his thighs. At the trailer, Brian rolled a smoke, lit it, and exhaled. “A
cold one would set me straight. Got a head like a damn hornets’ nest.”
“Let’s get the supplies up there first.”
Penny barked. A pickup truck, its camper jostling side-to-side, entered the long, uneven drive and stopped. Jasmine turned off the truck, got out, and left the door ajar. His matted hair was tied back in a ponytail; his moustache drooped down both sides of his mouth. A dog sat alert in the front seat, its triangular head visible through the windshield. Brother to the runt that Brian had fought last night. The dog looked as menacing as its reputation; good stock, body shuddering as it sniffed the air.
Jasmine held up a crisp hundred-dollar bill and snapped it between both hands, grinning. He spit on his palm and smeared the money with it, pasting it to the inside of the windshield. “It’s yours if you want it. You just have to grab it.” He wiped his hand on his moustache and glanced at his dog. Brian eyed the cash.
Sean whistled sharply, “Shut up.” Penny barked once more and stopped. He nudged Brian Jr on the shoulder; the boy sprinted for the porch, flung open the door, boots clubbing the linoleum before the screen slammed shut.
Jasmine kicked the dirt as he approached them. He offered the hand he had spit on. Sean shook it. Brian kept his hands in his pockets.
“Rough night?” Jasmine said. “Shoulda brought him along slowly. Can’t say I didn’t tell you so.”
Brian dug into his pocket and handed Jasmine a fistful of coins, a few crumpled bills. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Jasmine glanced at the money. “You’re joking, right?”
“I’ll have the rest soon enough.”
“Do I look like a goddamn bank?”
“I’m good for it.”
“I want you to understand one thing, you little pissant. I don’t appreciate you yanking my chain.” Jasmine whistled three sharp bursts. His dog jumped out of the truck and sprinted for Penny, leapt at her, and clamped down on her shoulder. She yelped and tried to shake him. Jasmine’s dog lunged for her neck but tore her ear instead. She barked and rolled onto her side, but Jasmine’s dog kept on, growling and snapping at her. Brian booted Jasmine’s dog in the ribs and shouted, “Call him off.” He searched the porch, found a Tonka Truck, and held the toy above his head. “Call him off, or I’ll bash his face in.”
