“Twelve ounce curls,” he called it when he was being funny for the benefit of his two sons.
Beau and Rafe, Rainey’s sons, were several years older than Chantry, big, slow, and mean. They’d made his life a misery when he was smaller, but since his growth spurt the year before he’d made it a lot harder for them to torment him so they pretty much left him to his own now. Besides, they stayed away a lot since they were older and had quit school, doing iron work on out of town jobs, and when back in Cane Creek, usually drunk somewhere and causing trouble.
The dog made another soft sound, and Chantry looked down when she washed the back of his hand with her tongue. It was unexpected and pleasurable. The sides of her belly went taut, and she grunted. He soothed her, murmured soft words and stroked her head.
The first pup popped out so quick and easy it took Chantry’s breath away. It lay still and silent atop the rags, a tiny dark comma against the old tee shirts. The mama didn’t seem upset, but set immediately to work cleaning it up, her tongue rasping over the wet, still form until it began to wiggle and make faint sounds. Chantry relaxed a little.
The screen door to the house slammed open and shut with a bang. Rainey came out of the house, looking mad at first until Chantry pointed to the pup. Then his face eased into a satisfied gloating. “Damn if that ain’t the shit. Puts ’em right on the ground and I ain’t even had to feed her a meal yet.”
“The doting owner,” Chantry muttered, but with his head down so Rainey wouldn’t hear.
“You stay out here and keep an eye on her,” Rainey said after another minute or two of watching. “Looks like she’s havin’ trouble, holler for me.”
As if Rainey’d know what to do. Chantry just nodded.
By almost nine, the dog struggled with eight pups already born and another one nearly out. It had tired her, Chantry could see. He hadn’t left her side, even when his mama had come out earlier to urge him inside for the night.
“Nature takes its own course, honey,” she’d said. “The mother knows how to care for her own by instinct.”
Chantry figured sometimes even mothers needed a little help, though, and had stayed by the dog’s side. He called her Belle, but he didn’t know what her real name was. Probably one of those long fancy names breeders used. Rainey didn’t come back, and probably wouldn’t until it was all over. He liked easy money, not something he had to put any effort into. Staying with a whelping dog would fall under that last category.
Now he heard the back door open and close again and knew it was his mother by the softness of it. She came to stand by the pen, smelling faintly of lavender bath powder. Her old robe was pulled tight around her, reaching almost to her ankles, and her hair was damp from a bath, pulled on top of her head and secured with some kind of clip. She looked a lot younger when she didn’t wear her hair slicked back so tight and strict from her face.
“It’s nine o’clock, Chantry,” Mama said, and looked at him with a worried frown.
“It’s okay. I think this is the last one. She’s tired and having a little trouble is all. Did Rainey pick up any dog food? She’ll need something to eat after this.”
“I’m certain he never thought of it.” Mama hesitated. “I’ll find something for her to eat, and tomorrow we will purchase her the proper food for a nursing mother.”
Mama spoke precisely, her voice soft and drawling and school-teacherish. It held traces of her Memphis childhood and education. Her parents were gone and she didn’t talk much about growing up, or about much of anything before coming to Cane Creek. It was almost as if her life hadn’t started until she got to this sleepy delta town even though he knew it had. After all, his father had been in her life once.
Chantry had a couple of photographs of his father in his Marine uniform, looking out at the camera with a steely-eyed gaze that reminded him of Rambo. He’d died overseas in some far-off place named Vietnam. A hero. Chantry thought about him every day. He’d been named for him, the man who’d died before he was born but still had the most influence on him. Sometimes at night he dreamed about him. It was always the same kind of dream. His dad would be smiling at him and telling him it’d all been a big mistake, that he’d been on a secret mission for the American government and couldn’t tell anyone, even his wife and son about it. Now he was back and ready to be with them again. To be a family. Rainey would just go away, but Chantry’s real dad would take Mikey with them so he’d get his operation and be able to walk like other kids. Rainey and the dull despair of Cane Creek would then be just a memory best forgotten.
But the dream was always gone like smoke when he woke up, his dad vanishing from a place he’d never been. Chantry always felt so sad after the dream, as if he’d had something special just within his reach and it’d been yanked away.
“She’s having trouble with this last one, Chantry.” Mama knelt beside the wire fence and tucked the ends of her robe between her knees. “I think she’s just too exhausted to continue.”
He looked at the dog. The pup’s feet were sticking out, the rest of its body still inside. It was probably dead by now; it’d been so long coming, suffocated before it ever drew a first breath. Gingerly, because he’d never done anything like this before, but guided by some instinct, he reached up inside and curved two fingers around the pup’s slick body to tug gently. It felt weird, hot and wet and soft as he guided it with firm pressure. The mama dog didn’t protest except for a kind of little whining sound, and in a minute, he was able to work the puppy free of the soft folds and lay it on the rags. It was so still, a small thing all limp and soggy.
“Oh, I think it’s dead,” Mama said, and sounded sad.
Chantry wiped his hand on one of the rags and shook his head. “Maybe not. See? The mama’s taking care of it.”
Following some maternal instinct, Belle washed the pup to life with her tongue. After a few minutes of that the pup wriggled around, blind and seeking comfort. There were only eight nipples and nine pups, but the first and strongest puppy was already sleeping, its mouth making sucking sounds as if still attached. Chantry gently nudged the last puppy to the teat. It latched on with surprising strength. Tiny paws pushed against the mama, milking her.
“It’s no bigger than a shadow,” Mama said after a moment. “You know it may not make it through the night.”
“I know.”
“Come inside now. It’s after nine and I need to finish preparing my Sunday School lesson. You’ll need to sit with Mikey again. He has been restless tonight.”
He didn’t want to leave. He’d never seen puppies born before. He felt powerful, as if he’d been part of magic. And he felt a strong connection to the tiny scrap of dog nursing so fiercely. It got to him somehow, just watching it. He looked up, and saw something in his mama’s face that he hadn’t seen in a long time, a smile of pure pleasure. She felt it, too, felt the miracle that had just happened.
“Come along, Chantry,” she said, and held out her hand to him. “I know just what we’ll feed the mother. I’ll prepare it, and you may bring it out to her before you sit with Mikey.”
That night he lay in bed close to his brother and thought about the puppy he’d helped bring into the world. It was a male, and he’d live. He just knew it. Maybe he’d say a prayer about it. Then again, Chantry wasn’t much on praying despite Mama’s best efforts to make him a strong believer. He figured if God was so all-powerful, He’d do something to stop all the wicked stuff going on in the world. If He was there like Mama and Reverend Hale claimed, then He either didn’t care or had a really strange sense of what was right.
Still, lying there in the soft darkness with little Mikey’s breathing shallow and regular in the double bed next to him, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“God,” he whispered, “if You can hear me and if You care, keep that pup alive. It’s the only one I’ve ever helped be born and I’m kinda partial to it.”
That was it. If God was going to listen, He’d know what to do.
&n
bsp; CHAPTER 2
Sunday mornings were always the same. Chantry helped Mama get Mikey dressed and ready, buckling the metal and leather braces around his twisted little legs and combing back his hair. Rainey never went to church with them, but that was okay. It always felt better when they were by themselves without him around. He had his own brand of religion anyway.
The church was only a few blocks from their house, across the railroad tracks and around the corner from the Tap Room where Rainey usually worshiped beer kegs on a Saturday night. He’d attended services last night, too. Chantry had heard him come in late, stumbling and swearing, and held his breath until he heard bedsprings squeak as Rainey fell onto the mattress. Only then did he relax. Once Rainey passed out, he wouldn’t wake up until late. If they were quiet enough.
“Show me the dogs, Chantry,” Mikey said in his whispery little voice, and obediently put up his arms so Chantry could slide a blue knit shirt over his head.
“After church. Tilt your head back so I can button the neck of your shirt up.”
Mikey shoved his chin in the air, lips going straight with the effort. Chantry fastened the bottom two buttons and left the top open. Bedsprings squeaked when he moved to lift his little brother off the bed where he spent so much of his time.
“Is the dog gonna stay for a while, Chantry?”
“Maybe.” Mikey felt so thin, fragile like the pup he’d held last night. He stood him up, bracing him with a hand on his arm until he got his balance in the leg braces. “You okay?”
“Sure.” Metal squeaked as Mikey took a clumsy forward step. The thick ugly brown shoes attached to the braces scuffed over the bare wooden floor. “Take me to see the puppies, Chantry.”
“You’re a pest, you know that?”
Mikey grinned, blue eyes lighting up so bright it was like he was plugged in to electricity. “Sure. I know that.”
Chantry ran a hand down his bony arm to grab his wrist. “Later. After church. You know Mama doesn’t like to be late.”
Before Mikey could offer more argument, he lifted him up with both hands and carried him to the kitchen table, tickling him a little to make him laugh.
As soon as he’d eaten breakfast, Chantry raced out with table scraps for Belle. She lay in the bed he’d made her, the pups scrabbling around her belly like fuzzy little worms. He counted eight and his throat got tight. Then he found the pup, curled up and mewling complaint at the side of the crate. He tucked it next to a litter mate already nursing, watched as the tiny mouth fastened greedily to a nipple. Belle nosed the pup, licked it a few times, then lost interest and turned her attention to one of the others. Chantry put the pup back a few times when it got pushed aside by a stronger one. Finally it stopped trying, more exhausted then full. It lay so still on the rags, not moving when others crawled over him.
“So much for praying,” Chantry muttered as he cradled the pup in his palm. It laid there, warm and soft, eyes still tightly shut. Dark fur streaked the back, the belly was pink, the brown stub of stomach cord sticking up stiffly. Fragile sides heaved with the effort to breathe.
“Chantry. It’s time to leave for church.”
“I’m staying here this morning,” he called back to his mother without turning around, and in a minute, he heard her come out of the house and cross the dirt yard to the pen. She paused at the fence, stared at the tiny unmoving pup lying in his palm.
“Perhaps it’s not meant to live,” she said after a brief silence. “There are times it is best for small, weak creatures to make room for the larger, healthier ones.”
Chantry looked up at her. “You don’t feel that way about Mikey.”
There was a shocked silence. He couldn’t believe he’d said that, and saw that his mother didn’t either. Her face went so pale it made her eyes look like two large blue bruises beneath her brows. He wanted to take it back, but it was too late.
Hanging his head, he swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that . . . well, I helped this pup into the world. I’d like to try to keep him here. If I can.”
A mockingbird chattered in the mimosa tree, and a train whistle signaled that it was nearly nine o’clock and time for the C&P to rattle by with freight on its way to New Orleans.
After another moment Mama said, “Very well. You may skip Sunday School, but I’ll expect you to attend the church services in time for Reverend Hale’s sermon.”
Fire and brimstone. Shouts of eternal damnation and Hell awaiting sinners. Reverend Hale liked to scare moral trespassers into Heaven.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there, Mama.”
He heard her walk away and looked up. She wore her summer Sunday dress, a white cotton with tiny lavender sprigs. It flowed around her legs when she walked. Mama always walked with her head up, back straight. He’d heard Mrs. Pritchett say once that Carrie Lassiter had dignity and grace despite everything. He guessed that was good. It bothered him though, that people talked about her. He hated that part of living in a small town. Everyone knew everything about everyone else and there weren’t many secrets you could keep for long.
Everybody knew Rainey Lassiter was nothing but poor white trash and his wife had to try and keep him out of the beer joints since he’d got hurt on the job. Everybody knew their own jobs depended on Bert Quinton, too. He made all the big decisions about how much money people made, where they worked, where they went to school and even to church. Most people in Cane Creek owed their living to him and he didn’t mind reminding them of that fact if they ever tried to forget. He owned most everything in town. Even a few souls, Dempsey had said once. He also said Quinton was a ruthless old bastard. Dempsey ought to know. He’d worked for the Quinton family since he was only five, and he was ancient now. At least fifty.
Maybe he’d ask Dempsey what to do about the pup. He knew about a lot of stuff. He’d tell him what he could do to keep it alive.
Chantry pushed the pup back up to its mother’s side to nurse, fingers gently milking her so the pup didn’t have to struggle so hard. It was getting weaker. If it didn’t get regular feeding, it’d die. He just didn’t know if he’d be able to keep it alive by himself.
When the pup was asleep he moved it to one side so it wouldn’t get squashed by the others, gave Belle fresh water, and then cleaned up the pen a little. Rainey’d never think of doing that.
It was getting late and he dressed quickly and quietly to keep from waking up Rainey. The house was silent, but just knowing he was there alone with Rainey made it feel precarious. Mama was all that stood between them sometimes. Rainey might be free with his fists, but there were times Chantry thought he was almost afraid of Mama. He’d never dared try to hit her, and when he did hit Chantry, he’d seen Mama dissect him with a few soft-spoken words. Rainey’s reaction to that was always violent. Like he knew she told the truth and couldn’t stand it.
Chantry left by the back door, let it shut gently behind him. He’d have to hurry to get there before services started and everyone would turn around to look at him when he went in the front door. It was bad enough having to go, it’d be worse to give people a chance to talk about him always being late. They talked enough as it was. He’d only been in two fights in his life with anyone besides Beau and Rafe, but most of Cane Creek seemed to have the idea that he was always in a fight with someone.
Probably because of his fight with Chris Quinton. That’d been the year before and no one had forgotten it yet. Chris’s grandfather was old man Quinton, and everybody in town had talked about the fight for months afterward. Mama had been so upset with him, and he’d had to promise not to ever fight again even though he knew he might not be able to keep that promise. Lines got crossed a lot.
Some lines were pretty definite in Cane Creek. There were kids like Chris who wore expensive clothes and drove new cars, and there were kids like Donny Ray Caldwell, whose daddy worked at the cotton plant and made enough money to have a nice size house and almost new car. Then there were kids from Sugarditch. Like Chant
ry.
He hated being lumped in with the kids who lived in tarpaper shacks, missed school most of the time, and were regular visitors over in the Quinton County juvenile detention center. They drank too much, smoked dope, and caused trouble. He tried to stay away from all that. Mama would skin him alive if he got into that kind of trouble.
The sun was already bright, beating down on his bare head as he left the house. The street baked quietly. A hot smell hung in the air, jimson weeds and dust, and creosote from the railroad ties mixed with the smell of tar. There were only three houses on Liberty Road. It was gravel here at their end, and stopped at the blacktopped road leading into town. On the other end it dead-ended into some fields that had once grown sugar cane, but usually grew cotton or soybeans now. Blight or something like that had ended the sugar cane long before he’d moved here. Economic blight, Dempsey had said. Beyond the barren fields lay wooded land, some of it thick, some of it swampland. Sugar Creek meandered through oak, maples, wild dogwoods and pines to where it joined with the cut-off into the Mississippi River. Muddy banks rose surprisingly steep in some places, when farther south it planed out into flat fields edged with kudzu.
He took a shortcut across an empty lot with waist-high weeds, then crossed the railroad tracks that stitched a boundary line between Sugarditch and the rest of Cane Creek. Mostly, Sugarditch had shotgun shacks built on cinder block foundations that housed families who worked for Quinton. He owned the houses and he owned the people in them. The history books might say slavery had ended almost a hundred and thirty years before, but Chantry figured there were different kinds of slavery still at work in Cane Creek.
Dark River Road Page 2
