Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her

by Clayton Lindemuth

  “You wanna call it, Charlie?” the ref says.

  “Call what?”

  “Throw in the towel?”

  “Hell no. Thunder’s got this cur right where he wants him.”

  “You’ll eat them words,” Ticky says.

  “Queer fuck. You’ll eat that dog.”

  I shake my head. Dog fighting is theater. Maul will win—and later tonight another part of the plan will come together. For now, I scan the faces in the crowd.

  A man wears a bolo. Thinks high of himself, the way he checks his pocket watch every hour or so and replaces it with a snappy flourish. Maybe a special town lady expects to tear a pheasant with him at a posh Oil City restaurant tonight. He pretends revulsion, and leaves unanswered why he attends at all.

  On the other side of the ring stands the bolo man’s opposite. He wears rags and another man steadies him from falling into the pit. He whoops with every twist and turn, slaps his comrades on the back and says “blood” in different ways but with the same excitement every time. I might introduce him to walnut whiskey.

  The most interesting fella wears work clothes: blue collar, dirty hands and fingernails, rough shave. His open face and eyes say he cleans up real good for church on Sunday, but his soul is tempted here on Tuesdays. He averts his gaze from the gore like a pious man passing a street whore. And then he sneaks a sideways look at her titties. When the others shift to the ring he stands back. And now that Thunder’s choking on blood and gasping, mister pious man lips a prayer.

  Thunder nears his final moment. Ticky stands with clenched fists, awaiting the fount of blood that’ll signal Thunder’s demise and Ticky’s ascension. Even the boy with the scabbed-over face clutches the oak pallets and leans into the pit. Lanterns sputter like a breeze comes straight from hell.

  Maul stands ass high, shoulders low, his body like an archer’s bow. We all suck in air and hold our breath, each of us maybe wondering what those teeth would feel like and hoping we don’t never find a fate like Thunder’s. And after a second, two seconds, three… Maul jerks Thunder’s throat open.

  Blood spray paints oak pallets. Every man is stone silent. Thunder wheezes blood. History is made. Maul severed the great artery. Thunder quakes and Maul jerks again and again, grunting with each, until Thunder peals with a gurgling whimper and is limp.

  Charlie wipes his eyes and says, “He died game. He never flagged. He never turned.” Charlie fights to control his face—looks like it wants to crawl someplace and cry. “Thunder died game, you sons a bitches.”

  The eulogies begin. Thunder’s confirmed game death secures his immortality. He passed like a warrior champion; his name will be retired in the state of Pennsylvania; his strength will live forever in his sons.

  But I bet if Thunder glances back as he lopes to Valhalla, he’ll see a band of cowards standing over his corpse. Nary a one with the courage to take a bite or pull a trigger.

  Nary—but one.

  “He cheated!” Charlie steps to the center and kicks Maul. The dog growls, jaws still clamped to Thunder. Charlie rears back again, but Ticky scrambles forward and spins his shoulder.

  “I’d kick your dog, but he’s dead.”

  “You cheated!”

  “How?”

  “Poison. Fluffed Maul’s coat with arsenic, Slipped Thunder laced bacon. Some damn thing! No way Thunder lost to this gray devil!”

  “That devil looks like a champion to me.”

  “No way, no how. Bets are off.” Charlie faces the men. “He cheated.”

  Men murmur. Most bet on Thunder.

  “Thunder was the best there’s ever been. Beat by a four-teen-month pup? That never fought before?”

  “Was there any way Maul could win fair?” Ticky says.

  “No.”

  “Well ain’t you about a piece of roasted shit.”

  “Bets are off. And you oughtta be lynched, you cheatin’ son of a bitch.” Charlie rests his hand on the butt of a pistol holstered on his hip.

  I gulp walnut whiskey. Clear my throat. “You owe me three hundred, Charlie.”

  Men stand with clasped hands, looking at Charlie and each other. I scour their faces for a man with stones. You, Mr. Bolo—you pack any rocks? You, Church Sunday—tonight your night?

  Chambers shifts to the side. I’d lost track of him during the fight. He approaches Charlie, his arms straight at his side. Metal glints in his hand. There’s one other man present, after all. A second later, Chambers stands beside Charlie.

  The men hush.

  Charlie ain’t looked down to see the pistol. His face is a grieving snarl. “You best step back, son.”

  “You made book,” Chambers says. “You got to honor it.”

  “Yeah, well this is my land. These are my boys.”

  “Your land, your boys—meet my Luger.” Chambers points a ten inch barrel at Charlie’s face.

  “Now hold on.” Charlie lifts his hands. “Just hold on.”

  “I don’t expect to leave without my money,” Chambers says. “So you may as well pay Angus and Ticky, while you’re at it.”

  “I ain’t payin’ on a dog that cheated.”

  “Now it’s the dog that cheated?” Chambers squints, cocks his head.

  “Does he play chess?” I say.

  “I get it,” Chambers says. “You didn’t balance both sides of the book.”

  “What do you know about makin’ book?”

  “I know you’re calling foul ‘cause you don’t have the money or don’t want to pay. But you’ll honor two bets. I know that.”

  Chambers backs a step, glances side to side. I step closer and watch Charlie’s hand twitch above his sidearm.

  Charlie’s eyes dart from man to man. “You don’t think you’re the only man brought a gun?”

  “I think I’m the most liable to blow your fuckin head off. Get your book out, Charlie. You owe me sixty, and you owe Angus what—three hundred?”

  “Three hundred,” I say.

  “You want to make that four, Angus, for your trouble?”

  “Three hundred.” I move to Charlie, pull the revolver from his holster.

  “You’ll never step in these woods again,” Charlie says. “You’ll never see another fight.”

  “Pay up and I’ll be on my way.”

  Charlie withdraws a roll of bills from his breast pocket. He counts three twenties.

  “Give it to Angus,” Chambers says.

  “You might count off fifteen more of those,” I say. “Check your book, if you gotta.”

  Charlie snaps bills through his fingers.

  Ticky says, “I bet on Maul. Hey, I bet fifty. You owe me three to one.”

  Maul breaks his grip on Thunder and sits, then drops to the blood-wet earth.

  “You’ll never fight that dog again,” Charlie says.

  Chambers and I back step toward the truck.

  Ticky takes the crumpled tens and twenties from Charlie’s hand. “Hold on a minute, you two. Gimme a minute.”

  Pete has looped the rope around Maul’s neck and works him to the side of the pit. Chambers holds his Luger on Charlie. I wade into the men, tuck Charlie’s revolver into the small of my back and take the pole from Pete. I tell Ticky, “Lift the dog and give him to your boy. I’ll make sure Maul don’t tear the rest his face off.”

  With the dog in the truck and Ticky behind the wheel, I lean close to his window. “Stop just before the main road. I want to talk business.”

  Fifty yards from the road, taillights flash. Chambers stops the Ford a few yards short of Bilger’s truck. A shadow climbs from the front seat and Ticky Bilger steps into moonlight.

  “He’s carrying a pistol in the small of his back,” Chambers says.

  “You worry like a woman.” I heft the .38 used to belong to Charlie, check the cylinder. “Stay in the truck.”

  I open the door, tuck the gun into the gap between trousers and back, and grab the jug at the foot well. Ticky’s truck is a few yards ahead. Maul growls from
within his crate. I stumble along the ruts in deep hemlock darkness.

  We stand in a sliver of light. Ticky’s head moves up and down, back and forth. He’s on edge. “’Preciate the hand gettin’ outta there. Didn’t suspect Charlie’d like Thunder gettin’ whupped, but I didn’t think he’d go sideways on me, either. What business you got in mind?”

  “Have a drink. Tell me if you like it.”

  Ticky accepts the bottle. His skin is grey and his eyes are pockets of clay. He sniffs and hoists the jug, gulps, brings it down.

  “Sheeeit!.”

  “You like that?”

  “Tastes like home.” Ticky sways sideways, looks at the truck behind me. “Got some for sale, do you?”

  “Only a pint or so left. Take it. I’ll come see you after the next batch. If you was to commit to a sizable purchase.”

  Ticky glances back at his truck. Pete’s shadow shifts inside the cab.

  “What’ll you take for the dog?” I say.

  “Aw, shit. He ain’t for sale.”

  “I thought you’d say that.”

  I pull the revolver from my back and fire a slug into Ticky Bilger’s forehead. A black fount erupts like an uncapped oil well, even as he falls. Following through, I fire three shots through the truck window. Bilger’s son slumps. Maul erupts.

  The jug of walnut whiskey rests in a small depression.

  I wave Chambers forward.

  “Work quick,” I say. I check the boy’s body, slip behind the wheel of Bilger’s truck and learn to drive with one hand. I get the truck off the trail. Chambers moves my Ford forward, then reverses at an angle to abut the beds. We slide Maul’s pen across, then toss Ticky’s body in the bed of his truck.

  “Lights!” Chambers calls.

  “They ain’t off but a hundred yards.”

  “You grab the dough in his pocket?”

  “Forgot,” I say.

  “I’m gonna get it,” Chambers says.

  “Get the jug, too.”

  Chambers darts to the body. Behind us, a caravan navigates between the trees; the trucks’ headlamps shoot fragmented yellow beams.

  “Take the Ford and pull over in the woods, say a half mile toward home,” I say. “I’m gonna wait here. See what goes on.”

  Chambers jumps inside. “You ain’t got enough bullets for all of ‘em.”

  I ramble into the woods and hide behind a mossy boulder, huffing with exertion in the cool night air. The headlights near, then by chain reaction starting with the lead vehicle, the lamps go dark as men camouflage their approach to the road. I catch glimpses of the trucks as they cross through a moonlit meadow. To my right, the Ford rumbles as Chambers accelerates on the dirt road.

  The trucks weave closer, a snake of shiny grayness slithering between trees. I press close to the rock. In a moment they parade before me. Two pass. The lead stops, a door slams, and Merle calls, “Holy shit they shot him!”

  I press lower.

  Merle’s voice loses clarity amid a dozen truck motors and slamming doors. Charlie steps out of the second truck, splashes through a muddy rut, circles to the front.

  “What’d you say?”

  Merle points and Charlie halts. “Shit.”

  “I better check and see if they’re alive,” Merle says.

  “No, don’t go over there, less you want to throw your boots away. Don’t leave no tracks. I got to think on this.”

  “Well you know who shot him.”

  “Who—that fella with Hardgrave?”

  “Or Hardgrave hisself, with your gun.”

  “The dog’s gone.”

  “What do we do?”

  Other men materialize and excited voices clamor. Sounds like a bunch of women.

  I search the string of trucks behind Charlie’s. Nothing moves. No cigarettes burn. I creep around the rock, watch the clusterfuck ahead. White exhaust billows along the ground—the truck burns oil. I peer over the tailgate. Thunder’s corpse is in the bed.

  The tailgate latch screeches and I pause. The jumble of voices continues. I lower the gate and drag Thunder by his hind leg. The dog falls with a thump. I wait, then ease the tailgate up ‘til it barely clicks. I scoop Thunder under my arm and skulk fifteen yards into the trees. A giant beech gives cover. I place the dog on the ground and cup my hand to my ear.

  “I’m not gonna have the police on this road, wondering where this truck come from or where it was headed,” Charlie says. “We got to move him down the road a ways.”

  “Why get involved?” the bolo-tie man says. “All we got to do is tell the sheriff what we know, that Ticky and Hardgrave left at the same time, five minutes before the rest of us.”

  “Son, didn’t I just say I don’t want them knowing we was back there?”

  “You think they don’t already? Otherwise, Hardgrave gets off scot-free.”

  “I got the sport to protect.”

  “Got to save the sport,” another agrees.

  “Think of Thunder,” someone says.

  “All right,” Charlie says. “It’s settled. Everybody scoots. Tim, you take this truck to the refinery. Drive a ways up Wilson trail, there by the river. And God help me, any you sons a bitches breathes a word of this, you’ll find trouble.”

  Emeline spread an afghan over her bed and rubbed her feet against each other.

  The moon suggested early, early morning. She pressed her eyes closed and listened for the rumble of a truck engine or the creak of boots on the stairs.

  Since picking a fight with the walnut on Devil’s Elbow, she’d realized her struggle wasn’t with Angus. He was a minion of the evil gathered unto Jonah McClellan. While touching the tree she’d seen Jonah claim authorship for so many things Angus had done that that she wondered if Angus did anything of his own volition. It seemed as if Jonah was intent on cleaning out Angus and replacing him. It must be hard being caged in a tree, unable to roam. And if Jonah ever succeeded! What horror—pure evil embodied in a man—her husband!

  Had Jacob likewise become another underling of evil? Could she trust him in any regard? Couldn’t he murder her in his sleep, as easily as Angus?

  Her real battle was with the walnut on Devil’s Elbow. She lay awake. But is it my battle, Lord, or yours? Was she His witness or His instrument? Why make her suffer so much hardship and pain just to watch Him handle the problem? She already knew He was the Lord, so why put on a show? Unless she was to participate.

  “He wants me to kill them.”

  Didn’t the Lord have to command her to do something like that? But what if He never issued the command? What if Angus jammed a rifle in her mouth?

  It’s hard to turn the other cheek with a rifle barrel in your mouth.

  Her arm slipped to the side of the bed and she rubbed the rounded butt of a knife handle, the blade still sandwiched between mattresses. Would she truly have to wait on Angus to kill her, and only act to save herself once the Lord said it was okay?

  Lord, I am in a state of unholy rebellion. I can’t lie around and wait for Angus to murder me like he did his other wives. I trust you with all my heart but I don’t believe you want me to take no measure to defend myself. If you want me dead then why did you make me? And if I’m going to live, I have to kill Angus before he kills me. I can’t wait forever Lord. And you keep saying to have faith but I’m scared. You aren’t too clear on your intentions. How can you let so much evil gather in a tree? A tree?

  Outside, Rebel’s throaty spasms signaled Angus’s return. Had she been asleep or awake? Minutes passed. A truck door slammed. The dogs quieted. Emeline sat up in bed and listened. Angus should have entered by now.

  She crossed to Deet’s room and the hallway light fell across the floor to a canvas sack under the bed. She listened for a moment, then rifled through it.

  Slowly she understood the contents. Emeline sat on the edge of Deet’s bed and stared out the window. Deet had known his father was a murderer, plotted his escape, and stayed to protect her. She looked out the window through eyes r
immed with tears. The Ford’s headlights illuminated the barn and amplified Angus’s one-armed shadow. He dragged a sack across the floor.

  Emeline returned to bed and lay open-eyed with her hand over the edge of the mattress, fingers tucked between.

  Downstairs, the kitchen door creaked.

  “Emeline?”

  She scarcely breathed.

  “I need you down here, Em.”

  He sounded faint. She lay still.

  “Emeline?”

  It sounded like a plea.

  “Emeline, godammit! Get down here and help me!”

  She clunked to the door, cracked it ajar. “I’m asleep.”

  “Come to the barn. Bring that butcher knife.”

  The screen door slammed on its springs. His boots thudded across the porch.

  Lord, am I your witness or to be your instrument?

  Emeline threw a robe over her shoulders. She hammered the butterflies in her stomach with the side of her fist. Down-stairs she lifted a cleaver from the wooden block and held it in the window light. Angus honed his knives to a razor’s edge on a wet wheel. The way the blade worked on a deer leg bone, it would make short work of a man’s skull. She gripped the handle and tested the heft of the blade, waved it side to side, up and down, until the knife felt welded to her arm.

  She stood on the porch. The truck’s headlamps were dimmer than before. Angus started the engine. Emeline approached. Rebel and the bitch sniffed at the wire fence. Another crate was in the truck bed, and a low growl mingled with the rumbling exhaust. Angus stood at the barn entrance. In the truck’s light lay the form she’d seen him dragging. It was a dog.

  She stepped closer and observed the animal’s bloodied muzzle and blank eyes, his grizzled, torn neck and slashed-open breast.

  “He had the other by the throat,” Angus said, “and the other had him by the throat.”

  Her upper lip drew higher.

  “Other bastard chewed his neck ‘till he couldn’t breathe, then split his jug’lar. But he died game. Never let go his hold.”

  Emeline wiped her eye.

  “Uh-huh.” Angus knelt at the corpse. “All the boys seen it. I got the other’n in the truck. Acrobat, that dog.”