Southern Cross the Dog

by Bill Cheng

  Have to telephone the warden.

  The man went back into the guardhouse. Duke climbed out of the car and spat into the dust. The sun made the air slow and prickly, and he ran his tongue along the sticky sucking walls of his mouth. Beyond the wire, he could see the Negroes lined along their furrows, their spades cutting into the dark earth—hear their soft grunts, their exhales.

  The guard returned. His uniform had been loosened.

  Warden said to stay here, the guard said. He handed back the envelope. You can wait inside, out of the sun, if you like.

  Duke followed the man inside. It was small and cramped like a garden shed. Shelves cluttered with papers and boxes of ammunition lined the inside wall. A small glass window looked out into the camp. Duke bumped the telephone from the wall, and the guard reached over and placed the speaker back on the carriage.

  The guard sat down on a stool and wedged off his boot.

  Can’t stand that smell, the guard said. He burst a blister under his big toe and rubbed his fingers on his trousers.

  They say you get used to it but ask me, seems like it gets worse every day.

  Duke didn’t answer him.

  The flowers, I mean. The Overnight runs right through here.

  Duke had seen it driving up, first the tracks chasing alongside the road, then the train racing up, spitting gravel against his car. He remembered the hobo eyes that stared out at him from the half-open freights.

  That’s how come you got this smell, the guard went on. They got these nigger girls come in with their hair all done up. All up and down the state. Lined up for hours sometimes. We tell them every time. No flowers. So they trash them right on the roadside there.

  The guard tugged the top button of his shirt and aired out the pits of his arms.

  They hide things, you know? You’d be surprised. The women are sneaky. Sneakier even than the men. One selling her cunny from Aberdeen come up to see one of our lifers. Says he was her sweet boy. She was hauling this whole bloom of lilacs and daisies and whatever else. Draped up over her shoulder, sticking up in her face, practically falling out of her arms, there were so many flowers. A sight to see. Didn’t no one seem to notice that those flowers were tied off with a foot of piano wire.

  The guard clucked his tongue and cut his hand across his throat.

  No flowers after that.

  The guard worked a finger under his heel and horned his foot back into his boot. The boot kicked forward and Duke stepped back to dodge the arc. He took out his pocket watch and hooded his eyes into slits.

  The guard looked at him.

  They’re animals, plain and simple. Take that boy you’re waiting on. Eli Cutter. Now that one is a piece of work. You heard about what he done?

  Yes, Duke said.

  The guard clicked his tongue.

  That poor girl. Her insides all rotted out.

  Duke watched the guard take full measure of him. He chewed down on his bottom lip and nodded slowly.

  And now here you are with that fancy piece of paper of yours. Well, don’t that beat all?

  Duke looked steadily at the guard. He worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He slipped two fingers past his teeth and drew out a flap of dead skin.

  Well, piece of advice. You just watch yourself around that one. Everybody here knows to keep clear of Eli.

  The guard motioned toward the sky.

  He ain’t clean.

  A gunshot cracked in the distance and the guard’s jaw turned taut and fierce. He leaned against his rifle butt and stared hard at the fields. Nothing had changed. The prisoners kept up their work as the sergeants drove their horses steady down the lines. There came another report, echoing into quiet.

  I wouldn’t worry. Chances are, that wasn’t your old boy, Eli. You got a cigarette? It’ll cut the smell.

  Duke reached into his jacket.

  The guard eyed the pack and let a smile tighten on his face.

  He fit a cigarette between his lips. Duke struck a match, lit the guard’s and then his own. The cigarette crackled like radio air.

  ELI BROKE TWO EGGS IN a little cup and with his long thin fingers, he scooped out the yolks. The strands shivered and dripped and he rubbed the yellow between his hands, then back through his hair. A prison trusty stood in the doorway of the bunkhouse, tugging on the straps of his dungarees with one hand, balancing his rifle with the other. Eli watched the trusty in the piece of mirror, his fat lips working into an angry bud.

  Eli patted down the rest of his hair and wiped his hands on a rag. He slipped on his jacket, straightened out the lapels, then set his hat neat on his head. He gave himself one more look—narrow face, clear almond eyes, a spray of silver on his mustache. Eli sucked back on his teeth.

  Outside, he could hear the inmates plucking their spades dully at the earth as a skin of red dust settled outside the bunkhouse.

  The trusty cleared his throat. You ready?

  Eli grinned, turning from the mirror.

  Show on.

  They walked through the prison farm, Eli in front and the trusty behind. Outside, the sky was wide and full, doming above the wire fencing. The cotton fields lay spread in dark tracts while the inmates stooped over in their rows, cutting the soil with their hoes, their leg chains twinkling.

  They crossed to the laundry lines outside the administration building. The prisoners looked up from their washboards, cheeks flecked with soap, hands bleached and sudsy over the blue-black water. They pressed their cracked rutted faces against the glass. No one made a noise, only the crackle of soap sounding as they waited for Eli to pass.

  At the gate the warden stood with his suit stiff and freshly pressed. Beside him was a man. He looked like an egg, round and pale and smooth except his nose, which was blistered and full of blood. The man was staring hard at Eli, the small muscle in his throat going up and down.

  The warden sent the trusty away.

  This the one you wanted?

  The man unfolded a square of paper from his pocket.

  You’re Eli Cutter?

  He was surprised the man knew his name. Yessir, he said. That’s me.

  Out of Natchez?

  And happy to be here.

  The man read aloud from his paper:

  Cutter, Elijah Paul. Age, thirty-eight years; height, five feet eight inches; weight, 129 pounds; nativity, Adams County; complexion, mulatto; hair, black; eyes, brown; mole behind left ear; scar on the right thigh. Sentenced from Wayne County, October 29, 1929, for the crime of manslaughter; term, fifteen years.

  The man looked up from the slip of paper.

  The warden smirked. Well, not quite fifteen is it, Mr. Duke?

  The man ignored him. Let me see your hands.

  Eli rolled up his sleeves. His palms were dusty and cracked, but his fingers spanned out wide like a cellar spider, knobby at the knuckles but smooth and womanly down to the tips. He touched his thumbs together lightly.

  That’s him, the man said. He reached into his jacket and handed the warden a thick envelope.

  I trust this settles everything.

  The warden smiled. He patted the envelope across his palm before tucking it under his arm.

  He’s all yours, Mr. Duke, he said.

  THEY DROVE FOR HOURS, NEITHER of them talking. Eli fought down the excitement in his gut. He gazed out at the surrounding country. The hills rolled past and in the distance there were clusters of houses—towns he’d spent years in. They flashed in some dark part of his brain—barrelhouses, hotels, barbershops, his arm around some young smiling thing, the two of them stealing out to the potter’s field, their naked bodies on the cold wet grass.

  The man named Duke stopped the car at a clearing along the road. Out beyond the tall grass was the old colored church, burned-out and gutted. The walls were charred black and had fallen t
hrough in places, strands of wild millet growing through cracks in the floor.

  We’re here, Mr. Duke said. He hefted up a small leather suitcase and carried it out with him.

  Flies flicked around their eyes and nostrils, buzzing drunk and angry. They stepped over the smashed pews and collapsed roof, the wood groaning underneath them. There were chalk lines scratched into a piece of wall, and empty bean tins on the floor. The stink of shit hung humid in the air.

  They climbed up to what had been the pulpit and the man pulled the cloth from off the organ. With the heel of his hand, he wiped down the bench.

  Have a seat, he said.

  Eli sat down and Mr. Duke lifted up the fall board. The keys were clean and white.

  Been a long time, Eli said.

  Mr. Duke opened the case. He lifted up what looked like a phonograph and pointed the horn at Eli. He flicked a switch and there was a grinding noise. He flicked it again and the noise evened out.

  Play something for me, he said.

  Boss?

  I want you to play a blues for me.

  Eli set a finger on a key. It was cold and foreign.

  Go ahead, Mr. Duke said.

  Eli rolled up his sleeves and knuckled his fingers, trying to rub the buzz out of his joints. He floated his big hands above the ivory, the cords tightening into a claw. The pads of his fingers touched lightly over the keys; they were cold and smooth and sent a shiver through him like a sword.

  The pedal clunked into its place. Eli touched the first note. Soft. Then he touched it again, letting it ring out. His mind burned. He closed his eyes and struck. A chord boomed beneath his hands. His heart was beating. He let the sound flare then cool. Something in his throat unhitched. Another chord. Then another. Beneath him, the organ trilled. He felt its air against his face. His heart fired in his chest.

  When Eli had finished, Mr. Duke switched off the machine and folded the horn back into its case.

  Marvelous, Duke said. Simply marvelous. You’re as good as they say.

  Mr. Duke placed the fall board down and sat beside Eli on the bench. His large belly strained against the buttons of his shirt.

  He rubbed his thick palms against the knees of his pants. Eli could smell him from where he sat, the stink of mold in his clothes.

  Mr. Duke placed his hand on Eli’s shoulder and the man’s grip tightened.

  I am starting a traveling musical act and I’ve been looking for a Negro to play the piano for me. Thirty dollars a week. Thirty dollars and your freedom.

  Eli sat there stunned. His head was swimming and he had to brace himself against the bench to keep from falling over. Eli began to laugh, shaking his head and cupping his palms over his face.

  Mr. Duke handed Eli a sheet of paper and showed him where he could put his mark. They shook hands and Mr. Duke counted out a hundred dollars in crisp new bills.

  There’s a town in Calhoun County by the Skuna River called Bruce. A colored woman by the name of Lucy Quinn runs a hotel out there. The Hotel Beau-Miel. You take this money, get yourself a nice suit and a meal, and meet me there in two weeks.

  Eli folded the bills together and tucked them into his pants pocket.

  In two weeks? What’re you going to do till then?

  He watched Mr. Duke slip the paper with Eli’s name into his case, then secure the two brass latches over the lid. He hefted it up with one arm and started for the door.

  With his free hand, he gestured to the burned-out walls of the church.

  Why, Mr. Cutter, someone’s got to find something for you to bang those magnificent hands on.

  THE JOSTLING ON THE BUS kept the sleep from settling. His eyes stung and his groin itched. The other passengers were asleep. Eli could hear them snoring, making low wet sounds, dreamy half words. The country spread black against the windows. Here and there he could make out the reddish glow of tramp fires through the pines. He closed his eyes and half expected to open them up again to his bunk back at the Farm and smell the stale sweat and manure hanging in the air.

  But instead, he smelled perfume.

  It drifted faint from the front of the bus. A fire lit up in his head, his nerves going hot and bright at the tips. She climbed on board, a gloved hand steadying herself on the back of a seat. The silhouette of a pillbox hat floated into the aisle. She took slow careful steps toward the back of the bus, arms feeling the dark space ahead of her. Her hips bobbed—Swish! Swish!—stopping in front of Eli.

  Evening, she said.

  Eli slid over and cleared a space for her to sit. The scent of calla lily grew thick and heavy. He could feel its weight in his mouth, like a lump of sugar on his tongue.

  You a pretty little thing to go riding around this hour, he said.

  Couldn’t find no one to carry me, she said.

  Now I don’t believe that. You weighed five hundred pounds, I’d carry you. On my back if I had to.

  The woman snickered. Maybe, but you can’t take me any place I need to go.

  Don’t you worry. I know all the right places.

  Oh, I bet you do.

  I know all the right spots, he said again.

  Eli couldn’t see her face. He wasn’t sure if she was ignoring him.

  You going to see your man?

  You’re awful lippy, mister.

  You didn’t answer my question.

  The woman was quiet for a while. I’m going to see my husband.

  If I had a wife like you, I wouldn’t never let her out of my sight.

  Don’t get fresh with me, she said. You don’t even know me.

  I don’t mean offense. All I mean is lots of things out in these roads at night. Not all of them safe.

  Like you.

  Eli laughed.

  Me? Sure. But there’s plenty worse than me. When I was a little boy, my grandma told me about a gypsy woman live out in the country. If a little boy or little girl was in devilment, she’d come at night and take them away. Boil them up and eat their bones, then she’d spit them out and put them in her little conjure bag.

  The woman laughed. He could make out the swell of her breasts, the smooth slope of her neck. The whites of her eyes glowed a dull blue even in the dark.

  You ever been in devilment, little girl?

  Bad boy, she teased.

  ’Cause I can devil you right.

  He touched his fingers lightly to her skirt. The warm of her thighs came up through the cotton.

  The woman laughed. I’m a full-grown woman.

  Very grown, Eli said.

  A grown woman ain’t got no need for tall tales.

  Maybe you ain’t never had a tale tall enough.

  Don’t matter how tall if it don’t do nothing.

  Eli smiled. You don’t believe me.

  He could feel the bus rolling over the uneven country, a deep tremble plucking at his groin.

  Let me show you something.

  Eli unbuckled his belt and slid his hand down his waistband.

  What’re you doing?

  He brought out his hand and in his palm was a small flannel bag. The woman let out a surprised laugh, then clapped her hand over her mouth. He untied the drawstring and took out a round dark pit.

  This here is my little devil.

  Oh, a little devil? Is that it?, she said, pouting.

  Eli ignored her.

  It’s got powers on it. He held it out in front of her, rolling it gently in his fingers.

  Go on now.

  It’s true.

  Snuck it right from under that gypsy woman.

  What’s it do?

  What’s it look like to you?

  It was dark and round and shriveled.

  It looks like a man’s . . . well, a man’s part.

  That’s right, he said. He danced the pit dreamily i
n front of her, first in front of her eyes, then under her nose, grazing her upper lip.

  His other hand settled lightly on her knee. He drew swirls gently on her skin.

  All I got to do is give it a little rub right here, he whispered.

  He passed his thumb over the ridges of the pit. A warm musk flowed from his fingertips and he glided his hand up her thigh.

  Can I hold it? she asked softly.

  He brushed the pit gently around the underside of her palm, then up the curve of her wrist, away from her stretching fingers. He could smell her honeyed sweat now, through her perfume. His frenzied blood ached under his skin.

  Just a little rub right here.

  He was born Elijah Philip Cutter outside of Natchez in Adams County—gray and small and out of breath—a caul across his brow. When he was two, his mama cut out to California with a man that might’ve been his daddy, leaving Eli to his grandma to raise up. He was a sickly boy. At night he could not breathe and would instead sit up in his bunk, his lungs filling with panic, and he’d listen, the rusty harp inside his throat, the ringing of the bottle tree.

  When he was five, his grandma took him down to the small one-room shack out beyond the rail yard water station. All around he could hear the great breaths of steam let out from the chimneys. The house sat out beyond the weeds, its walls soot stained and ivied. His grandma unlatched the door and guided Eli in. There was hardly any light. He could barely make out the shelves that lined the walls, the dark dusty jars of powder and bone. There was a great shifting breath. He almost did not see him, sitting there on the bed. He was old, his eyes two milky orbs inside his skull.

  The Devil’s in your throat, his grandma said. It got to come out.

  The man laid his frail hand upon the boy’s body and undid the buttons one by one. The fabric fell quietly away. On his open chest, the man pressed his ear. He listened for the rattle of his soul.

  When he was done, the man had him lie down on a sheet of wax paper. Eli looked at his grandma, who only nodded approvingly, and he obeyed. He spread himself out on top of the thin paper, and the man knelt down and lit a candle at his feet.