Southern Cross the Dog

by Bill Cheng

  Hermalie! That’s disgusting.

  My hands are hot.

  Throw that away. Where’s your manners?

  Hermalie hucked the ice across the railing and beaned the yellow bitch on its snout. It snapped up and started barking, straining against the chain around its neck.

  Lord, girl!

  I just wanted to see what it do.

  Eat up your pretty little face. Tear you right to pieces.

  Lucy slid her hand across her cheek.

  Right there. You understand? I don’t want you troubling that animal.

  The Widow Percy hollered through the pharmacy screen. Quiet! Shut up out there!

  She came out onto the walk in a dingy housecoat. What was left of her hair lay wisped like a question mark.

  I told you quiet!

  She stamped down her slippered foot, and the dog pushed back its ears and turned toward her.

  The Widow Percy looked back at the hotel.

  You leave my dog alone now, she cried. You leave her alone, you hear, or God help me I’ll set her loose.

  Miss Lucy stood up out of her chair.

  You go on in, Mrs. Percy. No one is fooling with your dog.

  You think I don’t know what goes on over there.

  We’re just sitting, we’re not doing nothing.

  You ought to be ashamed.

  Don’t go getting yourself agitated, Mrs. Percy. Just go on in.

  The woman patted the dog down its back, mumbled something, then went in. For a moment, the street quieted again. Hermalie picked up another rock of ice and polished it on her neck.

  The windows were open in the house and she could hear the other girls upstairs. Someone cleared her throat, and there was the soft snap of cards hitting a table. From the pharmacy, the slow static breath of a wireless twisted into a whine before settling to a signal. The afternoon seemed to stretch out every which way. Hermalie touched her smooth cheek and tried to imagine a line of divots tracing from her ear to her mouth. She shook the idea away. She thought some more about the creek—wading out to where the water rose to her knees, settling down onto her back. When she was younger, she’d cup her hands and bring them down along the flat stones and feel the crayfish tickling her palms.

  Miss Lucy, can we please? Just for a few hours?

  Hush! Look!

  Miss Lucy gestured with her chin. Out on the sidewalk, a tall figure in an olive suit strode down the walk, snapping his legs.

  His hands were in his pockets, and his loafers kicked out from under him. He looked up and down the road, crossed over, looked up at the houses, then crossed over again. Then he walked over to Percy’s Pharmacy. The dog looked at him and growled. The man stooped slightly and put his hand on the dog’s nose. He began rubbing it, then up to the crown of its head, scratching behind its ear. Slowly the dog’s head lowered onto the concrete. It rocked onto its back and curled its paws in the air. The man grinned. He bent down and stroked its gray belly. Then he stood, straightened his suit, and went into the pharmacy. The man came out again a few minutes later with a bag of cooking salt. He looked across the street and waved his hat at Miss Lucy and Hermalie.

  Miss Lucy squeezed Hermalie’s arm.

  Well, go on, she hissed. What you waiting on?

  Hermalie climbed down from the porch. She cocked her hips and rolled her walk, and the man touched his hat again. Well, hello, he said and she touched his arm and Hermalie said something to him, and the man laughed. She giggled along with him, swishing her head from side to side. Soon, they both came back from across the street, her arm looped underneath his.

  This is Miss Lucy, she said. Miss Lucy smiled and held out her hand. The man bent low and kissed it.

  You can call me Eli, he said.

  At breakfast the next morning Hermalie turned up late to the table and Robert had to bring a folding chair in from the yard. He watched her as she ate, forking up her waffles, pushing a jigsaw piece across the syrup. She liked to cram her food into her cheeks so that they swelled, and when she chewed, she puckered her lips, trying to hold it in.

  After everyone had left for church, he went into his room to pack: a jam sandwich wrapped in paper, a brick of soap, and Hermalie’s dress crushed down in a gunnysack. On his way to town, he watched the families coming and going in their church clothes, suits pressed sharp, little girls in their pleated skirts. A father came out of the house, and the mother hurried after him. She turned him to face her and undid the knot of his tie, then did it up again.

  Robert passed through the Negro quarter, then turned down Calhoun Street, following it to the main stretch and into the town proper. Inside the barbershops, men lined by the mirrors, lifting their chins and patting their fresh necks. Children crowded the candy carts, their small hands tight with pennies. In a side alley, a gang of young boys congregated around a game of dice, hooting and smacking each other’s backs.

  Robert came at last to the Sunday grocer’s. He smoothed down the front of his shirt and went in. The shop was empty save for the grocer himself, asleep behind the counter. His face was red and pocked, and a few strands of gray hair fell down past his cap. His pink mouth was partly open, his tongue clucking softly. His hands twitched as his body rose and fell. Robert touched the bell and the man sat up, startled.

  What, what is it!

  He yawned and rubbed his leathery face.

  Dr. Sloan’s Wash Powder, Robert said. He placed a quarter on the counter. The one they got in the newspaper.

  Boy, can’t you read?

  The man pointed to the WHITES ONLY sign in the window.

  I just need one box, mister.

  You got some nerve, boy. I ain’t even supposed to let you in here. Now, why don’t you be a good fellow and go on over to the colored grocer. I’m sure he’ll sell you some wash powder.

  They don’t got that kind. I need Dr. Sloan’s specific.

  Robert pushed the quarter toward him.

  See? I got money.

  Son, you ain’t got coin enough to get me to sell to you.

  I see it right there. On that shelf there. If you—

  Not for you it ain’t. As far as you’re concerned, that shelf is empty.

  Please, I—

  Don’t you raise your voice to me, boy! Now when I say I don’t sell to coloreds, I don’t sell to coloreds. Now scoot out of here before anyone catches you!

  Robert’s hands were damp with sweat. Something hot was building under his eyes. He put his palm down on the counter and felt for his quarter. His lip trembled. He stood there for a moment, not moving.

  What are you doing now?

  I need that wash powder, he said.

  The man stared at him, astonished. He stood up from his chair and took down the box of wash powder. He slammed it down on the counter.

  There. Dr. Sloan’s. You happy? Maybe it’ll wash the muleheadedness out of you.

  Robert blinked. He reached for the box.

  Thirty-five cents, the man said.

  Robert looked at the box. On the side, he could see where someone had written in dark pencil, 17¢. He placed another dime on the counter and went out.

  ROBERT WALKED SOUTH ALONG THE edge of town, toward the river. He could hear it beyond the lawns of sweetgrass and reed beds, rilling over the rocks. The sun was high overhead, and his clothes had started to stick to him. Flies buzzed his eyes and ears and mouth. He swatted but they circled and darted back. Finally, he made it out to the landing beneath Pontotoc Crossing where the river drifted calm, flecked with cottonwood dander.

  Robert swung the flour sack from off his shoulder. He stripped off his clothes and ran out beyond the shallows. The river rose up to his hip, then took him completely. He dove down, the sun spangling at the surface. He came up and sucked down the air hungrily, passing his hand through his hair. It was calm, save for th
e crappie splashing against the river’s skin, their ringlets widening toward him. He dove again, toward the river bottom where it was cooler. Something caught the light.

  He thought of the grocer and let himself dare that it was a half dollar. At each pass, he tried to kick toward it, but the water brought him up again. He found a hold on a rock shelf, and he let the air bubble out of him. He shot his hand toward the thing, a brown cloud blooming from his fingers.

  When he came up again, he brought the fist of mud into the sun. He pressed through it, feeling for the thing. It was small and hard, like a shell or a bead. He rinsed off the mud, and then held the thing up between two fingers. A single gold tooth.

  After his swim, Robert found a place to warm himself on the bank. He unpacked the dress and spread it out in front of him. The stains were dark as blood. He soaked the dress and sprinkled Dr. Sloan’s over the blotches. Then he worked the small yellow flakes with his fingers, building the lather into a dull head. His hands began to sting. He plunged the dress into the streambed and raked it against the bottom stones. Then up, again, then down, washing the yellow, odored soap downstream. He twisted the dress into a rope and slapped it against the flat stones before he unrolled it and started again.

  Robert hadn’t river-washed in years, but that old tightness came back into his arms. He squared his shoulders, the muscles lining up, his elbows primed like pistons. Scuttle bugs flitted across the surface of the water, and he felt their wings shy against his ankles.

  Dr. Sloan’s left a stink in the water like weak tea, but by the second hour, the stain started to give. Robert stretched out the fabric, and the brown runneled over his forearms. He dunked it into the water. The water plopped near him and at first he thought it was a fish but then there came another and another, cracking on the bank. He looked downstream and there were a gang of five white boys, throwing rocks.

  Hey!, one of them called out. He ain’t got no clothes!

  Robert hurried on his trousers, but the boys raced up to the landing before he could light out. They were each of them carrying fishing canes.

  You the sumbitch soaping up the crick!, one of them said.

  Robert muttered something. He could feel his voice cracking and he covered it with a quick cough. The boys circled around him, fussing through his things. They upended his pack and picked through his food.

  Fellas, look at this!

  One of the boys poked the dress with the tip of his cane. He lifted it.

  Your daddy give this to you? You do something sweet for him?

  Before he knew what he had done, a dull sick feeling went up his arm as the boy wheeled backward, gripping his nose. For a moment all was quiet. Then the boys dropped their poles and let out a cry. They piled on top of him, kicking and punching and butting with their broad thick heads. Robert wriggled free. He found his footing and managed to get to the box of wash powder. It flew from his hands in a fine cloud. There was a terrible scream and everyone turned toward the noise. One of the boys stood there, stunned, his eyes clenched tight and rimmed with red, his mouth twisted open.

  Oh my God, you blinded him! You blinded him!

  His friends tried to dunk his face into the water, but it was too shallow and he ended up beating his forehead against the stones, blubbering with each thrust. Finally, someone managed to spill enough over his face to clear out most of the soap. They picked up the boy and hurried him away.

  Robert stood where he was, his chest rising and falling. After they’d gone, he washed his hands in the water. His mind would not settle. He saw the sun on the water. The trees moving. The air moving across his back. His fingers were burning. Robert saw the dress. The stain was hardly noticeable now. The tooth, he realized, was gone. Either stolen or knocked into the water. Somewhere, a church bell was ringing. The afternoon service was being let out. He put on the rest of his clothes and started on his way back.

  On the road through Bruce, folks trudged slow in their church clothes. They walked stoop backed with the sun above them. Robert could hear the shop bells twinkling, doors banging lightly against the jambs. The windows were thrown open and the curtains tied back, and he could see inside the shops, and the people inside could see him, Hermalie’s dress slung about his shoulder. In one window, it was dark enough to catch his reflection—his face swollen and cut, his trousers speckled with mud. He wondered what part of him looked like his brother. A car honked behind him, then swerved to avoid him. He began to cry.

  When he got back to the house, he rushed behind Miss Lucy’s azaleas and fell to his knees. He felt the roar of acid in his throat. In one swift spasm it spilled out of him. He lurched again. A door opened and shut. He wiped his eyes and saw the Widow Percy watching him from across the street, her dog steadied in a chain around her fist.

  THAT NIGHT ROBERT SLEPT IN fits and starts. When he woke, his head was fuzzed with dreaming. He couldn’t remember what he dreamed but it was still there, down in the meat of him, buzzing uneasy. He pulled his covers over his head in spite of the heat and let the sleep take him under again. Sometime after, he awoke to the noise of someone coming into his room. He opened his eyes, and there was Hermalie, framed in the doorway. She was still in her church clothes—a cotton blue dress and white stockings. He hid his face with his spread.

  Miss Lucy wants to know where the gooseberry jam is, she said.

  He pointed to the shelf by the wall. She picked it up and balanced it in her hand.

  You going to lunch with us?

  No, he said. He didn’t recognize his own voice.

  You eat already?

  No, he said. Haven’t eaten.

  She went to the cot and shoved his feet to the side. He could hear the crepe of her skirt rustling as she sat down.

  I can bring some food down here and eat with you, she said.

  Robert closed his eyes and wished for her to leave.

  Why, what’s— Oh! What happened to your face!

  She peeled back the blanket.

  Nothing, he said.

  Your eye is all swole up.

  She made to touch him but he flinched.

  I’m fine, he said. I just want to sleep.

  For a moment she didn’t move. He waited for her to leave and when she did, he fell back asleep.

  When he woke again, the swelling had gone down. He touched his cheek gingerly. It didn’t sting as bad as it had, but the skin was still raw. He sat up, staring at the ceiling. There was no light from the window. The room was all dark, save for the small bar of light underneath the door.

  His right arm felt cold and strange, and he realized that he’d been lying on it. He lifted the deadweight and set it on his lap. The hand, he noticed, was made into a loose fist. He uncoiled the cold bloodless fingers, rubbing the life back into each of them.

  They were coming. There wasn’t time. He worked his fingers against each other, every nerve prickling. He swung his legs off the cot and when he stood, a weight fell from his dead hand. It clattered somewhere in the anonymous dark. How long had he been holding it? Dora’s stone.

  He felt around in the darkness for the dress and found it where he had left it, folded neatly beneath the cot. He packed it. He climbed up the stairs and threw open the door, the sudden light knifing into his eyes. The words were a jumble in his mouth, but he could feel it in his chest, his heart thrumming, its sharp edges cutting into tissue. He was running now, out the kitchen and into the hall. Then up the stairs, two, three, four steps at a time, his whole body vaulting forward. And as he came to the third floor, his eyes refocused, he marched down the long hall, every bedroom door shut, and did not stop till he came to Hermalie’s room.

  He knocked. Hermalie, he said.

  There was no answer.

  He started to say it again but stopped.

  There was a noise coming from inside. He was barely able to make it out. Quietly, he knelt down
to the keyhole, lowering his eyes toward the brass plate. He put his hand on the floor for balance and touched on something gritty. He brought his hand up. Small white grains pressed into the flesh of his palm. He stood up slowly and looked around him, at the ring of salt circling the door.

  Augustus Duke drove through the night and into the morning where dawn fire spilled out above the Luxapalila Valley. Through the saplings, he could make out the canal—a shimmering serpent of silver-black water. For days he’d been on the road, hunting throughout the state for the right instrument for his new investment—Eli—and in that time he had not slept, nor had a decent meal. The road had taken a toll physically. His back ached from the hours of driving, and his bowels were packed hard in his gut. A skin of grease lay in a sheen across his face.

  And yet still his mind itched with excitement.

  He had found him. He had finally found him.

  There was a fortune to be made. First, here, in these hick backwaters—then up north, to the Roxy Theater, the Paramount, Carnegie Hall. He imagined the crowds they would draw—the hundred-count bodies going down the block and around the corner. From miles around they’d flock to hear him. Eli Cutter. The Singing Con. The Murdering Musico.

  He’d first heard his name in a music hall in Bronzeville in Chicago. Duke was a younger man then, fresh from college. His father, Hiram, a medical doctor, had died the month before. Duke had been feeling depressed and on a whim he wandered in to hear the darkies play. The room was hot and smoke filled, the sticky residue of stale liquor underneath his soles. It was a shock when the band started up—the thrumming noise, the savage howls. He watched the Negroes as they danced, palms smacking, their eyes rolled back into their skulls. Duke sat in his chair, his hands wet with sweat.

  Later that night he overheard the performers reminisce about a piano player named Elijah Cutter. They said he was a black jinx, that when you shook his hand, you could feel a bad wind move through you. Chill you to the core.

  Cutter was unclean, one of the men said. Kept goofer dust in his shoes and a bag full of devils. It wasn’t natural, how good he could play, frenzying from chord to chord, from note to note.