by Bill Cheng
Please, he said softly.
Lucy shut her eyes and took a small breath.
You can keep it in the yard, she said. Then she turned around and went inside.
THE HOTEL KEPT ITS LIQUOR in a small storage room off the second-floor hall. That afternoon he’d seen Eli sneaking out with one of Lucy’s girls, their hands all over each other, full of laughs and whispers. Duke hid himself behind a wall and waited for the two to leave. When they were gone, he walked to the door and saw that it was locked. The thought occurred to him to tell Lucy what he had seen—that her precious Eli had been pilfering from the hotel’s wares.
In the end he decided against it. He wouldn’t want to seem petty.
It did not take long to find the key. It sat on top of the jamb, under a skin of dust. He fit it against the lock and let himself in. He took a jug from off the shelf, then closed the door behind him, replacing the key where he had found it.
That night he did not ask any of the girls to join him in his room. He was far too worked up. Instead he tucked alone into the rye. The liquor was strong and chemical. Every pull came hot and searing. He reeled like a boxer, his eyes filling with water. The world would go alternatingly dim and bright as the corners of the room rearranged themselves. His mind was on fire, and all he could think to do was to throw himself back and forth across the room. He crashed against the furniture and the bed and the wall. In a rage, he hefted the mattress from its frame and flipped it onto the floor. His hand was warm and buzzing. There was blood. He took a kerchief and wrapped it tight against his palm.
All night he passed in and out of consciousness. His words were a slurring of his angry and animal thoughts. Suddenly the idea came to him. It was clear and bright. A sapphire.
He saw the guests gathered in the small downstairs parlor. There, at the front, would be Eli—his hair swept and coiffured, his smile a bright shine of teeth. He saw him, saw him take his place at the bench, his eyes seeking Duke out. And there on the edge of the heat and smoke and stink, he saw himself and Lucy, her eager eyes bent toward the vortex of anxious noise, her hand squeezing tightly against his own. And with a nod or a look, he would loose his creation—the years of hunting and searching—and Eli would fire down on those keys with his perfect hands, and croon out in that perfect voice.
There would be no doubt then.
She would know what Augustus Duke was capable of.
THE NEXT MORNING, HE HURRIED down into the parlor. Lucy was at her desk with her ledger book. He explained his idea and she listened patiently. Her face was a mask, her eyes peering out through the small lenses of her glasses. They would split the proceeds, he told her, sixty-forty. She would provide the guests and he would provide the entertainment. He was aware of how he was sounding, manic and deranged, the words tumbling out without reserve. He gripped the edge of the desk, smacking his hands against the top as he spoke.
When at last he had finished, out of breath, Lucy paused and looked at him. He could feel her eyes take him in. In his haste that morning, he had forgotten to tidy himself up. His clothes were wrinkled and out of place.
Have you slept?, she asked.
Duke laughed.
Who has time for sleep? There’s too much to do! Do you know what we could get done together, Lucy? You and me?
Lucy thought for a moment. She seemed disquieted but in the end she relented.
How long until that thing of yours is fixed?, she asked.
He leaned across the desk, toward her.
Not long. A few weeks, he assured her.
He offered her his bandaged hand. She took it reluctantly and with that the deal was struck.
DUKE WORKED FOR WEEKS REPAIRING the harmonium. Eli would rise in the afternoon to find the man already in the yard, his jacket slung on the bench, his shirtsleeves rolled, sprawled beside the carnage of rotten boards and brass reeds. Day by day, more and more of the monstrosity was stripped down to its parts. He’d sit cross-legged on the grass like a buddha, motes of dust casting through the sunlight. He’d contemplate each piece, picking up a reed pipe and staring through its hollow, blowing across its rims, tracing a pink finger along its length. He would hold up brackets to the light, watch the sun catch on their edges.
Every piece had a purpose. A function. On good days, those functions would streak like a bolt of lightning across his mind and his hands would move hurriedly, fixing various pieces together. But by and large, the process was a struggle. Sometimes he would have headaches and after some hours, his mind would stagger and stall before grinding to a halt.
He would heave a deep breath and shut his eyes, and he would reach for his flask and suck hard and deep and wait for the fog to clear.
Eli was useless to him. He did not know how the pieces fit together any more than Duke did. Duke would make him clean the pieces or else go into town to search for a suitable replacement. More often than not, Eli was tasked with taking Duke’s empty flask and having it refilled in Miss Lucy’s liquor room.
Duke was alone the evening he finished the repairs. He nailed the panels shut and leaned his foot on each the pedal. A warm and brassy hum sounded through the wood. He looked at it. He had not done a half-bad job. The thing had been fixed by patchwork. What could be salvaged had been cleaned and fixed and what couldn’t was replaced. He levered his foot back and pressed again. It was almost human, its noise like a choral breath—he let his hands fall cleanly through the keys and shut his eyes, listening to his box full of souls.
ELI HAD BEEN ASLEEP FOR only a few hours before he was awoken by a sharp pain in his chest. He opened his eyes and there was Duke hovering above him. Under the candlelight, he looked red and bloated, the flesh around his eyelids swollen so that the eyes had narrowed into two black beads.
Duke brought the candle closer. He held it at its soft shaft and tilted it down. A glob of hot wax escaped from the base of the wick.
Shush . . .
Eli cringed and Duke clapped his hand over Eli’s mouth. He could smell the liquor in his sweat.
I was dreaming of you, Eli, Duke whispered.
How’d you get in here?, Eli mumbled.
Shhh . . . Through the keyhole. Now pay attention. I was dreaming of you. And in this dream, I saved your life. I had saved your life, Mr. Cutter. Eli Cutter. I rescued you and you were indebted to me.
He let another droplet of wax fall. Eli winced.
You were in a dark place and I used my powers to bring you into the light. This is what I dreamed.
He removed his hand, sealing a finger to Eli’s lips. He set the candle on the table and brought himself to a mirror. He undid his bow tie and then reknotted it. Then he started smoothing out the ruffles in his suit and combing back his hair with his fingers. When he was satisfied, Duke blew out the candle and staggered out of the room.
For the first few nights after the accident, Robert had run a fever and Miss Lucy cooked him up chicken broth with garlic hearts and hunks of cheese to build his strength. It did no good—his head kept burning. One afternoon, he was found wandering through the front yard, hobbling toward Percy’s Pharmacy. Hermalie watched him from the stoop. She called his name and he made no answer. He paused at the curb as Percy’s dog appeared from behind the store. Its ears were back and it was growling. Robert kept advancing.
The dog started toward him. She scooped up a rock from Miss Lucy’s garden and rushed out across the road. She hucked it hard and caught the dog across the crown. It turned on her, snarling and oozing blood. Hermalie menaced her fist above her head.
The dog raised its hackles and bared its teeth. She turned and saw that Robert had collapsed. She stamped her foot twice and the dog backed slowly away, disappearing beneath the pharmacy.
When it was safe, she sat the boy up and tried to get him out of his daze.
Wake up, Robert, Hermalie said.
She shook him and pinched
his cheeks.
Open your eyes.
Robert moaned.
You all right, Hermalie said. Come on now. Let’s go inside.
She stood him on his feet, and together, they went back into the house.
FROM THE CELLAR, HE COULD hear the goings-on about the house. He mapped the footsteps of the guests—the hard clean tap of their leather shoes, the fast patter of heels across the hall, from one room into the next. He lay on his cot, listening as the world drummed above him. He could hear voices through the wood. Joy. Sadness. Longing. Excitement. Anger. He listened and listened, till all the voices stretched above and around like the walls of some deep cave, leaving him, alone, in its center.
For days he waited for the knock on the front door. The groan of the wood as it swung open and the clean tight voices that would ask for him.
But weeks passed and the riders never came. No knock on the door. No stamping of hooves. No torches by night. And still Robert could not get his mind to settle. He startled still at the slightest noise. He could not eat and barely slept. Sometimes the thoughts would run together, one after another, for hours on end. It was exhausting. It left him frayed and tenuous and unable to concentrate.
He shut his eyes.
Hermalie’s gait he knew now by heart—her weight against the floor, the quick tattoo of her feet as she ran from point to point. He heard her move through the room, down the hall, then the stairs, then finally to the kitchen outside the cellar door so that when she knocked three times, he knew right away who it would be.
She came in with a tray of juice, hard toast, and eggs and set it roughly on the shelf.
Eat your breakfast, she said.
Not hungry. Thanks.
She glared at him, pursing her lips and sighing sharply.
Robert looked at her.
Well?, she said.
What?
Ain’t you going to say nothing about my dress?
She was wearing the yellow dress he’d first seen her in. The stains had lifted, leaving only a pale egg-colored blotch that in the dim light of the cellar was hardly noticeable.
It’s the one that got ruined. I decided to put it on for you.
Robert tried to force a smile.
It’s nice, he said.
I was thinking about wearing it tomorrow night. Eli’s going to play something for us. He’s got a piano all set up in the parlor and all the girls are going to go. You want to come?
I don’t think I’m up to it, Robert said.
Hermalie shrugged and looked down at her shoes. For a moment no one spoke. Hermalie reached into her pocket and brought out a pack of cards.
Before I forget, I found this in one of the rooms. Figured it’d give you something to do while you’re laid up.
He took the pack and laid it on the sheet in front of him.
I don’t know any games, he said.
Not any? Didn’t no one teach you?
Robert shook his head.
Here, I’ll teach you how to play casino. That’s easy.
She slid the cards from the pack and boxed them even against her leg. She arched her palm and sent the cards cascading into one another. She dealt out the cards and Robert gingerly lifted up his hand. Hermalie explained how to capture and trail and build. They played a few rounds and she corrected him when he set down a bad card or played out of turn.
You’re good at this, Robert said.
She shrugged.
I learned from my sister.
You have a sister?
Oh yes. Five of them. We were six girls, me being the last of them. Daddy used to joke that every girl that popped out of our mama was another patch of hair gone from his head. Figure on my account, Daddy must be smooth as a melon now for sure. Joanna, she’s the oldest. She’s the one that taught me casino. She taught it to me and so now I’m teaching it to you.
Robert leaned his head back against his pillow, his eyes pointed toward the ceiling, someplace far away. Suddenly he drew in a long breath and dragged his arm across his eyes. Hermalie rested her hand on his leg, the hot rising from the blanket. Robert buried his head into his hands and started to convulse silently.
I’m sorry, Hermalie said. She tried to gather him up into her arms, but he wouldn’t let her touch him. Sorry sorry sorry I didn’t mean . . .
She wanted to do something for him. What, she didn’t know. She lifted up the blanket and touched his bare knee. He didn’t seem to mind. Slowly, she drew her fingers against his skin, against the fine loops of his hair, then slowly, her touch journeyed up into the swampy regions inside his thigh. She brushed her fingers against something and his body tightened.
Hermalie looked into his stunned face. She repositioned herself on the bed and stretched her arm farther, where she found him, waiting. It was hot to the touch. She drew it from its sheath and his stomach flexed. She looked at him. Close your eyes, she said and he did, turning his face away. She squeezed him gently, the outer flesh damp and soft, the blood pulsing. She worked slowly, her arm chafing against the rough blanket, the constrictive fabric tightening around her knuckles. She could hear him mumbling to himself, small noises uncoupling in his throat. Finally, the hot erupted, dribbling down her fingers. Everything in him went soft. With his eyes still closed and his face buried in the pillow, she lifted up the blanket and scooped up the strands with the side of her palm, wiping her hands on the fringe of the bedsheet.
The cards lay in a mess on the floor. She bent down and gathered them up, tapping the corners square. She looked at Robert. His face was turned away. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
We can play a different game next time, she said.
Okay, he managed to say.
She put the deck back into its pack and set it on the shelf.
As she left, Robert tugged the devil free, hanging it outside his shirt. He held the flannel pouch lightly in his palm; he didn’t know if he could hurt it or make it mad if he squeezed too hard. He rubbed his thumb against the puckered mouth where the twine tightened. He was not sure what had happened. He balanced the devil in his hand, heard the salt ring against the coin. She’d touched him. He had made this happen. But rather than lift his dark and oily mood, it had made him feel empty and alone.
He could hear the dog pace anxiously outside Percy’s Pharmacy, the chain dragging across the hot concrete. It was no doubt barking at some passerby, but through the walls, it sounded far away and haunting, calling out from the world’s end. Robert sat himself up and directed his ear to the window. It started up again, a series of five hacking barks building into a flutelike keen. Robert shut his eyes. Felt a brother to the mad wind.
From his cot, Robert could hear thunder in the distance, the hungry murmur of cloud and sky. Then came rain—pock, pock, pocking—over the roofs and trees and windows. His fever had long since broken, and though he still felt weak, Robert had grown tired of lying in bed, tired of being still. The world was not forever, he told himself. He threw off his sheets and stood himself up. The ground was cold and he felt it through his soles. At first he was uneasy being on his feet, unaccustomed to the weight of his own body. He climbed up the steps and threw open the door.
There was no one in the kitchen. No one in the front room or out in the back. He thought for a moment that the hotel had emptied, that once again he’d been abandoned. Then he remembered that tonight was the night of the show. From the hall, he saw the crowd out on the porch. He ignored them, moving past to the staircase and climbing up to the third floor. He knocked on the door and it gave way under his hand.
Hermalie was sitting at the mirror.
Robert, she said.
He walked across to the window and opened it, letting in cool sweet air.
He sat at the sill.
I like you, he said.
I like you too.
She looked at
him, her face furrowed.
So why are you so sad?
He looked below into the yard. Something moved through the bushes. At first he thought it was the mutt from across the street, the one that belonged to that Percy woman, but it was sleek and black, almost oily in the way it passed through Miss Lucy’s roses. The dog sat down beneath the window and looked up at him.
I don’t think there’s much time left, he said.
Robert turned. Hermalie had sat down beside him.
He looked at her and felt something collapse. He leaned toward her and they kissed. Her tongue slid inside his mouth. They made their way over to the bed and he laid her down. He suspended himself above her. His hand moved across her small breast and settled on the hard nub between his fingers.
She unbuttoned his trousers and he felt between her legs. Robert, she said. He didn’t answer. The blood stood in his chest. He slipped his hands down the soft cotton of her underwear and massaged the dark mound of her hair, then down still to the moist folds between her legs. She made a small noise in her throat. The little devil tapped lightly at his chest. He found the hem of her skirt and lifted it over her head. She hummed lightly and guided his hands down her waist into her warmth. A cold wind blew in from the window, and he could feel her skin prickling.
Above them, thunder rolled, and stitch by stitch, he could feel the sky unravel.
IN THE HOURS BEFORE THE show, Duke locked himself in his room and began his final preparations. He laid his suit out on the bed, then went to the shaving mirror. He passed a razor through the errant hairs of his chin and cheeks, scraping along the soft supple flesh until the skin filled with an itchy bloom. His nails he filed down into perfect half-moons.
He let himself have a nip from his flask to even out his nerves, then proceeded to dress himself. He put on his shirt and his pants and his jacket, and with his large thick hands, he worked out the knot of his violet bow tie. He reached into his breast pocket and found the small silver ring, his father’s. He took another pull from his flask. He heard a knocking. He opened the door and on the other side was one of Miss Lucy’s girls.
