Southern Cross the Dog

by Bill Cheng

  Elijah Cutter?

  Duke narrowed his eyes.

  No, he said. Wrong room.

  Oh, the girl said. Sorry about that.

  Wait, he said.

  He noticed the case of liquor behind her and the envelope in her hand.

  What do you have there?

  It’s from Miss Lucy, sir. She wanted it sent up to Mr. Cutter.

  Mr. Cutter is resting before the performance tonight, he said. You may leave these things with me.

  The girl shrugged. She handed him the envelope and brought the case into the bedroom. When she left, Duke tore open the envelope and read Lucy’s note. Best of luck tonight. He felt suddenly weak. He reached for his flask, having forgotten that he had already emptied it. In a rage, he launched it across the room.

  He tore the ribbon from the case of liquor. He uncorked a jug with his teeth and emptied it in one manic pull down his throat.

  HE FOUND LUCY DOWNSTAIRS WITH who else but Eli in the parlor. They were alone in the empty room, a row of chairs already arranged to face the harmonium as per his suggestion. They were at the bench, their bodies side by side. Eli moved his hands over hers, guiding her hands above the keys.

  It’s gorgeous, he heard her say.

  This, madam, is just a box, Duke found himself saying, startling them. They turned quickly on the bench. Duke strode confidently across the room, his unlit cigar pinched between his thumb and index finger.

  What is truly gorgeous is the smooth and thrilling mind that sits before it.

  Duke clapped Eli hard on the shoulder.

  Without this magnificent man, the box is mute, incoherent, worthless—knowing no grace, nor beauty, nor soul.

  Duke dug his fingers hard into the flesh. Eli winced but held his tongue.

  Oh . . . yes, Lucy said, unnerved. Of course.

  I was hoping to speak with you, Duke said. He struck a match on the back of his thumb and lit his cigar. Privately, if you don’t mind, miss.

  Very well, she said.

  Duke grinned. He bowed and swept his arms to the side.

  After you.

  She stood up from the bench. Then she bent and kissed Eli on the cheek.

  For luck, she said. A look flickered across Duke’s face and he made a show of puffing on his cigar.

  DUKE LED LUCY BACK INTO his room. The shades were down and the afternoon sun spread across the room in bars of amber light. He shut the door and slung off his jacket. Already his shirt was soaked, dark gray halos blooming underneath his arms and neck.

  Can I pour you something?

  He gestured to the case of liquor on the floor by the bed and watched her, trying to read her face.

  No, thank you, Lucy said.

  He hunted for his flask. He went around the room, violently jostling the furniture. Finally, he found it hidden between the wall and the dresser. He smiled at it, clucking his tongue, and uncapped it. He uncorked another jug and began to pour messily into the spout.

  Mr. Duke, I believe you’ve asked me here for a reason.

  He took a deep tug, then wiped his lips on his sleeve.

  Matter of fact, I did, he said. He fought down a belch and sat down on the edge of the bed. He motioned for Lucy to sit next to him but she remained standing.

  I’ve thought it over, he said, and I’ve decided that I am unhappy with our current arrangement.

  He kept watching Lucy’s face.

  After all, it is my man, my instrument, my show. This very night I can go out on the road and earn twice what I’ll take in here.

  You’re joking, Lucy said.

  I can part with thirty percent. Thirty percent, you’ll agree, is an act of generosity.

  Lucy rolled her eyes and folded her arms.

  I’m not running a dance hall, Mr. Duke. People don’t come here to listen to music. Time they spend with your box is time they’re not upstairs with my girls. So you tell me, who’s taking the real loss? Sixty-forty as agreed.

  Duke nodded slowly. They could hear the music coming from downstairs. It was both eerie and soulful, coming up through the floorboards, charging the air. Eli must have started practicing. Duke looked at Lucy, her face turned toward the door, her look faraway.

  That old boy can play, can’t he?

  Yes, Lucy said. She closed her eyes. Yes, he can certainly do that.

  He was in prison when I found him. Doing fifteen years for killing a girl. Did you know that?

  I didn’t, Lucy said. Why are you telling me this?

  Duke set the flask down on the bed. The two soft orbs inside his skull peered out at her, red and glassy, the right lid twitching.

  All right. As you say. Sixty-forty. What can I say, you’ve called my bluff.

  Duke stood up from the bed and shrugged deeply.

  I’m sure there’s another way for us to settle this. After all, he said, you are a beautiful woman. And I am a man.

  He was surprisingly fast, given his bulk. Before Lucy could react, he had grabbed her and pinned her body against the door. She struggled against him and he forced his tongue into her mouth and tasted the rush of iron.

  She pushed him away.

  Mr. Duke! What’s the matter with you!

  She sneered, wiping her mouth.

  He could not help but laugh. His tongue was bright and stinging.

  Come on, Lucy. Just a little luck for tonight?

  Lucy spat. Her jaws tensed.

  You will not speak like that to me, she said.

  Oh, does the whore have pretenses?

  Duke came at her again. There was a flash of dull light and Duke seized her wrist, twisting it until the stiletto dropped from her grip. She let out a cry and raked her hand across his face. The shock sent Duke stumbling backward. There was a crash, and then a thud as he tripped on the empty jug. A horrible sucking noise escaped from his chest. He rolled over onto his knees and started hacking for air.

  Lucy readjusted her clothes.

  Don’t you forget yourself, Mr. Duke.

  She bent down and picked up her knife. Fifty-fifty. If that don’t suit you, you can find your own way out.

  Duke gripped his face. His hands were shaking.

  He called out after her.

  So that’s your choice, is it?

  She ignored him and walked out to the hall.

  BEFORE SHOWTIME, ELI DREW HIMSELF a bath and scrubbed his body down. When he’d finished, he went to the mirror, swept back his hair with a fine-tooth comb. He put on the cleanest shirt he could find and took an early supper of chitlins and rice alone in his room. All around him, the house was humming. He could hear the girls, running back and forth, stealing each other’s makeup and powdering up their parts.

  When it was time, he went downstairs to find the parlor had already filled up. They made way for him as he entered.

  He passed by Lucy, who had staked a position near the door. She looked distracted. He winked at her, hoping to get her attention, but her arms were folded and if she saw him, she did not show it.

  Duke was waiting by the harmonium. He did not look well. There was a series of gashes across his face, and his skin had turned an angry plum. He puckered at his cigar. Eli took his place at the bench and Duke leaned into his ear.

  You’re late, he said.

  Sorry, boss.

  Never mind that. Just get ready.

  Duke cleared his throat and rapped twice on the wood top.

  Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.

  Duke scooped off his hat.

  My name is Augustus Duke. Thank you for joining us for this evening’s entertainment. Before we begin, perhaps a small token to show your appreciation of God’s work on this earth.

  He handed his hat to one of the guests.

  Don’t be shy. Just a coin or two to
wind up our precious music box.

  When the hat came back around, Duke bowed deeply before the crowd and shoved the money into his pockets.

  Ladies and gentlemen, the man who sits before you tonight is an interesting specimen—a native to your parts. He has walked amongst you, eaten what you have eaten. Drunken what you have drunk. And yet, who of you truly knows Eli Cutter? Oh, his is a long and varied story, and I have traveled far and wide to make record of it.

  Who would guess that this gentle, simple man, is—point of fact—a beast among lambs! He stands here before you accused of idolatry and devil worship! A murderer and rapist of children!

  Duke turned to Eli.

  Mr. Cutter, are there laws yet, either of man or of God, that you have not broken? Ah! And here you are, gifted with a talent of such grace, of such stupefying beauty—it boggles the mind.

  But enough of that—I believe I have done you justice. If you would, pleasure us with one of your tunes.

  Eli gaped at Duke.

  We . . . we didn’t talk about . . . I’m not sure—

  Duke hissed at him.

  You do what you’re told, Eli. The rest you leave to me.

  He looked out into the crowd. The guests seemed unsure of themselves. They murmured nervously to one another.

  Now, Mr. Cutter. A song.

  Eli started playing “My Creole Sue.” It was slow and pretty, but he was only a few bars in before Duke cuffed him hard across the neck.

  No, goddamn it. None of that.

  He leaned in close and held the burning tip of his cigar above Eli’s knuckles.

  You’ll play what I goddamn tell you.

  Duke smoothed out the front of his shirt. He cleared his throat and smiled at the crowd.

  As I was saying, Mr. Cutter is going to play us a blues.

  Eli looked out at the room.

  Go on, Duke said.

  Nervous laughter rippled across the room.

  Eli adjusted himself on his seat and he took a deep breath. The air stretched out in his lungs and pressed against the ache. The keys started to blur. Eli shut his eyes. He stretched out his fingers and tensed the cords of his neck and hands. From behind, he looked like a buzzard, arms spanned wide and high above his shoulders, his head bent forward. For a moment he hung, coasting along some invisible thermal. Then Boom! He beat against the keys. Boom!

  Eli threw his head back, and the hands surged down again. Boom! Boom!

  He stood up and punched hard at the notes. The box hummed beneath his fingers. He could feel the audience behind him, their hearts rattling in their throats, the piss swelling in their groins. They wanted a blues. So he let them have it. Boom. Boom. Like a hammer at their skulls. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  He opened his mouth and powered violently through the noise.

  My baby’s gone, my baby’s gone.

  DUKE SNUCK OUT OF THE parlor and made his way to the supply room. The key was missing so he forced the door open, tearing the bolt from the jamb. It seemed the stores had been replenished for the evening’s performances. There were jugs upon jugs laid out before him and he gathered what he could into his arms. He uncorked one with his teeth and began there first, spilling the contents in long chemical trails. Then he went out into the hallway and, traveling up and down its length, drenched the curtains and the furniture. When he’d emptied one jug, he returned to the supply room for another and started again, staggering from room to room.

  The gall of that whore, Duke fumed. And after he had laid so bare his feelings! His face was burning. She had played upon his weaknesses. Duke laughed sadly at how he had allowed himself to be fooled. Schemes and lies were a part of Lucy’s trade and she’d had years to hone her craft. She’d made this place a trap for men.

  He felt the liquor spill through his fingers.

  He would’ve shared his life with her. He would’ve offered her greatness. He heaved a sigh.

  Now, instead, he would have to teach her humility.

  He ended his trail at the kitchen, spilling out the final jug on the tiles and mopping it with his shoes. He took the matchbook with Eli’s name from his breast pocket and lit the cover. The Negro’s name burned quickly in a fang of heat and light. He bent the cardboard down toward the greasy pool. All at once his arm erupted in a hot white sleeve, spreading across his shirt. Duke dashed out into the rain and smashed his burning body against the grass.

  The fire spilled in eager sheets across the floor, up the stairs. Bright liquid white, massing and suffusing through the wood. Piece by piece, the hotel would come apart. The glass would burst and the pipes would buckle. Smoke and flame would suck down into the air-filled rooms.

  BUT NOW IN HERMALIE’S ROOM, Robert lay in the cool dark. Hermalie’s head rested on his chest, and he moved his hand gently across her crown. Between his legs he was sore and throbbing. His heart pulsed strong and small inside his chest, electric with some unnamed anticipation.

  He held the pouch absently between his fingers.

  I did this, he found himself saying.

  Yes, you did, Hermalie said.

  She drew a shape above his breast.

  I like it here, she said.

  He put his arm around her, placing his warm hand on her bare shoulder.

  He liked it too, he thought but would not tell her, suspicious that his words would somehow break this spell.

  She burrowed into his side.

  Don’t you love when it rains? Makes me think of home.

  He did not say anything.

  For the time being, he did not see the flames spike and stretch outside her door. Soon the house would fill with smoke and screaming. The eaves would crash, puffing cinders into the rain-filled night. And Lucy and her guests would stand under the storm to watch the smoke rear through the wood-bone frame, oozing through the bursting windows.

  But here, in this moment, he could still feel the life inside Hermalie. The blood moving warm beneath her skin, into her bird heart. Breath filling then emptying.

  Do you hear that?, he asked.

  And she moved her head slightly. Hear what?

  Robert sat himself up, leaned toward the strange pull in the air.

  And behind the crunch and pop of cracking timber, the druggist’s wife would stand on her stoop and laugh and hoot and smash her palms, and her dog would howl and drag its chain—as the whorehouse of Bruce was damned to ash.

  But he sat up now, and he listened. There it was, inside the walls. Somewhere someone was singing—my baby’s gone, my baby’s gone.

  PART THREE

  SALVAGE

  (1927)

  During those first days when the water was up to the roof, Uncle Reb slept on his deering rifle to keep the wet from the powder. He wrapped it up in our only quilt while me and Nan Peoria shivered and cried, bedded down with nothing but dew and prayer and flood spray. He told Nan Peoria, This here rifle is keeping us from the mercy of God. Then he sighted a bird far upstream and dropped it from the sky. When it floated down to our eaves, there was hardly any meat on it at all.

  About a week in, Nan Peoria got the pneumonia and when she died, Uncle Reb just rolled her off her spot, didn’t say no good words or nothing, and that’s how come I remember what he said about that rifle. She rolled away kind of stiff, then the current took her, and that was all there was to Nan Peoria.

  After Nan died, I huddled up with Uncle Reb at night, which was all right because he had that quilt, excepting that that old rifle was lumpy and sticking at me in places, and some nights Uncle Reb would press into me and whisper Dora, Dora, and when morning come, he’d tell me it was just my fool dreaming.

  THE FIRST MORNING I’D SEEN the boat, the fog was still high. Something was out in the water, sliding slow toward the eaves of the Waller farm. I shook at Uncle Reb but he swatted me away. There was a low thump, and that’s when I kn
ew it was a boat hitting up against driftwood. I heard a man’s voice. He was singing.

  Uncle Reb, I whispered. Wake up. There’s somebody out there.

  He wouldn’t rise till I pinched him. He stood up and flung the quilt off his rifle. He leaned it toward where I was pointing, swinging the mouth of the thing left and right. The water steamed a little, and a breeze swirled the fog around. There was nothing.

  God almighty, he groaned.

  We should’ve said Amen Jesus. We should’ve said good words over her.

  Uncle Reb stretched up, scratched himself with one hand, then went to the edge of the roof to make water. Turn your head, he told me. When it was okay to look, there were bubbles already running downstream. He knelt down and checked the waterline.

  Dropped an inch overnight, he said.

  There was something, I told him. It was here then it was gone. I heard singing.

  Go back to sleep, he said. Then he spit over the side and stretched out on the quilt. He wrapped the gun up and draped his arm over the stock. Then like nothing, he started snoring.

  THERE WASN’T MUCH TO DO during the day except be hungry and be sad. We hadn’t saved much—just some clothes, Nan Peoria’s Bible, and my Sally doll, which Uncle Reb threw into the water and ruined on account of his having a temper. What food we had, we couldn’t mete out more than a week. So I read Nan Peoria’s Bible and I pretended it was Bible times and we was on what they call an ark, and every bird I seen I pretended they was doves till Uncle Reb sighted one up and felled her. And so I didn’t play Bible after that.

  SOMETIMES, WHEN UNCLE REB WENT out on one of his swims, I’d put my ear up against the roof tiles, and the house would shift and mumble and groan on like some big belly. I tried to imagine maybe there was fish in there, swimming around my things, little silver ones flapping, going in and out of the cabinets with those tiny yellow eyes, always looking at everything but never got nothing to say. And I thought maybe when the water went down, Nan Peoria could fry them up with a skillet, and Uncle Reb would eat the heads like he showed me one time, eyes and brains and everything.