Southern Cross the Dog

by Bill Cheng

  Roan, Frankie said. Her hand hovered above his stooped back.

  What happen’ a you?

  Roan swallowed hard and sucked at the small keylike bones.

  Where be Bossjohn?

  Dead, he muttered.

  Frankie gasped.

  How y’mean dead?

  Roan rose and grabbed Frankie’s wrist and forced her toward him. He leaned his face into hers, their noses almost touching. He sniffed sharply. A look of confusion passed across his face as she backed away. Then he looked at Robert and grinned.

  Tuk tuk tuk. You been much busy, muskie, oui? He cast his gaze around the camp. And you, ma’ cousin?

  Roan let her go, and Frankie looked away, her cheeks coloring.

  Come, she said. Let’s get we inside.

  Roan sucked the grease from his thumb and nodded. They stood and headed into the dugout.

  He followed Frankie into the other room while Robert stood by the door. He looked back out. The snow had turned to a heavy rain. Lightning cracked and crows took from their perches, filling the heavens with a sudden screaming night. He looked up and watched them crash above him. The horizon sparked and groaned.

  Roan came out in fresh clothes. He faced Robert with a grin and sat himself down at the table. Frankie came out after him, shaken. She looked at Robert. Shook her head.

  Rowbear, Roan rolled the name in his mouth. You like’n here, oui? Not every day big black muskie get to et’ on white meat, non?

  Roan rose. He was light and small, and he pinioned Frankie’s arm behind her back. Robert stepped forward and Roan slipped his knife free.

  Nuh nuh nuh. Sit you self down.

  Robert looked to Frankie. Her face was white with shock. Robert put up his hands and sat down.

  I’s gon’ put here house in order, y’hear?

  Roan threw her down, and she smacked her head against the table ledge. Then he turned toward Robert. He took a quick step before Robert could rise; he plunged his foot into his chest. Robert fell backward through the door. All at once he was outside, the icy rain against his skin.

  Roan kicked again, and Robert gasped, trying to suck down the lost wind. There was mud in his eyes and mouth and nostrils. He heard the door clap shut behind them. The skin on his back burned from the fall. He heard a choking noise gurgle from his own throat.

  Roan was above him now. Robert could feel his thin lithe frame shielding him from the rain.

  He tried to get up. A sky of white exploded against his temple.

  HOW MUCH TIME HAD PASSED? He could not be certain. He forced himself to his knees. He found the dugout wall before his insides lurched into his throat. His mouth filled with acid and he emptied it against the wall. He spit and wiped his lips. His head was burning.

  He felt weak. The ground was soft, and it was an effort to lift his legs. He fell forward and his arms drove into the sucking earth.

  This is it, he thought.

  He let himself onto his belly. The mud was cool, soothing.

  This is it.

  He rested his cheek against the ground. He shut his eyes. If he could get his heart to quiet. His breath to slow. His lungs were raw and it hurt to breathe. He waited. For what, he wasn’t sure. A light. A voice. He strained his ear upward, above the smashing rain, to the upper band of sky. But there was nothing. The universe seemed to pitch forward and fly into the void. He lifted his chin and opened his eyes. The night flashed and thundered.

  At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but the sky flashed again and there it was. It sat on its haunches, its coat sabled with rain, the fur at its scruff raised to sharps. It gazed solemnly into his eyes. He felt a grief then, a rush of anguish.

  Robert balanced himself on his knees and hoisted himself up.

  He staggered into the dugout. In the other room, he heard them, Roan grunting and Frankie pleading. He walked as silently as he could. In the dimness of the room, it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing—Roan on top of Frankie, struggling at her clothes. His trousers were worked down to his ankles, along with his belt, the knife.

  Robert moved slowly. He bent, took the cold weight in his hand.

  Robert grabbed a fistful of hair. He forced it back and dragged a line across the neck. There was spray against the walls, a wet sick noise in his throat. Roan kicked and shook and finally went limp.

  Robert dropped the steel. He propped himself against the wall, breathing hard. Then he collapsed.

  THE NEXT MORNING, FRANKIE DRAGGED the body out through the soft mud, fanning a Roan-shaped runnel out into the deep swamp. She buried him under clay and dirt and left the grave with no marker. When she returned to the dugout, Robert was still asleep. For the next few days, he would not speak and did not eat except for a little bread and water. He barely acknowledged her. At night, she’d sleep beside him in a crescent, nestling against his shivering form.

  Then one night, he turned toward her. He cupped her hands in his and kissed her knuckles, softly.

  I’m sorry, he said, though for what he never told her.

  She woke the next morning to find that he’d left in the night, taking with him Roan’s knife, a spare rifle, six rounds of ball, ten feet of rope, a rucksack, Roan’s old coat, a pair of boots, a pound of raw oats, a half pound of jerky, a canteen, a stocking of salt, and three vials of dog urine. She felt something hidden underneath her roll. She took it out, held it up to the light. A small flannel pouch.

  He wandered out of the swamp, half dead and all the way alive—every nerve singing. The nearest town sat under a clear blue sky, and he crossed the span of short grass to the borders. The streets were bitter bright and he felt like a stray among the houses. He was foul smelling and his coat was shredded to rags. A man had bumped into him and he could have murdered him, could have put his fingers through his soft neck. He walked for hours, the cold air on him, his memories a film with no lamp—just darkness and movement. He heard music and saw that he’d walked clear across town. He found himself before an old clapboard building with no signs, just rows of windows and music coming from the basement.

  He went inside where it was warm. A colored woman sat behind a teak counter. She looked at him carefully. The music grew louder, and they both turned toward the door behind her from which it flowed. He could hear singing.

  She opened a large leather-bound register.

  You have to sign before you go in.

  She held out the pen.

  It’s okay, she said.

  He took it and drew an X and it seemed to satisfy her.

  She smiled and opened the door.

  Go on. Just don’t disturb the others. They’ve already started.

  He went down a flight of stairs, his hand on the wall to guide him. Above his head, there were pipes gathering dust in silken strands. At the bottom, he found himself in the back of a room, a dozen men and women out of their seats, holding hands, facing a low raised stage. They were singing. On the stage stood a man, his shirtsleeves rolled, his face dripping with sweat. Beside him, a coal furnace burned warm and red. The man lifted up his hands and a roar broke out. Then he brought his arms back down and the congregants silenced and fell into their seats.

  Praise, brothers and sisters, praise!

  They answered, Praise! Praise!

  The man paced the length of the stage for a time, breathing loudly through his nose, his hands knotted behind his back. Through a small window near the ceiling, the brittle light streamed in. The man turned and caught the light against his frame so that when he drew his arms up, it was as if he were ablaze. Friends, he said, his hands lifting, life is not the highest good. Reverend, how will I save my soul? How will I enter through Heaven’s gate? My clothes are shabby and there are holes in my shoes. My pockets are light and my Burden is Great, Reverend.

  You say to me, Reverend, there is a meanness in
this world, and I have fought and it has beaten me, and now I am so conscripted, let mean be laid upon mean, low upon the low! You wag your tongues but from that other mouth, you beg forgiveness, you plead for Spirit and Light. Reverend, direct me to Heaven’s door, I am ready for my reward.

  And the Poet says: Not so goddamn fast.

  Because life is not the highest good.

  Brothers, are we not made from the Divine? The same stuff that drowned the pharaoh, that cleaved the Sea. Are we not filled with that same breath that was breathed into Adam, made not of that same clay? I speak so answer! Praise that we may speak, and stand on two legs, and command the beasts and eat the fruit of this earth so then must we speak the Gospel, and bear your brother upon your back, and drive the Devil from the land. For it is him that I’ve come to talk about today. That low sniffling dog that now howls at our back door! Hear him, brothers, hear! He calls for blood!

  Who then does it befall to turn him away? Who shall break his neck upon their boot heels? Mark! Mark! Oh you low, you dogs, you wretches, mark, where is that fine stuff now?

  The man took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his neck. Then he folded it again, keeping it in his hand—a square of white.

  Now I’ve seen the elephant and I’ve heard the owl, and the mountain, brothers, climbs steep. The Devil is no fool. The Devil talks in pretty words and he takes from what he borrows you. He takes from our Greed and our Vanity and our Sinfulness.

  The man locked his eyes on Robert. They were small and slitted.

  The man brought his hand out and held it in front of him. The kerchief waved in his grip.

  I quake, brothers and sisters. I quake. I can feel this world tearing itself apart. I can feel the air unraveling. Our families reduced to ash. Our homes being blown to dust. I tremble. Not for what I have lost but for what still may be taken from me. So let us take unto us the whole armor of God, that we may be able to withstand the evil day.

  AFTER THE SERVICES, ROBERT WAITED for the congregants to leave. They filed out of the dusty basement, shaking hands with the man and dropping dollars in his basket. A few women came to him and they hugged him and patted his cheek. Soon it was only Robert and the man. The man filled a basin with water and began washing his face and hands.

  Something I can do for you, brother?

  I’ve seen you somewhere, Robert said.

  In a vision, maybe. Perhaps you are called.

  What’s your name, Reverend?

  Do you mean my earthly name or the name writ for me in heaven?

  What do you call yourself here, in this basement.

  Reverend. Just Reverend now.

  What about before?

  Brother, you ask many questions, but not for the answer you seek.

  I have a gun in my pocket, Robert said. I’m going to use it to kill you.

  The man smiled. He dried his hands on a towel. Then he seized Robert by the throat and tore open the front of his shirt. The buttons scattered and Robert struggled for air. The man let go and Robert fell backward. The man was still smiling, looking at the naked flesh where the pouch had been.

  You didn’t keep your promise, the man said.

  Robert rubbed his throat, breathing shallowly.

  The man looked at the back of his large hands, inspecting the nails.

  Come on, he said. Let’s go outside.

  THEY CROSSED THE STREET AND circled to a small gated alley of pecan trees. Eli reached into his pocket and took from it a large iron ring. He unlocked the gate and they went inside. They sat down on a stone bench to rest. Out beyond the gate, they could see the gabled roofs of neighboring houses. A magpie was sitting on a line, watching them.

  I wasn’t sure I recognized you in the crowd. But then you came up to me and I knew it was you. That same stink-eyed boy from almost ten years ago.

  What are you doing here?

  My boy, I’m speaking the Gospel.

  And fattening up on the way.

  I admit this life has been kind to me, yes. My former employer, Mr. Duke, had a gift for recitation and it had an awful sway on me. I shaved my face and cut off my hair and answered the call.

  Eli grinned. He stood up and brushed the pollen from his shirt.

  What is it you want?

  Robert looked at him. His heart was racing. He tried to steady himself.

  There was a noise at the gate and they turned to see a woman behind it. She brightened when she saw Eli and waved toward him.

  Excuse me, he said.

  Robert watched him cross the alley to the gate. He said some words to the woman and stroked her hand. She didn’t look more than fifteen. She put something into his hand and it disappeared into his pocket. Then she turned to leave.

  One of my flock. The people of this town rely on me, he said. They look to me to unburden their souls.

  Eli sat again on the bench.

  Why don’t you unburden your soul to me?

  Robert grimaced. I don’t have the money to spare, Reverend.

  Eli laughed. You wound me. And rightly. Still, for you, it’ll be on God’s tab.

  No thanks.

  Robert turned to leave.

  Eli called to him. And where will you go? How long you going to go sniffing and begging in the back rooms and alleys? Now you and I both know you haven’t got a place in this whole cursed world to lay your head. Oh, maybe you got a place for tonight and maybe the night after. Some run-down ramshackle place to filter out the weather. Or maybe you got a nice warm bed somewhere, sharing it with some nice warm lady. But it’s all on loan, brother. I’m sitting here and the Lord is sitting up there in his Kingdom above, and you got one chance to set the record, brother. We’re both of us all ears.

  Robert looked back at him. Eli had his arms outstretched, channeling in the air. Robert started back. Eli motioned to the bench, and Robert sat down and bent his head into his hands.

  Put down your load, Eli said.

  Robert let out a long breath and closed his eyes. There was a quiet for a time. He could not think how to start. He reached for the words and felt instead the dirty mop of Roan’s hair brushing against him. He recoiled, shuddering.

  Let me help you, he heard Eli say. Eli’s hands were on his own now—those long still-soft fingers coiling around his wrists, pressing into his pulse.

  You’ve done something. Something you regret.

  This is a trick, Robert said. This is a game.

  Something dangerous, Eli went on. Something bad, worse than has ever happened before. And you’re scared. You don’t know what to do. That’s why you were in there tonight. Looking for answers.

  I heard music, Robert said. I was curious. That’s all.

  No. Little man, you don’t get curious. For you, music has no sound, food has no taste. And the days are endless.

  You’re wasting my time, Robert said. He went to take his hands away, but Eli held firm.

  There’s a woman, he said. A white woman.

  Robert couldn’t speak. He didn’t move.

  You did something with her. Something you shouldn’t have.

  Yes, Robert heard himself say. He started at his own voice—small and trapped in phlegm.

  And something happened. Something you can’t take back.

  Yes.

  Tell me, he said.

  I . . . I’ve been seeing things. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m awake or if I’m dreaming, if what I’m seeing is real. I can’t feel my fingers, or my arms, or my body. Can’t feel inside my own skin.

  Tell me, he said again.

  It follows me. I see it. It’s always there. Just behind me, never letting me alone. No matter how far I get, where I go. It’s there. It’s always there. Like it’s always been there. It watches me.

  What’s there? Say it.

  The Dog, he said. He felt the
word leave his mouth. It was the first time he had said it. Grief and fear surged through him. He could feel himself coming apart. The Dog, he said. Everywhere I go. It won’t leave me alone. It wants something from me and I can’t . . . I don’t . . .

  Robert began shaking. He realized he’d been holding his hand out, and it made a claw now. He gripped it shut and rested it on his lap. His eyes were closed and his lip was trembling. There was a pain now, dividing through the numbness, a hot knife. He drew in a breath and tried to collect himself.

  I can’t get clean of it.

  Eli rested his hand on his shoulder. The touch felt like a wound. Tears stood in Robert’s eyes.

  Help me, he whispered.

  Eli stood up. Robert began to weep. He lifted his head slowly. It was a man’s face. Ordinary. The skin was rough and creased around the eyes and mouth. He looked into Eli’s eyes and he was disgusted by the plainness of his face, how much like an egg it looked. Slowly, a grin crept across Eli’s lips. His cheeks tensed. He was trying not to laugh, Robert realized.

  Robert stood up and backed away. His face was burning. His heart was in his throat.

  You-you told me, he managed to say. His voice was brittle and strange. Said we were tied to each other.

  Who?

  The Dog—that I was going to need it. That’s what you told me.

  Eli laughed and shrugged. You were a boy! It was just something to say to a boy. Something I made up. You say a dog is following you?

  Robert felt his stomach drop. Something you made up?

  I can’t help you, he said. I’m sorry.

  Go to hell, Robert said, starting toward the gate.

  Eli glowed at him.

  I have to admit, though, it was a pleasant surprise running into you. I didn’t expect to see you again. Still, it is entirely reasonable, don’t you think?

  Go to hell, he said again.

  Eli walked after him.

  This is one thing I’ve learned. The one truth God has ever given to a man. And it’s that the past keeps happening to us. No matter who we are or how far we get away, it keeps happening to us.