Southern Cross the Dog

by Bill Cheng

  Dora looked up at him from underneath the blankets, sweat beading her forehead, her expression soft.

  She whispered something. Robert couldn’t hear what. He leaned in closer and she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

  He pulled away in shock. The taste was sour and rank. She started to laugh, then broke into a fit of coughing. Then she turned over and fell again to sleep.

  ROBERT SEARCHED UP AND DOWN the road for him, north to the old field where the plantation house sat squalid and decaying in the distance, then south again, out past the grove of yellow poplars, into Anguilla. It was dusk, and the last of the day’s light stretched itself out in a band before the horizon. By the time he made his way to the juke house, the crowd had already packed themselves in. Chairs and tables were stacked up against the walls. There was a band in the house and they roared their music, stamped their feet. Folks were dancing, scraping their shoes against the floorboards, swinging their arms. Robert sat down at the counter and tried to get the barman’s attention.

  The man tore himself away from a young woman at the other end of the bar. He walked over slowly, slapping his towel in his hand.

  You seen G.D.?

  You Robert?, the barman said.

  Yes.

  Just a second.

  The barman stepped away to the other end of the bar.

  The band finished their number and the dancers made their way back to their seats. The air was thick with smoke and Robert was finding it hard to breathe. Robert’s arms were shaking and his heart was beating and his thoughts tattooed images in his brain—of G.D., of men with horses. The barman came back with a glass of something brown and dark in one hand and a slip of paper in the other. The paper was folded neatly into a square. In an uneven hand, his name had been written across it.

  G.D. told me if I saw you, I was to give you this note and this here drink.

  The barman set them down in front of him.

  Cheers, the barman said. He rapped the counter with his knuckles and moved back to the corner.

  Robert grabbed the drink and took in a mouthful. It was worse than piss but he swallowed it down. The acid bubbled in his gut. For the longest time he stared at his own name, not touching the note. He did not need to, he decided. He knew already what it said. Outside, moths were crashing around the windows. He drank down the rest of the glass, this time slower. There was hardly any sting left and he let it dam in his mouth, then all down his throat. He breathed deeply, felt the air tear on his teeth. It was full dark now and there were owls somewhere, their calls multiplying endlessly. Through the window, he could see the moon wasn’t but a sliver, like the sky was torn and behind it stretched some brighter canvas.

  Frankie did not stop to sleep, kept moving, through dusk and dark and again the breaking light, head buzzing, hungry. She clutched the satchel to her chest, did not risk a fire for fear that the smoke would give her away. By now, they would have found the house. She imagined them pawing through her things, her family’s things. Bugheway bastards. She had heard the explosions. Then the crackle of gunfire. The bugheway were clumsy, drunk—firing blindly into the leaf. They came with a parade of dogs, howling, foaming, down the western corridor, then north. She backtracked, stayed off the trails, waded through the brack and peat to mask her scent, till at last, three days later, she made it out the other side. The air was different here. Thin. Sweet with grass. It made her sick to breathe it.

  She came to an unmarked road and started down it, trembling, her heart pressing against her teeth. She found an abandoned grain silo and saw in the dirt, boot prints. Robert’s. They were old but she knew right away, the deep etch of the inside heel, the lip where the toe had lifted. She took it as a sign and went inside.

  The first night she slept under the pelts and woke up to pigeons fluttering above her, dust and feathers falling from the rafters. She winged one with a rock, stepped on its neck, and cooked it on a spit. The meat was hot and tough. She crunched through the bones, delirious, burning her tongue and mouth; she didn’t care. She lifted a sleeve of dead skin from the roof of her mouth. A week passed. No one came for her. Not Robert. Not the bugheway. She wept alone, exhausted, burning with sorrow and relief.

  She resolved then to go into town. She’d sell the skins and, with the money, start again up in the north woods. Saskatchewan.

  On her last night at the silo, she awoke to the noise of hoofbeats. They thumped dully through the earth, an old Injun trick. She climbed out from under the skins and saw riders across the valley, a least a dozen strong. They held torches and were whooping brightly, dragging something ragged through the dust.

  COME NIGHTFALL, THE WIND TORE into the paneling at Fort Muskethead. The trappers helped nail rugskins to the windows to damp the cold. The electric lights flickered then went. They could see the outline of the cage, the trader’s silhouette against starlight, busying himself with the hurricane lamps—his hump riding to his shoulder. They shoved against the caging, rattled it from its hinges. Hurry up, you old hunchback. The glass caught the glow, and the trader passed the lamps through the slide window.

  They set them on the sills, the floors, the tables, then lined up again in front of the opening. One man muscled through in front of the others and he passed his license through the window. The lamps haloed just enough glow for the trader to make out the bull mark. He looked up at the trapper.

  His beard was caked in parts, his cheeks scabbed and dirty. The skin had started to peel on the round of his nose, so it looked thatched with frost. The trader passed the license back through the slide window and watched him gather it into his hands, two fingers stumped above the knuckle of his left hand. The trapper took the paw from his rucksack. The trader held it above the lamp. The paw had been chopped below the knee. The bone had splintered and cracked. He felt along the toes and the padding, then slid the money through the slot.

  Frankie watched the light move across the old man’s face. She clutched her trapsack to her chest and joined the line. They could smell her, she knew, like they could smell a kill. The tealike odor of frenzy and panic. She looked around the room. Their eyes glittered.

  She came to the front.

  License?

  None, she said.

  The trader blew out through his lips. Next.

  I’s a L’Etang.

  I know a John L’Etang. You of those L’Etangs?

  She nodded impatiently.

  Well, where are they then?

  Gone North to Beaver, she said.

  The trader looked into her face. Her eyes were full of wet.

  Sorry to hear that, he said.

  He moved the lamp closer and brought a slice of soft light against her cheek.

  Let me see what you have.

  She went through the furs one by one and splayed them out for him to see. He brought out a small comb and combed out the kinks, spreading the skin out with his hands, bringing it to the lamp. There was a pop, and the electric lights flared then fizzled out again.

  Sable’s been on the fall lately. Won’t fetch more than fifteen.

  Fifteen? Need more ’n that.

  The trader closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  It’s not a world for trappers. Not anymore.

  Twenty-five. Give a’ twenty-five and I’s go.

  Someone behind her snickered. The blood rushed into her face, and she had to keep herself from starting a fight.

  You’re welcome to try in three weeks. When the new numbers come in.

  Can’t wait three weeks. Need to leave quick jack. Twenty. Please. I go on twenty.

  The trader looked again at the skins. They were old. Probably infested with moths.

  Eighteen, he said.

  Okay, bon. Eighteen.

  The trader counted out the money and she stuck it into her coat and walked out. Out on the road, she touched the s
oft damp bills in her pocket. The hills were full of wind, and moving downridge, it lashed the dust around her. She’d planned to bed down again at the silo, but she’d misjudged how long it’d take her to get to the trading post. It was too dark to head back. There was a glimmer of light in the distance—Anguilla maybe, or one of the small hamlets outside town. She moved toward it. Eighteen dollars. A few days of food. A box of shells if she could get it. A knife and something to whet it on. Eighteen dollars. It’d have to last at least to Snakebite Creek.

  The wind was cold. She kept moving, chanting the trapper’s prayer. Strong chains. Strong arms. She made her way closer.

  She came to a fork in the road and, deep in its wedge, a barn. The wide doors were thrown open, and a warm orange light bled into the darkness. There were people coming and going, their long shadows sweeping across the brittle grasses. She moved closer, her face gone of feeling. There was laughter. Music. A Negro man brushed past her, mumbled something, and threw up in the bushes.

  She went inside and the room went quiet. A dozen black faces turned to face her, their eyes wide and full of white. There was an old Negro at the raised plank stage, his beard full and gray. He’d been playing his guitar and had stopped when she came in, his crepe hand flat against the strings. In front of him was a footstool with a glass of beer on it, golden and full of foam. She could hear it crackling.

  Frankie moved slowly to the bar. A man got off his seat and offered it to her.

  The barman came and she asked for something to warm her.

  He took her money silently and poured a glass of gin.

  She sipped and winced.

  Bon, she said. Mercy.

  Then at once, the music started up again.

  She sat and listened to the old Negro play. In front of him, a space had been cleared and men and women were dancing, clicking their heels and shaking their hips. He stomped his feet and bashed the strings. In his beard, a bright red mouth opened and flared his voice through the din. He hollered at the crowd and the crowd hollered back, and the man laughed and roared again. They danced and danced, faster now, dizzied and fevered, hands clapping, shoulders shucking.

  Frankie finished her drink and the barman poured another. Now she could hardly taste it.

  The barman said something, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  She felt someone’s hand on her shoulder. She turned. It was him. Robert. He seemed thinner and gaunt in the face. She almost didn’t recognize him. He put his hand lightly on her elbow.

  This way, he muttered.

  They sat down on a small workbench outside of the barn. There was a small oil lantern going and a bed of warm coals to boil the coffee. Robert poured a little for himself and for Frankie.

  Drink this, he said.

  She took the cup in her hands and moved to kiss him. He pushed her away.

  No, he said. Not here.

  The cup was warm against her hands. She wanted to tell him about the swamp, and the spreading bugheway and all that had happened to her, but the words welled up inside her. Through the walls, the music sounded far away.

  Is very good seeing you, Rowbear, she let herself say.

  Let’s just sit here awhile, he said.

  He sat with her while she sobered. Once he held her hand and squeezed it, but then soon after let go. From time to time, he would be called away inside to wipe down some mess or to break up a fight. Still he’d return shortly to his place on the bench beside her. They didn’t speak. Frankie stared at the embers, felt the warm return to her face. She fell asleep with her head against the barn wall and when she awoke, he was still next to her, asleep as well. His eyes were closed and she looked at his long womanly lashes. She stroked his hand and he awoke with a start. Robert looked around him, slightly dazed.

  Good morning, he said thinly.

  She put her hand to his cheek and he jumped.

  Please.

  The embers were dead and he took the kettle off its stand.

  I have to go, he said.

  Can I see you again?

  Robert gazed at something in the distance. Frankie couldn’t see what it was.

  This afternoon. Four o’clock. Right here.

  He returned the kettle inside the barn. Frankie wondered if she should stay here and wait for him to come back, but she decided against it. She stood up and made her way to the road.

  IN TOWN, SHE MET A rancher who was driving his herd north to his graze lands. For two dollars, he’d truck her as far as Coahoma along the Arkansas border. From there she’d have to find her own way. When?, she asked him. Tomorrow morning, he said. They shook hands and arranged to meet outside the market at dawn. Frankie spent the rest of the day wandering the nearby countryside. In the morning sun, the wind was cool and swift. She loved the crackle of dry grass, the sweeping blue of the sky above her. She winged a rabbit with a rock and roasted it on a spit. The meat was tender and hot and sweet.

  She napped on a hillock and thought about her mother’s country, Snakebite Creek, where the first L’Etang had crossed into the knee-deep cold and washed the French from their blood. It was a place she’d heard about only in story—a trapper country where the waters were swole with trout and beaver, and where the L’Etangs fatted and thrived. She wondered why Pierre had laid root so far south, away from kin. She watched the clouds roll in from the west, wide and plowed and full of country. She knew.

  She found a pond where she could wash her face and hands. A skein of geese circled overhead then taxied across the water.

  There was a rustle in the bushes. Frankie turned to find a large black dog making its way toward the pond edge. It was mangy and hobbled, its hind leg scabbed purple. It did not seem to notice her. It bent its head to the water and lapped at it. She felt a swell of pity. Its gray tongue darted back and forth. She reached into her pouch for a piece of rabbit. She called out to it, but it did not hear her. She moved toward it and knelt beside it. The animal swung its head around and looked at her dully. She showed it the meat. It would not take it.

  She left the meat in the dust and walked away.

  BY FOUR, ROBERT WAS WHERE he said he’d be. There were chairs stacked against the barn wall, and Robert busied himself with them. The wood had been stripped to the white and he was working the seats with a washrag. His shirt was dark with linseed oil and as Frankie made her way from down the road, he dropped the rag and rinsed his hands in the wash bucket. She watched him straighten, hands dripping. He wiped them on his trousers and left two large prints. She tried not to smile.

  I’m glad to see you, she said.

  Robert looked at her. He was moving something in his mouth. There was a cut above his eye that was still fresh. It made him squint.

  What happen ’a you face?

  He shook his head and waved it away.

  I’s a goin’ north. Not coming back.

  I see, he said.

  Come with me.

  I can’t, he said.

  Something inside her snapped free and plummeted. The color rose to her face. She wanted to ask why, but the question was small and stupid. She was small and stupid. She looked at him and his face softened. He walked to her and put his arms around her. She could smell the linseed, strong and chemical. He combed his fingers through her hair. His body was warm. She felt some muscle buckle inside of him. She thought he might break.

  Okay, she said. Bon.

  She pulled away and his head drooped from her shoulder. He wiped something from his face and stared at the grass. She wanted him to look at her and meet her eyes. He wouldn’t. She tried to think of something to say, something pretty or lasting, but there weren’t any words.

  THE NEXT MORNING, SHE WAITED outside the market in the full dark. The rancher rode in on an old-fashioned horse-drawn and they set out north on the road to Coahoma. He wrangled thirty head of piebald cattle, and they dr
ove through the indigo light.

  There, he said to her.

  She turned to where he was pointing, his gloved hand stretching east. There was the sun, burning behind the hills, brittle and beautiful.

  Robert watched the man at the bar pitch forward, then slump. The man cradled his glass and muttered to the barman and the barman nodded and said, Yes, yes, I know. Who doesn’t know? I know. The rest of the juke had cleared and they were anxious to close. The chairs had been stacked, the barrelheads wiped clean. The other glasses were sitting in a tub of soapy water, and Robert propped himself on the table edge and fought against sleep. The man shouted something, then tried to stand.

  Easy, Joe, easy, the barman said.

  The man took his squashed hat from the stool next to him and placed it on his head.

  You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right, he said.

  He shook the barman’s hand.

  Goddamn it when you’re right, he said.

  He smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit and made his way out.

  When he’d left, the barman let out a sigh and grinned at Robert.

  What was he saying to you?

  The barman laughed.

  Who knows? Who even listens anymore?

  Robert cleaned the last glass and swept up behind the bar. The barman counted the money in the till and portioned out Robert’s wages, stacking the soft bills on the counter. Robert reached for it and the barman laid down his big fat hand.

  I want to say I really like the work you’re doing here, he said.

  Robert put the money in his jacket.

  You’ve got spirit, you know? Not like that friend of yours. That layabout, G.D.

  Go to hell, Robert said.

  The barman laughed again. Don’t forget to shovel out that shithouse tomorrow. It’s been backed up for ages.

  Four in the morning, they closed out the juke and chained the doors. Robert took a small oil lantern home to light his way. He looked over his left shoulder and saw the moon there, big and scarred and ugly. He climbed up onto the porch, set the lantern by the door, and went inside. Dora was already asleep. He could hear her snoring softly on the mattress. He undressed and lay beside her. She let out a soft moan.