by David Rhodes
As the night wore on, Olivia’s surprise over discovering a basement in the collective soul of animal-kind gradually abated, and the fascination-in-horror of making eye contact with the monster living below—due to its single, banal stare—grew wearisome.
Olivia’s introspective habit of sifting through the sands of her emotions, a process acquired over a lifetime of bad health, set to work. The winnowing process rendered a hard, cold analogy. Suppose more powerful creatures, like Greek gods, wanted to worship the vital living force through the eugenic cultivation of savage human features—the breeding of genetically cornered animals—to hoot and holler over mortal combat from the immortal safety of their cloudy bleachers. What would be her judgment of that?
Wade noticed the change in Olivia’s attitude and said, “Maybe we should leave.”
“Yes,” said Olivia.
But then the main door opened and along with a cold blizzard of air came a huge man with a shaved head in a brown trench coat, leading a waist-high black dog so large and fearful-looking that its appearance silenced the entire barn. The creature felt the attention of the room and a low utterance curled from its massive throat—a growl descending into and beneath the registers of human hearing. This animal not only was a different breed, but also seemed a different species.
The woman at the door, still seated on her stool, held out the donation can, but the man waved it aside.
For the first time in the evening the blond youth by the blackboard moved. He walked around the pit, took his hands out of his pockets, and pointed at the advancing man. “You and your dog aren’t welcome here, Orville.”
“It’s a free country, Junior. But if I’m breaking some law, call the police.”
“Don’t come closer,” said the blond youth, looking not quite as large as before.
The man stopped, pulling the giant dog to heel with a single tug on the chain. “All right,” he said. “Take it easy. I just thought you’d want to see a real dog.”
“The last dog you fought was drugged, and you refused to call it off after the match was over,” said the blond youth. “We’ve got rules and you’re not welcome here.”
“That may be, Junior. But it still seems that in a room full of such great dogfighters there would be one, just one, willing to fight a real dog.”
“That’s a black Tosa,” whispered Olivia to Wade. “They’re a Japanese breed with a lot of mastiff in them.”
“I know what it is,” said Wade.
“I’ll say it again,” said the youth. “You’re not welcome here.”
“I see. But if I don’t leave, well, that would be interesting. I mean, here I would be, unwelcome, but still here.”
The youth reached into his jacket pocket and another low growl rolled out of the giant dog.
“Keep your shirt on, Junior. You there—in the wheelchair. Wouldn’t you like to see a real dog fight? I mean isn’t that what you came here for? Well, Ma’am, what do you say?”
“Your dog is too big,” said Olivia. “Anything over one hundred and fifty pounds is generally considered—by most experts—too slow. And I agree that rules should be followed.”
“Well, there you have it,” the man bellowed. “From the mouth of a cripple. My dog Cannibal is too big and slow. So why won’t anyone put a dog up against him? Why is everyone afraid? Come on, lady, tell them again why they have nothing to fear.”
Wade rose to his feet and picked up a length of two-by-four lying on the floor. “Back off,” he said, stepping forward.
“Wade, get back here,” shouted Olivia.
A short man in coveralls limped out of a horse stall along the wall and called out, “Damn it, Orville, shut your yapping mouth. I’ve got a dog outside.”
“Then you better leave it there. But if you have the nerve to bring it inside I’ll give you five-to-one. I’ll give everyone in this room five-to-one. And that includes you, Junior.” He pulled a wad of bills out of his trench coat pocket and held it above his head as he walked over to the card table.
Several men rushed forward to bet and the man in coveralls went outside to get his dog. The youth resumed his position beside the blackboard.
Wade sat on the bale of straw next to Olivia and explained, “Orville and Rusty Smith have hated each other for a long time. Years ago one of Orville’s dogs with gunpowder shoved up its ass killed one of Rusty’s.”
“A grudge match,” said Olivia.
Rusty returned from outside with an old white pit bull crossed with European mastiff—by far the biggest animal in the room with the exception of the Tosa. The dog was battle-worn, its face and neck scarred from a lifetime of fighting. One eye cocked to the side from vertical purple gash, and a large piece of her left ear was missing. A section of jowl was also gone, leaving several teeth—including an upper fang—exposed.
“That’s Trixie,” said Wade to Olivia. “She’s been around a long time. I never heard of her losing a match, but Rusty said two summers ago that he wouldn’t fight her anymore.”
Olivia looked at the white dog and felt an immediate kinship. The beast walked beside the limping man with such dignity and poise, ignoring the other dogs in the room as if they didn’t exist, her scarred head held high. Without a muzzle or leash, she kept her good eye on her owner and climbed onto the scale to be weighed as though she had done it many times before. Her weight was recorded on the blackboard at 142 pounds, the tosa’s at 176.
“I want to bet on that dog,” said Olivia and drew six hundred dollars out of her denim dress. The bills smelled faintly like cream chocolates.
“I thought you were no good at gambling,” said Wade. “Trixie’s too old and there’s too much of a weight difference.”
“You shouldn’t discount the advantages of age so easily,” said Olivia.
“I’m just telling you what I’ve seen. There’s a reason Orville’s willing to give five-to-one.”
“That man’s a bully and a braggart,” said Olivia. “I’ve seen men like him all my life. He would do anything for attention.”
“All that talk might also be sucker bait,” said Wade. “And Rusty couldn’t resist it.”
“Are you going to bet for me or do I have to do it myself?”
“And get us some coffee,” added Olivia. “Looks like it will be a while before we get to the truck stop.”
When the two dogs were brought inside the enclosure, the pit suddenly seemed too small. Trixie sat down next to Rusty with an almost tired expression while Orville took the muzzle and harness off Cannibal as he paced and growled. Then both men stepped out of the pit and closed the gate. The barn grew silent, and at Orville’s signal, the black tosa leaped forward, met in midair by the white bull.
The screaming crowd came to its feet, but the noise could not compete with the great snarling inside the chicken-wire enclosure, where it sounded as if all of Satan’s demons had been turned loose. As the dogs wrestled to get hold of each other, they pressed forward until they stood on their hind legs.
This stance gave the advantage to Trixie’s lower center of gravity, and she succeeded in obtaining a mouthful of dewlap. But her purchase on the loose folds of skin proved impossible to maintain, and she only tore off a rat-sized portion of hair and flesh before the larger dog was on top of her, biting the top of her head and neck. By the time she escaped, her partial ear was completely gone and blood flowed freely over her head.
The size of the dogs added to the drama. Knowing a person would be torn to pieces in an unarmed fight with either one of them heightened the tension. It was an atavistic reminder of a time when the human niche in the world was by no means secure.
The fighting in the pit continued for almost forty-five minutes, until the dogs faced each other, heads lowered, necks and shoulders dark with blood, covered with open wounds. A final lunge from the tosa backed Trixie up against a post, where the black dog finally got a grip. And though she continued to fight, she could not free herself and soon lay in the dirt, struggling helplessly
—providing an equally clear but less attractive glimpse of Wildness in Defeat.
The judge blew the whistle, but the tosa did not desist, even after Orville had entered the pit and covered his trench coat with blood attempting to pull him off. When he finally succeeded, Cannibal gave a final, victorious bark at his prone opponent, but no sound came out. He tried again, straining, opening his giant mouth and forcing air through his throat, but only a gasping wheeze escaped. Orville fastened the muzzle and harness into place and led Cannibal out, a signal for the winners in the crowd to rush forward and claim their cash.
When Rusty stepped into the pit, Trixie raised her head and attempted to climb to her feet. When she could not, she looked up at her owner in shame.
“That’s okay. Good girl,” said Rusty, falling to his knees. But the old dog was so embarrassed over losing the match and being unable to get up that she looked away, avoiding him.
This was too much for Olivia, who apprehended at once that the old dog wasn’t fighting out of an inbred fraternal aggression or from some expressed feral gene, but out of devotion to its owner. She wheeled over to the edge of the pit.
“You there,” she shouted. “You there! How dare you!”
“I seen you give the boy money to bet,” muttered Rusty, stroking the dog’s head.
“Yes, but you knew she didn’t have a chance against that dog. You knew it and still made her fight.”
“I didn’t know she would live,” said Rusty, looking up at Olivia, his eyes unexpectedly soft. “I thought he would kill her clean. She’s filled with arthritis and cancer. I thought if she could die doing what she was bred up to do and not suffer any longer . . . She can hardly get up in the morning. Who’d guess she would last this long? She even punctured his lung, damn near beat him.”
“You fool,” said Olivia and threw the blanket over the chicken wire. “Wade, go in there. Cover her up. For the love of God get her out of there. We’re taking that dog home.”
“She won’t live,” said Rusty, spreading the blanket in front of the dog.
“You were wrong once and will be again,” said Olivia. “If ever an animal had a soul, that one has.”
Wade and Rusty lifted the white terrier onto the blanket and carried her out of the pit. Outside, they laid her in the back of Wade’s pickup.
“That your older sister?” asked Rusty. “She’s really cute for a cripple.”
“Nope, she’s my girlfriend. You sure it’s all right—her taking your dog?”
“Trixie deserves a woman like that to die with,” said Rusty. “I just couldn’t figure out what else to do with her.”
“You could have put her to sleep,” said Wade.
“What kind of way to die is that?”
Back inside, Wade pushed Olivia toward the door.
“Wait,” said Rusty. “Take this. Those cuts will get infected.” He placed on Olivia’s lap a large can of tan powder with green flecks. “It’s antibiotics mixed with minerals and herbs. Put it in her food. Take some yourself. Who knows, it might help.”
The woman at the door answered a short crackle on her walkietalkie, and after listening to another crackle jumped off her stool and yelled, “Three patrol cars and two cage vans just drove through Snow Corners.”
A stampede of men, women, and dogs poured through the front door. Wade tossed Olivia into the cab and the wheelchair into the back with the dog. He followed other pickups and vans across the clearing and plunged into the narrow lane through the forest to the blacktop, the pine branches slapping with dark, leafy violence against the windows.
A half-hour later Olivia asked the waitress at the truck stop, “Do you have any meat scraps for our dog?”
“Sure, how many you want?”
Olivia poured some of the tan and green powder on top of the scraps and Wade carried them outside. Then he returned and they sipped coffee and waited for their meals to arrive.
“I hope you got a place to take that dog, ’cause I can’t take her home with me,” said Wade. “My parents get one look at that animal and I’m in real trouble. They’ll call the police.”
“Your own parents would call the police?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to explain. Mostly it’s because they’re so beaten down. Dad’s losing the farm and Mom’s given up. They keep thinking if they do what they think everyone expects of them, everything will work out.”
“They think convention will protect them,” said Olivia.
“Yes, like all their troubles come from having overlooked some rule. They think being extra-good citizens will make something miraculous happen, save them from each other and losing the farm. It’s bullshit.”
“Why do you stay with them?”
“Dad couldn’t get all the work done alone, and Mom—I don’t want to talk about them. So, did you have an okay time so far tonight?”
“I’ve never had such a night as this, so I can’t compare it to anything. It’s been both lamentable and outstanding.”
“Good,” said Wade. “I liked it too.”
“Wade,” said Olivia, blushing, “can you help me get to the bathroom? It’s that coffee. This is embarrassing, but my sister will kill me if I don’t come home dry.”
“Hell, Ma’am, that ain’t anything. And you should know that nothing about you could ever embarrass me. Shit, the more I see of you, the better you get. I’m not kidding. Come on.” He lifted her out of the booth and carried her in his arms. On the way to the women’s bathroom, a middle-aged couple at the counter stared at them.
“Get used to it, motherfuckers,” Wade snapped.
“Wade!” said Olivia sternly, then burst into laughter, losing control of her bladder.
The living room lights were on when Olivia returned to her home in Words. Violet sat in the middle of the couch watching television and stood up when they came in.
“Hello, Vio,” said Olivia. “We took your advice—what you told us to do—and rescued one of the dogs. Will you please go out to the truck with Wade and help carry her inside? I’ll get some newspapers to put down on the carpet. Hurry, because Wade has to get home soon, and I have so much to tell you.”
THE THIEF
AFTER SEVERAL MONTHS, THE LAST PIECE OF GAIL SHOTWELL’S song fell into place. She connected a microphone to a tape recorder and sang into it, then played it back. Several words didn’t sound right, so she tried again. Then the bass was so loud that it drowned out her voice.
When she finally had a satisfactory recording, she drove it over to July Montgomery’s small farm, ran an extension cord from the milk house into the main part of the barn, and played it for him as he milked his Jersey cows.
“Play it again,” he said. “And turn up the volume.”
July closed his eyes, nodded his head, and said he thought it was the best song he had ever heard.
“You’re just saying that,” said Gail. “It’s not that good.”
“It is,” said July, his arms, clothes, and boots splotched with dried dirt, lime, and antiseptic. “When I listen to it I see pictures in my head, and that means it’s very good.”
Gail unplugged her tape recorder and drove home.
For the next two weeks she took as much work as she could get at the plastic factory, paid most of her overdue bills, and thought about asking Barbara Jean to listen to her song.
Gail had driven past her summer home several times, just to look. Each time she had been disappointed because the house sat so far off the road that almost nothing could be seen or even imagined about the way the popular musician spent her time. At the entrance gate, two stone pillars stood on either side of a concrete drive, with globe lights suspended from iron chains. The tall, four-board fences had been painted chalky white, something people with expensive horses often liked to do. Once, Gail had seen someone in the front yard—a dark speck in a patch of green—but could not even tell if it was a man or a woman.
Barbara Jean had invited her to practi
ce with her band some afternoon, but did that mean she could just show up on any afternoon? Did “some” mean “any”? It had been a long time since last October—half a year. Had the offer expired?
She thought about calling, but that seemed like a bad idea.
Finally an especially bright, warm day arrived and Gail—after working a night shift and spending the morning in a tavern—felt her confidence soaring somewhere between feeling invincible and feeling lucky. She drank another beer and drove out of town.
She navigated between the stone pillars at the road and two long rows of white fence. In back of the house was a garage and parking area with two sports cars parked haphazardly next to each other, as if they had been randomly dropped from the air. Further back were several small painted buildings, a horse barn, and a John Deere tractor with several bales of hay in the loader. A miniature donkey stood on its hind legs, drinking water from a stock tank. Gail parked beside the sports cars and took small satisfaction in the fact that although her coupe was sixteen years old, dented and rusting around the fenders, at least it was a convertible.
The clay-red house seemed modestly-sized—larger than her own but smaller than many modern houses—and she pushed the door-bell. It made no sound that she could hear. The door opened and a woman of about thirty-five said hello. She was tall and as slender as a wand, her skin blacker than night. Her shaved head shone like oiled gunmetal. She wore sandals, khaki pants with many pockets, and a blouse with every color of the visible light spectrum.
“I’m Gail Shotwell. Barbara Jean said I should come over some afternoon, and, well, here I am.”
“Bee Jay isn’t up yet,” said the woman, looking at the bass case resting on the concrete step. “But come in. We played in the Cities last night and things are a little slow around here. I’m Yesha. You want a cup of coffee?”
On the inside, the house seemed enormous, or at least the kitchen did. A long wall of crank-out windows spilled sunlight onto hanging pans, polished marble, and a glossy, brown-tiled floor. A large vase of garden flowers sat on the table in the corner.