We crossed the state line into Mississippi that afternoon, and by then I realized old Mot was not gonna talk. Not because he didn’t like me, but because he wasn’t capable of the art. But things can get said without words, like with a dog or a mule. So by the time we got to Townsville, I felt like we kind of understood each other. Plus he definitely needed somebody to make sure he wasn’t taken advantage of. People in trouble should like the ones who help ’em, but I didn’t see much of that, not at first. But it didn’t stop me from doing what I could. I took Mot home.
We lived out on Military Road. Reason they call it Military Road is because this same road was used by Colonel Merrick Starr when he brought in his troops to fight the Battle of Wood Creek, which he lost and which is now Wood Creek Golf Course. Back then our place was more a plantation, but over the years and because of the savings and loan people, it got smaller. By the time Daddy died and Mama married Doc, it was barely an acre. Some of it fenced, some of it magnolia trees and dogwood with a two-story house made of bricks mostly. We’re about four miles from Townsville; it’s what’s called a poverty pocket. Only one taxi. We took it.
When we got to the house, Auto the mule was out front, saw us coming, and ran around back. Maybe he didn’t recognize me. It had been better than two years, and he was about eighteen, so maybe his eyes or his memory was going bad. But for our arrival I pulled a good one. What I did was put Mot in the front door, rang the bell, and hid in the bushes. Took her a while to answer, but when she did, Sister is looking at this big black dude who doesn’t state his business. Most women see a guy like him staring at ’em, they’d slam the door, call the cops. But Sister is tough. There I am in the bushes, trying not to laugh, and she steps out, goes around Mot.
I know you’re out there, she says.
She prides herself on what she calls a sixth sense. I never go along with it, but I kind of halfway believe it too.
How’d you know it was me? I say.
Who’s your buddy?
She means Mot, who got left standing in the doorway.
Just somebody I’m taking care of.
Not taking care of him very good.
That’s because Mot just walked into the house.
He just wants some water, I say.
Fact is, I don’t know what he wants. She goes in after him. He’s in there watching the TV; one of those African animal shows was on. Sister asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. She doesn’t get an answer. I distract her by asking if she’s got any photos of Mama’s funeral. I know she does, she takes pictures of everything. All I needed to do was hang on till sundown, which it almost was, and things would get better after she had her first highball. Then we could iron things out.
First, I wanted her to understand I didn’t come back to take advantage of anybody. About how I got chewed up in New York City and would’ve been buried like a bone if I’d stayed up there. She tells me it’s a cruel world, that’s why we have traditions. That’s why the firstborn, which is her, inherits the house, and I don’t get shit. Said I’d had the chance to prove my life was worthwhile, and I failed.
After her second drink, she’s telling me she’s the one with the values in the family. Kind of singing her words now instead of saying ’em. I get the subject changed by asking how Doc is. Find out he’s not running the carnival anymore due to his lung condition, got this asshole name of Jack LaHand doing things. Considering my professional intentions, that was bad news.
Then she’s back on me again, accusing me of wanting to take advantage. I was about fed up with that, so I told her, why would I want what she has when I got what I have? And real snooty she says, Oh, and what could that be?
She walked right into it. I pull out the roll, give her a look at those hundreds, said it was my pocket money. Boy, that shut her up. But just for a second. She wants to know how come I have it. Business deal, I said. Which is true, because Mot needed me to manage it for him. Then she starts singing a different tune. I mean opera that she does on the piano. Not just barnyard crowing either; Sister could have been a famous singer. This is always how she winds up the night, and after about highball number four she passes out on the couch.
Mot paid attention to the music while it lasted, but now he’s back on the TV. The solution to that was to turn it off. I give him a bowl of soup and a Popsicle, then go up to my old room, put him on the floor next to my bed. I’m thinking about Mama’s car. It’s a Buick convertible, 1969 Electra, black with red leather upholstery. It’s out in the garage—at least I hope it is.
Next I go to picturing Auto, thinking about his inner needs. I know he’s got ’em. Thinking about the difference between us. That difference is what makes him worthwhile. Mot is worthwhile, too, for the same reason, because he’s worthwhile to me. Thinking about this worthwhile business must’ve put me to sleep, because the next thing I know, it’s morning. Mot’s standing at the foot of the bed looking at me. I’m lying there looking at him, wondering if he’s wondering about anything. Wondering about his breakfast probably, but he’s not getting any. We gotta get out of there before Sister’s up.
She’s not downstairs on the couch, must’ve crawled up to her room to finish sleeping. The keys to the Buick I spotted the night before, hanging on a nail in the kitchen by the cellar door. But not now they’re not. Well, I don’t trust her either. I give Mot a piece of bread, go back upstairs, and sneak into her room.
I don’t see the keys. Sister’s lying there in her clothes all twisted and wrinkled. No way am I going through her pockets. On the nightstand next to the bed I see a little box. What I find in there is Mama’s teeth. Sister might’ve hid the damn keys, but so did somebody else, and it’s right then while I’m looking at the teeth I remember the magnetized hide-a-key Mama kept under her car just in case something like this ever happened.
The garage is really an old tobacco shed, big and dark with exposed beams. We’re about to go in, but Mot stops, he can tell something besides the Buick is in there. What it is, is Auto standing in the shadows, looks like he’s admiring the car, and it comes to me what the problem is. He’s an unloved mule. Sister wasn’t treating him right. He wouldn’t even look at us, and that animal sparked a feeling in me. I give him the old mule whistle to get his attention. He still won’t look at us, but his ears do some twitching. Then, real cautious, he comes over kind of sideways and slow, and then—bango!—quick as a snake he kicks Mot in the stomach, and would have again if Mot hadn’t of been knocked to the ground, would have trampled him too if I hadn’t put a stop to it and chased him outside. Auto goes running off across the yard, headed for the swimming pool. Mot’s on the ground holding his stomach. I get him to his feet, put him in the car, and away we go.
I take the long way to avoid going through town, don’t want anybody seeing me yet. Past Meg Picker’s Trailer Court and hang a left on R-16, which leads to Doc’s the back way. Sailing along, no traffic, the road narrow and nice, got one arm rested out the window, the other on the wheel. The air’s already hot, it’s getting mucky, but the sky is clear, makes me feel like singing.
“There’s a bird that’s small and nudgy . . . Perhaps you have heard of my favorite bird . . . the budgie?”
We pass a runaway car crumpled into a tree, been there since before I left. I wave at it like an old friend, but I can’t even remember who was driving. For sure he was drunk. This is moonshine country. Not too many trees left, but lots of stumps. I see the old sawmill, slow down for a look, but it looks closed; the windows are all busted. We pass a field of muskmelons with a double-wide and an iron darky painted white beside the door. I glance at Mot. He seems to like driving down the road at a good clip; got his head in the wind, eyes almost shut and his mouth open.
Up ahead, some fellows on the side of the road, about three of ’em. I give a honk as we pass. For sure they know the car, maybe got a look at me, maybe didn’t, but I bet they
seen my passenger. They’re KKK, picking up discarded trash to help the county, doing good works to improve their image.
Doc’s place is a lot newer than Mama’s. It’s made of stucco and concrete, the windows are little and so are the rooms, and instead of grass he’s got gravel. Says it’s easier to clean. He’s got dogs, had ’em when he lived with us too. Before him and Mama divorced, Auto killed one of ’em. Doc took a bullwhip, called it a mulewhip after that, and beat Auto pretty bad with it. The dog that Auto nailed was harassing him all the time. Doc says the dog was bred for it. Tobacco was a herd dog, thought his job was to boss other animals around. But Auto was a star, didn’t like to get bossed around. He was a big attraction at the carnival, was a diver, used to go off a fifty-foot platform into a barrel of water. But after Doc whipped him, he stopped cooperating. Never did any diving after that, and didn’t like dogs anymore either. But he still liked the water. That’s why Mama had the pool put in.
Doc is hard to surprise. When we come through the gate, he’s already in the doorway, his dogs slinking around, snarling, mainly at Mot. Doc wants me to leave him outside, doesn’t like too many people in the house, it agitates the air. I notice he’s got a new rig for his emphysema. The tubes go into his nose from his belt, where he’s got the tank attached. I leave Mot outside, hoping the dogs won’t care there’s a strange Negro in the yard.
About the only decoration in the house is two pictures on the wall done by a quick-sketch artist who worked the carnival. One of Tobacco, the hound that Auto killed, and a portrait of Doc himself. Both of ’em in charcoal, which I like. But right then I was overly concentrating on what to say. Before I can say anything, Doc screams, Shut up! The dogs are making a big commotion out front.
I ask how the carnival’s doing. Shitty, he says. I’m starting to ask him about getting my old job back, but he cuts me short, tells me there’s bad news and worse news. Bad news is that Jack, the son of Wolf LaHand, is running the carnival, that he’s the manager now. Worse news is that, to save on money, the job of manager and barker has been combined.
If I was hearing it right, what he’s telling me is Jack LaHand got my old job. That guy’s no barker. Doc thinks maybe I’m talking about the dogs because he yells, Shut up! again. I tell him a deaf and dumb guy would be a better barker than Jack LaHand. He hasn’t got the personality, no pepper in his hole, the guy can hardly talk, for Christ sakes. He uses a mic, Doc says. I just shake my head, then say, How come if he’s not qualified, you gave him the job? Doc says he’s sick of that question, but he’s gonna answer it anyway. But first he wants me to go out front, make sure Mot isn’t harassing the dogs.
I go out in the yard to see. The dogs are barking and growling, trying to intimidate Mot. But it’s not working because Mot’s giving it right back. He’s taking the initiative, barking louder, growling harder than they are. If he hadn’t been so big and loud, they’d tear his ass to pieces, but these dogs never ran into something like this. Your basic spade-headed hounds is what they were, about six of ’em, cowards, even in a gang. Mot really had ’em riled, the biggest of ’em snapping at the air, foaming around the mouth. Then Doc comes out to see, taking it in awhile before yelling at me to get Mot out of the yard and put him back in the Buick. Of course, now that his boss is here, the big dog’s gonna show his courage and goes for Mot, but Doc whacks him in the head, grabs him by the throat, and that was that.
Somebody once said that luck was when the world says jump and you do. Even though neither of us knew it right then, me and Mot were about to be taking that jump. I put him in the Buick, then go back in the house to let Doc finish up his story. What it was is Doc had gone fishing with Jack’s dad, Wolf LaHand. They spent most of the day not catching a thing, except according to Doc, Wolf had himself a lot to drink. Out there under the sun in an open boat on Lake Oakitobi, it’s not uncommon for people drinking to go crazy. So on the way home Wolf decides he wants to ride on the hood of the car. But since that’s how accidents happen, and Wolf was so insistent, Doc thought it best to lock him up in the trunk. Doc had a few himself, but he was driving fine, everything under control, and would’ve been perfect if they hadn’t got rear-ended by a truck.
By the time the Jaws of Life had been brought in to get Wolf out, his legs were no good, and neither were his intestines. But still, I didn’t see how come Doc had to give Jack the job. Must be something he’s not telling me. To show I’m on board, I ask him to tell it again. He does, but this time it takes longer because every few words he’s gotta interrupt himself for his breathing. But after it’s over, I figure the point of it is that Doc felt he owed Wolf something, even if the accident wasn’t his fault, because Wolf is in a wheelchair for life and wears a bag on his hip to catch his business. The upside is, there was a settlement from the truck that hit ’em, and Wolf bought himself a brand-new boat.
I guess Doc was ready to be alone now because he asks me if I’m going over to see Jack. I tell him I suspect I might. He stares at me a second, then he says, You still got some of your hair, Spencer. But if you’re going over to see Jack, I’d get it cut if I was you. I thank him for the advice and take my leave.
Even though Mot was good at this barking like a dog, the trick of it was to get him to do it on command. My conviction is that anybody can learn anything, change what they are to what they want to be, and Mot was shaping up to be what I’d call the Wild Man. The question was, did he wanna be the Wild Man? The way he was acting back at Doc’s, I figured he did. He had what it took; we’d just have to work on it. So while it was still fresh in his mind, we stopped in a field.
What seemed to work wasn’t so much words as gestures. For instance, if I did the “dog” myself, he’d do it back. Then what I started doing is give him a little punch at the same time I’d want him to bark, and he put the two together. I detected something in his eyes then, something not so much dog as puppy dog, and I found that at that moment if I’d lift my hand to him, he’d cooperate. Actually, he was a quick learner. One session is all it took. At the end of it, Mot, I recall, seemed fairly pleased with himself. I know I felt pretty good about it.
The barbershop’s a place where on Saturday everybody hangs around, even after they get their hair cut. Some boys don’t even get one, they just come in to make fun of each other and tell stories. But it’s not Saturday. Nobody there but Beck. I sit Mot in one of the chairs so he can watch. Beck throws a sheet around me, acting like he’d seen me the day before, like I never left town. He’s a mouth-breather, smokes too much. I tell him he looks like a man who better lose some weight, get some exercise. He tells me he’ll cut my ears off. That’s the way we talk. Next he wants to know what kind of cut I want.
A New York cut?
He’s trying to be funny, snipping at the air around my head with his scissors.
Just cut it, I tell him.
Beck himself is bald; must’ve figured being bald was bad for business, because he wears the sorriest excuse for a toupee you ever seen, must’ve sent in for it.
I ask him how it’s going. He tells me that cutting hair for twenty years in this town is like printing counterfeit money in prison. I think he thought he said something funny, but I don’t get it. I look at the wall; it’s covered with pictures, a couple new ones, mainly sports and naked girls. Mot’s got his eye on what’s left of Beck’s lunch. A doughnut and a half-eaten salami sandwich. Then Beck tells a joke. I don’t laugh, tell him I already heard it. What about your friend, he says, meaning Mot. I change the subject, ask where Clovus is.
Clovus is a big black kid who was his sweep-up man. I find out he went away to college on a scholarship, which brings Beck to the topic of Mot, comments on his size. Says he’s even bigger than Clovus was. I figure by Saturday Beck is gonna spread the word. Guess who’s back in town? He’ll say, Guess who he had with him? Old Spence, you say? Got a nigger who can’t talk? They’ll talk all afternoon about that one. Let ’em. Beck
leans closer, got another joke.
You know why dogs don’t like blacks?
I don’t wanna know, but he gives it to me anyway.
Because they can’t swim!
If you think that’s funny, you’re a bigger bozo than I thought, I tell him.
He thinks that’s funny too. You can’t win with Beck. But getting the haircut turned out to be part of a bigger plan. All the hair on the floor accumulated because Beck has this idea that the floor just needs sweeping once a week. Till it mounts up, why bother? Tells me he sweeps it up on Fridays. It’s Thursday, so there’s a lot of it. Mot’s staring at it, giving me the idea. In a way you could call it Mot’s idea, because it was him that gave it to me.
When he’s finished cutting my hair, I ask Beck for a garbage bag and a broom. Beck’s watching me sweep up the hair, trying to figure a way to charge me for it. Finally he says, What you gonna do with all that hair?
I tell him, Southern hair is worth big money up North. They got doctors up there who make wigs out of it and sell ’em to bald guys down South. He’s so dumb, he doesn’t know a real joke when he hears one.
Next I take Mot to the hardware store. We buy a big tube of roofing tar and take our project back home. So I don’t get bothered by Sister, I turn off the engine and coast into the backyard. I get Mot and the stuff I acquired out of the car and into the barn. I need privacy, but it’s so hot in there I leave the door open a crack. They say curiosity killed the cat, but Auto is a lot more curious than a normal cat. He’s standing out there with his nose in the door, watching everything we do.
Once I get Mot down to his shoes and underwear, I start in with the tar. Keeping his face pretty much in the clear, except for his head, I give him a good coat of it. That stuff, if it gets on you, is hard to get off, so I use an old pair of gardening gloves to do it. After that’s done, I go into my bag of hair, using handfuls of it to cover him with. It wasn’t easy making it look like it wasn’t something just picked off the floor and stuck on to him. The way I did it looked like it was growing right out of him. Kind of bushy-like, like a bear that got himself plugged into a light socket. Turned out so good, in fact, I wanted to take him to a mirror, but didn’t wanna stir up Sister by bringing him indoors, at least not till his tar was hard. Next I locate a blanket to put on the seat of the Buick so we can drive to our appointment.
Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) Page 2