by Patrick Lane
Billy started walking back toward the barn. When he passed King’s pen, Carl’s dog leapt from the corner toward him, hackles up and teeth bared. King leapt at Billy, the wire cutting the scarred skin above the dog’s eye. Billy looked at the tongue hanging straight out and down between the front teeth, the huge incisors like braised pearl, the back molars perfect scissor blades. He picked up a blunt spear of wood by the door and when King snarled and leapt at him again, he poked the wood through the wire, catching the dog in the chest, slaver whipping from the jowls as the pit bull continued to snap at the splintered wood. Billy smiled as he rattled the stick against the wire, the dog lunging again and again, silent but for its heavy breathing, intent in its fury the way all crazed things are.
The noon sun raked the open field below the barn, a breeze stirring the dust where children ran and played among the cars and trucks. What mothers who weren’t in the barn yelled at this one or that, but the children paid them no mind. A few men lingered by a trailer, drinking beer and talking, but everyone else was inside watching the last moments of the fight between Caesar and Chance.
The crowd grew still as Billy opened the gate in the wall of the pit, and sidling carefully, he placed the muzzle of the .22 at the front of Chance’s skull where the hide was torn. The skin lifted up like a wet curtain on a line when he squeezed the trigger. Caesar, the black pit bull, his jaws on Chance’s neck, jerked but didn’t release. At the sharp snap of the sawed-off rifle, Chance slumped forward. The left paw, cut bad and leaking blood, blunted at the wine-dark carpet, seeking purchase and finding none even as he died, held up by the jaws of Caesar.
Mike Stuttle stepped onto the killing floor and gripped his dog by the nape as Billy pried the pit bull’s jaws apart with a wooden cable pin. A woman at the end of the second row of seats cried out as the animal let go with a sudden jolt and snapped at Billy’s hand, teeth grazing his knuckles as he kneed the dog in the shoulder. Stuttle looped a choke chain around Caesar’s neck and hauled the dog to the gate, Caesar surging toward Art as he dragged Chance away. The men who had bet on Caesar to win began to come down from their seats and go to collect their bets from Joe, who was sitting in a chair behind the gambling and drinks table.
Art was quiet as Mike Stuttle went by with his muzzled dog, Caesar’s paws jamming at the carpet as he tried to get back to Chance. When Mike got Caesar through the gate, the dog went wild in the trodden straw, Mike tightening the chain, choking him down, Caesar twisting inside the throttle. The crowd of men and women back at the ring leaned in as Art knelt down and gathered his dog up into his arms.
Chance gave a good fight, he said to Billy, who was standing just inside the gate, the .22 out of sight along his thigh. Yup, he said, nodding his head in respect.
People here and there began to move slowly toward the barn doors and the field where the women had started cooking. Men were buying drinks from the betting table, others began to form a half circle around Caesar, some peering close to look at his wounds. Mike gripped the chain collar in his fist. Billy, he said, his voice unsteady. We got to get Caesar fixed.
Billy followed Mike to the tables at the back, Caesar quieter now, subdued by the muzzle Mike had put on him, the adrenalin in him from the fight starting to burn off. Mike lifted the dog onto the table, and Billy checked out the cuts on his shoulders and neck, telling Mike that most of them didn’t need stitches. He dribbled hydrogen peroxide in some of the deeper ones, put in a few stitches here and there, then looked to the dog’s leg, washing bits of straw and dirt from the exposed muscle. He told Mike to lay Caesar down and hold him there. Once the dog was helpless, Billy swabbed iodine where the hide had been ripped away. The dog struggled and Mike put his weight across him, holding him down. Caesar whined as Billy tugged the rippled skin back up to the dog’s shoulder and stapled the wound together. Mike leaned down and spoke quietly into his dog’s cropped ear. There, there, he said. It’s okay.
Silk threaded in a curved needle, Billy began a rolling back-stitch, snugging the edges together with each pull of the thread. He lifted the hide where he hadn’t sewn it yet. Look at those tendons and muscles, he said to a couple of men at the end of the table. Now that’s a pit bull.
You got that right, one of them said.
Is my dog going to be okay? Mike asked. His forearm was across Caesar’s neck, knots of rug wool and slobber congealing on his shirt.
All things being equal, Billy said.
He’s a good dog.
Pit bulls, said Billy. They’re the best.
He knotted a stitch below the dog’s shoulder, snipped off the end, and picked up more silk to thread into the needle. He glanced up at the barn and saw Tom Stark come through the doors with the girl he’d seen him with at the party, the one with the funny eye. Then he saw Carl go over and speak to Tom, Tom then leaning down to the girl, saying something before going with Carl back out the doors.
He saw the girl hesitate, look around, and, noticing him and the wounded dog, cross the barn to where he was working. She came up to the table and stood quietly as he began to put the last stitches into Caesar’s shoulder. Billy ignored her as best he could, the needle slipping in and out of the dog’s tough hide, the pulled thread looking like one of those skinny worms Billy had seen in bloated carcasses in the hills, the worms sticking out into the sun, twisting there like wild morning-glory.
The wind had come up, bits of straw lifting from the floor and flittering across the table. Finished with the stitching, Billy wrapped the dog’s leg in gauze and tape, covering the bandages with a sock of tanned and supple deer hide he bound lightly with leather thongs. He liked working on animals. Sewing a dog up was to him like fixing an intricate motor, some needle valve, some slim and delicate bolt that had to be threaded perfectly so what was broken could run again.
You’re going to have to keep the muzzle on him a while, Billy said to Mike. He’ll worry this off in a minute if you leave him alone. Mike nodded.
I’ve never seen a real dog fight before, the girl said to Billy. He squinted at her and she said, My name’s Marilyn.
He looked at her, the tight pedal-pushers and white blouse. She placed the tips of her fingers on the oilcloth as Billy finished cleaning a few shallow cuts on the dog’s shoulder, Mike stroking his dog’s head.
I like dogs, she said.
Yeah, well, maybe some day you’ll get one, Billy said, not looking up as he took a small blue bottle from a pan that had been full of ice chips a few hours ago and was now only soiled water. He opened the bottle, filled a syringe, and gave the dog a shot in the hip, rubbing it into the heavy muscle. He set the syringe down, stretched, as Mike stood up, his fist tight around Caesar’s choke chain. Billy scanned the barn, marking each cluster of people, the men and women in the stands drinking beer and others looking over Lucky’s young pit bull as he paraded it around.
I hope your dog is going to be all right, Marilyn said.
Mike nodded as he lifted Caesar down, snapping a short leash to its collar, holding the dog to heel. Caesar shivered against his leg. Mike reached in his hip pocket, slid out a thin billfold, and spread it with two of his fingers. Take the two tens and the five there, he said.
Billy took out the bills and put them in his shirt pocket. Helluva fight, he said.
Caesar whimpered as Mike Stuttle gathered him up and carried him across the barn. Marilyn picked up the needle Billy had used and held it close to her eye. I never saw a curved needle before, she said.
Billy took it from her and placed it in a saucer of alcohol. Don’t touch my things, he said.
When’s the next fight?
Pretty soon, Billy said. A young pit bull’s trying out against a schooler.
What’s a schooler?
It’s a dog other dogs learn from. It’s why they’re called that.
Marilyn reached out, looking directly at him as she pushed her finger through the landscape of blood, skin, and hair.
Billy suddenly felt awkward, her stare unsettl
ing him. Unable to break her gaze, he knelt beside his kit under the table and began to put some of his tools away. He clicked the lock on the metal box and stood up, Marilyn heading for the pit where a crowd was beginning to gather.
Billy started walking toward the door when Weiner Reeves, looking dazed, bumped into him. Billy put out his hand and pushed him away. The guy had been wrecked on booze and amphetamines at the party, but he looked even worse now, his whole body vibrating. He looked to Billy like someone risen from a grave. As Weiner wandered off, Billy wiped his hand on his shirt, the smell of the formaldehyde an oily vapour in his nose. What kind of kid would live in a basement with a bunch of corpses? Billy wondered.
The fight between Caesar and Chance had followed hard on the heels of Badger and King’s. His dog had won easily, King rolling hard after Badger scissored him deep in the throat. Billy had saved King, Carl grateful for his skill with caustic powder and sutures. He’d had to put a dog down in the match before Badger’s, and he’d sewed up one other besides King and Caesar, a pit bull from Walla Walla that’d gone almost forty minutes in the second fight.
Mike Stuttle carried Caesar to the doors. He put the dog down, Caesar jerking at the steel links of his chain. Weiner Reeves leaned out from a group of men and Caesar turned and lunged at him, the dog’s teeth biting the air a foot from his leg.
Get the fuck out of the way, Mike said. Billy watched as Weiner tried to laugh, but his eyes betrayed his flinch.
Billy followed the same route Mike had taken, not stopping as people tried to talk to him about the fight. He stepped through the barn doors and a sudden gust of wind caught at him, swirling the dust at his feet. Sid Morton was standing there spread-legged, a beer in his hand.
That dog of Art’s fought hard, he said to Billy. You gotta be proud of an animal like that.
Yeah. He’s not bad, he said, his fingernail picking at a crevice in his tooth where a bit of meat was lodged. Rain coming, he said. Take a look at the hills over there.
Art was standing behind his truck. Chance was lying in the back, a man by the fender reaching in and touching the mottled flank, saying to Art that his dog had put up a good fight. When Art didn’t reply, the man asked if there was anything he could do, and Art shook his head.
Then Billy noticed Norman Christensen and Vera Spikula coming up the slope. He moved a few feet away, looking at the house where Carl and Tom were putting some dog into an empty kennel. He’d taken one look at Norman and that had been enough, the bandage on the guy’s face taped from his jaw to his temple.
As he stood there he heard Norman say something to Sid about a seeing a kid playing with a whip down by the barbecue pit.
Billy bent down and began to fiddle with his bootlace as he tried to avoid Norman. He didn’t want to get provoked. He’d heard his bullshit too many times.
The thing is, Norman was saying to Sid, that kid I saw liked it. He was trying hard to get good with that whip. It’s like he was practising for his life.
What the hell are you going on about? Sid Morton said.
I don’t want to be here, Norman, said Vera.
Norman scratched at the edge of his dressing where a few stitches poked out near his nose, Vera pulling at his elbow. He shrugged her away.
Hi there, Billy, Norman said as he went on into the barn, Vera beside him, talking a mile a minute into the ear on his good side.
Art covered Chance with a soiled Hudson’s Bay blanket, closed the tailgate, and then just stood there in the dust, arms at his sides, his head down. Some men close by moved a little away, not wanting to intrude. A woman with two barefoot kids went around Art, her lips pursed, looking like she’d seen it all before, this thing men had about dogs, their certain grief.
Dark clouds were building along the crest of the Bluebush hills on the other side of the valley, their shadows dark on the lake, the wind twisting around Billy’s feet, broken grass and bits of bark and woodchips rattling against the barn wall, the trees at the edge of the field a green clatter of needles, limbs thrashing in the blustering air. He stared out over the cars and trucks parked below the barn. Out in the field a few men were kicking dirt on their fires as the women with them gathered remnant food and utensils into boxes and hampers. Here and there one or another of them would look up at the hills and the storm building, hurrying their kids along as they packed their stuff away. A few trucks had already pulled out, but a good number of people were paying the coming storm no mind as they passed through the barn doors.
Billy stood in the sunlight and gazing out at the road leading up from the valley saw Eddy Stark’s Studebaker turn into the farm, Eddy parking it away from the cars and trucks. He got out and stood by the door, looking up to the barn. Even from where Billy was standing, he could see Eddy was worn down. For a moment he wondered if Eddy would leave town, but he knew Eddy was like most people in the valley, no one ever straying far from home, no matter the trouble they might be in. He remembered one winter a few years back when a guy down the road from him killed his wife. Some men from Lumby found him in the bush the third night, less than a half mile from his house. The guy was half-frozen in a bivouac he’d built out of pine branches and a hunk of tarp, his small fire leading the pursuers to him. Billy stood there waiting as Eddy wove his way across the field, women and men watching him curiously as he passed them by.
When Eddy came close, Billy nodded his head, knowing what Eddy wanted.
Sixty bucks, Eddy said, holding out his hand.
Not here, said Billy. There’s too many people around. Let’s take this down to the car.
Eddy crumpled the bills in his fist, turned, and started back down the slope, his scruffy red hair whipping around his ears. Billy followed along behind, saying nothing, Eddy in front of him, thumbs hooked in his pockets, women parting as he threaded through the last fires to the car. He opened the door and got in, slamming it behind him. Billy could see Eddy looking at him in the side mirror as he came up, his hand out the open window, fingers gripping around the money against the wind.
Billy took the money and reached into his pocket, filching a packet out of a small bag. Eddy took it, tucking the drugs down between his legs.
Billy put his hands on the door and looked in. I heard about your troubles with the cops and all, he said. Something about a house getting broken into?
Eddy rubbed a hand against the light beard on his cheek and rolled the window partway up, Billy pulling his hands away. What house? What are you talking about? Eddy said.
Forget it, said Billy, taking a step back. Anyways, he said, be careful with that stuff. I didn’t have time to cut it yet.
Yeah, sure, Eddy said, starting the car. He put it in gear and let the clutch out, the wheels spinning on the hard clay, the car swerving out onto the main road. A moment later a police car came out of the trees farther up the road, heading down the hill behind the Studebaker. Billy couldn’t see who was driving, but he was sure the cop had to have been waiting up there to appear like he did. He stood and looked for a moment at the empty road. The clouds on the other side of the valley were boiling now, thick knots of black rising into the sky. High above the road a solitary turkey vulture balanced on its column of emptiness. Billy shook his head and started back toward the barn.
He saw some kids gathered at the door of his truck, one of them with a long willow whip dragging from his hand was standing on the running board staring through the window at Badger. Billy could see Badger’s head through the windshield, the window beside him open a few inches. Billy yelled at the kid to get the hell away from the door. That dog in there will bite your arm off, given the chance, he said.
The kids ran off, but not far, the one with the whip in his hand standing by the back fender. Get the hell away, Billy said. He turned and looked in the window at Badger, who was breathing steady and slow, a blood pearl in the corner of his eye where he had stitched it shut.
The boy with the whip never moved.
Billy motioned to Sid, who was still
leaning against the wall of the barn, and Sid nodded, coming over to Billy’s truck, the boy retreating a few steps.
Fuck off, you little prick, Sid said. The boy slashed his willow whip into the dust between them, Sid making a grab for him, the boy laughing crazily as he ran away.
A few men were standing inside the doors out of the wind, arguing about different breeds, one of them saying there was nothing that could match a pit bull’s bravery in the end. It’s not bravery and it’s not stupidity, Billy said as he passed them. All you need is the desire to finish hard.
He walked into the barn, and over to the pit, opening the gate, and telling the men around him to make sure no one got in the way when the dogs came up. He turned and shouted to the people gathered at the ring and up in the stands that the fight between Lucky’s pit bull and the schooler would start shortly. He saw Marilyn standing up on something on the other side of the pit wall, Tom beside her, rubbing at a bandage on his left hand. She reached out and placed her hand on Tom’s forehead, holding it there. He shook it away, and walked into the gathering crowd.
Billy was going to send someone down for one of his schoolers, when it occurred to him that that rust-coloured dog of Carl’s would be a good one to go up against Lucky’s Rebel. It had looked like it had some spunk in it. Carl had come back from the kennels and was in the pit now, stapling down the carpet where it had come loose in the last fight. Billy walked over and asked him if he was interested in putting that particular dog in against Lucky’s pit bull. Carl seemed to think about the idea for a second or two, then said he’d been planning to save it for training a few young ones of his own. Billy waited, knowing Carl was still hurting about King losing the fight to Badger. Carl hesitated a little longer, and finally said it was okay with him if Billy really wanted to use the dog. Billy said he did, and told him that when he was finished, why not go down and bring the dog up from the kennels. I’m done here, Carl said, tucking the stapler into his hip pocket and getting up off the carpet. A gust of wind broke through the far wall. That storm’s coming fast, Carl said. We’ll be lucky to get this fight done by the time it’s here. He hitched up his pants and headed toward the doors.