Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her

by Clayton Lindemuth

  “Don’t you have a pit?”

  “Yeah, but you got to train them to fight. You got to condition him.”

  “Wish you’d make your mind up. That shepherd’s seen a round or two.”

  “He’s never fought a pit.”

  “How you know?”

  “He’s alive.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You watch.”

  A caravan of lamps approaches on the hillside, bouncing headlights into our eyes. Men grumble it’s time to get started. A breeze carries diesel exhaust. I slip from the tailgate and fetch a fifth of Turkey from behind my truck seat. Merle drinks, passes the bottle back, and I gulp a long snurgle.

  A boy trots in front of the arriving trucks. At the bottom he ground-guides the vehicles around stumps and logs. When the last engine stills, the Oil City boys mingle with kindred spirits from Franklin and Seneca and familiarize themselves with the animals.

  Darkness folds us in a ring of black, held back by orange kerosene light. Charlie strides to the center of the pit. Men close in around the pallets and Charlie circles as he speaks.

  “All right boys, we got some good matches tonight. You know it’s a shame we got to come this far out, but the ladies and society folk don’t understand sport.”

  Men carry dog crates from the backs of pickups and position them at gates on opposite sides of the ring.

  Men laugh, and Charlie raises his hands. “That’s alright. Smells better out here, anyway. Mickey’s got a half-barrel in the blue Dodge. Afore we commence, I know some of you, and some I don’t. We got to get on the same page. We’re about to commit our beloved champions to battle. These dogs live for fighting, and we love em for it. Envy em, really.

  “Every one of you is spoken for by a fella I know and trust, else you wouldn’t be here. But since maybe a couple of you boys has never seen an honest blood spectacle, I got to make myself clear. You got a problem with blood, or glory, or two thoroughbreds going shoulder to shoulder to see which is best, then just consider yourself uninvited. Go on. Get the hell outta here and keep your trap shut. I mean it. ‘Cause if someday your conscience tells you to run your dick-licker, we’ll have Armageddon problems, you and me.

  “Now, let’s get these dogs a-fighting. First up we got Killer the shepherd and Killer the pit. You boys have to think of different names, for shit’s sake. Well, then again—give it ten minutes, maybe not. Shepherd’s had four unsanctioned fights and won. He’s six year old, and this is his first run in with a pit. Three to one. Mort? How many has Killer the pit won? Both? All right, get your money out.”

  An Oil City boy calls, “I’ll put three on Killer.” Men laugh. Charlie works his way around the ring and men place bets.

  I nudge Merle. “You got skin in this?”

  “Hell fuck course I do. Don’t know why Charlie lets these other breeds in. They’re all but useless.”

  Charlie finishes noting a name and number and climbs over a pallet. Leaning into the ring, his arm poised high, he meets the eye of one dog owner then the other. He drops his arm.

  “Go!”

  The gates swing open. The shepherd leaps ten feet and clashes with the pit bull. The shepherd cuts a gash on the pit’s neck and meat glistens, but the pit twists aside and whirls with the blow, spins to the shepherd’s hind leg and crunches his ankle. The pit pulls, jerks, gnashes.

  Jaw open, the shepherd spins and loses his balance. The pit springs. Shoulders collide. The shepherd lurches. The pit clamps jaws on his throat. The shepherd rolls and kicks; the pit tightens his jaw hold with each twist. The shepherd breathes in choked gasps; he kicks; wheezes blood bubbles from his nose. He blinks.

  The pit bull’s owner—Mort—grins.

  Merle says, “Lookit—ain’t sixty seconds and he quit. I’d take a pit over a half dozen shepherds.”

  “You want your dog?” Mort says.

  “Let them finish,” the shepherd’s owner says. “He ain’t done. Yet.”

  “You ain’t leaving him in my woods.” Charlie says. “I can’t have a bunch of dogs rotting all over the place. Dead or alive he leaves with you.”

  “Ah, hell.” The shepherd owner waves. “Go ahead.”

  Mort enters the circle, kneels at the dogs. He works a pry-stick into the pit’s growling mouth, and pushes against the dog’s lower jaw until it releases. The pit bull stands, breathes heavy a moment and lunges. Mort restrains him with his arm.

  “You got to admire that,” Merle says, and I remember our orders in the infantry, to close with and destroy the enemy. I get a hot feeling in my head brought on by the smell of blood and earth, and I hear sounds and taste salt and I want to go home.

  Bind Emeline by the wrists and bend her bones.

  The shepherd rests on his side, lungs heaving. His neck is red and matted, but the carotid is intact. He’ll live.

  The pit lunges against Mort’s arm and the shepherd responds to the motion. He jumps to his feet and slashes at the pit but catches Mort’s arm instead.

  Mort pushes the dog off and in the same motion, draws a .38 out of nowhere and fires a slug into the shepherd’s head.

  The men are silent, save one who grouses, “Mite tight for gunplay.”

  “The hell!” the shepherd owner finally says, pressing against the oak pallets. “You can’t do that!”

  Mort pulls his torn sleeve, exposing a bloody arm. “Get your fucking dog out the pit.”

  “Least you don’t got to change his name,” someone says.

  The shepherd owner drags his Killer by the paws. Charlie enters the ring and exchanges bills with the men on his list. Voices rise in discord. I turn. The crowd quiets and Charlie’s voice rings above the others.

  “All right, listen here. Listen here. Don’t place bets if you don’t have cash in your pocket. You lose and I come for funds and you don’t have them, I’ll take you out in the woods and shoot you.” He pats a holstered pistol on his hip. “All right? All right.”

  Charlie walks the fighting pit and when he arrives at where he started, calls out, “Where’s Tim Fields?”

  “Here!”

  “You owe me twenty bucks.” Charlie tracks down others as men back trucks to opposite sides of the fight circle and men help lift crates to the ground.

  “Next we got two pits, so maybe this’ll last more’n a minute. Todd Sager brought Rebel tonight. Rebel’s had three fights, and comes from an unknown line out of Potter County. He’s the brindle red-nose. It’s Rebel against John Murphy’s white pit. John, you name that damn dog yet?”

  “I call him Skeeter.”

  “That’s a hell of a name.”

  “Lookit his nuts.”

  Charlie laughs. “Skeeternuts, huh? He’s only had one fight, but he’s a big somebody, and I guess that makes his balls look small, or something. You all know Thunder, the Champion Thunder, ahem, well, Thunder is Skeeternuts’ daddy. And by the way, I’m taking bids for pick of the litter due in three weeks. Top bid’s forty-five. Skeeternuts here was the litter runt and he turned out big enough, except his balls. Odds two to one, favor of Skeeternuts.”

  Charlie huddles ringside as men approach and place bets. He writes notes, and when he meets a face he don’t recognize, says, “Show me cash... All right.”

  I gulp Wild Turkey and elbow closer to the pit. Rebel—the one with a calm temperament—has a white splotch on his chest. Two to one, favor of the dog with tiny nuts. I shake my head.

  Charlie drops his arm, “Go!”

  Crate doors swing open and the dogs explode at each other. They meet face-to-face, rearing on hind legs, and scrap. Rebel nips at Skeeter’s muzzle but the bigger dog pushes him back and they drop aside and clash again. After two minutes the dogs’ muzzles and ears bear each other’s blood. They fight on, a never-ending whirl of muscle and rending teeth.

  “Skeeter’s tired,” I say to the stranger beside me.

  “He’s winded, sure.”

  “Same odds! Same odds!” Charlie calls.

  The
dogs circle one another, panting. Skeeter parries an attack and counters with a slash to Rebel’s face.

  “Oh, shit,” Sager says. He’s a squat man with a high voice. “Shit.”

  “Lost an eye,” Merle says.

  Rebel staggers, twists, and Skeeter charges his shoulder from his sighted side. Rebel squares himself and ducks; the dogs tumble, neither finds advantage.

  When they stand again, their ears are mangled and their shoulders are matted. “That blood came from the shepherd,” I say. “See that soppy ground?”

  Skeeter jumps at Rebel’s hind leg and it cracks in his jaws.

  “It’s about attrition,” Merle says. “Other animals will slash and pretend, but pit break bones, rip arteries, bust windpipes.”

  Skeeter releases the leg and they continue. Now they’re on their sides, gnawing each other. On their feet, still chewing. I glance at my watch, then the moon, creeping beyond the trees. Time slips and the dogs chase glory.

  “Skeeter busted Rebel’s leg,” a man says. “See how it hangs?”

  Rebel fights on three legs and doubles his fury. He pins Skeeter but before he finds the white dog’s throat, Skeeter clamps his windpipe from below.

  “They got jaws like a bear trap,” Merle says. “Just a matter of time, now. See Rebel work his mouth? He can’t breathe worth a shit.”

  “You don’t know that!” Sager yells. “Let them go to the end.”

  Murphy shrugs.

  Rebel thrashes and wriggles and twists. His teeth find Skeeter’s neck.

  “That little son of a bitch has some fight in him,” I say.

  Merle shakes his head. “His leg’s busted. His eye’s gone.”

  Skeeter snaps a tighter grip. Too slow, Rebel pushes away. Skeeter’s teeth sink new holes in his neck, now wide and deep across his throat. Skeeter clenches and Rebel wheezes tiny blood bubbles through his nose.

  Johnny Murphy says, “It’s over. Rebel’s done; no use letting him die.”

  “You want a draw, pull him off.” Todd Sager squeals. “You want the win, you got to let him go.”

  Murphy shrugs at Charlie. “Let them finish.”

  Rebel struggles. With each wiggle, Skeeter’s teeth clamp tighter on his throat. Solemn men watch and Rebel’s harsh, gurgling gasps fill the air.

  “He got some lungs,” I say.

  “He’s fighting on gameness, now. Nothing else left.”

  Skeeter’s iron jaws seal Rebel’s windpipe. Minutes pass, marked every few seconds by Rebel’s waning bursts to free himself. Finally, Rebel’s entire body spasms and he is still. Skeeter holds tight; Rebel don’t move.

  “Son of a bitch,” Sager says.

  “Skeeter wins,” Charlie says.

  Murphy jumps in the pit with a pry stick. “Let up!”

  Skeeter releases on command and Murphy studies his dog’s wounds by the crate entrance.

  Sager rushes into the pit and kicks Rebel’s gut. Blood spits from his nose. Sager grabs Rebel’s hind legs and drags him from the pit, leaving him off to the side.

  “You ain’t leaving him in my woods,” Charlie says.

  Merle and I peer close, got the best angle. Merle elbows me. “That kick—”

  “I seen it.”

  “That kick resuscitated him,” Merle says. “Look, he’s breathing again.”

  Sager heaves Rebel to his truck’s rear tire. “Can I get hand with this crate?”

  I lift it with him. Sager huffs and jerks, his face flushed. We hoist and I push the pen across the truck bed. “Lot of fight for a little dog.”

  “Son of a bitch cost me thirty bucks! ‘Champion bloodline,’ that no-good breeding bastard said. Dog’s a worthless coward.”

  I offer my bottle of Wild Turkey and Sager accepts.

  “Well, you can’t leave him here. Charlie’s clear on that.”

  “I’ll dump him side of the road.”

  Charlie calls names behind us. I’m silent.

  “Gimme another pull on that bottle.”

  I give it to him. “You got other dogs?”

  “I put every penny in Rebel. I ought to shoot him for the satisfaction.”

  “Maybe you ought to sell him.”

  “Couldn’t get fifty cents.”

  I pull two quarters from my pocket and slap them in Sager’s hand.

  Sager don’t know whether to cuss or keep quiet so I give a long look that ought to help, then carry Rebel to my truck, lay him on the passenger floor and study his wounds. Rebel growls like a cat purrs. Blood shines on his face and shoulder, but most of the color comes from the shepherd, I suspect. Rebel’s injuries are limited to a busted leg bone, a tattered ear, a jellied right eye, and puncture holes about the throat. He come close to suffocating, but now breathes free. If I can keep infection out his eye and shore up his leg, he’ll heal.

  I gather a few short sticks from the ground and rags from behind the seat, and splint Rebel’s leg. The dog growls. There’s a coat I ain’t wore in five years tucked under the seat: I fish it out and arrange padding under Rebel’s leg. Take a pull of Copenhagen and drive home.

  On the road I think about Rebel’s bloodline and then my own. It occurs to me I got a better line than I thought. I don’t know if Mitch McClellan was my daddy or Jonah, and I don’t care—though deep inside it’s got to be Jonah.

  If ever there was a son of a bitch you’d want for your daddy, it’s Jonah McClellan.

  It’s a quarter after eleven. I pull the F-100 front of the barn. Emeline sits by the window looking yellow in lamp light. She turns at my headlamps.

  I slide the barn door open and back the truck part inside. After five minutes Emeline joins me. I’m hammering plywood. “I could eat the ass end out a dead groundhog. Supper ready?”

  “It’s a little dry…”

  “Look in the truck.”

  She opens the door. She looks to me and back to Rebel. “What happened, you poor brute?”

  “Don’t get your face too close. That’s a fighting dog.”

  “What are you doing with a fighting dog?”

  I stand beside her. “He’d be dead if I wasn’t doing something with him. In the house, upstairs hall closet, there’s an ace bandage. I need it.”

  Emeline touches Rebel and his throat rumbles; his tail thumps the metal under the seat. She wipes blood from her hand on his haunch. “What’s his name?”

  “Rebel.”

  Emeline stares at the dog. I dislike the set of her jaw. And her stance.

  She shakes her head. Turns back toward the house. “I’ll warm your supper.”

  “Bring the bandage first.”

  In a few minutes she returns with medical supplies. “Your supper’s on the table. I’ll nurse the dog.”

  I sip whiskey and watch with satisfaction.

  In a small tub she whips cayenne pepper and Plaster of Paris to a batter. She cuts an ace bandage into segments, wraps Rebel’s leg in wax paper, and applies a cast. Rebel licks the unset plaster, sputters and rubs his tongue with his paws. Emeline scratches between his ears.

  “Don’t love that son of a bitch too much. That’s a rock there, or something. That’s a cornerstone.

  Eleven

  Over the following days Emeline fed Rebel slabs of beef fat, milk, eggs mixed with rice—anything she could find to strengthen him. His eye was a swollen, red tangle of gel. She rubbed the bony perimeter with Bag Balm and taped a patch, but Rebel scratched it off. She wrapped gauze around his head, only to find it shredded when she saw him next.

  Rebel always grumbled lazily when Emeline rubbed his belly. He seemed to lack the demeanor of a fighting dog, and because Angus never took action without a purpose, the only reason she could fathom that he would bring the crippled dog home was that she’d said she wanted one. That didn’t answer how Angus happened upon a mangled ‘fighting dog,’ but it was a small comfort.

  Each day at dusk, Angus returned from work and checked the barn before he came in for supper. Wednesday night he arrived home e
arly. On Thursday, Jacob confessed to Emeline that Angus had taken a belt to him for petting Rebel.

  She closed her eyes and too easily imagined her husband suspending Jacob by his coverall straps and lacing his behind. “What did he say about loving on the dog?” Emeline said.

  “Fight dogs don’t get pet.”

  “Why’d you pet him?”

  “So he’d let me see his mussed up eye.”

  “You’d best listen to your father when he tells you something. Animals don’t change their stripes.”

  Saturday morning she rose with Angus and the boys at five. Conversation was spare. Angus grabbed a couple rolls and a thermos of coffee and said they’d return in a few hours.

  Emeline mashed bread into a bowl of eggs and took it to Rebel, almost expecting him to be gone with the others. She climbed over the plywood wall and dropped to her knees in the hay. What a mess. She closed her eyes and touched Rebel’s short hair, heard the steady thump of his tail, his deep, satisfied sigh. He ignored the food while she sat beside him.

  The day after Emeline buried her father had been sunny and she had walked slowly to Prescott’s Grocery store, wandering footsteps and wandering thoughts. During her father’s long illness she had been responsible for taking care of him and the property, a burden made easier by his decades of wisdom. Now that he was gone she was happy for him. He was with the Lord, but she missed his good judgment. She trusted the Lord in everything, but she missed her earthly father.

  A red and white Fairlane crept into the corner of her vision, driving slow next to the curb, the way boys did when they wanted to talk but were too cool to walk beside a girl. The red hood glimmered a reflection of the tree limbs above; the fat whitewalls crunched over roadside pebbles. She looked straight ahead to Prescott’s Grocery.

  “Get in,” Brad Chambers said.

  She knew Chambers. He’d goosed her in seventh grade and reached from behind and grabbed her right breast in eighth. He’d grinned like no hard feelings and she’d remembered his smile more than the violation. Right after that he left school for good, though he was far from graduating.

  Inclined to ignore him until he drove away, Emeline remembered that she had decided to trust the Lord to guide her path, and that meant being open to things she wouldn’t otherwise consider.