“Lord, I’m about to pick a fight.”
She quickened her pace along the trail between forest and field. The tendril of attraction from the walnut tree tickled. She firmed her jaw and the presence laughed.
Come, Emeline!
Corn plants resisted her with interlocked leaves.
Closer!
At the field edge, green blades tickled her calf. The tree pulled. She left the corn.
Join me.
She stumbled downslope, caught herself with a painful lunge.
Emeline faced the black walnut. The forest canopy ended with the tree’s deep green leaves. Beneath, shade demarked the point of no return.
Touch me.
Her heartbeat thudded under her cast where the break had swollen with recent strain. She wiped sweat from her brow. A cold hand of air crossed over her. Emeline shook. The voice fit the photo of the man who ran whores.
Join us.
She balled her hands into fists. Clenched her jaw until her teeth hurt.
Lord? Guide me.
Emeline placed her palm to the walnut. It was electric, not like last time. An explosion of awareness burst through her, radiated evil in all directions. Everything at the Hardgrave household was within its domain. It wasn’t just Jonah McClellan—though he was here too—the evil traced hundreds of years into history—Indians quartered into bloody chunks, hanging from leather straps—and only chose to petrify itself into the form of the man in the photo, Jonah McClellan.
She saw Angus loitering here, filling up his reserves; and Jacob learning to do the same.
She opened her eyes and saw the ground where Angus had taken her on their wedding night, and recalled the grunting of her husband and the groaning of the tree.
Her hand was stuck to the tree bark as some force from within the tree pulled it.
Only a few yards away lay the grave of Lucy Mae—and she wasn’t there as Emeline had instinctively surmised, as Angus leaving her there as tribute. She was a prize. The walnut on Devil’s Elbow—Jonah—had wanted a trophy to prove his continued virility. The tree kept dead women nearby as rotting symbols of its evil relevance. There were more dead women, here, and the tree wanted more than that.
Her.
Emeline shifted her weight and pulled back from the walnut but it wouldn’t release her, as if it held her by dictating the part of her mind that controlled her will to move. It was like waking up from a nightmare and being unable to scream.
She panicked.
“Let go of me!”
Jonah laughed.
Emeline thought of God but couldn’t frame a prayer. She felt captive in her own body and battered by waves of evil, sarcasm and rage.
Fighting, Emeline pulled back her broken leg and held it poised, stretching her hip and side. She twisted and released, bringing the plaster cast crashing against the walnut trunk.
Pain like torture flashed through her. In it, her mind was her own and she jerked her hand from the tree and collapsed to the dank ground. She rolled and sobbed. A dozen feet from the tree she stopped and scrambled backward, her lame leg dragging while her other three limbs kicked. Jonah was still in her mind, his laughter and his voice.
I got a spot you’ll like.
“Turn here.” I say.
A dirt road morphs into a logging trail, kept open by Charlie and his band of dogfighters’ continual use. Blackberry bushes border the trail until the gloom chokes them out. Chambers steers along a pair of ruts, taps the gas and the tires spin. The previous day’s showers didn’t spare Franklin or Oil City; the truck splashes in puddles.
“Easy, now,” I say. “Once twenty trucks drive over this, we’ll have a rough time getting back out.”
“What you got in mind tonight?” he says.
“Couple things.”
“You figure to lay money on a dog?”
“Got a sure thing. You want to pick up some dough, you bet when I do.”
The truck slips into a rut. Chambers grunts, eases the wheel sideways. The tires fail to grab.
“You don’t hafta steer, now.”
Chambers releases the wheel and the rutted path channels the tires like inverted train tracks. We follow the corkscrew trail around the hill. Chambers says, “We’ve gone three quarters around—why didn’t we go the other direction?”
“Never thought of that.”
“I guess I’ll do the thinking in this operation.”
This kid’s too jolly sometimes. It don’t sit. Get the suspicion I’m being had. “How ‘bout you shut the fuck up in this operation? How ‘bout that?”
The logging road leads away from the hillside at the valley floor, the ruts diverging into choppy dirt and puddles. Evening gloom waxes under the canopy. Chambers pulls the headlight knob. A taillight reflects ahead. “That way,” I say, “Pull around with the nose pointed up the hill, close so we can get the trail.”
Chambers grins.
I say, “That’s right. Just what you think.”
A half-dozen pickups circle the fighting pit; Merle’s brother Charlie leans on the hood of his truck and men bullshit nearby. A teen boy skitters down a ladder, carries it to another tree, lights a lantern, climbs the rungs and hangs the wire hoop over a spike driven into the tree. Chambers presses the parking brake.
I poke my finger through the jug loop, slam the door with my rear and trudge to Charlie. He smiles until his eyes fall on my folded shirtsleeve.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Ask your brother.”
I offer the jug and Charlie accepts, his eyebrows high. “Merle said you had an accident.” Charlie unscrews the cap and sniffs. “Kinda got a funk to it.”
“Corn whiskey and a touch of walnut oil.”
“Don’t know if I should drink it or degrease my engine. This what got your arm tore off?”
“Ah, hell; wasn’t nobody’s fault; just stupid luck. I don’t blame nobody. The company coulda done me better, but that ain’t Merle’s fault. He be here tonight?”
“Said so.” Charlie pauses. Drinks. “You know I’m fighting Thunder?”
“That’s why I’m here. Curious about them pups.”
“High bid on the male pup is forty-five. Bitch pick is sixty.”
“Surprised you’re selling the bitches.”
“Anything for the breed.”
“Don’t it hurt business?”
Charlie leads me to the side and gulps from the jug.
I watch a bubble appear in the whiskey. “Looks like you got a good one.”
“Shit. Where you get this stuff?”
“I make it. Be in full production in a month.”
“I might know a place be interested in taking some off your hands. But about the dogs, see, it’s just the bloodline. You got to be able to spot character, and breed to that.”
“So what’s the secret?”
“I thought you’d ask.” Charlie leads me to the tailgate. A wooden crate holds Thunder; I recognize the white patch on the dog’s right front leg. A low, disinterested grumble comes from the dog’s throat, which ceases when the dog sees Charlie.
“You see that? You think a mean dog has the sense to do that? I’ll put a mean dog down. This sport ain’t about making a dog full of rage—he’s got to be able to use his head in a fight. That’s why Thunder’s a champ. I’d teach him chess if there was any money in it.”
“How you recognize a smart pup?”
“Got to develop an eye. Can’t take shortcuts. See here, lookit this.” Charlie wriggles his hand between the wooden slats. Thunder licks his fingers. “You try that with Maul, the one Thunder’s matched with tonight. That sumbitch’ll take your hand off.”
“Don’t seem like Thunder has much gumption.”
“Gumption!” He keels back like I farted green smoke. “That’s where you’re wrong. He don’t waste his strength. He knows it’s a fight to the death. Why chew my hand? A champion dog reasons things through. He thinks, I chew ol’ Charlie’s hand, he’s
liable to end my sorry life on the spot. So he licks my hand; maybe I’ll give him a scrap of jerky. Any champion dog is smarter than the men that bet against him. You remember that.”
“Well, you’re the professional,” I say, “but I’ll put my money on the mean dog. You and me, we don’t live in a world where you got to be ready to kill right off. We mull things over. Like on a boat chugging to the beaches of France—you got time to build up a good, murdering rage and sometimes it takes years and years. But a dog—he’s got to be ready all the time. Thunder might clean up on me in a game a chess, I dunno; but he ain’t playing me, and the game ain’t chess.”
“Whiskey’s muddled your brain.”
“And I hear Thunder ain’t even sharp enough to recognize a bitch in heat. I think you’re blowing smoke out your ass with this high-minded bullshit. You lucked onto a decent dog and after that, you put on a circus to sell his pups. My money’s on Maul. What’s the odds?”
Charlie’s lips pucker. “Three to one against Maul.”
“You can take my wager right now.” I snap a hundred dollar bill from my pocket.
Charlie’s face scrunches. “What the hell?”
I tuck the bill in his breast pocket. “You might write my name in your book so you don’t forget where you got it.”
Charlie retrieves the bill and holds it under a lantern. He holds it toward me. “I can’t take your money—look, you come on some rough times. Going broke won’t make things better.”
“If you ain’t got the bank, maybe you oughta let these boys know. Hell, I’d wanna know if I placed a bet with a man couldn’t carry a three hundred dollar loss.”
“You listen here—”
“I don’t think you understand, Charlie. You’re the swinging dick, these parts. Take the fuckin wager.”
Thirty Five
I sit on a tailgate a few yards from the pit. The business excites but the fight gets tedious. The sound of an occasional breaking bone, the smack of a dog landing on its side in a cesspool of blood and piss—and on the north side of the pit, loose bowels—draws my eye, but mostly I wait. Moths flutter at lanterns that now and again sputter on bad kerosene. Mosquitoes hover near my ears and I pass the hours taking slow pulls from the jug of walnut whiskey and shooting the shit with Chambers. The boy’s likable, once a fella gets to know him. Served his country overseas, has the right work ethic, and knows a considerable amount about country enterprises.
“Charlie scheduled Thunder and Maul last just to piss me off,” I say.
“Probly have to wake Thunder up and gurney his ass to the pit. Say? You see that other fella, Ticky—what’s his name? You see his boy? Kid’s face is a mess.”
“Didn’t see.”
“Shit, walk over to the truck. Looks like someone beat him with a porcupine.”
I look up from the pit. One of the dogs has turned twice, and the other’s ambition stalled. I may as well walk around the pit.
“What happened to your face?”
The boy stares. Man speaks from the shadows beside the truck. “His jaw’s wired shut. Dog got aholt him. What happened to your arm?”
“Cathead.” I chug a snort from the bottle and offer it. “You the one they call Ticky?”
“That’s right.”
“Your dog fighting Thunder tonight?”
“Uh-huh. If you’re smart, you’ll put your money on him.”
“Already did. Expect I’m the only one bet against Thunder. Charlie pumps that dog like it’s his pecker.”
“You seen Thunder fight?”
“Naw.”
“He’s pure brute, that one,” Ticky says. “I seen him. He flat killed every top dog in the state, so Charlie fetched champions from North Carolina, Georgia, New York, even. Thunder licked ‘em. These wasn’t called fights. Murdered, is the word.”
“And Maul’s gonna beat him.”
“Thunder ain’t fought in eighteen months. Ain’t trained—he’s been dippin’ his wick in the bitches, and that can be a fight, I tell ya, but not like bein’ in the pit.”
I nod. “Two, three differences come to mind, right off.”
“Now take Maul,” he says. “Prime of his life. Purebred warrior. Muscle lean and strong, and he’s got ambition. There ain’t a thing alive he don’t want to kill.”
I glance at Ticky’s son.
“You don’t worry ‘bout my boy,” Ticky says. “You just put your money on Maul.”
I shake off the few last drops, zip my trousers, lean against a tree. From the periphery the site looks mystical. Lanterns glow orange through low hanging boughs and at any given moment, three or four pickup trucks’ headlights point into the center. They switch trucks now and again. Men get drunk on whiskey, beer and exhaust fumes, whoop and curse like fuckin morons or something. They hover close to the pen walls and back away in unison. Charlie’s the shaman in the middle.
They watch for blood like they got a need. It ain’t curiosity. The way they talk about the sanctity of the sport, the immortality of a champion, a fella could imagine they love their dogs—but he’d be wrong as two boys fuckin. These men are spectators. They’ve never killed an equal, never made a capital decision. They smell blood and dog shit and watch gnashing teeth and howl at a particularly debilitating wound, but jealousy compels them to the ring, not sport.
They’re wrecked men looking for gumption.
Many aspire to breed champions, and several have taken steps—like that idiot Ticky Bilger. They buy into the cult and worship the old breeders like heroes. They believe a champion dog is a perfect alchemy of genes, exercise, and the right mental torments—and maybe it is, but the business hinges on their jealousy of darkness. The business dogman ain’t there to enhance the purity of the sport or the breed. His job is to drop evil in a man’s grasping hand.
A man tosses a near-dead dog from the pit, climbs the wall, and clubs it. The hypocrisy right there feeds the business. He don’t have the stones to club a pit bull ‘less the dog is already half dead, yet he falls to his knees to worship the sport.
Dogmen like Charlie corner a narrow market, but I study the theater and the desires it fulfills. Some of these men might pay to be surrogate owners. Hand over cash to take my place beside my dog; feel my pride if the dog wins, club it to death when he loses.
Charlie assumes center ring and barks out Thunder’s glorious past, mentions he’s got puppies for sale, veritable reincarnations of the greatest warrior dog since the breed baited English bulls. Except for Chambers and me the bets line against Maul. Merle helps Charlie’s son unload Thunder from the truck.
Tight cords of muscle glide under Maul’s coat. His head floats above his body. His jaw hangs and his teeth gleam a promise.
“Stand back, boys—Maul’s got a sense of claustrophobee,” Ticky says.
Ticky Bilger holds a pole with a looped rope at the end. Slips it over Maul’s head and pulls tight. The device holds Maul six feet away. Maul prances at the end of the truck, stutter-step charging the men who drift close. At the west side of the pit, Charlie holds Thunder and mumbles lullabies into the dog’s ear. Thunder licks Charlie’s face and turns his head back to Maul.
Ticky maneuvers Maul into place at the east side of the pit, then passes the pole to his son and steps inside the ring. Maul pulls forward, focused on Thunder.
Ticky slides beside Maul, locks an arm around the dog’s chest and lifts the rope from his neck.
A tiny breeze carries the ring’s death stench. A third man enters, probly another of Charlie’s relatives. He holds his right arm above his head, eyes Ticky, Charlie, and drops his arm.
Thunder and Maul catapult at each other, crash together center pit and fall to a writhing, wrestling mass. They slash and clamp until after a few seconds each regains his feet—but unlike boxers in the ring or soldiers on a battlefield, neither studies his enemy or repositions for advantage. The instant one pulls free, he aggresses. Each is a natural force that never abates or surrenders or directs anything but his total
self to the destruction of the other.
I lean against the pit.
Thunder has Maul on his back and clamps Maul’s face in his jaws. Maul wriggles free. Thunder grapples and reattaches his fangs to the back of Maul’s neck. They are on their sides and Maul, for the moment, seems to be resting while Thunder gnaws.
“Thought you called him a fighter,” Charlie says.
“What is this, an exhibition?” cries a ringside man.
Finally, Maul snakes loose, flips vertical on his neck, and is free. Men mutter and press to the pen. Maul’s haunches fall to the earth. He pushes off with his forepaws, bites and releases Thunder’s chest several times in lightning succession, working his way toward Thunder’s neck. Within a second of Maul’s offensive, Thunder gasps for breath.
“He’d have never gotten away with a stunt like that two years ago,” one says.
“Maul wasn’t alive two years ago.”
“Holy Jesus,” someone says, “Thunder’s done.”
“He ain’t done!” Charlie says. “He’s gotten out of worse than this.”
“Yeah, but look at the jaws on that gray devil.”
Thunder drives with his hind legs, spinning Maul a complete circle. Maul holds fast.
Thunder cranes his neck but his teeth fall short and with every effort, Maul’s fangs sink deeper. I plumb the dog’s eyes to gauge his madness and see if we know one another, see if his past includes his brother’s guts flying through the air, spattering the ground like shit dropped from a hemlock; or if the gray dog holds a secret memory of three wives in the same grave, rotting body on body on body. But the dog’s eyes speak a different language. The only common vowels are the thrill of murder and the smell of blood up close.
The minutes drag. Maul gnaws Thunder’s throat but victory by gnawing can take hours. At times Thunder struggles in spite of what has to be the certain knowledge that doing so allows Maul’s fangs to plunge closer to a life-sustaining artery. Men oscillate back and forth seeking a better view; their eyes thirst for the initial spray of arterial blood. Their noise rises with each chomp and grunt.
Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her Page 24