Southern Cross the Dog

by Bill Cheng

  I just didn’t want you to leave here with the wrong idea about things. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Leaving?

  G.D. grinned at him.

  Don’t look so surprised. I know when a fella is gonna cut out. And you, my friend, look like someone who’s done his share of cutting out.

  He pinched Robert lightly on the cheek.

  G.D. laughed and Robert laughed along with him. Robert liked G.D. He remembered this from when they were boys, the way G.D. would move quickly from one thing into the next—one game into another, from anger to tenderness to laughter. G.D.’s was a rattling infectious giggle. Now the two of them cackled, tears oozing from their eyes.

  He clapped an arm to Robert’s shoulder. When they’d stopped laughing, G.D. hugged Robert to him.

  You’re safe here, you know, he said.

  Robert looked at him, stunned.

  Whatever it is you’re running from, I mean. I know how it is. You don’t got to stay if you don’t want to, but all I’m saying is you don’t got to leave, neither.

  Robert shook his head.

  You don’t want any of what’s coming to me.

  Here you got Dora and you got me, and that’s two more than if you were on your own. I don’t know. I don’t know what it is exactly you’re mixed up in. But near as I’m concerned, you got a place here with us.

  G.D. stood up.

  Come on in when you want your breakfast, he said.

  G.D.?, Robert said.

  G.D. paused at the door.

  What happened to her?

  G.D. smiled, his mouth going soft and sad.

  What happened is I didn’t look out for my family, he said. Not enough and too late.

  Then he went inside.

  HE DECIDED TO STAY ONE more day, and soon the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months. He could live here, Robert told himself, the three of them in this ramshackle shotgun shack. In the mornings Dora would cook their breakfasts, and Robert would keep the house, clearing away the rubbish and chasing the dust from the walls and floor. And at night, G.D. would come home, drunk and happy, and he would take the bottle out from under his shirt and they would laugh and drink and eat and dance, while the lunatic world spun on without them.

  G.D. was madly in love with Dora. That was plain to see. And though that brought some bitterness to Robert’s throat, he ignored it for an echo, a faint whisper of a long gone past. He was happy for G.D., happy for Dora, and, when he could admit it, happy for himself. They made him smile—G.D.’s clownish personality, their childish bickering, like full-grown adults playing house.

  He became settled in Anguilla. He managed to find a job killing rats at a bakery in town. The owner was a fat ruddy man, offering a nickel a head. They’re eating me out of my trade, he told him. He showed him into the kitchen, to the flour sacks where the stitches were chewed through. Robert spent his four afternoons a week in the warm kitchen, rolling strychnine into balls of dough. There were prints in the flour that tracked across the floor, the counters. Ten or twelve of them at least. A family. They were in the floors. He could almost hear them breathe. He picked the dough from the web of his fingers, worked it into pellets. He laid the poison down by the cracks, carefully, like an offering.

  He thought, If Frankie could see me now.

  For days, they didn’t touch the pellets. Must’ve smelled him on them. But then he noticed a small pile of droppings, greasy and toxic smelling. He opened one of the cabinets and saw one of them lying on a butter dish, its tongue hanging out. It was no bigger than his smallest finger, its small almost-human hands tucked to its body.

  It wasn’t dead. It opened and closed its eyes slowly. He held it in his palm. It was already cold, its fur matted in bile and urine. He stroked his thumb against its stomach, hoping it was of some comfort to the thing, then up the neck. Then, with a flick, he felt a pop and it was done.

  But then he’d come home and there were his friends, glowing with joy enough to bleach out these small miseries. And times would come he’d catch himself mulling too long on Frankie, feel the strange rough quake in his soul, and G.D. would materialize in his doorway, a full glass in his hand, a grin already cracked across his face.

  His friend loved him. They acted like fool boys, boxing and wrestling and cussing while Dora watched on, shaking and giggling at their antics.

  This could be a life. A good end.

  Then one Sunday came and Robert finished work early at the bakery. It had rained in the morning and now the air was cool and easy. The smell of bread was on his clothes, his hair, his skin. Warm. Sweet. His boss had given Robert a loaf to take home with him, and he carried it now tucked under his arm. Soft. Still hot. He made his way through the main square. There was a leather Stetson in a window display and it reminded him of Frankie. He went inside and bought it. It was large, the crown dented low, the brim drooping.

  The stretch of road from Anguilla to the house was a flat treeless few miles that gave full view of the sky, with tufts of switchgrass to break the horizon. On either side lay long ranges of buffalograss and grama. The breeze was fresh and bracing. His free hand swung limply at his side.

  There was no way around it. He missed her.

  His time in Panther, just four months ago now, felt like a dream that, in the waking world, he could not configure together again. There were only snatches. Impressions. Dull flares of memory. He would pass along the river on his way to and from town and watch the water run around the rocks. A pang of guilt would strike from some unknown depth inside him. And as the days drew on, he could feel the dream turn solid inside him, each day a little more vivid, a little bit firmer, till there were hard edges, a weight, a shape to his loneliness.

  When he got back to the house, the front door was open. He found Dora slumped on the couch smiling stupidly at the ceiling. Robert stood over her and she blinked lazily. She didn’t seem to see him. In the kitchen, G.D. was pacing the floor, pressing a kerchief to his temples. It had turned dark and rose-colored with blood.

  G.D. fixed his eyes on Robert as he came in and then as if he was coming out of a dream, he said, Nice hat.

  Robert set the bread on the counter and G.D. looked at it mournfully.

  I brought back some bread, Robert said.

  G.D. nodded and walked past him out of the room.

  AT NIGHT, THERE WERE VOICES in the walls. Shouting and cussing. Robert would hear the furniture crash the boards behind his head. He’d lie on the blankets, staring up at the ceiling unable to sleep. He’d wake up, his bowels in knots, his mouth raw with acid. And in the morning, G.D. too would emerge from the room, his face ravaged from drink, his lips chapped and scored with blood.

  Every day Dora seemed to get worse and worse, and neither Robert nor G.D. could find any pattern in it. Any small thing could set her off. One supper, she rose abruptly in the kitchen and poured hot cinders on G.D.’s lap, laughing deep and throaty as he jumped and hollered.

  The sight of a bird at the window could start her crying. And not a low weeping, but a mad frenzied yowl that would last for hours. And when she had done all the crying she’d aimed to do, she would all at once fall silent and go about the house as if nothing had happened.

  Sometimes she looked like she was lost in a thought. Her lips would press tight together and her eyes would become large and staring and all the color would leave her face. G.D. and Robert would call her name or clap their hands but it wasn’t any good. She would not respond. They had to wait it out. Then at once, she would stand up or get out of the chair and walk into the kitchen and smash the plates on the table edge.

  At night she sweated through her sheets. Soon she was too weak to get up from the bed. In time the house fell into disrepair. Robert found himself taking on more of the house duties, brooming the floors, doing the wash, cooking up charred unpalatable meals for the three of them. He work
ed only half days at the bakery. Dora would throw up constantly. Her clothes were in tatters, crusted with vomit, her eyes were bloodshot, her skin gone all gray. Once she came in on him while he was in the kitchen. She stood there, holding the door frame to keep herself up. She put her arm out like she was reaching for something, then she fell down and started shivering on the floor. Robert picked her up, her skin sticking to his hand. He held her from her hips. Her muscles convulsed. It coursed out of her. Hot was dribbling down his hands. He looked at her mess. Her blood.

  Robert had wanted to send for a doctor but G.D. said, No.

  This is our family, he said. We do this on our own.

  So they kept on and every day as Dora weakened, G.D. seemed to diminish with her. He became thin and wan. Robert asked again about the doctor, but again G.D. refused.

  You’re dying, Robert said.

  His own voice startled him. It was small and reedy, like there wasn’t breath enough to get the words out. G.D. wasn’t sure who Robert was talking to but he turned his head and squared his eyes on him, and there was no anger in it, nor remorse nor pity.

  You’re dying and she’s killing you.

  G.D. said nothing. He walked into Dora’s room and shut the door behind him.

  ROBERT AWOKE ONE NIGHT TO his name thundering from behind the bedroom wall. It was G.D. He bolted upright and struggled through the dark to their room. The door was splintered off its hinges. Inside, a small lamp glowed. They were both on the floor, naked, G.D. straddling Dora’s torso, trying to force down her arms. Blood was streaming from his forehead. Dora was screaming. She jerked forward and back, her face twisted in pain.

  Get the pan! In the kitchen! Hurry!

  Robert ran into the kitchen. He took a frying pan from off the shelf and stood in the doorway, unsure of himself.

  Dora sank her teeth into G.D.’s arms, and he roared and fell off her. She sprang to her feet, nearly knocking Robert over. Robert shut his eyes and brought the metal down hard. He felt the dull clap deep in his arm. He opened his eyes. Dora slumped over. His hand went dead.

  It’s okay. It’s okay now, G.D. said.

  G.D. picked her up gently and laid her down on the mattress, pulling a sheet over her naked body.

  Robert sat down on the edge. He looked at the mess around him, but his eyes couldn’t focus.

  You had to, G.D. said. I made you do it.

  Robert nodded absently.

  G.D. smoothed the hair away from her face. Then he bent down and kissed her forehead and let out a sigh. He put on a robe and gestured Robert out of the room. They took the lamp out to the back porch. G.D. went to the barrel and washed his face with a damp rag. They sat down on the stoop.

  She’ll be all right now, he said. She’ll sleep through the night.

  G.D. took out a pouch of tobacco and tried to roll a cigarette. His hands were shaking.

  You all right?

  Get that light up and have a see.

  Robert stood up and held the lamp up to the cut at G.D.’s hairline.

  Looks pretty bad, Robert said. Ought to stitch it.

  You know how?

  I can try.

  G.D. got up and brought him some whiskey, a rag, a spool of catgut, and a needle. Robert hung the lamp on a hook and touched the wound. Blood oozed out. He dabbed it dry, then soaked the rag with whiskey. He laid it across the wound and G.D. winced.

  Try not to fidget, Robert said.

  G.D. grumbled something.

  This happen a lot?

  Not a lot. Sometimes, he said. She’s a sweetie—God, I get tired sometimes though, don’t I?

  Robert didn’t say anything after that and took up the needle. G.D. managed to get the cigarette rolled. He set it to his lips and sucked deeply. Christ, he said. It’s a nice night, isn’t it though? Didn’t think God turned out nights like this anymore. Not too hot. Not too wet. Just . . . right.

  He started to chuckle.

  I told you don’t fidget, Robert said.

  Sorry. Sorry. It was just . . . it’s funny because I was thinking, the last time there was a night like this, we were kids. You know the time I’m talking about?

  Robert thought for a moment. No, not really, he said.

  He laughed. It was just like this . . . just like . . . like something is about to happen. I used to feel that way all the time. I used to just wake up in the middle of the night, and I could feel it right in my gut. Something is going to happen. God, how it used to work me up. Like there was something in me, trying to get out.

  G.D. reached for the whiskey and let himself have a little.

  I’d tear off my shirt and run outside and want to be wild.

  Robert finished with the wound. Done, he said, but G.D. didn’t seem to hear him. He was sitting there, blinking and smiling, looking at something far off.

  God, it was something though, he said.

  I’m finished, Robert said again.

  He turned his eyes to Robert, then he took his hand and squeezed it.

  Thank you, he said.

  BY MORNING, IT LOOKED LIKE the worst had passed. Robert woke to the crackle of fat sizzling. He looked out into the kitchen. Dora was by the stove, making breakfast. The color had come back to her cheeks, her left foot tucked behind her right as she bounced her heel on the floor. G.D. was at the table, smiling, his hair pushed down from where it lay on the pillow. He look tired but happy. He lifted up a finger in greeting.

  But Robert was looking at Dora. The glow on her face, fresh like the earth after a rain. He could not stop staring at her. She smacked the pan down hard on the stove.

  Stop it, she said. You’ll make me blush.

  And for a time, there was no more screaming, no more crying. They slept deep and easy in the house. One night, G.D. called them in from the other room. He showed them the bottles he’d stole from work.

  We need to celebrate, he said.

  Dora squealed and Robert examined the bottle. What are we celebrating?, he asked.

  G.D. clapped him on the arm, his lips spread into a grin.

  Life! He laughed and hugged them close. Strange and unexpected and wonderful life!

  So they drank, them three, whipping their necks back, laughing and swallowing whiskey, catching the runoff on their fingers, holding the wet at the first and second knuckles, then sliding their fingers into each other’s mouths. They were low-flying birds, inches from the ground, beating the dust, trying to keep level against the rising floor. They sang and swore. They moved the furniture and they danced each other, beat their feet against the aching wood. They were bodies, twirling, leaping, launching across the room. They turned the music so loud sometimes you couldn’t hear it at all except for the flare of horns, the cymbals crashing.

  Then come dark they fled the house and took off to the hills to pick strange nameless blue flowers, twining them into chains, pulling the petals from the hearts. Loves me, loves me not. They brought them home and made them into capes and garlands and crowns. Kiss me, G.D. had said. And she did. Now kiss him. Kiss him like a mother, our little boy. And she laughed and took Robert by the face and put a tongue in his mouth. And she reached where he wished she would, and then let him do the same, and they all had a laugh, G.D. louder than them both put together. It was a game, just another game, with G.D. again leading them on. She was their Sally Water again. They watched her part her hair, run her hand along the line of her neck, feeling the deep invisible currents of her body. Shake it to the east. Shake it to the west. And the thought came to them, separately, in that moment, that no one has to suffer.

  ROBERT WOKE, HIS HEAD FULL of lead and aching. For a long time, he was not sure what it was he was seeing. A long black cape swept and danced like a flame, drumming the air, stretching out like a net. He watched it, not moving. There was fire in his chest. At the last moment, it pulled away. He felt wet on
his face. It was drizzling, the droplets cool against his brow. With some effort, he sat himself up. They were crows, he realized, and he had fallen asleep in the field behind the house.

  He touched his throbbing forehead and groaned. He could not remember how he had gotten here.

  There was a noise. The sound of a girl laughing. The hair prickled on his arm. Robert sat up. He could see Dora in the distance. She was naked, her lithe brown body launching back and forth at the edge of the field. Her clothes were scattered around her. Lightning flashed. She let out a loud whoop and danced naked through the mud, her arms up, shouting in bright frightening joy.

  Robert took off after her and led her back into the house. She was wet and shivering, her hair hanging in front of her face in dirty clumps. He tore the sheet from her mattress, toppling the mess on top, and wrapped her tight to get her dry. Then he lit the stove and sat her in front of it. Don’t move, he said. Just stay right here. She followed him with her eyes but said nothing. He set on the kettle and then he withdrew from the kitchen to hunt up some dry clothes. When he returned, he paused at the door frame, and from there he watched her, his arms resting against the jamb.

  Dora?, he said.

  She turned and looked at him.

  He showed her the clothes and helped her into them. She did not resist. Then she sat back down near the glow of the flame.

  He waited for G.D. to come home. He’d give him that at least. They’d shake hands and Robert would go again on his way. There was no use his being here, raking through these spent ashes. He stared at the trembling hull, the sheet cinched tight around her, her head weaving for want of sleep. What happened to you?, he wanted to ask. But he knew she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t reach into that black and unknown depth inside her. Her head drooped, and slowly she fell away into sleep.

  When the kettle began to whistle, he took it off the stove and poured the water into a cracked mug. She was still asleep so he drank it himself. He did not realize how cold he’d become.

  Hours passed and the day went to night—the silver sky sucked down into the horizon. Still no G.D. He patted Dora gently on the hand and woke her up. Let’s go, he said, as he helped her to her bed. He laid her down and put his hand against her burning brow.