Craig Davidson - Rust and Bone - Stories

Alison gathers double handfuls of newspaper and sops the spill. She’s ditched the OR scrubs for a paint-flecked crop-topped shirt and a pair of cutoffs—her “bumming around gear,” which she knows I find sexy in a slovenly, hausfrau-ish way. Her hair is combed out in feathered waves that I’d like to plunge my hands and face into. Her face seems suddenly pretty again, the face of the woman I married.

“Honey. Listen.” I lick my lips and try to straighten my tie before realizing I’m no longer wearing one. “You know what? Hey, what— hey, what the hell was I thinking?” I’m in the boardroom, wheeling and dealing, soothing bruised egos, smoothing things over. “Matilda’s not ready. You’re absolutely right.” Sell it, baby. Sell it! “We’ll wait, okay? We’ll just wait.”

Her features soften into something approaching belief. “I think it’s for the best …”

“Sure. Sure, I think so.” I kneel beside her, picking up shards of glass. This triggers the discomforting memory of a fight we had months ago, a fight over … what? Finances, booze, assumed infidelities. The usual suspects. As the fight crested towards its predictable apex, I’d stormed into the den, plucked a blown-glass globe from the mantel—a gift from that honeydripping bastard Dr. Scalise, bartered from a legless peddler in Malta—and hurled it into the fireplace, where it exploded with a brittle tinkling sound.

“It’s a good decision,” she says.

“Sure.”

“You think?”

“Sure I think.”

SOMETIME THAT NIGHT, after a bout of energetic but futile congress, I have a dream. In this dream, I stand stark naked in the middle of a cavernous auditorium. The tiered stands are packed. Not with people—birds. Bluebills and meadowlarks, flamingoes and penguins, turkey vultures, toucans, sandpipers, pelicans, even a dodo. The sounds they make are disquieting: feathers rustling, talons scrabbling, beaks digging ticks from molting plumage. The aviary smell of them—dust and millet and caked shit—clogs my nostrils. I clear my throat, unsure of how to address this throng, yet convinced it is expected of me. Beady dark eyes, thousands of them, stare down.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting …”

Then my penis falls off. Not just my cock: balls, ball sack, pubes. The whole apparatus. My tackle doesn’t drop so much as float to the ground in a series of oscillating parabolas, light as tissue paper, settling gently on the concrete. Touch my plucked groin with a trembling hand. The skin is pebbled, like the rind of an orange.

Every bird in the auditorium takes flight; the sound of their wings fills my ears like a stiff, storm-bearing wind. They swoop down, the flurry of their beating wings messing my meticulously styled hairdo. White gobs of guano pelt my face and chest. An army of birds descend upon my penis. I squawk, a birdlike sound, pushing through the feathery mob to recover it. A thousand beaks pecking, two thousand clawed feet raking, air thick with feathers. “That’s mine!” I scream. A yellow goose with Xanax eyes hisses and bites at my fingers. A hummingbird with Tippi Hedren’s face flies up my nose, flitting about behind my eyes. “No!” I scream pitifully. “I need that!”

The birds take flight en masse, flying up through a hole in the auditorium ceiling, vanishing into the vast pewter sky. Apart from the downy drifts of tail feathers, the floor is bare.

A BLACK SMUDGE marks the cement approaching the processing plant’s loading bay doors. Years ago, after his Doberman bitch dropped a brutal roll to a wrecking-ball presa canario, some owner doused his dog with kerosene and set it on fire. The Doberman, leg-broke and missing skin from its face and haunches, ran in herky-jerk circles, biting at the flames climbing down her throat and igniting her lungs. She lay down, then lay still as a stone and burned to blackness on the concrete.

I step over the smudge and into the warehouse. Matilda’s crate hangs at the end of my left arm, the dog dozing inside. Alison trails behind, lugging a diaper bag packed with narcotics, needles, catgut, gauze. She’s here solely for Mattie’s sake.

The morning after my bird dream, I told Alison in no uncertain terms that Matilda would be fighting Biscuits as soon as it could be arranged. She stared at me, toothbrush jutting from her mouth, lips frothy with paste. She shook her head, “I should have known.” I said, “Hey, Mattie will kill that rottie!” and pinched the pudge girding her waistline. She slapped my hand away with a closed fist, called me a name. Bastard? Fucker? Her mouth was full of toothpaste.

Unaware of her opponent’s trainer, the fat hillbilly—Lola Snape, the matchmaker told me—agreed to match Biscuits against Matilda. I wade through a crowd of dogmen, gawkers, and fight bums to the weigh-in. One guy wears a Russian fur hat and an electric-blue seersucker suit with hand-sewn bolts of red-and-purple lightning down each sleeve. He heels, on a shoestring leash, a peanut-sized pomeranian with a streak of red-dyed fur running skull to tail-tip.

Lola and her husband wait at the scale. She appraises me for a good twenty seconds before a flicker of recognition crosses her cow eyes.

“How’s that leg, misser?” She pronounces leg as laig .

The weighmaster sets Matilda’s crate on the scale. After subtracting fifteen pounds for the kennel, Matilda’s official weight is fifty-three pounds.

I clip a lead onto Matilda’s collar and draw her from the crate. Her body is a canine anatomy chart, every tendon group and connective ligature clearly visible beneath a thin sheath of skin. Her legs are roped with thickly dilated veins. She squats on her haunches and scratches behind her left ear, gaze never leaving the hulking rottie.

Biscuits tips the scale at a buttery ninety-three pounds. I am heartened to see his pendulous gut and bony forelegs, deficiencies I failed to note on our first encounter. His back and flanks are deeply scarred where he’s been bitten, or more likely beaten. He growls at Matilda, upper lip rippling to expose canines the size and color of large cashews.

Their weights are chalked on a tote board, next to their records— Biscuits a surprising 11-1. The line is established at 3-1 against Matilda on account of her weight, greenhorn status, and murky lineage. The line excites a good deal of betting.

As we lead our dogs to the pen, Lola leans over and says, “Fat chance your little yapper’s gonna beat my Biscuits.” Days later, lying bandaged and in a hospital bed, a late-blossoming riposte of Churchillian wit will come to me— You, madam, are the fattest chance I’ve ever laid eyes on —but at the moment I simply entreat her to fuck off. She looks to her haystack-haired hubby in hopes he’ll defend her honor, but the weevil-legged woodhick is engrossed by his gumboots.

“It’ll be alright,” I tell Alison, assuming she’s noticed Biscuits’s shortcomings.

“Whatever.”

“Matilda will demolish him.”

“Whatever.”

We usher our dogs into the pen. I’ve got hold of Matilda’s scruff over the chicken-wire; her body thrums like a high-tension powerline. A dwarfish man with phony hair rings the bell for round one.

The rottie comes out strong, thinking Matilda will be easy to stop in the first round, only Matilda isn’t there. She feints left on Biscuits’s lead-off charge, ducks under his advancing left foreleg, fastens onto the hanging meat of his abdomen. The bigger dog back-pedals madly, yelping, biting down at Matilda’s thrashing head.

Lola hollering, “Get that little shit! Bite her! Get off, get off ! ”

The rottie twists his body sideways and Matilda tumbles across the pen with a chunk of Biscuits in her mouth. A rude bloody hole in the rottie’s gut but he’s still very much game.