Percival Everett - Suder

I tie the rope around the elephant’s neck and start walking through the woods. The elephant is following me pretty closely and I don’t have to tug at him at all. So, I untie the animal and he walks right behind me like a dog and I’m just thrilled. We walk up along this ridge and then down and we’re by a small lake. I stop at the edge, but the elephant just steps on past me and into the water. The beast is having a grand old time, splashing around and blowing out of his snout. I look across the lake and I see a couple of people pointing at us. “Sabu!” I call. “Come on, boy!” And I turn around and start walking away and the animal follows.

Once back at the cabin, I start to blow on my saxophone, but every time I let out a note Sabu lets out a blast from his trunk. I stop and look at him and then I try again. Same thing. So, I go inside and blow and he’s outside and he’s still replying. I put my horn away and I cook up some eggs and bacon. As I’m sitting there eating, I keep thinking about all that hay just sitting there in that barn.

Later, when it’s dark, I’m driving the truck down the road toward the barn full of hay. I get out of the truck and open the gate and I continue down this winding dirt road to the barn with my headlights off. I back the truck up to the open barn doors and, in the moonlight, I start loading the truck with hay. The horses are blowing and snorting and stepping back and forth in their stalls. I finish loading the hay and leave.

When I get back to the cabin I drop a load of hay in front of the elephant. He snatches some up with his trunk and puts it in his mouth. Sabu, his name sounds in my head. I decide to change his name and my eyes turn up to find the stars and the moon. The elephant should have a French name. Renoir. I rub his trunk and he’s chewing and I says, “Renoir, Renoir.” That’s a good name. The name of a painter or something, probably a sissy, but it don’t matter none. Renoir.

The night is real quiet and I sit on the ground and lean back against a tree. Renoir lets out a blast and it echoes through the woods. My head falls back and the stars are real bright and I pull my arms over my chest to get warm. It seems like the night is pressing down on me and my eyes close. I fall asleep.

It was the middle of the night and I was coming out of the bathroom when I heard my name. Ma said my name again and I stepped toward Ma and Daddy’s room and listened.

“It’s not the boy’s fault.”

“My mother may never rest in peace.”

“You shouldn’t have pushed his face down on hers.”

“He was supposed to kiss her,” Ma said. There was the sound of a lamp switch and light came from under the door.

I ran back into my room and listened to the footsteps in the hall. It was Ma and she was coming to my room. I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Ma came in and sat on the edge of my bed. She placed her hand on my forehead and rolled my face toward her.

“Oh, hello, Ma,” I said.

“Craigie, you were supposed to kiss your grandmother.”

“I know, Ma.”

“What is it?” Martin asked, sitting up in bed.

“Go to sleep!” Ma yelled. She turned to me again. “Craigie, I want you to pray for Grandmama.” She stood up. “Get down here on your knees.”

I got out of bed and onto my knees.

“Now pray!” she commanded.

Then Daddy came in. “Kathy, let the boy get some sleep.”

“He has to pray.”

“Come on, Kathy.”

“Pray!” she screamed at me.

“Dear God,” I said, “please be good to my Grandmama.”

“Tell him to let her in heaven,” Ma said.

“And let her in heaven.”

“Okay,” Daddy said. “Come on, Kathy. Get in bed and go to sleep, Craig.” Daddy took Ma by the arm and ushered her out of the room. I stood up.

“You okay?” Martin asked.

I got into bed. I didn’t say anything. I just got into bed.

In the morning Bud and I were walking by the pond. The grass was wet from a shower the night before and the smell of rain was still floating around. We saw a dog sitting by the pond, a kind of German shepherd mix. Bud whistled and approached the dog. The dog limped into the pond.

“He’s hurt,” Bud said. We stood at the edge of the pond, calling the dog. Bud looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped into the pond. The water was up to his thighs when he reached the dog.

“Have you got him?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Bud pulled the dog through the water and up onto the bank. “That’s a good boy,” Bud said to the dog, examining him. “I can’t see anything wrong with his leg.”

“Maybe he sprained it.”

“Maybe.” Bud looked at me. “He ain’t got no tags. I’m going to keep him.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah, and I’ve got a name for him.”

“What?”

“Django.”

“Django? What kind of name is that?”

“Django Reinhardt is the name of a guitar player. A Gypsy.”

The dog’s leg wasn’t bothering him so much as he walked with us back to the house. Bud was soaking wet. Bud told me to run into the kitchen and grab a towel and a couple of biscuits. I got the towel and picked some biscuits from a plate on the stove and ran back outside.

“Give those to the dog,” Bud said, taking the towel. “Your name is Django,” he said to the dog as I held a biscuit up for him.

Then Ma came running out of the kitchen in her coat and sneakers. She ran around the house and out into the street. I shook my head.

“She’ll be all right,” Bud said and he tossed another biscuit to Django. “You have to ask your father if you can keep him.”

“Why?”

“Well, I can’t take him to France with me.”

“Oh.”

“He’s a nice dog, huh?” Bud rubbed Django’s neck and back with the towel.

Daddy stepped out of the kitchen and saw the dog. He looked at me.

“We found him by the pond,” I told him.

Daddy nodded.

“Can we keep him?”

“We’ll see,” he said and walked away.

That night, while we were sitting on the front porch, Django was running all over the front yard.

“He’s a frisky little fella,” Daddy said.

“Hey, Doc,” Bud said, “I’ve got a story for you.”

Daddy sat up, ready to listen.

Bud told the story. “There was this old black man that had a job with the railroad. He was the crossing-tender — he would swing a lantern when the train was coming so people wouldn’t drive across the tracks. Well, there was this accident where the train hit a car. The owner of the car sued the railroad and the only witness was this old black man. At the trial the lawyer questioned that old man up and down, but his story stayed the same and the railroad got off. The railroad’s lawyer was so pleased that he hugged the old man and found him all sweaty. ‘Why are you so sweaty?’ the lawyer wanted to know. And the old man said, ‘I was scared he was going to ask me if that lantern I was swinging was lit.’”

Daddy laughed and so did I. Then there was screaming and McCoy popped out of some bushes across the street with Django right behind him, barking and snapping.

“I guess you can keep him,” Daddy said and sipped his iced tea.

A light drizzle wakes me and I get up and walk into the cabin. The sun is coming up and I take to fixing some breakfast, bacon and eggs. As I’m sitting at the table eating, my nose picks up a strong smell which is me and I notice that my clothes ain’t offering much warmth. I toss some hay to Renoir and then I drive into Parkdale for a new jacket and some more clothes.

So, I’m in Parkdale in this little clothing store that sells clothes for men, women, and children. I’m in this line that everybody gets in to pay and there’s a little girl behind me and she’s with her mother. The girl must be about eight and she’s hopping mad.