Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

It wouldn’t take much for this feeling to disappear.

A crass word. The pained and animal hollers of drunken rutting coming from one of the guest rooms. One night, one of the girls had burst into the kitchen screaming. She was clutching her breast, holding the blood in from where she’d been bit. The police were sent for, but the man had already left. That night, after Robert had mopped up the blood and bleached out the sheets, he could not get to sleep. He sat up in his cot, his arms across his chest, trying to keep from trembling.

In the first week that he’d been at Beau-Miel he’d overheard one of the girls call him “abandoned.” When Miss Lucy found out, she docked her two weeks’ pay, but the damage had been done. He knew the word already, had read it in one of Miss Lucy’s books. Now the word stained deep into his meat, its edges ringing in the hollows of his body. Abandoned.

Thirteen years old and already broken.

The heat was stifling, and Miss Lucy and the new girl had gone out on the porch to cool. The new girl moved to the railing. She wiped the slick from her neck, sighing into the still air. Standing there, she could seem almost graceful, her long limbs swishing slowly in the heat.

She turned and watched as Miss Lucy rolled back her head, the tips of her two gold teeth peeking over her ripe lip. Bees, fat and honeyed, went drunk through the azaleas. One of them buzzed the flower of Miss Lucy’s ear and Miss Lucy swatted it away. The girl leaned over the railing and tried to catch a breeze. There was nothing.

It’s too hot for rutting, she said.

Miss Lucy offered her the ice bowl. She pressed a chip against her forehead and let the melt run through her eyebrows, the swell of her cheeks, down onto her neck.

Can’t we go over to the creek?

You just keep your eye on the street.

It’s too hot. Nobody’s going to come out.

Wouldn’t be so hot if you stopped your jawing, Hermalie.

The road had been empty all morning. Two blocks over was the end of the Negro quarter and not a soul stirred in the heat. Across the road, a yellow dog had lain itself down under a leak of shade coming off Percy’s Pharmacy.

Miss Lucy offered the girl another shard of ice and she tongued it for a moment before spitting a clear lozenge into her palms.

Hermalie! That’s disgusting.

My hands are hot.

Throw that away. Where’s your manners?

Hermalie hucked the ice across the railing and beaned the yellow bitch on its snout. It snapped up and started barking, straining against the chain around its neck.

Lord, girl!

I just wanted to see what it do.

Eat up your pretty little face. Tear you right to pieces.

Lucy slid her hand across her cheek.

Right there. You understand? I don’t want you troubling that animal.

The Widow Percy hollered through the pharmacy screen. Quiet! Shut up out there!

She came out onto the walk in a dingy housecoat. What was left of her hair lay wisped like a question mark.

I told you quiet!

She stamped down her slippered foot, and the dog pushed back its ears and turned toward her.

The Widow Percy looked back at the hotel.

You leave my dog alone now, she cried. You leave her alone, you hear, or God help me I’ll set her loose.

Miss Lucy stood up out of her chair.

You go on in, Mrs. Percy. No one is fooling with your dog.

You think I don’t know what goes on over there.

We’re just sitting, we’re not doing nothing.

You ought to be ashamed.

Don’t go getting yourself agitated, Mrs. Percy. Just go on in.

The woman patted the dog down its back, mumbled something, then went in. For a moment, the street quieted again. Hermalie picked up another rock of ice and polished it on her neck.

The windows were open in the house and she could hear the other girls upstairs. Someone cleared her throat, and there was the soft snap of cards hitting a table. From the pharmacy, the slow static breath of a wireless twisted into a whine before settling to a signal. The afternoon seemed to stretch out every which way. Hermalie touched her smooth cheek and tried to imagine a line of divots tracing from her ear to her mouth. She shook the idea away. She thought some more about the creek — wading out to where the water rose to her knees, settling down onto her back. When she was younger, she’d cup her hands and bring them down along the flat stones and feel the crayfish tickling her palms.

Miss Lucy, can we please? Just for a few hours?

Hush! Look!

Miss Lucy gestured with her chin. Out on the sidewalk, a tall figure in an olive suit strode down the walk, snapping his legs.

His hands were in his pockets, and his loafers kicked out from under him. He looked up and down the road, crossed over, looked up at the houses, then crossed over again. Then he walked over to Percy’s Pharmacy. The dog looked at him and growled. The man stooped slightly and put his hand on the dog’s nose. He began rubbing it, then up to the crown of its head, scratching behind its ear. Slowly the dog’s head lowered onto the concrete. It rocked onto its back and curled its paws in the air. The man grinned. He bent down and stroked its gray belly. Then he stood, straightened his suit, and went into the pharmacy. The man came out again a few minutes later with a bag of cooking salt. He looked across the street and waved his hat at Miss Lucy and Hermalie.

Miss Lucy squeezed Hermalie’s arm.

Well, go on, she hissed. What you waiting on?

Hermalie climbed down from the porch. She cocked her hips and rolled her walk, and the man touched his hat again. Well, hello, he said and she touched his arm and Hermalie said something to him, and the man laughed. She giggled along with him, swishing her head from side to side. Soon, they both came back from across the street, her arm looped underneath his.

This is Miss Lucy, she said. Miss Lucy smiled and held out her hand. The man bent low and kissed it.

You can call me Eli, he said.

At breakfast the next morning Hermalie turned up late to the table and Robert had to bring a folding chair in from the yard. He watched her as she ate, forking up her waffles, pushing a jigsaw piece across the syrup. She liked to cram her food into her cheeks so that they swelled, and when she chewed, she puckered her lips, trying to hold it in.

After everyone had left for church, he went into his room to pack: a jam sandwich wrapped in paper, a brick of soap, and Hermalie’s dress crushed down in a gunnysack. On his way to town, he watched the families coming and going in their church clothes, suits pressed sharp, little girls in their pleated skirts. A father came out of the house, and the mother hurried after him. She turned him to face her and undid the knot of his tie, then did it up again.

Robert passed through the Negro quarter, then turned down Calhoun Street, following it to the main stretch and into the town proper. Inside the barbershops, men lined by the mirrors, lifting their chins and patting their fresh necks. Children crowded the candy carts, their small hands tight with pennies. In a side alley, a gang of young boys congregated around a game of dice, hooting and smacking each other’s backs.

Robert came at last to the Sunday grocer’s. He smoothed down the front of his shirt and went in. The shop was empty save for the grocer himself, asleep behind the counter. His face was red and pocked, and a few strands of gray hair fell down past his cap. His pink mouth was partly open, his tongue clucking softly. His hands twitched as his body rose and fell. Robert touched the bell and the man sat up, startled.

What, what is it!

He yawned and rubbed his leathery face.

Dr. Sloan’s Wash Powder, Robert said. He placed a quarter on the counter. The one they got in the newspaper.