Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

I’m impressed, Lucy said. I look forward to hearing him play one day, Mister—

Augustus Duke, he said. He watched her face but if she recognized his name, she did not show it. He bowed to hide his disappointment, then straightened himself, the smile forced hard against his face.

If you would indulge me for a moment, miss, I believe there’s something I’d like both of you to see.

He walked them to the front of the house to where he’d left the car. The A-Model was well worn from hard travel. A skin of dust coated the walls, and the wheel wells were caked with mud. Across the top, the cabinet was covered in a canvas sheet and tied down with ropes. Duke could not hide his excitement. He and Eli unstrapped the thing, and together they lowered it down on the ground. Duke worked the slack of the canvas into his palms. With one hard yank, a cloud of dust kicked into the air. Lucy turned her head, covering her eyes and mouth.

There it was. A small organ with large flat pedals at the base and what looked like knobs spaced above two rows of keys.

That some kind of piano? Lucy asked.

It’s called a harmonium, miss, Duke said. It uses air and reeds instead of steel cables. The principles are essentially the same.

Oh, she said.

It looked to have been from before the flood. There was water damage to the body and the valves were still caked with river mud. Eli gingerly lifted up the fall board and a cluster of weevils frightened into the keys.

Duke narrowed his eyes.

Is there a problem, Mr. Cutter?

Eli set the fall board back down and said nothing.

Looks like it has seen better days, Mr. Duke, Lucy said.

Some repairs will have to be made, of course, Duke said. But I’m sure if anyone can do it, me and Eli can. Well, come along, Eli, help me get this thing inside.

Inside? That thing is not going inside my place, Lucy said. I keep a clean establishment, Mr. Duke. You’ll have to take it someplace else.

Duke could feel the rush of heat in his cheeks.

Eli cleared his throat. He looked at Lucy, his eyes still and staring, his mouth made into a firm hard line.

Please, he said softly.

Lucy shut her eyes and took a small breath.

You can keep it in the yard, she said. Then she turned around and went inside.

THE HOTEL KEPT ITS LIQUOR in a small storage room off the second-floor hall. That afternoon he’d seen Eli sneaking out with one of Lucy’s girls, their hands all over each other, full of laughs and whispers. Duke hid himself behind a wall and waited for the two to leave. When they were gone, he walked to the door and saw that it was locked. The thought occurred to him to tell Lucy what he had seen — that her precious Eli had been pilfering from the hotel’s wares.

In the end he decided against it. He wouldn’t want to seem petty.

It did not take long to find the key. It sat on top of the jamb, under a skin of dust. He fit it against the lock and let himself in. He took a jug from off the shelf, then closed the door behind him, replacing the key where he had found it.

That night he did not ask any of the girls to join him in his room. He was far too worked up. Instead he tucked alone into the rye. The liquor was strong and chemical. Every pull came hot and searing. He reeled like a boxer, his eyes filling with water. The world would go alternatingly dim and bright as the corners of the room rearranged themselves. His mind was on fire, and all he could think to do was to throw himself back and forth across the room. He crashed against the furniture and the bed and the wall. In a rage, he hefted the mattress from its frame and flipped it onto the floor. His hand was warm and buzzing. There was blood. He took a kerchief and wrapped it tight against his palm.

All night he passed in and out of consciousness. His words were a slurring of his angry and animal thoughts. Suddenly the idea came to him. It was clear and bright. A sapphire.

He saw the guests gathered in the small downstairs parlor. There, at the front, would be Eli — his hair swept and coiffured, his smile a bright shine of teeth. He saw him, saw him take his place at the bench, his eyes seeking Duke out. And there on the edge of the heat and smoke and stink, he saw himself and Lucy, her eager eyes bent toward the vortex of anxious noise, her hand squeezing tightly against his own. And with a nod or a look, he would loose his creation — the years of hunting and searching — and Eli would fire down on those keys with his perfect hands, and croon out in that perfect voice.

There would be no doubt then.

She would know what Augustus Duke was capable of.

THE NEXT MORNING, HE HURRIED down into the parlor. Lucy was at her desk with her ledger book. He explained his idea and she listened patiently. Her face was a mask, her eyes peering out through the small lenses of her glasses. They would split the proceeds, he told her, sixty-forty. She would provide the guests and he would provide the entertainment. He was aware of how he was sounding, manic and deranged, the words tumbling out without reserve. He gripped the edge of the desk, smacking his hands against the top as he spoke.

When at last he had finished, out of breath, Lucy paused and looked at him. He could feel her eyes take him in. In his haste that morning, he had forgotten to tidy himself up. His clothes were wrinkled and out of place.

Have you slept? she asked.

Duke laughed.

Who has time for sleep? There’s too much to do! Do you know what we could get done together, Lucy? You and me?

Lucy thought for a moment. She seemed disquieted but in the end she relented.

How long until that thing of yours is fixed? she asked.

He leaned across the desk, toward her.

Not long. A few weeks, he assured her.

He offered her his bandaged hand. She took it reluctantly and with that the deal was struck.

DUKE WORKED FOR WEEKS REPAIRING the harmonium. Eli would rise in the afternoon to find the man already in the yard, his jacket slung on the bench, his shirtsleeves rolled, sprawled beside the carnage of rotten boards and brass reeds. Day by day, more and more of the monstrosity was stripped down to its parts. He’d sit cross-legged on the grass like a buddha, motes of dust casting through the sunlight. He’d contemplate each piece, picking up a reed pipe and staring through its hollow, blowing across its rims, tracing a pink finger along its length. He would hold up brackets to the light, watch the sun catch on their edges.

Every piece had a purpose. A function. On good days, those functions would streak like a bolt of lightning across his mind and his hands would move hurriedly, fixing various pieces together. But by and large, the process was a struggle. Sometimes he would have headaches and after some hours, his mind would stagger and stall before grinding to a halt.

He would heave a deep breath and shut his eyes, and he would reach for his flask and suck hard and deep and wait for the fog to clear.

Eli was useless to him. He did not know how the pieces fit together any more than Duke did. Duke would make him clean the pieces or else go into town to search for a suitable replacement. More often than not, Eli was tasked with taking Duke’s empty flask and having it refilled in Miss Lucy’s liquor room.

Duke was alone the evening he finished the repairs. He nailed the panels shut and leaned his foot on each the pedal. A warm and brassy hum sounded through the wood. He looked at it. He had not done a half-bad job. The thing had been fixed by patchwork. What could be salvaged had been cleaned and fixed and what couldn’t was replaced. He levered his foot back and pressed again. It was almost human, its noise like a choral breath — he let his hands fall cleanly through the keys and shut his eyes, listening to his box full of souls.