Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

The cards lay in a mess on the floor. She bent down and gathered them up, tapping the corners square. She looked at Robert. His face was turned away. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

We can play a different game next time, she said.

Okay, he managed to say.

She put the deck back into its pack and set it on the shelf.

As she left, Robert tugged the devil free, hanging it outside his shirt. He held the flannel pouch lightly in his palm; he didn’t know if he could hurt it or make it mad if he squeezed too hard. He rubbed his thumb against the puckered mouth where the twine tightened. He was not sure what had happened. He balanced the devil in his hand, heard the salt ring against the coin. She’d touched him. He had made this happen. But rather than lift his dark and oily mood, it had made him feel empty and alone.

He could hear the dog pace anxiously outside Percy’s Pharmacy, the chain dragging across the hot concrete. It was no doubt barking at some passerby, but through the walls, it sounded far away and haunting, calling out from the world’s end. Robert sat himself up and directed his ear to the window. It started up again, a series of five hacking barks building into a flutelike keen. Robert shut his eyes. Felt a brother to the mad wind.

From his cot, Robert could hear thunder in the distance, the hungry murmur of cloud and sky. Then came rain— pock, pock, pock ing — over the roofs and trees and windows. His fever had long since broken, and though he still felt weak, Robert had grown tired of lying in bed, tired of being still. The world was not forever, he told himself. He threw off his sheets and stood himself up. The ground was cold and he felt it through his soles. At first he was uneasy being on his feet, unaccustomed to the weight of his own body. He climbed up the steps and threw open the door.

There was no one in the kitchen. No one in the front room or out in the back. He thought for a moment that the hotel had emptied, that once again he’d been abandoned. Then he remembered that tonight was the night of the show. From the hall, he saw the crowd out on the porch. He ignored them, moving past to the staircase and climbing up to the third floor. He knocked on the door and it gave way under his hand.

Hermalie was sitting at the mirror.

Robert, she said.

He walked across to the window and opened it, letting in cool sweet air.

He sat at the sill.

I like you, he said.

I like you too.

She looked at him, her face furrowed.

So why are you so sad?

He looked below into the yard. Something moved through the bushes. At first he thought it was the mutt from across the street, the one that belonged to that Percy woman, but it was sleek and black, almost oily in the way it passed through Miss Lucy’s roses. The dog sat down beneath the window and looked up at him.

I don’t think there’s much time left, he said.

Robert turned. Hermalie had sat down beside him.

He looked at her and felt something collapse. He leaned toward her and they kissed. Her tongue slid inside his mouth. They made their way over to the bed and he laid her down. He suspended himself above her. His hand moved across her small breast and settled on the hard nub between his fingers.

She unbuttoned his trousers and he felt between her legs. Robert, she said. He didn’t answer. The blood stood in his chest. He slipped his hands down the soft cotton of her underwear and massaged the dark mound of her hair, then down still to the moist folds between her legs. She made a small noise in her throat. The little devil tapped lightly at his chest. He found the hem of her skirt and lifted it over her head. She hummed lightly and guided his hands down her waist into her warmth. A cold wind blew in from the window, and he could feel her skin prickling.

Above them, thunder rolled, and stitch by stitch, he could feel the sky unravel.

IN THE HOURS BEFORE THE show, Duke locked himself in his room and began his final preparations. He laid his suit out on the bed, then went to the shaving mirror. He passed a razor through the errant hairs of his chin and cheeks, scraping along the soft supple flesh until the skin filled with an itchy bloom. His nails he filed down into perfect half-moons.

He let himself have a nip from his flask to even out his nerves, then proceeded to dress himself. He put on his shirt and his pants and his jacket, and with his large thick hands, he worked out the knot of his violet bow tie. He reached into his breast pocket and found the small silver ring, his father’s. He took another pull from his flask. He heard a knocking. He opened the door and on the other side was one of Miss Lucy’s girls.

Elijah Cutter?

Duke narrowed his eyes.

No, he said. Wrong room.

Oh, the girl said. Sorry about that.

Wait, he said.

He noticed the case of liquor behind her and the envelope in her hand.

What do you have there?

It’s from Miss Lucy, sir. She wanted it sent up to Mr. Cutter.

Mr. Cutter is resting before the performance tonight, he said. You may leave these things with me.

The girl shrugged. She handed him the envelope and brought the case into the bedroom. When she left, Duke tore open the envelope and read Lucy’s note. Best of luck tonight . He felt suddenly weak. He reached for his flask, having forgotten that he had already emptied it. In a rage, he launched it across the room.

He tore the ribbon from the case of liquor. He uncorked a jug with his teeth and emptied it in one manic pull down his throat.

HE FOUND LUCY DOWNSTAIRS WITH who else but Eli in the parlor. They were alone in the empty room, a row of chairs already arranged to face the harmonium as per his suggestion. They were at the bench, their bodies side by side. Eli moved his hands over hers, guiding her hands above the keys.

It’s gorgeous, he heard her say.

This, madam, is just a box, Duke found himself saying, startling them. They turned quickly on the bench. Duke strode confidently across the room, his unlit cigar pinched between his thumb and index finger.

What is truly gorgeous is the smooth and thrilling mind that sits before it.

Duke clapped Eli hard on the shoulder.

Without this magnificent man, the box is mute, incoherent, worthless — knowing no grace, nor beauty, nor soul.

Duke dug his fingers hard into the flesh. Eli winced but held his tongue.

Oh… yes, Lucy said, unnerved. Of course.

I was hoping to speak with you, Duke said. He struck a match on the back of his thumb and lit his cigar. Privately, if you don’t mind, miss.

Very well, she said.

Duke grinned. He bowed and swept his arms to the side.

After you.

She stood up from the bench. Then she bent and kissed Eli on the cheek.

For luck, she said. A look flickered across Duke’s face and he made a show of puffing on his cigar.

DUKE LED LUCY BACK INTO his room. The shades were down and the afternoon sun spread across the room in bars of amber light. He shut the door and slung off his jacket. Already his shirt was soaked, dark gray halos blooming underneath his arms and neck.

Can I pour you something?

He gestured to the case of liquor on the floor by the bed and watched her, trying to read her face.

No, thank you, Lucy said.

He hunted for his flask. He went around the room, violently jostling the furniture. Finally, he found it hidden between the wall and the dresser. He smiled at it, clucking his tongue, and uncapped it. He uncorked another jug and began to pour messily into the spout.

Mr. Duke, I believe you’ve asked me here for a reason.

He took a deep tug, then wiped his lips on his sleeve.