Bill Cheng: Southern Cross the Dog

Looks like you Chathams are wet in a bad way.

Was wondering if you could carry us some, Ellis said.

You don’t say.

The man’s tongue worked something over between his teeth. He leaned against the gunwale and flicked something away from his hair.

What you got in them satchels?

The muzzle of his pistol rested over the lip of the boat. Come on now, let’s see them.

Just some food, Ellis said. Clothes. What little we got. We’d be happy to trade some—

The man gestured with his gun. Get in, he said.

We ain’t looking for no kind of trouble, Mr. Stuckey.

The boat, the man said.

Ellis wedged his hands under Robert’s arms and lifted him up. He set the boy down on the boat floor. Etta was next. Stuckey pulled her up by her arm, the heel of his boot anchored to the transom to keep from falling. Her dress clung to her thighs and she plucked the sticky cloth from around her legs. Her hat flipped off her head and went into the water. On board, her legs gave under her and she crawled to Robert, gathering him into her arms and cooing into his ear.

Well, well, Stuckey said. He reached for Ellis and heaved him in.

Looks like I caught me some duckies.

The rowboat was wide and long. The Chathams set themselves up at the stern-side bench. Stuckey went through their sacks, throwing their clothes and keepsakes carelessly on the puddled floor. He found the loaf of bread and tore into it, his breath squeaking through his nostrils. He snorted, swallowed, and tossed the rest to the Chathams.

Stale, he said, wiping his mouth.

Ellis stared at him.

Go on. Eat, Stuckey said, opening up another satchel. Son of man, eat thy bread with quaking and drink thy water with trembling and carefulness.

Ellis broke the loaf into pieces and handed a piece to the boy. Robert ate slowly and quietly, nestled in between his mama’s arms.

What you going to do with us? Ellis asked.

The man stood up. Etta tightened around the boy.

Row, the man said.

STUCKEY HUNG HIS HAND OFF the side of the boat, letting his fingers slice into the water. They were in the basin, where the water had gone high-deep. Beneath, dogtrots and lean-tos hung in the water — neither floating nor sinking. Now and again, something would bubble up to the surface. A chair. A table. A blouse. He skimmed up the blue wad of cloth, then spread it open. It was small. A girl’s. He looked at it amused, then set it back in the water.

You know, friend, if there’s a heaven, I hope it’s a dry one.

Ellis had stripped off his shirt — a thin skin of sweat greased his body. With each stroke, he let out a breath. Behind him, Etta was still clutching the boy, shivering, staring back at the man.

Stuckey sat up.

You a man of God, friend?

Ellis kept on with his paddling.

That’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. Me, my daddy was a pastor outside of Tunica. Tiny little place. A flock that wasn’t more than a sheep and a half. He made me say verses and passages every night at supper. It got so’s I’d turn hungry every time someone read from Corinthians. That man used to go on and on, about the angry God and the loving God.

Stuckey leaned forward.

Now which one of those you believe in?

Ellis lifted the paddles up and let the boat drift. He stared hard at the man. The sun had started setting and was bruising pink overhead. Mosquitoes skimmed along the surface of the water, and he could hear the creaking of bust-up houses shifting beneath them.

Stuckey shook his head.

You said you from Issaquena County? You hear about that boy they hanged two months ago? Fourteen. Was off fooling with some plantation owner’s daughter. A real beauty. A real lily as they say. Well, right before they strung him up, they got the rope round his neck, they ask him why he’d done it. You know what he said?

Ellis clenched his face together. The tendons in his shoulders tightened.

Love! You believe that?

Stuckey laughed.

Now, I done a lot in my time. Don’t even start me to talking. But go near a white woman? Never. I’d never be that reckless. Shoot.

Stuckey opened his arms and swept them over the boat. In the distance, a train lay on its side, figures huddled on top of the boxcar. Telegraph poles had collapsed together in a nest of crucifixions, their cables willowing into the dark water.

I mean, will you look at this mess?

It could’ve been the ocean for all Robert knew — the water going on and on forever in every direction save for the small stitch of telegraph line in the distance. They rowed over a switching station, and he looked over the side to see the trains underneath.

There’s nothing to see, Stuckey said. He was lying across the length of the boat, his hat tipped over his eyes. He crossed his legs and Robert could see the soles of his boots, worked and muddy.

Robert’s mama had fallen asleep holding him. Her head was slumped against his shoulder, her chin hooking down from behind. She breathed slow and deep.

He could feel himself slipping off as well, watching the rhythms of his father’s rowing — the muscles in his back crimping on every stroke, the greased sheen of his body with the sun on his neck. There had not been any crying or wailing for hours. There was not another soul. Only the oars patting the water.

Robert stood up suddenly, tearing free from his mama’s hold. He stared out toward the horizon, shading his eyes against the light. He had heard it. Like a piece of wire humming. Ellis held the oars midpaddle. Stuckey lifted the hat from his face. They looked out together. The clouds were spread thin over the horizon, the underbelly gone red and raw. The others had heard it too. Muffled and small, but it was there all the same. A voice. A human voice traveling out across the water.

He rolled his head back and set his arm over his eyes.

Well, Stuckey said. Go on then.

They spotted a slice of high ground where the sun dissolved into the water. They rowed toward it, watching it grow by degrees into a grass jetty — a narrow arm of land, slanting up into the hill country. A man on the banks hollered out across the water, Lord Lord Lord! Show mercy for us the poor and the sinful.

The man’s shirt was unbuttoned, his preacher’s collar splayed open. Around him were piles of white cloth. It wasn’t till the boat had almost touched land that Robert saw that they were men and women done up in baptismal robes. Their heads were pressed into the grass as they moaned and twitched. Men in tan uniforms were stepping carefully among them, touching their wrists or feeling their foreheads, then scratching their notes out on their clipboards.

The boat floated into the shallows and Stuckey stood up.

You get off here, he said. He pointed to their bundles. These you won’t be needing anymore.

Robert climbed out of the boat and waded toward the shore, his mama and his daddy following behind him. His legs were stiff and he was so tired he felt like he would fall through the earth.

He looked behind him. Stuckey was already at the oars. He smiled back at Robert, lifting up one hand to wave. Then he took up the paddles and worked them back, sliding out toward the dark water.

Wash the devilment from your souls! the preacher cried. From gambling halls and cathouses! He has seen our wickedness!

Robert felt his daddy’s warm hand graze the back of his neck.

He has seen our wretchedness! Let us be clean! Take the Devil from our souls!

Over here! a voice called out. Three men in uniforms came running toward them. They pulled the Chathams up from the bank, one by one, and wrapped them in blankets. Robert’s mama sat down on the grass. The men tried to lift her up, but she closed her eyes and shook her head.