Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

When the music had finished, there came a loud snore. A man had passed out at one of the tables. The barman reached into a bucket for a piece of ice, then tossed it at him.

Jesus Christ, rise up, you son of a bitch.

He threw another.

The man jolted awake and squinted over at the counter.

It’s near end of the month and you still haven’t cleaned out that shithouse!

The man picked his head up. There was a deep bruise below his eye.

Hey, I’m talking to you, G.D.!

The man stood himself up and smoothed down the front of his shirt. He passed his fingers through his greasy hair. Robert watched him. The swing of his arm, the square of his jaw. The man crossed the room to a small cabinet, and he took a shovel and a kerchief. He tied the kerchief around his face so it was only two eyes then, two brown centers, the rest full of white, the dark angry slashes of his eyebrows.

Robert followed him out behind the jakes. He watched him get down on his knees and work open the pit door. The smell hit the man and he turned to suck clean wind. Then he cinched the kerchief tight over his nose and mouth and leaned into the pit, hacking down with the shovel head.

It’ll be a while. You can go across the way, the man said.

You don’t remember me, Robert said.

The man struck the shovel down hard so that it stuck and stood himself up. G.D. pulled down his kerchief and balanced himself against the frame. His face was bright with sweat. He was looking into Robert’s face, squinting, his brow beetling. Flies buzzed drunkenly on the rim of the pail. It took minutes but when G.D. recognized him, he let out a loud laugh and threw up his arms.

THE BARMAN SCOWLED WHEN HE saw G.D. come in again. He shifted a wash rag back and forth between his hands. Then he smacked it hard against the counter.

You do like I tell you with those jakes?

G.D. ignored him. He went up on his toes and reached for a bottle of shelf whiskey on the wall. The barman grabbed his hand.

Drink’s for those who can pay. Not drag-ass layabouts, G.D.

G.D. squinted into his face. He smiled broadly.

I said I’d clear them, so I’ll clear them. I got a friend come see me just now.

He pointed with his chin and the barman looked at Robert, the rifle slung around his shoulder. The barman eased off his grip and G.D. wriggled his arm free. He gathered up the bottle and two glasses, and he and Robert set themselves down at an empty table. G.D. poured and they clinked their glasses, though they never said to what. The whiskey was hot and sharp, and it bit hard against Robert’s throat. Tears rose to his eyes. G.D. looked at him and laughed.

So what? You some kind of bad man on the run from the law?

Robert shook his head. Just passing through.

Like the rest of us. G.D. nodded solemnly at his joke. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward.

Look at you. All growed up.

He smacked his hand hard against the table, then lifted it up slowly. He grinned at the squashed fly in his palm.

Well, you can see I’m doing well for myself, he said. He wiped his hand across his trousers. There was a long pause. His mood seemed to darken. He refilled their glasses and they drank again.

He leaned back on his chair so that it rested on two legs. He was talking, but Robert could not make out all the words. G.D. couldn’t stop his mouth running. His talking circled on itself, never touching on anything straight. His long muscular arms gestured widely, described the room, punched the table, stabbed his finger at the air.

He talked quickly, heatedly. Robert could feel the eyes in the room bend toward them.

The barman told him to quiet down.

G.D. scowled. He threw the empty bottle toward the bar, smashing it against the wall. Suddenly everyone was rushed outside.

It was night then. Warm. Clear. There were so many stars.

A circle had formed around G.D. and the barman. Robert stood at the edge. Just like when we were kids, he thought. For a time the two men danced around each other, the crowd goading them on. G.D. jabbed wildly before the barman plugged him once across the jaw.

G.D. straightened, dazed. The man hit him again. G.D. took a hesitant step back and sat himself down.

The barman wiped his face and spit. He looked at Robert. Take him home, he said.

As the crowd made their way back inside, Robert lifted G.D. to his feet, holding him under his arm. He jammed a kerchief against G.D.’s battered nose. G.D. muttered something, then pointed down the road with a limp finger. Robert looped his arm around G.D.’s back, his shirt sticky with another man’s sweat, and walked him toward his home.

G.D. lived out on a shotgun to the north of Anguilla about a mile from any of his neighbors. Robert could see it in the distance, sitting under all that sky, the land choked with creepers. The grass was hard-packed, gritty, dead. There was a light on in the window, and by the way it blinked he could tell there was someone inside, waiting on him.

They got to the porch and G.D. said, You’d better stay the night.

The blood had backed up into his nose, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and cottony.

Robert took him inside where a woman was waiting to collect him.

He’s had too much, Robert said. The woman made no answer.

She was small, slender, beautiful. There was a streak of silver in her hair. G.D. grabbed her and kissed her roughly on the mouth. Then he stumbled over to the couch and laid himself out, boots and all. She snuffed the candle and climbed in beside him, paying no mind to Robert.

Robert did not recognize her right then. There was the vague tug inside of him, a sense that something important was happening. He ignored it, put it off on being still a little drunk. He thought about leaving, trying to get ahead of the Dog. Instead he went into the kitchen, where he set down his things and spread out his coat. He could hear them moving in the other room, the wood creaking under their shifting weight, G.D.’s night sounds. Robert lay down on the stiff fabric; the ceiling was turning. It dawned on him that this was where the Dog had been leading him. All the miles and roads and wearied passways had been laid for him in advance. He put his arm over his eyes and felt the blood in his face.

IT WAS MORNING AND ROBERT lay there, awake but not moving. He heard the woman talking to herself, softly. He roused up his head and peered down into the next room. She was squatting on the balls of her feet, working a soapy rag across the floor. He saw her from behind, the morning light streaming in through the door. He watched her work, her round bottom bobbing, the blades of her shoulder flexing. She laughed lightly, chided herself, and then started to whisper.

Robert sat up and cleared his throat.

She turned toward him, startled.

Her mouth hung open. She looked down at the rag, folded the corners into its center, and then looked back up. Her hands were thin and slender, passing a slip of hair behind her ear. She looked like she was about to say something, but instead, she wiped her forehead and gathered the rag again and started polishing the wood.

Robert stood up, his erection painful. He stepped around her and walked barefoot out of the house and around the side. He closed his eyes against the sun and let loose into the grass. The pressure eased in his kidneys.

He finished and went inside. The rag was still on the floor, and for a second he was afraid that he’d dreamed her up. But then he saw movement in the other room. She’d found his rifle and was holding up the stock.

Don’t, he said.