Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

There was no way around it. He missed her.

His time in Panther, just four months ago now, felt like a dream that, in the waking world, he could not configure together again. There were only snatches. Impressions. Dull flares of memory. He would pass along the river on his way to and from town and watch the water run around the rocks. A pang of guilt would strike from some unknown depth inside him. And as the days drew on, he could feel the dream turn solid inside him, each day a little more vivid, a little bit firmer, till there were hard edges, a weight, a shape to his loneliness.

When he got back to the house, the front door was open. He found Dora slumped on the couch smiling stupidly at the ceiling. Robert stood over her and she blinked lazily. She didn’t seem to see him. In the kitchen, G.D. was pacing the floor, pressing a kerchief to his temples. It had turned dark and rose-colored with blood.

G.D. fixed his eyes on Robert as he came in and then as if he was coming out of a dream, he said, Nice hat.

Robert set the bread on the counter and G.D. looked at it mournfully.

I brought back some bread, Robert said.

G.D. nodded and walked past him out of the room.

AT NIGHT, THERE WERE VOICES in the walls. Shouting and cussing. Robert would hear the furniture crash the boards behind his head. He’d lie on the blankets, staring up at the ceiling unable to sleep. He’d wake up, his bowels in knots, his mouth raw with acid. And in the morning, G.D. too would emerge from the room, his face ravaged from drink, his lips chapped and scored with blood.

Every day Dora seemed to get worse and worse, and neither Robert nor G.D. could find any pattern in it. Any small thing could set her off. One supper, she rose abruptly in the kitchen and poured hot cinders on G.D.’s lap, laughing deep and throaty as he jumped and hollered.

The sight of a bird at the window could start her crying. And not a low weeping, but a mad frenzied yowl that would last for hours. And when she had done all the crying she’d aimed to do, she would all at once fall silent and go about the house as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes she looked like she was lost in a thought. Her lips would press tight together and her eyes would become large and staring and all the color would leave her face. G.D. and Robert would call her name or clap their hands but it wasn’t any good. She would not respond. They had to wait it out. Then at once, she would stand up or get out of the chair and walk into the kitchen and smash the plates on the table edge.

At night she sweated through her sheets. Soon she was too weak to get up from the bed. In time the house fell into disrepair. Robert found himself taking on more of the house duties, brooming the floors, doing the wash, cooking up charred unpalatable meals for the three of them. He worked only half days at the bakery. Dora would throw up constantly. Her clothes were in tatters, crusted with vomit, her eyes were bloodshot, her skin gone all gray. Once she came in on him while he was in the kitchen. She stood there, holding the door frame to keep herself up. She put her arm out like she was reaching for something, then she fell down and started shivering on the floor. Robert picked her up, her skin sticking to his hand. He held her from her hips. Her muscles convulsed. It coursed out of her. Hot was dribbling down his hands. He looked at her mess. Her blood.

Robert had wanted to send for a doctor but G.D. said, No.

This is our family, he said. We do this on our own.

So they kept on and every day as Dora weakened, G.D. seemed to diminish with her. He became thin and wan. Robert asked again about the doctor, but again G.D. refused.

You’re dying, Robert said.

His own voice startled him. It was small and reedy, like there wasn’t breath enough to get the words out. G.D. wasn’t sure who Robert was talking to but he turned his head and squared his eyes on him, and there was no anger in it, nor remorse nor pity.

You’re dying and she’s killing you.

G.D. said nothing. He walked into Dora’s room and shut the door behind him.

ROBERT AWOKE ONE NIGHT TO his name thundering from behind the bedroom wall. It was G.D. He bolted upright and struggled through the dark to their room. The door was splintered off its hinges. Inside, a small lamp glowed. They were both on the floor, naked, G.D. straddling Dora’s torso, trying to force down her arms. Blood was streaming from his forehead. Dora was screaming. She jerked forward and back, her face twisted in pain.

Get the pan! In the kitchen! Hurry!

Robert ran into the kitchen. He took a frying pan from off the shelf and stood in the doorway, unsure of himself.

Dora sank her teeth into G.D.’s arms, and he roared and fell off her. She sprang to her feet, nearly knocking Robert over. Robert shut his eyes and brought the metal down hard. He felt the dull clap deep in his arm. He opened his eyes. Dora slumped over. His hand went dead.

It’s okay. It’s okay now, G.D. said.

G.D. picked her up gently and laid her down on the mattress, pulling a sheet over her naked body.

Robert sat down on the edge. He looked at the mess around him, but his eyes couldn’t focus.

You had to, G.D. said. I made you do it.

Robert nodded absently.

G.D. smoothed the hair away from her face. Then he bent down and kissed her forehead and let out a sigh. He put on a robe and gestured Robert out of the room. They took the lamp out to the back porch. G.D. went to the barrel and washed his face with a damp rag. They sat down on the stoop.

She’ll be all right now, he said. She’ll sleep through the night.

G.D. took out a pouch of tobacco and tried to roll a cigarette. His hands were shaking.

You all right?

Get that light up and have a see.

Robert stood up and held the lamp up to the cut at G.D.’s hairline.

Looks pretty bad, Robert said. Ought to stitch it.

You know how?

I can try.

G.D. got up and brought him some whiskey, a rag, a spool of catgut, and a needle. Robert hung the lamp on a hook and touched the wound. Blood oozed out. He dabbed it dry, then soaked the rag with whiskey. He laid it across the wound and G.D. winced.

Try not to fidget, Robert said.

G.D. grumbled something.

This happen a lot?

Not a lot. Sometimes, he said. She’s a sweetie — God, I get tired sometimes though, don’t I?

Robert didn’t say anything after that and took up the needle. G.D. managed to get the cigarette rolled. He set it to his lips and sucked deeply. Christ, he said. It’s a nice night, isn’t it though? Didn’t think God turned out nights like this anymore. Not too hot. Not too wet. Just… right.

He started to chuckle.

I told you don’t fidget, Robert said.

Sorry. Sorry. It was just… it’s funny because I was thinking, the last time there was a night like this, we were kids. You know the time I’m talking about?

Robert thought for a moment. No, not really, he said.

He laughed. It was just like this… just like… like something is about to happen. I used to feel that way all the time. I used to just wake up in the middle of the night, and I could feel it right in my gut. Something is going to happen. God, how it used to work me up. Like there was something in me, trying to get out.

G.D. reached for the whiskey and let himself have a little.

I’d tear off my shirt and run outside and want to be wild.

Robert finished with the wound. Done, he said, but G.D. didn’t seem to hear him. He was sitting there, blinking and smiling, looking at something far off.

God, it was something though, he said.

I’m finished, Robert said again.

He turned his eyes to Robert, then he took his hand and squeezed it.