Bill Cheng - Southern Cross the Dog

But instead, he smelled perfume.

It drifted faint from the front of the bus. A fire lit up in his head, his nerves going hot and bright at the tips. She climbed on board, a gloved hand steadying herself on the back of a seat. The silhouette of a pillbox hat floated into the aisle. She took slow careful steps toward the back of the bus, arms feeling the dark space ahead of her. Her hips bobbed— Swish! Swish! — stopping in front of Eli.

Evening, she said.

Eli slid over and cleared a space for her to sit. The scent of calla lily grew thick and heavy. He could feel its weight in his mouth, like a lump of sugar on his tongue.

You a pretty little thing to go riding around this hour, he said.

Couldn’t find no one to carry me, she said.

Now I don’t believe that. You weighed five hundred pounds, I’d carry you. On my back if I had to.

The woman snickered. Maybe, but you can’t take me any place I need to go.

Don’t you worry. I know all the right places.

Oh, I bet you do.

I know all the right spots, he said again.

Eli couldn’t see her face. He wasn’t sure if she was ignoring him.

You going to see your man?

You’re awful lippy, mister.

You didn’t answer my question.

The woman was quiet for a while. I’m going to see my husband.

If I had a wife like you, I wouldn’t never let her out of my sight.

Don’t get fresh with me, she said. You don’t even know me.

I don’t mean offense. All I mean is lots of things out in these roads at night. Not all of them safe.

Like you.

Eli laughed.

Me? Sure. But there’s plenty worse than me. When I was a little boy, my grandma told me about a gypsy woman live out in the country. If a little boy or little girl was in devilment, she’d come at night and take them away. Boil them up and eat their bones, then she’d spit them out and put them in her little conjure bag.

The woman laughed. He could make out the swell of her breasts, the smooth slope of her neck. The whites of her eyes glowed a dull blue even in the dark.

You ever been in devilment, little girl?

Bad boy, she teased.

’Cause I can devil you right.

He touched his fingers lightly to her skirt. The warm of her thighs came up through the cotton.

The woman laughed. I’m a full-grown woman.

Very grown, Eli said.

A grown woman ain’t got no need for tall tales.

Maybe you ain’t never had a tale tall enough.

Don’t matter how tall if it don’t do nothing.

Eli smiled. You don’t believe me.

He could feel the bus rolling over the uneven country, a deep tremble plucking at his groin.

Let me show you something.

Eli unbuckled his belt and slid his hand down his waistband.

What’re you doing?

He brought out his hand and in his palm was a small flannel bag. The woman let out a surprised laugh, then clapped her hand over her mouth. He untied the drawstring and took out a round dark pit.

This here is my little devil.

Oh, a little devil? Is that it? she said, pouting.

Eli ignored her.

It’s got powers on it. He held it out in front of her, rolling it gently in his fingers.

Go on now.

It’s true.

Snuck it right from under that gypsy woman.

What’s it do?

What’s it look like to you?

It was dark and round and shriveled.

It looks like a man’s… well, a man’s part.

That’s right, he said. He danced the pit dreamily in front of her, first in front of her eyes, then under her nose, grazing her upper lip.

His other hand settled lightly on her knee. He drew swirls gently on her skin.

All I got to do is give it a little rub right here, he whispered.

He passed his thumb over the ridges of the pit. A warm musk flowed from his fingertips and he glided his hand up her thigh.

Can I hold it? she asked softly.

He brushed the pit gently around the underside of her palm, then up the curve of her wrist, away from her stretching fingers. He could smell her honeyed sweat now, through her perfume. His frenzied blood ached under his skin.

Just a little rub right here.

He was born Elijah Philip Cutter outside of Natchez in Adams County — gray and small and out of breath — a caul across his brow. When he was two, his mama cut out to California with a man that might’ve been his daddy, leaving Eli to his grandma to raise up. He was a sickly boy. At night he could not breathe and would instead sit up in his bunk, his lungs filling with panic, and he’d listen, the rusty harp inside his throat, the ringing of the bottle tree.

When he was five, his grandma took him down to the small one-room shack out beyond the rail yard water station. All around he could hear the great breaths of steam let out from the chimneys. The house sat out beyond the weeds, its walls soot stained and ivied. His grandma unlatched the door and guided Eli in. There was hardly any light. He could barely make out the shelves that lined the walls, the dark dusty jars of powder and bone. There was a great shifting breath. He almost did not see him, sitting there on the bed. He was old, his eyes two milky orbs inside his skull.

The Devil’s in your throat, his grandma said. It got to come out.

The man laid his frail hand upon the boy’s body and undid the buttons one by one. The fabric fell quietly away. On his open chest, the man pressed his ear. He listened for the rattle of his soul.

When he was done, the man had him lie down on a sheet of wax paper. Eli looked at his grandma, who only nodded approvingly, and he obeyed. He spread himself out on top of the thin paper, and the man knelt down and lit a candle at his feet.

Shut your eyes, his grandma said.

Above him, the man moved, shifting his weight, the floor straining against the balls of his feet. Eli could hear his hands, hear the wet slick of oil between the man’s palms as he rubbed them together. A band of warmth stretched across his chest.

Don’t move.

The heat was unbearable. It lay heavy like a second skin. He could feel the sweat between his shoulder blades, gathering along the ridge of his spine. It traveled down and down, a cold pearl at the base of his back.

And inside, he could feel the small thing fighting in his chest, struggling against the root man’s ministrations. The Devil rustled. His lungs filled with feathers. There were hands upon him now, kneading hard against his breast. His heart raced. The air was shrinking. He could not breathe.

And there was the thumping in his breast, and God’s hand in his throat. And there was his soul against his ribs. Outside, the trains let out their bellows, and in one sick lurch, he spit the evil yolk out onto the butcher paper. Eli hacked and wheezed and felt air crack deep into his core. The man stood him up and wrapped up the paper around the yolk, tucking the yellow mass into one of his dusty jars.

FOR YEARS, ELI WENT TO see the root man, drinking his potions and huffing powders from his mason jars. In the afternoons, he helped him hunt through the thatches of johnsongrass outside the rail yard. The old man squatted down among the weeds, his desiccated hands searching through the loose soft soil. He plucked mushrooms from the cold black ground and tucked their caps inside his cheek. He’d hold them there for hours before spitting the runny mash across an Indian head penny. All the plants he could name by touch, the grittiness of the leaves, the firmness of the stalks against his fingers. Sorghum and boneset and chase-devil. He’d take a spade and dig down, prying up long tangles of blood root, and John the conqueror and the musky dripping vines called devil’s shoestrings.