Southern Cross the Dog (29 page)

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.

It seemed too heavy for her, the barrel bending to the ground, her finger feeling around the guard.

He stepped slowly toward her and she wheeled it on him.

Dora, he said. He realized it was true as he said it. His voice was a dry clack. If she heard him, she made no sign. She stared, not at him, but past him, somewhere far away.

Dora, he said again. Don't.

She took her hand from the barrel and the thing dropped and discharged into the floor. She jumped and started laughing. Her hands were up in the air shaking. She looked at Robert, covering her cheeks. Her laugh was throaty, stupid. He felt the warm trickle between his toes. Robert looked down. There were splinters in his shins. Blood dribbled down slowly. Dora saw it too and gasped. She grabbed the rag and started soaking the blood from the floor.

It was her. He was almost sure of it. The span of her brow, her lips. He recognized these first, then the eyes, the deep taper at the edges that called out from some place dark and deep and ancient. From there the rest rushed into place. Dora. Dora who had kissed him under the old Bone Tree, who'd slipped her hand into his and put in his palm a question. The name had flown out of him like a dragnet through the dark. It was her. But she was different somehow. In his memory, the girl was sharp and bright as a knife edge. Now she knelt before him, seeing him but also not seeing, her dumb attention on the rag she crushed to the floor.

Robert picked up the rifle and hurried off to the field behind the house. The land was a stretch of dead earth, marked with crows. Along the furrows, where the ground was still soft, he dug himself a shallow. Then he dismantled the rifle and buried the pieces. Blood was pumping through his heart. He could not catch his breath. Seeing her, he felt a claw dredge a fresh stinging trench through his life. He had not thought of her in so long.

In the distance sat what was left of an old plantation house, its walls choked with ivy so that when the wind blew through, it would lift its scales and shudder. It was a grave-head grimacing over the surrounding flats. He walked across what must've once been a cotton field. There were faint lines in the dust marking where the earth had been plowed. He came around the back, found the servant's entrance, and pulled a sheet of vines away from the door.

He passed through the doorway, into the dark and mildewed air. He was inside the kitchen. The walls had rotted and the ceiling sagged down above him. The drawers had been ripped out. Looted. He passed through a swinging door. A shaft of light touched down in the center of the room. He looked up at the ceiling and saw a wound of sky passing through two floors, through the roof.

In the parlor, he could see on the wallpaper where the furniture once was—a full-size mirror on the wall, a bureau, a settee. There were boot prints of ash tracking around the carpet that marched to where a sideboard used to sit and then disappeared altogether, like someone had walked straight through the wall.

He came to a set of stairs and climbed a flight up before the wood started to strain. Something buckled underneath him. He stood still, not moving. If he fell through and hurt himself, no one would ever find him. He looked up the staircase. Just one more landing. He gripped the railing and decided to chance it. He took up the steps, testing the wood with his foot first. When he got upstairs, he saw that the floor was completely rotted, the boards warped, the nails thrusting from their holes. He stepped carefully along the edge of the wall. The hall was long, the walls scorched black. He entered a room on his right and saw the holes in the floor and ceiling.

This had been someone's bedroom. There was a rocking chair in the corner. Between the ceiling and the roof, he could see where a bird had built its nest, learned itself better, and moved on. In his dizzy and agitated state, the room felt like a puzzle piece that somehow fit with Dora's reappearance in his life. Robert sat down. He stared up through the space in the ceiling, a cone of dust and sun, waiting for someone to answer.

BY NIGHTFALL, HE HEADED BACK
to the house. From the field he could see a man approaching from the road. It was G.D., staggering and weaving, barely able to keep on his feet. Robert ran to him and helped walk him inside. G.D. stumbled into the main room, huffing, gripping hard to Robert to keep his balance. Dora watched as Robert carried him to the couch. G.D. stretched out across the cushions, coat and all, his eyes full of shine.

G.D. looked up at the two of them and smiled wide. Tonight we gonna feast like kings, he said.

From his left coat pocket, he drew out hunks of bread and cheese, and from the right, three potatoes. He offered them up to Dora.

Go ahead and make these up. That's a good girl.

Without a word, Dora gathered the food into her arms and went into the kitchen.

You all right? Robert asked. Let me get your coat off.

G.D. waved him away. His collar was soaked with sweat, and there was blood rimming his nostrils.

Go help her with the supper. I need a sec. Need to catch my breath.

His head lolled back and he shut his eyes.

Robert went into the kitchen, but Dora made no notice of him. She'd drawn a pail of water and was busying herself dunking the potatoes one by one, trying to wash the soil from the skin.

Dora, he said. You remember me? My name is Robert.

She paid him no mind.

He went beside her and tried to take her hand. She jerked it away back to her work. Robert sighed, took a potato. They were still gritty with dirt. No doubt stolen. He clutched the bulb in his palm and started cleaning.

AFTER DINNER, THEY CLEARED AWAY
the table and made some space on the floor. G.D. dug out the wireless and switched it on. Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys were performing live from the DeVoy Hotel at WMPS Memphis. Dora seemed to brighten at its sound. The band struck up. Then the horns. G.D. clapped his hands together and she took them in hers. He danced her there on the floor, both of them out of time and sync. Robert was seated in his chair, watching them. G.D. tugged at her hard and she laughed and spun into his arms. He was so much bigger than her. She buried her face into his chest and put her arms around his hips and they swayed a little for a while. When G.D. was danced out, he rubbed his head and sat down.

Okay. No more dancing.

She whined and tugged his arms.

No more. I can't. Why don't you dance with our guest?

They both looked at Robert.

I can't dance, Robert said.

G.D. grinned. Hell, you done worse than dance, I'm sure.

G.D. stood up and steadied himself on the wall. He shook his head and smiled to himself. I need a bath, he said. Then he turned up the dial on the wireless and went into the other room. Robert cleared his throat. He stood up out of his chair, and he walked over to the radio. The music was something different now. The shimmer of fiddles. The slow roll of a horn. He leaned toward her and held out his arm.

Just one, he said.

She looked at his arm, her chin down, trying not to meet his eyes. She took it and they started to dancing, not close but close enough. She kept her head down, watching her feet while Robert stared out past her shoulders. Her hands were clammy. His own were rough. He could hear her dress crinkling, the alien swing of her body off time from his own.

When the song had finished, they both stepped away from each other.

She still would not look at him. Her hands rose protectively to her neck, and she kept looking at the floor. Robert sighed and switched off the music.

Thanks for the dance, he said.

It's nothing, she said.

He looked at her, startled. A small smile flitted across her face. For the briefest of moments, she looked back at him. Her eyes were brown, large, wounding. Then immediately the moment was gone. She broke away, brushing past him, into the other room, to help G.D. with his bath.

ROBERT PASSED THE NIGHT IN
the small room next to the kitchen, a heap of quilts and blankets to pass for a bed. He tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Finally he roused himself and went out into the morning air. Outside, the sky started to blush, rose suffusing into the deep high ink. He perched himself on the back stoop and rolled his hands to fight the chill.

His head buzzed. His lungs burned.

The plantation house sat in the distance, dark against the rising sun. Even from here, he could feel its size. Its presence. Its long shadow threw a cape over the dust fields. He needed to leave. Now. Before they woke up. Before the Dog could catch up to him.

Behind him, he heard the back door open. G.D. stepped from behind him, turned to the side, and aimed a hot stream of piss into the weeds.

You sleep okay?

Robert nodded.

G.D. shook himself dry, then hawked a wad of phlegm into the dust. Then he sat down beside Robert.

Tell you the truth, I'm glad to see you're still here, he said. Didn't know if you'd stay when you saw her. The way she is, I mean.

What happened to her?, he asked.

G.D. scowled. Well, what happened to you?

Robert saw G.D. was looking at the scar beneath his chin. The sparse beard that was growing could not hide the long purple streak along his neck. Robert touched it. It was smooth and rubbery.

Something that couldn't be helped, Robert said.

G.D. sucked his teeth. Uh-huh. Well, Dora's a good girl. It'd surprise you how kindhearted she is. Like she's got all of her right on top, right where the skin is. All her sweetness, all her kindness.

Robert didn't say anything. He had suddenly become very tired, like the muscle had become dead and slack on his bones.

And she's smart, too. Don't go thinking she's not.

I never said a word otherwise, Robert said.

Good. 'Cause that's something I won't stand for. She's all my family now, you understand?

The flesh had become puffy on G.D.'s face. Around his eyes the skin was still swollen, and it made him squint through those bloodshot and mucousy globes. Robert was surprised by how upset G.D. looked. His jaw tensed. His eyelids fluttered.

Robert held his gaze.

You take care of her, don't you?

G.D. softened. He worked his lips back and forth.

We take care of each other, he said finally. I'm sorry if I came on a little hot. I hate mornings.

G.D. let out a sigh and rubbed his face.

I just didn't want you to leave here with the wrong idea about things. That's what you're doing, isn't it? Leaving?

G.D. grinned at him.

Don't look so surprised. I know when a fella is gonna cut out. And you, my friend, look like someone who's done his share of cutting out.

He pinched Robert lightly on the cheek.

G.D. laughed and Robert laughed along with him. Robert liked G.D. He remembered this from when they were boys, the way G.D. would move quickly from one thing into the next—one game into another, from anger to tenderness to laughter. G.D.'s was a rattling infectious giggle. Now the two of them cackled, tears oozing from their eyes.

He clapped an arm to Robert's shoulder. When they'd stopped laughing, G.D. hugged Robert to him.

You're safe here, you know, he said.

Robert looked at him, stunned.

Whatever it is you're running from, I mean. I know how it is. You don't got to stay if you don't want to, but all I'm saying is you don't got to leave, neither.

Robert shook his head.

You don't want any of what's coming to me.

Here you got Dora and you got me, and that's two more than if you were on your own. I don't know. I don't know what it is exactly you're mixed up in. But near as I'm concerned, you got a place here with us.

G.D. stood up.

Come on in when you want your breakfast, he said.

G.D.?, Robert said.

G.D. paused at the door.

What happened to her?

G.D. smiled, his mouth going soft and sad.

What happened is I didn't look out for my family, he said. Not enough and too late.

Then he went inside.