Southern Cross the Dog (3 page)

Ellis lifted his own hand up from the water, wiped it on his shirt, and shook it. I'm Ellis Chatham and here's my family. We been crossing over from Issaquena County.

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?

I
t 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.

The men looked at each other. Then they took out their clipboards and started in on their questions. Ma'am, what's your name? Do you know your address?

His mama only stared, holding the blanket tightly around her front. His daddy tried to say something, but a man in uniform stood in front of him.

Sir, sir. I need your attention a moment.

Robert listened to the way they talked, those cramped, pinched voices. They were young and extraordinarily white, whiter than most white men he'd seen. There wasn't any kind of burn on their noses or faces or necks, just pale apple flesh.

Son, you need to tell me your name, son. Before we can help you, we need to know your name. For the chart.

Robert, his daddy said. Answer the man.

The man wrote something down on his sheet.

Sir, I need this young man to speak for himself.

That's my boy Robert, his daddy said. He's only eight.

Sir. Please.

Tell him, Robert. It's all right.

Sir, another man said. I need you to pay attention to me. You can talk with your family later but for right now, you need to talk to me.

Now hold on there, his daddy said, standing.

Sir.

Now hold on.

Sir. Sir, please, sir, they said.

The men circled around his daddy. Their hands were up in front of them, as if they were afraid he might pounce.

Robert watched the scene. More men in uniform charged down the hill past them toward the water. People were still coming in—some on boats, or pieces of wood yoked together with twine. They called out for help and the white men would splash down after them.

When he turned back, his mama was gone, the print of her wet body still on the grass. He looked around. The white men were moving swiftly from one person to another. They went around carrying blankets and urns of coffee. A woman was crying, cradling a bundle in her arms, and one of the men was trying to take it away. Robert kept looking. He saw his mama walking past the preacher, toward the water's edge. No one else noticed her as she moved among them, stepping over their prostrate bodies, her blanket dragging in a tail behind her. Robert's daddy and the men were still arguing. Robert got up and ran after her.

He caught up with his mama at the flood bank and slipped his hand quietly into hers. She looked at him as if trying to place who he was, then she shifted her shoulders and cinched up the blanket tightly around them both.

Farther down the bank, a man was howling, beating his head with his fists. He rushed out into the water and it took four men to pull him back. A terrible wail escaped his body and he struggled in their arms before finally going slack.

Robert's mama squeezed his small palm.

Serves them right, she said.

Robert put his hand in his pocket. Dora's stone was still there. The preacher's voice gathered in some far-off part of his mind like silt. Years later, he would think back to this moment, holding the stone—its smooth black surface digging into the meat of his palm, the water still sticky on his skin. Love, the man had said. Will you look at this mess?

PART TWO

HOTEL BEAU-MIEL

(1932)

A
ugustus Duke wiped the pollen from his goggles and cranked hard on the gearbox. The A-Model kicked forward, churning yellow air under the tires. There were flowers on the roadside—whole bouquets of roses, irises, carnations—dried into fists. The smell followed him all the way to the Big Farm. It was in the air, in the hollows of his nose and mouth, puddled up in the jaw of spit. He watched the Farm rise up from beneath the road, the acres of plowed earth and wood houses behind a six-mile stretch of chicken wire and guard towers. Up at the gate, he turned off the engine. A guard came out from the guardhouse and met the car. His uniform was unbuttoned and his undershirt was matted with sweat.

Help you?

Duke unstrapped the goggles, massaging the red circles around his eyes. He showed him the envelope from his pocket. The guard turned it over, read the name, then frowned.

Have to telephone the warden.

The man went back into the guardhouse. Duke climbed out of the car and spat into the dust. The sun made the air slow and prickly, and he ran his tongue along the sticky sucking walls of his mouth. Beyond the wire, he could see the Negroes lined along their furrows, their spades cutting into the dark earth—hear their soft grunts, their exhales.

The guard returned. His uniform had been loosened.

Warden said to stay here, the guard said. He handed back the envelope. You can wait inside, out of the sun, if you like.

Duke followed the man inside. It was small and cramped like a garden shed. Shelves cluttered with papers and boxes of ammunition lined the inside wall. A small glass window looked out into the camp. Duke bumped the telephone from the wall, and the guard reached over and placed the speaker back on the carriage.

The guard sat down on a stool and wedged off his boot.

Can't stand that smell, the guard said. He burst a blister under his big toe and rubbed his fingers on his trousers.

They say you get used to it but ask me, seems like it gets worse every day.

Duke didn't answer him.

The flowers, I mean. The Overnight runs right through here.

Duke had seen it driving up, first the tracks chasing alongside the road, then the train racing up, spitting gravel against his car. He remembered the hobo eyes that stared out at him from the half-open freights.

That's how come you got this smell, the guard went on. They got these nigger girls come in with their hair all done up. All up and down the state. Lined up for hours sometimes. We tell them every time. No flowers. So they trash them right on the roadside there.

The guard tugged the top button of his shirt and aired out the pits of his arms.

They hide things, you know? You'd be surprised. The women are sneaky. Sneakier even than the men. One selling her cunny from Aberdeen come up to see one of our lifers. Says he was her sweet boy. She was hauling this whole bloom of lilacs and daisies and whatever else. Draped up over her shoulder, sticking up in her face, practically falling out of her arms, there were so many flowers. A sight to see. Didn't no one seem to notice that those flowers were tied off with a foot of piano wire.

The guard clucked his tongue and cut his hand across his throat.

No flowers after that.

The guard worked a finger under his heel and horned his foot back into his boot. The boot kicked forward and Duke stepped back to dodge the arc. He took out his pocket watch and hooded his eyes into slits.

The guard looked at him.

They're animals, plain and simple. Take that boy you're waiting on. Eli Cutter. Now that one is a piece of work. You heard about what he done?

Yes, Duke said.

The guard clicked his tongue.

That poor girl. Her insides all rotted out.

Duke watched the guard take full measure of him. He chewed down on his bottom lip and nodded slowly.

And now here you are with that fancy piece of paper of yours. Well, don't that beat all?

Duke looked steadily at the guard. He worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He slipped two fingers past his teeth and drew out a flap of dead skin.

Well, piece of advice. You just watch yourself around that one. Everybody here knows to keep clear of Eli.

The guard motioned toward the sky.

He ain't clean.

A gunshot cracked in the distance and the guard's jaw turned taut and fierce. He leaned against his rifle butt and stared hard at the fields. Nothing had changed. The prisoners kept up their work as the sergeants drove their horses steady down the lines. There came another report, echoing into quiet.

I wouldn't worry. Chances are, that wasn't your old boy, Eli. You got a cigarette? It'll cut the smell.

Duke reached into his jacket.

The guard eyed the pack and let a smile tighten on his face.

He fit a cigarette between his lips. Duke struck a match, lit the guard's and then his own. The cigarette crackled like radio air.

ELI BROKE TWO EGGS IN
a little cup and with his long thin fingers, he scooped out the yolks. The strands shivered and dripped and he rubbed the yellow between his hands, then back through his hair. A prison trusty stood in the doorway of the bunkhouse, tugging on the straps of his dungarees with one hand, balancing his rifle with the other. Eli watched the trusty in the piece of mirror, his fat lips working into an angry bud.

Eli patted down the rest of his hair and wiped his hands on a rag. He slipped on his jacket, straightened out the lapels, then set his hat neat on his head. He gave himself one more look—narrow face, clear almond eyes, a spray of silver on his mustache. Eli sucked back on his teeth.

Outside, he could hear the inmates plucking their spades dully at the earth as a skin of red dust settled outside the bunkhouse.

The trusty cleared his throat. You ready?

Eli grinned, turning from the mirror.

Show on.

They walked through the prison farm, Eli in front and the trusty behind. Outside, the sky was wide and full, doming above the wire fencing. The cotton fields lay spread in dark tracts while the inmates stooped over in their rows, cutting the soil with their hoes, their leg chains twinkling.

They crossed to the laundry lines outside the administration building. The prisoners looked up from their washboards, cheeks flecked with soap, hands bleached and sudsy over the blue-black water. They pressed their cracked rutted faces against the glass. No one made a noise, only the crackle of soap sounding as they waited for Eli to pass.

At the gate the warden stood with his suit stiff and freshly pressed. Beside him was a man. He looked like an egg, round and pale and smooth except his nose, which was blistered and full of blood. The man was staring hard at Eli, the small muscle in his throat going up and down.

The warden sent the trusty away.

This the one you wanted?

The man unfolded a square of paper from his pocket.

You're Eli Cutter?

He was surprised the man knew his name. Yessir, he said. That's me.

Out of Natchez?

And happy to be here.

The man read aloud from his paper:

Cutter, Elijah Paul. Age, thirty-eight years; height, five feet eight inches; weight, 129 pounds; nativity, Adams County; complexion, mulatto; hair, black; eyes, brown; mole behind left ear; scar on the right thigh. Sentenced from Wayne County, October 29, 1929, for the crime of manslaughter; term, fifteen years.

The man looked up from the slip of paper.

The warden smirked. Well, not quite fifteen is it, Mr. Duke?

The man ignored him. Let me see your hands.

Eli rolled up his sleeves. His palms were dusty and cracked, but his fingers spanned out wide like a cellar spider, knobby at the knuckles but smooth and womanly down to the tips. He touched his thumbs together lightly.

That's him, the man said. He reached into his jacket and handed the warden a thick envelope.

I trust this settles everything.

The warden smiled. He patted the envelope across his palm before tucking it under his arm.

He's all yours, Mr. Duke, he said.

THEY DROVE FOR HOURS, NEITHER
of them talking. Eli fought down the excitement in his gut. He gazed out at the surrounding country. The hills rolled past and in the distance there were clusters of houses—towns he'd spent years in. They flashed in some dark part of his brain—barrelhouses, hotels, barbershops, his arm around some young smiling thing, the two of them stealing out to the potter's field, their naked bodies on the cold wet grass.

The man named Duke stopped the car at a clearing along the road. Out beyond the tall grass was the old colored church, burned-out and gutted. The walls were charred black and had fallen through in places, strands of wild millet growing through cracks in the floor.

We're here, Mr. Duke said. He hefted up a small leather suitcase and carried it out with him.

Flies flicked around their eyes and nostrils, buzzing drunk and angry. They stepped over the smashed pews and collapsed roof, the wood groaning underneath them. There were chalk lines scratched into a piece of wall, and empty bean tins on the floor. The stink of shit hung humid in the air.

They climbed up to what had been the pulpit and the man pulled the cloth from off the organ. With the heel of his hand, he wiped down the bench.

Have a seat, he said.

Eli sat down and Mr. Duke lifted up the fall board. The keys were clean and white.

Been a long time, Eli said.

Mr. Duke opened the case. He lifted up what looked like a phonograph and pointed the horn at Eli. He flicked a switch and there was a grinding noise. He flicked it again and the noise evened out.

Play something for me, he said.

Boss?

I want you to play a blues for me.

Eli set a finger on a key. It was cold and foreign.

Go ahead, Mr. Duke said.

Eli rolled up his sleeves and knuckled his fingers, trying to rub the buzz out of his joints. He floated his big hands above the ivory, the cords tightening into a claw. The pads of his fingers touched lightly over the keys; they were cold and smooth and sent a shiver through him like a sword.

The pedal clunked into its place. Eli touched the first note. Soft. Then he touched it again, letting it ring out. His mind burned. He closed his eyes and struck. A chord boomed beneath his hands. His heart was beating. He let the sound flare then cool. Something in his throat unhitched. Another chord. Then another. Beneath him, the organ trilled. He felt its air against his face. His heart fired in his chest.

When Eli had finished, Mr. Duke switched off the machine and folded the horn back into its case.

Marvelous, Duke said. Simply marvelous. You're as good as they say.

Mr. Duke placed the fall board down and sat beside Eli on the bench. His large belly strained against the buttons of his shirt.

He rubbed his thick palms against the knees of his pants. Eli could smell him from where he sat, the stink of mold in his clothes.

Mr. Duke placed his hand on Eli's shoulder and the man's grip tightened.

I am starting a traveling musical act and I've been looking for a Negro to play the piano for me. Thirty dollars a week. Thirty dollars and your freedom.

Eli sat there stunned. His head was swimming and he had to brace himself against the bench to keep from falling over. Eli began to laugh, shaking his head and cupping his palms over his face.

Mr. Duke handed Eli a sheet of paper and showed him where he could put his mark. They shook hands and Mr. Duke counted out a hundred dollars in crisp new bills.

There's a town in Calhoun County by the Skuna River called Bruce. A colored woman by the name of Lucy Quinn runs a hotel out there. The Hotel Beau-Miel. You take this money, get yourself a nice suit and a meal, and meet me there in two weeks.

Eli folded the bills together and tucked them into his pants pocket.

In two weeks? What're you going to do till then?

He watched Mr. Duke slip the paper with Eli's name into his case, then secure the two brass latches over the lid. He hefted it up with one arm and started for the door.

With his free hand, he gestured to the burned-out walls of the church.

Why, Mr. Cutter, someone's got to find something for you to bang those magnificent hands on.