Southern Cross the Dog by Bill Cheng Read Free Book Online Page A

and full. A sightless eye. And beneath he could see its twin, smeared and milky on the water’s surface.
    He handed her the sachet in a yellow kerchief.
    Brew it up, he told her. And when the water gets a kind of clear yellow, drink it down. Every drop.
    She tucked the bundle into her pocket and started to go.
    He took her arm.
    I never done this before, he said. I don’t know what’s going to happen.
    She squeezed his hand and went on.

    FOR WEEKS, HE’D CRANE HIS neck out into the lane and look for the red checkcloth homespun and the basket of apples. But Emaline was nowhere to be found. Eli just kept on at his work and on payday, he’d beat the pine-top box , beat the sound from its cables, throw back his head and roar out for the world. He’d roll and sway and feel his troubles lift and lift until, like air, they weren’t hardly nothing at all. Nothing like the furious sound beneath his fingers.
    It’d been a wild payday. A few whores had come down into the camps that night, perfumed and big thighed. They fit easy into the crook of men’s arms, across their laps. The camp had gone through three barrels of whiskey that night, and there was some talk about a fourth, but everybody was already walking lopsided, with their words wet and running together. Eli stooped over the piano and the men would scoop their girls around the floor, testing their warm hands on those warmer bodies, the coins jangling in their pockets.
    But soon night passed into early morning, and one by one the crowd trickled out. There were only a few stragglers left, half asleep in their seats and Eli at the bench, numb except for his fingertips, which were bright and eager.
    Suddenly the door swung open and he turned to see Homer Teague filling the frame.
    The man looked different somehow. Brittle. Pale. From his color, Eli could tell the man had been drinking. He’d been done up proper in a waistcoat and hat as if he’d just come from a party. Quietly, he crossed the floor and took a seat by the piano, the same seat that his sister had taken.
    Eli became unnerved and stopped playing.
    Go on, Teague said. His voice was soft. Almost childlike.
    Eli didn’t move. It took only a moment for the room to empty. Soon they were alone—Teague and him. From the open door blew a bad wind. He could see the shadows twisting on the floor as the oil lamp squeaked on its hook.
    What’s the matter?
    Eli swallowed hard. He set his hands down on the keys, unsure of himself. His hands were two dead slabs on his arms.
    Play a blues, Teague said. That is what you do, isn’t it? Go ahead. Play.
    Eli turned back to his keys—his throat suddenly dry. The liquor was a weight behind his face. He knuckled his fingers and tried to rub the buzz out of the joints. His big hands floated up and rested over the ivory. The pedal clunked into its place.
    And then at once, his fingers fell through the keys. A chord exploded from the pinewood piano. Then another. A rush of sounds and rhythm. His hands jumped and scurried and bit. Black keys, white keys. Pounding hard and soft, in unison and apart. Eli could feel the wood cracking around him. The walls were shaking.
    A splinter burst from the body of the piano. Eli winced and grabbed his stinging cheek. He could feel the blood burning in his face. There was a blemish on the piano, a small dark patch he had not noticed before. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. It was a hole in the panel, small and clean where the bullet had just embedded itself. Eli turned. Teague’s hand was full of smoke.
    His eyes were red and pocketed, staring at the floor. More than anything, he looked exhausted. He slumped in his chair, breathing heavy. Teague let the weight drop from his hands. Slowly, Eli rose from the bench. He began to run.
    THE SHERIFF FOUND HIM HOLED up in an old farmhouse two miles from the camp. He was curled up inside the chicken coop, among the feathers and the shit, his hands bleeding