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

from climbing wire. He turned his head away from the sheriff’s light and moaned softly. The sheriff stood over him, calm and sad.
    Come on, son, he said as he helped him up. You got a few things to answer for.
    He felt the man’s touch on his shoulders, and a wave of grief rose into his throat. He stepped out into the field. It was low flat tract, without grass or trees or shrubs. A place where nothing grows and the earth has no memory, and the thought came to him that all that is borrowed must one day be repaid.

T he boy let in the just-rained air, cool and dewed, and stuck his head out the window. Overhead, the sky was swollen. The cottonwoods were in full bloom, their catkins fat and set to bust. From the third-story window he could make out the road that led out to Bruce proper, toward the Skuna River, and beyond it the railway station. He raised the window higher to give himself room, then he climbed backward out onto the ledge. He’d grown four inches in the last year and now he felt the pinch behind his knees as he anchored his large hands against the wall and slipped his weight outward. The roof edge was slick with rain. His fingers hooked and locked into the grooves. He let his body dip out, his full weight pulling against his fingers hard and sudden. For a moment he hung, groundless, outside the Hotel Beau-Miel, before hoisting himself onto the roof.
    Farther into Bruce, he could see rows of houses, the movie theater, the restaurant, the market. A car cornered onto the main stretch. From where he stood, it looked like a large beetle smashing through the puddles.
    He went low onto his belly, watching it from over the shingles. The car skidded and came to a halt in front of the hotel. He waited, watching it idle.
    A door opened.
    At first all Robert could see of the new girl was her green slicker. It floated beside the car, climbing out beneath Miss Lucy’s waiting umbrella. The car started up suddenly, and the girl slipped into a mud puddle.
    Miss Lucy picked the girl up and hurried her into the house.
    When he was sure they’d gone in, Robert made his way back to the edge of the roof. He peered down at the three-story drop and lowered himself down, feeling for the sill with his toes. He went inside, closing the window behind him. He tidied the room, tucking the sheet firm under the mattress and fluffing the pillows. This was to be the new girl’s room, and Miss Lucy had instructed him to be thorough. He gave the place a once-over, then entered into the hall.
    Robert!
    Miss Lucy was still in her traveling clothes. A powder-blue floral-print dress and a string of pearls. She had let her hair down and the gray had started to show, striping faint over her left ear. She held out the green slicker and a yellow dress splattered with mud.
    Put this in with the day’s wash.
    Yes’m.
    Robert took the bundle from her. He turned to go but Miss Lucy stopped him. She looked him up and down, and he realized then that the front of his coveralls was wet.
    What I tell you about staying off my roof?
    Sorry, Miss Lucy.
    People don’t come here to get spied on.
    No, Miss Lucy.
    You’ll break your fool neck one day.
    Yes, Miss Lucy. Sorry, Miss Lucy.
    Miss Lucy shook her head.
    You’re dripping on my floor, she said, waving him away.
    THE HOTEL BEAU-MIEL WAS MISS Lucy’s baby. She scrounged and saved for thirteen years selling her fish, secreting a dime on every dollar of her earnings for the place. There were rooms, and beds, and a desk out front, and a book for folks to put their names. John Smith. John Doe. John Jones. And the women took the men’s coats and their hats and their hands and showed them up to their room, their mattress, their spread and pillow. They’d show them how the curtains slid shut on the rollers, show them how to lock the door, how to lay their shirts and pants, so neat so clean, on the chair backs to keep from wrinkling. They’d show them and then