Southern Cross the Dog Read Online Free Page A

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?

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