Free Southern Cross the Dog by Bill Cheng Page B

like spokes on a combine harvester. There was no face, no voice—just a shade without shape or form.
    If he was quiet, he could almost hear the music in his blood.
    Duke would pull hard from the bottle, feel its heat in his chest and his face. He could fail. He recognized this. Life on the road had not been easy. He’d already spent the bulk of what his father left him on gas and hotel rooms and booze. And with every cent that passed from his purse there was Hiram’s ghost throwing reproachful glares. Five years had passed and nothing had come from this fool venture. He might never find Eli.
    And even if he did, what then?
    On the road, he would turn over their meeting in his mind. The more he thought on it, the less confident he became. He could not quite understand what it was that drew him toward Eli, toward a man he never met, toward a music he’d never heard.
    For Duke, Eli was an empty space, a hole that needed filling, and every story Duke had ever heard only helped in widening that hole. Elijah Cutter was a man defined by his own mystery. Everywhere Duke went, he would hear the nonsense accounts of backwater magic and hoodoo curses. He did not believe in a secret world of rewards and punishments. Only the competition of men’s wills.
    One day, he drove his car out to a camp meeting. He listened to the preacher give his sermon and at the end of the services, Duke walked out of the tent and into the evening full of disquiet. There was a soup line set up out in the field, and a fight had broken out between two men.
    He moved through the mob, pushing his way to the center. He saw the two battered bodies, one on top of the other. One of the men’s shirt was off and his lips were flecked with foamy spittle. He was beating the other’s head against the ground.
    Duke saw the man and he realized what it was he was after. Proof. Evidence that all a man was allotted in this world was what he could steal or scam or hard-bully.
    He would carve out his piece of this life, leave a mark that ran harsh and deep and jagged. He would loose this Elijah Cutter out into the world, have him sing and dance and fool. He would be rich, yes, but that was not his main concern.
    He wanted what was his.
    He learned in time that there was an Elijah P. Cutter doing time in Wayne County. Duke tracked him down to the prison farm, where he found a scarecrow of a man in a secondhand suit. Eli was shy, Duke remembered, as he drove him out into the field. Quiet and unsure of himself.
    But he set him down in front of the organ. He watched the man roll up his sleeves and unbutton his jacket. Eli rested his hands against the keys, his body bending forward as if magnetized. Duke heard the roaring chord and all at once, the man had become transformed. He watched the hands move, the sound erupting fast and full and driving.
    Duke smiled.
    He had done it at last.

    DUKE REACHED BENEATH HIS SEAT and nipped from the flask. He followed the canal, the engine humming in his ears. The shantytown spread across an acre of raw black earth along the water’s banks. He made his way down toward the sheet-iron houses and canvas canopies. The fire pits were still smoldering from the night before, and all through the camp, he could see braids of smoke washing skyward. Duke cut his engine and a group of hoboes swarmed around the car. They crushed against him as he climbed out, tugging on his sleeves and the hem of his coat. They were lice-ridden and filthy and he pushed past their open palms.
    When they saw he had no money to give, they dispersed back to their business.
    A small black boy was squatting in the dirt, busying himself with digging up the earth with his hands. The boy glanced up and Duke reached into his pocket. The boy’s face shifted. Duke made his way over and squatted down beside him. He showed the boy the crumpled bill.
    I’m looking for salvage, he said.
    The boy pointed down the lane and Duke slipped the dollar into the