Southern Cross the Dog Read Online Free PDF Page A

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