The Grave of God's Daughter (27 page)

“You turn that back in for your money. When you win, that is,” Mr. Beresik explained. He glanced at my newly bandaged hands. “Not a bad job. You rewrap those yourself?”

“No, my brother did it for me,” I told him, then I realized I shouldn’t have.

“You should bring him next time.”

“Next in line,” Vic shouted.

“I got to get back to the pens and get Sally into the pit,” Mr. Beresik said. “I’ll see you out here in a minute.”

“Good luck,” I called after him.

“Remember what I told you about luck,” he chided as he slid into the crowd.

When I returned to my spot, the heavy man had a scrap of paper of his own and was massaging it between his thick fingers.

“Who’d you take on this one?”

“Number Seven,” I told him.

The heavy man scoffed. “You crazy, boy? That old Sally couldn’t lick a house cat. Walt’s been running her so long everybody knows not to lay money on her. See all these men holding tickets?” Most of the men around the ring held their betting scraps in their hands. “Don’t none of them have money on Seven. It’s all on Forty-one. Beresik knows he’s gonna get cleaned out on this
match. Have to pay up for all these guys. I’d like to see that stack of money.” The heavy man shook his head, marveling at the vision. “You got a sucker’s bet there, boy.”

I didn’t understand. Had Mr. Beresik tricked me? I gripped the scrap of paper as the door to the pit swung open.

Sally strode out into the center of the empty ring, unhurried, with Mr. Beresik holding her leash. Men along the railing booed. The heavy man folded his arms. “She’s done this so many times she looks plain bored of it.”

Out came Szymkewicz with Forty-one straining at the leash. Both men grasped their dogs by the jowls and unhitched the leashes. Vic held up the numbers for Mr. Beresik, then rang the bell. My heart leaped as Forty-one bounded out at a full sprint and hurled itself into the air at Sally. But Sally countered. She was already up on her hind legs, anticipating the move. She bashed Forty-one in the face with her head, grazing its nose with her teeth.

Forty-one backpedaled momentarily and the men hissed in disappointment. Sally was forcing Forty-one toward the pen door, twisting and biting at its haunches. Mr. Beresik and Szymkewicz positioned themselves in opposite corners of the pit to wait out the fight. Szymkewicz chewed his bottom lip intently as he monitored the match with hands on hips. Even at that distance I could see that his eyetooth was cracked and broken in half.

“Just look at him,” the heavy man said.

“Who?”

“The guy with Forty-one. Runs his dogs at any match that’ll have him. But not many will. Don’t know why Walt still lets him come. Gets the bets up, so it’s good for business, I s’pose.”

“I heard he beats his dogs.”

“That and more,” the heavy man retorted. “That and more. But a winner’s a winner.” He held up his scrap of paper as if it were a gold coin, then he began to cheer. “Go on, Forty-one,” the heavy man hollered. “Go on and kill that bitch.”

The dogs were locked in battle, heads swiveling back and forth in fluid bursts. Then Forty-one lunged, catching the bottom end of Sally’s front leg in its jaws. Forty-one shook its head ferociously, ripping the thin flesh that covered the bone. My stomach lurched. I didn’t want to look but couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Sally writhed yet was unable to free herself from Forty-one’s grip. Blood was streaming from the wound and as they scrambled around each other, the dogs kicked up more blood, flinging spurts onto each other’s coats. The man with the tobacco spit at Sally, sending a trickle of tobacco juice onto her head.

“Bastard,” I shouted, surprising myself as well as the heavy man. However, the curse simply melted in with the rest of the cheers. “He spit on her,” I said.

“Don’t bother me if it’s not my dog,” the heavy man replied.

Forty-one pulled hard on Sally’s leg, dragging her across the ring and gnawing at the bone, unwilling to let go. Sally continued to nip at its face and haunches, anywhere she could get in a blow, but she was slowing, losing steam.

“Bet that leg’s broken,” somebody behind me said. “Bitch’s done for.”

Mr. Beresik folded his arms tightly. His lips were moving as though he was praying, then I realized he was talking to Sally, spurring her on. Forty-one momentarily released its jaws from
Sally’s leg and Sally tried to step back but stumbled. The leg was indeed broken.

She faltered and got to her feet just as Forty-one reared high, driving its teeth into her face and forcing her to the ground.

“No,” I shouted.

The men began roaring and waving their scraps of paper and pushing in tighter around the railing. The heavy man bounced on his crate. Szymkewicz pinched his bottom lip between his fingers, his shoulders tense and high, scrutinizing his dog’s every move. Forty-one dug its teeth under Sally’s chin, trying to get to her neck.

Mr. Beresik was mouthing words to Sally, willing her to get up. Blood began to flow from under Sally’s jaw, streaming down her chest.

“Go, damn it. Go!” the heavy man cheered. “Kill her. Kill her.”

Forty-one bore down on Sally, snapping at her in a ferocious rhythm. Sally bobbed her head, trying to fend off the dog. With a sudden strike, Forty-one got hold of Sally’s neck. Blood poured from the wound. The men cheered louder. Sally blinked, long and slow, tired and perhaps dizzy from blood loss. I clutched the scrap of paper in my hand, balling it into my fist in spite of the pain of the blisters.

Forty-one was lurching back and forth violently, then Sally tilted her chin, as if to give the other dog full access to her neck. But when Forty-one went in, she opened her massive jaws wide and caught the side of the dog’s head between her teeth.

An almost human wail went up and the men looked around, wondering if it had been one of them. It was Forty-one. Sally had driven her top teeth into the other dog’s eye, blinding it. Her bot
tom teeth snared Forty-one’s mouth, sealing it. Sally got to her feet, holding her broken leg up limply and balancing on three feet. Then with stunning speed, she threw Forty-one to the ground, hammering the dog against the pit floor.

The men went quiet as Sally began to shake the dog relentlessly, gashing its snout and biting off the end of its tongue. The heavy man cringed. Szymkewicz pinched his own lip brutally. Mr. Beresik was frozen, eyes riveted on his dog. Forty-one tried to free itself from Sally’s grip, but couldn’t and was left lying there at Sally’s mercy, of which there was none.

She shook and shook and shook, blood flailing from the wound on her neck as Forty-one whimpered and let out a gurgling yowl. Then a nerve-jangling crack resounded in the pit. Forty-one went limp. Sally had broken the dog’s neck.

The crowd of men began to jeer and curse, ripping their scraps of paper into shreds and throwing them into the ring at the dogs. Szymkewicz stared down at his dog’s body, seething. Sally wouldn’t let go of its neck.

“You won, kid,” the heavy man sneered as he wadded up his scrap of paper and tossed it into the pit.

Mr. Beresik gave a sharp whistle and Sally dropped the dog instantly, then her legs gave out and she fell to the ground. Mr. Beresik rushed to her side and picked her up in his arms. I slipped under the railing and jumped into the pit with him.

“Kid. Don’t,” the heavy man called out.

Mr. Beresik held Sally in his arms as her head lolled. He was about to yell at me for getting in the ring, but gestured for me to open the pen door instead. I followed him into the pen room. The ceiling was so low he had to hunch over. Tiny wooden pens with
iron gates lined both walls. A handful of dogs waited, one to a pen, barking viciously at the smell of Sally’s blood.

Mr. Beresik laid Sally on the ground. Her blood had seeped into his shirt, causing it to hang off him, wet and loose. I knelt at his side.

“I’ll get the cigar box. I’ll get it and you can bandage her up, right?”

“No,” Mr. Beresik answered. “Not this time.”

Sally’s chest heaved and more blood poured from the gaping wound on her neck. The cut on her leg was so deep that the bone showed through, a glint of white beneath the torn fur. Mr. Beresik tenderly inspected the gash on Sally’s neck and a torrent of blood flowed from it.

In anguish, he whispered, “Jesus.”

“No,” I yelled. “Fix her. Get the bandages. You can fix her.”

“You’re a good girl,” Mr. Beresik hummed, stroking Sally’s back. “You’re a good girl.”

Sally blinked at the barking of the other dogs, instinct prevailing even as she lay dying, then her eyes fell on me.

Don’t die, Sally. Don’t die. Not for me.

“Fix her,” I shouted, pushing Mr. Beresik’s arm. He continued to hum to her, saying she was a good girl as her eyes rolled closed.

“Fix her,” I demanded, shouting over the barking of the other pit bulls. I was beating on him with both fists. My bandages were soaking up the blood from his shirt and turning red in my hands.

Mr. Beresik pushed me away from him and I went sprawling on my back, dust rising around me. He hadn’t intended to push me that hard, but he had, hard enough to knock the cap from my
head. A long lock of my hair fell onto my shoulders. Mr. Beresik stared for a long moment, then he squinted, pushing back tears.

“Get your money and get out of here,” he said.

I got to my feet and pushed my hair back under my cap. “I’m sorry,” I said. I was sorry for everything, more than I could even imagine.

He didn’t reply, only kept stroking Sally. I rushed out of the pen and back into the ring, where Szymkewicz was picking up his dog. He’d rolled the body in a long sheet of paper like the butcher’s paper Mr. Goceljak used, then hefted the dog into his arms and pushed past me into the pens. I was alone in the pit, staring up at the room full of men, all swilling beers and arguing bitterly over the match.

One man called out to me. “Ey, boy, get out of there. Next match is about to go.”

Soon other men were yelling at me as well.

“Can’t stay down there forever,” the heavy man said, holding out his hand to me from ringside.

I climbed up out of the pit, my clothes stained with patches of blood.

“Better get your money,” the heavy man warned. I uncurled my fist and found the bet sheet netted in the web of the bandage, the one spot that was unsoiled.

Men stared as I wove through the crowd. They wouldn’t move aside to let me pass, so I had to push by them to get to Vic’s table. He glanced up at me from under the brim of his hat.

“That’ll be fifteen and change. You want it in ones?”

“I don’t know. Whatever.”

He crisply shucked off fifteen single bills and a few dimes, then piled them in front of me.

“I’d leave if I were you, boy. Too many men here that’d take that money from you in a heartbeat.”

I shoved the money into the pocket of the trousers. Vic watched me do it, as did the other men behind me. The odor of spilled beer and cigarette smoke had thickened and become ominously dense. I ran for the stairs, bumping into men as I went, then took the steps two at a time. I flew from the house at a full run, dodging the men lingering in the kitchen, and out onto the porch.

There were even more cars than before. The pack had grown, stretching out onto the road and boxing in the house. Martin was nowhere to be seen.

“Martin,” I shouted. I couldn’t hold back any longer. Tears began to boil over. “Martin.”

“I’m here. Over here.”

From behind the hulking tail of a black pickup, his face appeared, just the eyes at first, cautious, then his whole face.

I tore off the porch, grabbed Martin’s hand, and started sprinting. “Run, Marty. We’ve got to run.”

Frightened, he did as I said, but dropped the lunch tin and scrambled to retrieve it. He kept up for a while, far enough that Mr. Beresik’s property was long behind us, then he slowed, exhausted.

“I can’t,” he panted. “I can’t run anymore.” He bent over to catch his breath. “Why are we running?”

I slowed a few steps ahead of him. “We’ve got to get back,” I lied. “We’ve been gone too long.”

“You’re crying,” Martin said, approaching. He studied my face inquisitively. Tears had taken on a whole new meaning for him. “Why? Because you saw the dogs fighting?”

“How did you know that?”

“I heard some men talking when they got out of their car. It was a blue car. Not as nice as some of the others. They said they were going to bet on the dogfight.” Martin was proud of what he’d discovered. “Did you see it?” I nodded. “And it was sad?” I nodded again. “Very sad?”

“Yes, Martin. Very sad.”

“And that’s why you’re crying?”

I was crying for too many reasons to count, so many I’d lost track. “Yes,” I replied. “That’s why I’m crying.”

Martin handed me my mittens back. He saw the blood on the bandages and was about to ask about it, but stopped himself, a small gesture of kindness. I put the mittens on, but couldn’t feel them. The cold had gone too deep and nothing would ever be enough to warm me up, not for a long time.

M
Y BROTHER PUT HIS HAND
in my coat pocket as we walked back to Hyde Bend. The sun shone but the wind blew on, gusting against our shoulders, pushing us to return and to not look back.

Saturday Mass had let out and Field Street was full and humming.

“I’ve got to return the clothes,” I said.

Martin stood behind the butcher’s shop, outside by the bicycle, holding the handlebars and maneuvering the front wheel over the dirt.

“Do you promise to stay out here?”

“Promise. And swear to God,” he moaned, more interested in the bicycle.

Mr. Goceljak was helping customers up front. He didn’t hear me come in the back door and I was thankful for that. I didn’t want to tell him what had happened. I took the wad of money from the pocket of the pants. The bills were wilted, thin and wrinkled, as if they’d been through a thousand hands. It was more money than I’d ever seen, but it couldn’t compare to the weight of the quarters the first time Mr. Goceljak had set them in my hand. This money felt like nothing.

I folded the bills into my skirt. They were so light I had to pat my pocket again and again to reassure myself that they were still there. I pulled off the pants and cap and hung them on the peg as usual. The pants seemed so limp, the rope flimsy, the cap hollow.