Boss lays down in the pine straw again, snorts into it, so it flies up like feathers in front of his face. “He ready.”
I edge in the shade next to Randall, who is stabbing his stick into the clay earth, again and again. Big Henry plucks his shirt away from his front, airs it out. He grins at me. Skeetah stands in the sun, the only boy in the yellow clearing who braves the light with the dogs. He ignores us, looks past us off into the woods, still as China at his side, who ignores us and looks off as well, standing, never sitting. I wonder if he has trained her to do this, to stand at his side, to not dirty even her haunches with sitting so that they gleam. China is white as the sand that will become a pearl, Skeetah black as an oyster, but they stand as one before these boys who do not know what it means to love a dog the way that Skeetah does.
The boys meet in the middle of the circle, careful to keep their dogs at the edge; they hand their leashes to friends. They huddle to hammer the matches out.
“What the fuck you mean, you want Boss?”
“Yours is too big for mine.”
“He a puppy, but he scrappy.”
“She can take on any of them. She ain’t weak.”
“I say a two-fight limit.”
“I say three.”
“Who gives a fuck what you say?”
“I say two, too.”
“Sugar got at least two in her.”
“Homeboy got three.”
“Ojacc can fight every one of them and whip all they asses.”
A chorus of groans.
“Buddy Lee, too.”
“Truck’ll run all y’all over.”
“Do you see Slim? Do you understand what he’d do to Kilo?”
“Ain’t noboby for Kilo but Boss.”
“Wizard want in on Kilo.”
“I said Kilo ain’t here for nobody but Boss.”
“Y’all heard the man. Kilo ain’t here for nobody except Boss.”
In the middle of the dead circle, the boys snap like the air before a storm. Skeetah and China stand at the edge. The boys’ arguing rises to an angry buzz, and the air that had been still before swoops and tunnels through the clearing, raising dust, making the boys close their eyes. Maybe Daddy is right; maybe Katrina is coming for us. Big Henry covers his nose with his rag. Did Medea bless the heroes before they set out on their journey? Did she stand on the deck of that ship like I stand in this clearing, womanly ripe, and weave spells for rain to cloak their departure, to cloak her betrayal? Had Jason told her he loved her? Manny holds Kilo’s leash and stares at China. Skeetah and China do not move.
“Let’s go,” Marquise says.
Skeetah and China leave the circle, stand to the side of us, but a little away, a little closer, Skeet’s shirt darkening wetly at the neck, down the middle of his back, China still except for her ears, which flick away gnats trying to land.
Skeetah fought China as soon as he figured she was full grown, at a year. There was always a clear winner to those fights with dogs owned by boys in Bois Sauvage, in St. Catherine. She has fought every one of these dogs. Except for two of her beginning fights, where China fought but still bled more than the other dog and had part of her ear sliced, she won by bearing down on the other dog, by grabbing his throat with her teeth, her face a fist. The other dog would yelp, and Skeet would call her off, and that is how everyone would know that China had won.
Now, no dogs sniff China. No dogs lope over to her and playfully snap, mouth her face or shoulder. She and Skeet stand apart, and when the first fight begins between the first two dogs, they are the only two that stand still. The fight is quick, messy. The dogs meet in the middle and tumble around the side of the pond bed, kicking up dirt and golden grass and sticks and blood. They twist and snarl and whine. The gray shrieks first, but it is the brown- and-white that falls, pulls away, wanting out of the harsh light, the burning bowl, the searing puffs of wind, the nail, the jerk, the tooth. The boys grab the dogs by the hind legs, pull them away from each other, cuss, let them go again. Junior is bouncing from foot to foot on his toes behind Big Henry, who wipes at his neck even though he is wiping so often there is no time for sweat to gather, to glaze. Randall, who had been flipping the stick over and over like a band major, has stopped, and he stares at the fight and holds the stick like a club. The gray is pulled away, yelping, while the brown-and-white one still strains against his boy’s hands. Skeetah pets the watching China once, just a touch to the head, and she licks his finger. She never pulls away.
“Ojacc got him,” the gray’s boy says, admitting defeat. The brown-and-white’s boy smiles, rubs his dog’s head.
Marquise’s dog, Lala, hops like a rabbit into the bowl, her gold bars flashing, and barks toward the brown- and-white dog as if she wants to congratulate him. Ojacc is still eager. He twists like a question mark, yanks one leg from his boy’s hand, and bites. Lala skids to a stop, but the brown-and-white still sinks his teeth into her leg like a stapler. His boy pulls, and Marquise yanks Lala’s leash with both hands. The brown-and-white lets go, growling.
“Hold!” his boy yells.
“Son of a bitch!” Marquise screams, and Lala limps to him, yelping. He kneels over her and she melts into him, true to her butter color. The dogs bark and rise up on their hind legs, pulling at their leashes, and the boys strain against them. China shifts on her feet and her breasts sway. Skeetah shakes his head, spits. The boys curl the leashes around their wrists, weave them up their arms. The dogs choke themselves to a standstill, laying their chins on their paws on the straw and grass. Marquise’s dog will not stop whimpering, and when he puts his hand over her lips, slob runs through. After the next fight, Marquise lets her go and she sits with her back to his legs, facing the woods, and bows her head. Junior runs over to her, pets her head. By the time all the dogs but Kilo and Boss have fought, Lala is sitting with her bottom in Marquise’s little brother’s lap, her head on Junior’s thigh, and she is licking his leg.
Rico and Kilo walk into the bowl. The other dogs and boys are breathing hard, bloody, wearing sweaty coats. Rico smiles as Kilo grins, stocky but tall where his master is short; his coat is red as the dirt under the pine needles, clean and dry as that. Rico winds the leash around his fist, winds Kilo in, pats him along the rough length of his side, looks up, and says, “We ready?”
Jerome leaves us. Boss waddles next to him. They stop a few feet away from Kilo and Rico. Boss flings his head up twice at Jerome, tapping the leash with his forehead, smiling, and Jerome squats next to him, slowly, whispering in his ear. Across the circle, Rico mouths something in Kilo’s ear, but the wind blows again, and a cloud covers the sun, and their voices are lost in the whispering shuffle of the trees around us. And then the wind lags and catches again, and the cloud moves, and the clearing is a bright ball, and Jerome hollers “Ready!” and unhooks the leash from Boss as Rico backs away from Kilo. Boss and Kilo aren’t tethered to anything or anyone and they are rolling across the bowl, furious at the other who stands in their eyesight, who has not lowered tail or head.
“Get him, son!” Jerome yells. He claps in exclamation marks, over and over. “Get him!”
They meet at the middle. They rise up on their hind legs at the same time, front legs meeting shoulder to shoulder like they are dancing. Boss’s head, dull black, whips around first. His is the first bite. Kilo rears back and twists away. He snaps as he falls and sinks his teeth into Boss’s neck.
“Shake him! Shake him!” Rico yells, leaning so far over that he looks like he is going to fall facedown in the circle.
Kilo ignores him. Kilo bites and lets go, snaps and bites again. His teeth flash white, flash red, flash again.
“Grab him, boy!” Rico yells.
Boss does not want to be grabbed. His head is a knife, and he cuts a leaking gash on Kilo’s shoulder. He sets Kilo to running red. He is slower than Kilo. But he is strong.
“Come on, son!” Jerome yells.
They both fall, separate. Kilo jumps up before Boss, growls, rushes back in. Boss lumbers to his feet and meets Kilo. They are teeth to teeth. They chew at each other’s face, kissing. They growl into each other’s throats.
“Come on, son!” Jerome yells.
