Salvage the Bones - Jesmyn Ward [43]
Skeetah pours a palmful of the bacon grease into the bowl and then squirts in the Ivomec. He mixes it with his finger. Even though we are in the shade, the heat is worse in the shed, like the inside of a hot fist. Junior and Skeetah are both glazed with sweat, and Skeetah blinks like he’s about to cry because the sweat runs like water from his scalp to his forehead into his eyes. I am trying to see whether the Ivomec is mixing well in the bowl when there is an eclipse of light in the doorway and Skeetah looks up and past me, pissed.
“Move out the way of the door. You blocking all the light.”
It’s Manny. Both of his hands are on the top of the doorsill, and he leans into the door, stretching his body like taffy. All I can see is the shadow of him and the white of his smile. It feels wrong to not be able to see his face, seems wrong that he is as dark as me now, that he would be washed dark by the sun behind him like ink set to bleeding over waterlogged paper.
“Anybody seen my lighter?” Manny’s voice is as distinct and sharp as the corners of the toolbox Skeet sits on.
“No.” Skeetah is stirring the medicine with his finger. “Move.”
“You, Esch?”
I shake my head.
“You put it in your pocket,” Junior says, and Manny leans on the doorjamb, fishes in his pockets. Light diffuses through the room. I see Manny’s profile, his glass-burned side, and then he stops fumbling and turns to us and his face is dark again. I want him to grip my hand like he grips the dark beams over his head, to walk with me out of the shed and away from the Pit. To help me bear the sun. To hold me once he learns my secret. To be different.
“I didn’t see you over there, Junior,” Manny says.
“Thank you,” Skeet says. The oil has absorbed all of the Ivomec. The mix is off-white, creamy. Skeetah tastes it.
“You shouldn’t do that,” shadow Manny says.
“Don’t you have somewhere to go?”
“I’m just trying to help you out.”
“You could help me out by moving out of my light—in or out.”
“I’m out.” Manny shrugs. “I’m going to look up under the trees. Ain’t no way I’m coming in; China don’t like me.” China is sitting before Skeetah, ignoring how close I am to him, intent on the bowl with the bacon grease in it. She is panting, her tongue dripping water.
“China likes everybody.” Skeet is sucking the mixture back up into the syringe.
“Okay.” Manny laughs. His smile again. Each time I see his teeth, nausea elbows me. Manny steps away and the light floods in and I want him to leave, to come back, to never have been. China is dancing on her hind legs because Skeetah is standing, the syringe in his hand.
“Here.”
I press the bowl to my stomach.
China is hopping on her hind legs. What tore through the gray dog yesterday is now a woman approaching her partner on the floor of the Oaks, the first lick of the blues guitar sounding from the jukebox, a drink in her hand. China lands on her front paws and pushes back up. Skeet crouches, places one arm around the back of her neck, twining his hand around her jaw, tilting her head up.
“That’s my girl,” he says.
China grins. Her tongue flashes out like a wet, whipped rag.
“I know my girl,” Skeetah breathes. With his other hand, he tilts the syringe to her lips.
China barks, nods. Her front legs rest on his chest like a lover’s. She flings her head back in submission, supplication.
“Good bitch,” Skeetah says.
China nuzzles the syringe, licks.
“That’s my bitch.” Skeetah closes his fingers, the medicine disappears, and he withdraws. The puppies twitch and nuzzle at their feet. China accidentally steps on the orange one, and it yelps.
“Always my bitch,” Skeetah says.
Outside, Manny is pacing the yard, running his feet