Yellow Dog Coming

By Bill Moore

In the small logging town of Lesker, Anne Pratt is raising her only grandchild, 17-year-old Evan, orphaned by a terrorist attack in Bali. It's a dry summer, the forest fire season is coming early, and people already on edge are edgier.

Another boy, marked more directly by violence, heads towards Lesker, burning like sulphuric acid through every life he touches, changing names has he change his towns.

The meeting of the two boys is volatile, as each finds his own missing piece in the other. As the tension builds between them, moving them towards inevitable violence, other people are drawn in, triggering demonic cruelty, unconditional love, unimaginable loss, and absolute courage.

"Love wins. Don't you dare lose," Anne calls to Evan as he fights for his life. But victory, like love, is never simple.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: May 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456626594

Book preview

Ballad)

Part One

Flies

Prologue

The Trailer

The grass in the clearing is brittle at the end of the long dry season. The voice of the slow death of summer, the metallic chorus of grasshoppers fills the late afternoon. Tiny blue butterflies ride the heat beating above the ground like confetti.

The door is open and the trailer reverberates with the thrum of flies. It consists of only one room. A table lies on its side. Leaning against it is a pizza box, uneaten slices scattered around it, crawling with flies. Beer bottles lie on their sides, and flies cluster on the spilled beer. A folding bed stands against one wall. Bloody ropes hang from its legs. The bare mattress is soaked. Dried smears and spatters are of less interest to the flies than the pools that lie clotting, sticky and dark in the depressions.

The wall above the mattress bears bloody handprints. The wall and window above are swathed with spatter. To the left of the window is a dark sticky mess of particular interest to the flies. It consists of a great deal of blood, shredded tissue, and chips of bone. On the floor in front of the bed more blood is pooled.

Passing through the blood that smears and spatters the window, the light is occluded and reddened. In one corner of the window is a spider web. Some of its strands are ruined with clotted blood. Enough remain. Caught in the bloody web several flies, drunk on blood, struggle mechanically. At the centre of her web the spider watches them patiently, the bloody light reflecting from her faceted eyes.

June 4

8 pm

Stefan’s Head

He fell asleep in the car. Quickly the dream came back. He had the jackknife, with the blade closed, and was wrapping it round and round with duct tape, covering the handle which he knew without looking would be made of antler, carved with the head of a dog.

End of the line. End of the line. Looking up from the knife he saw the bus driver leaning around, calling out. His face was oval, terrible, a mannequin’s face with eyes like silver mirrors. End of the line.

End of the line, buddy.

He opened his eyes. Yeah, he said, trying to organize what he saw. Right. A car. The driver was a young guy with scraggy black hair down to his shoulders, a ring in his ear. We’re here, dude. Man, you were some sleepy.

Yeah. Thanks. Opening the door he stepped out, and wrestled his pack out of the car. Hang loose, eh?

It was raining. It was getting dark. His bladder was urgent. He rotated on the spot slowly, playing the game. Shelter roulette, he called it, spinning himself. Spin the bottle, he thought. Spin the knife. A woman’s voice, a knife spinning on the table. Dickery dee, who’ll it be? He spun, then stopped, pointing with his eyes. Very good. Bistro Genevois. Taking a black felt pen out of his pocket, he wrote Robbie on the back of his left hand.

He crossed the road. He had the ten dollars in his pocket the guy in the car had given him when he told him he had no money. Lights were coming on, bleary in the rainy twilight. He stepped into the bistro. One whole wall was painted with mountains and scenery. There were hanging plants, little round tables with checkered tablecloths. He stood inside the door, wiping rain out of his eyes, orienting himself. A waitress was filling salt shakers, putting packets of sugar on the tables. She looked up at him. She was skinny, wearing a black uniform with a frilly apron and collar. She moved efficiently, crisply, had a pointy face, thin lips, a triangular foxy smile, nice teeth, a hairy upper lip. Maybe thirty or so, he thought.

You’re closing, right?

Soon. Come in, it’s not too late. She nodded at a table sitting in the window. Best table in the house. Sit down. She had some kind of accent. German, maybe.

He pulled off his already wet jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, set his pack on the other chair. She came over. She had a sharp doggy smell, not on the nose radar, but there if you looked for it. This is the right one, he thought.

What can I get for you?

I’d like a coffee. I’m broke. And I really could use a bathroom.

You have no money. You want a coffee and a bathroom. She smiled, and he watched her mouth with his mouth.

Yep.

All right. Can I bring you a croissant? They’ll just go stale by the morning.

No problem. Where’s the bathroom? This is urgent. He pressed his legs together.

She laughed and pointed to the right of the counter. He manoeuvred his way past a little table with plants, another little table with a stiff white cloth and a plaster model of some mountain with miniature scenery, houses, whatever. It shook as he passed it and some of the scenery fell over.

The bathroom was extremely small and extremely clean. More scenery. Pictures of people in folk costumes. He pissed for a long time, sighing, thinking about the waitress.

When he came back a cup of coffee and a croissant were on the table. He sat, and she returned. She watched him put four sachets of sugar in his coffee. They began to talk. The owner had left early, she said. Gone to take his cat to the vet. He was her cousin. She was closing for him.

So go ahead and close, he said. She locked the door, returned and watched him butter his croissant. He watched her watching him. He felt loneliness coming off her body like a scent. You want to sit? he asked.

She hesitated.

He raised his head, tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes, shaggy and cute, he thought. Live free, die young. Sit down.

She seemed to make a decision, sat down.

So where are you from, Mister Give-me-a-coffee-please-I-have no-money?

Seattle. The croissant was very good. She had brought a little tub of jam. This is very good.

I know. I make them myself. And do you have a name?

You can call me Robbie.

That’s very generous. What do other people call you?

Different things. What can I call you?

Anna Maria.

Are you German? You say ‘r’ like a German.

No, thank God. I’m Swiss. Bistro Genevois. Geneva is in Switzerland.

Can you yodel?

Sometimes.

He watched her, ate his croissant. Can I have another one? He looked at her, saw shelter, nurture, food. He ran through some programs quickly, and as quickly forgot that he had.

Hungry boy. She got up, went back to the kitchen, brought two more croissants and a piece of cheese with holes in it. I have to work. You eat.

She bustled around, finished setting up the tables, went back into the kitchen. As she worked she whistled. She went to the cash, opened the till. He watched her empty it into a heavy blue bag, which she then put in her shoulder bag. She came back to the table. All done, she said.

So am I, he said. I guess you’re going now.

That’s right.

Can I come with you?

Of course.

They rode a streetcar. The city was dark now, wet and shiny. Cars each carried their small private world. The street had old three-storey apartment buildings, stores that looked like they had died but didn’t quite know it yet. They didn’t talk.

Here, she said, standing. They stepped off the streetcar, walked through the rain. He stopped, spread his arms, threw his head back. He began to dance.

Rain dance, he said.

Rain dances are for making it rain.

I know. Why do you think it’s raining?

She laughed. You’re crazy.

You have no idea.

They entered one of the old apartment buildings. He didn’t like the smell. Forget it. Forget it.

Her apartment was in the basement. It was steam radiator hot and dry and smelled of dead flowers. It wasn’t really an apartment. It had a bed at one end, with a cover that looked like a tablecloth. To the right of the bed on a small table was a television. On one wall, under the window which looked out at pavement and the wheels of cars, was a table and two chairs, and a small stove and refrigerator, a sink, a small counter. On the other side of the room there was a plastic-covered armchair, and a small bookcase with a photo on the top shelf. He sat on the armchair, took off his boots, set down his pack. She moved quickly around, turning on lamps, lighting a candle, putting the money from the till in a drawer beside the sink.

From her little refrigerator she took a bottle of beer. Handing it to him she sat down on the bed.

Tell me about yourself, Mr. Robbie.

Thanks, he said, for the beer. No. You tell me. He nodded at the photograph that sat on the bookcase. Who’s the boy?

That’s my son, Stefan. He’s twelve now. He lives in Switzerland with my father and mother.

Why isn’t he with you? That’s terrible.

She told him the story. Pregnant, the father was just a boy home from university for the summer. She was a waitress, he had lovely eyes, they made a baby and he ran away. Her parents were old-fashioned. It was a disgrace. She had her baby and went to Canada to work in the restaurant of her father’s brother. She sent money home for Stefan. One day she would bring him over to Canada. She was saving money for this.

Why do I tell you all this? You’re just a blond-haired boy who wandered in out of the rain with no money, asking for free coffee. I think you look like my son.

He reached for the picture. People always tell me things, he said. May I?

She hesitated. He withdrew his hand.

Yes. It’s okay.

Nice-looking boy. You think I look like him?

The boy was looking steadily, unsmiling, at whoever held the camera. He was wearing some kind of school uniform. He looked from the picture to Anna Maria. He doesn’t look like you, eh?

Not much, she smiled. Lucky for him. He looks like his father.

So that means I look like his father too?

Yes.

He held the picture. Touched the boy with his finger. Stefan.

Put it away, she said. Come over here.

He was a burrowing animal scrambling for cover as something screamed in the sky. The song ran through him, Little sister the sky is falling, I don’t mind, I don’t mind. He burrowed into her with his mouth, drove in with his hips, driving for cover. He knew the buttons and blindly pushed them. She opened and opened. He thought of some larva with teeth burrowing into meat, gamey, rich, dark. She screamed, fingers locked in his hair, and he let go into the dark. The world went out, and came back.

My God, she said, lying back on the bed.

He looked down at her, sitting cross-legged. Her hair was tangled and sweaty. Her mouth was bruised, her lower lip bleeding a little. He touched it with his finger. I hurt you.

It takes two, she smiled. I don’t know how I’ll explain it, though.

Her body was like a husk, he thought. He felt easy, replete. He lay down again, but not touching her.

My mom gave me up for adoption when I was born, he said. "She was just a kid. Her name was Rose. Is Rose. It didn’t go so well. It was a young couple that adopted me. They didn’t stay together. I went with her. My stepfather . . . he turned his head, looked at her. Sorry."

No. It’s okay. Tell me.

They had a kid of their own. Gavin. Gavin couldn’t do anything wrong. My stepdad had big issues. He was sure I was abusing Gavin when he was little. It got pretty bad. Hank, my stepdad, used to beat me . . . he’d make me take his belt off and then make me take my pants off, then he’d beat me. Said I was twisted and evil.

My God.

Yeah. Your God. He’s sure not mine. It got worse. You don’t need to know.

She reached out, touched his hair. He pulled his head away. Sorry. Sorry.

No. I’m sorry.

Hey. It’s a long time ago. I’m hungry. Are you? He rose, naked, walked towards the little refrigerator. What can I get for us?

Directed by her he found eggs, bread, butter. Naked, he pottered around the kitchen. The Naked Chef, he said. Live from our studio in New York.

They ate fried egg sandwiches, drank milk.

I have to open the bistro in the morning, she said. I better go to sleep. You can sleep here, you know.

I know, he said.

I have to set my alarm for five-thirty, but you don’t have to get up then. Just come to the restaurant when you wake up and I’ll give you breakfast, Mister I-have-no-money-can-I-have-a-cup-of-coffee.

She snored slightly. He lay in the dark, listening. He heard the big wheel turning in the dark, knew he had no choice. He got up, dressed silently, did what he had to do, and left.

It was no longer raining, and there were very few cars. He started to walk.

Anna Maria woke just before the alarm. She felt warm pressure against her side, and remembered Robbie. She lay for a few minutes in sleepy contentment and then turned. There was no one there. A pillow had been wedged against her, creating the illusion of company in the bed. Robbie was gone. She sat up. Sad. Empty. Ashamed. Picking up strays and bringing them home. Her father was right. She was a whore.

Heavily, she stood, then walked to the bathroom. On the way she looked at the picture of Stefan, as she always did, looking for the one good thing, the reason for all this. Something was wrong with the picture. Something horrible.

Oh Jesus. Her legs almost gave way under her. Oh sweet Jesus.

The glass had been removed from in front of the picture. Stefan’s head, severely brushed blond hair, serious eyes, was gone. He had excised her son’s identity with surgical accuracy. A terrible thought came to her and she opened the drawer under the counter. The wallet holding the restaurant cash was gone. She sat on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands, empty, empty. But not empty, she thought. Not empty. He was inside her now, and would be forever.

June 5

5 am

Kokanee

("ko’-kah-nee: landlocked sockeye salmon")

The Brock glacier hangs over the lake like a dome of ice. The K’shaha called it The White Head. In the spring it feeds the web of moving water that skeins the sides of the mountains. In the winter, shrunken though it is compared to its mass when white people first came to the valley, it calls to itself the snow that feeds it, and when the winter clouds open briefly it blazes, white fire the eye can’t cope with directly.

Four hundred people live on the Lesker townsite at the head of the lake. The town, situated two thousand feet above sea level, was founded at the end of the nineteenth century. When the old Annabel mine was running in the gold rush, the population – miners, their families, whores, entrepreneurs, bankers, hotel keepers for the miners who didn’t camp down on the Flats and watch their families die of typhoid – numbered some three thousand souls. John Lesker was its first mayor. He left the town his name and a big house on the East Bluff that is now the Lesker Community Church.

Early summer morning in Lesker. Evan lay on his stomach. Ravens bonked in the firs outside his open window. June breeze cool and blue. Song sparrows tuning up their Beethovenesque riff, the call of a Steller’s Jay slicing like blue steel through it all. Of its own accord his body pushed his morning erection into the mattress and he started to drift in the soft sweet breeze, drift into erotic reverie. He pulled himself up sharply and sat. As he did so he heard his grandfather’s loud whisper at his bedroom door.

Evan. Are you up then? The kokanee don’t like to wait.

He got out of bed. Embarrassed by the erection tenting his pajamas, he opened the door, stuck his head around its edge and beheld the former sheriff of Lesker.

She’s still asleep. Hurry down - I’ll wait in the kitchen.

She probably isn’t, reflected Evan. She probably knows exactly what’s going on. As he thought so he felt a strong pang of love and irritation. His grandfather had approached him over the dishes the evening before.

The lake’s getting warm. Last chance to catch a few kokanee before they go down for the summer. Let’s sneak out in the morning, take the boat. We can get you back to school by nine.

He’s so transparent, thought Evan, keeping his face down, scrubbing the big brown casserole he could just have let soak, avoiding his grandfather’s blue eyes, feeling guilty, thinking, so he’s transparent. Yeah, he thinks we need some guy time. This is a crime? He loves you, dude. Lift your fricking eyes up and look at him.

He looked up and as he had predicted, found Terry Pratt’s blue eyes looking at him anxiously. She probably put him up to this, he thought. Not skipping school, but getting some ‘male bonding’ in.

Yeah, Grandpa. Let’s do it. Come get me at five-thirty.

It hurt to watch his grandfather’s face relax. Not a word to your grandmother, though. She won’t stand for you skipping school, what with being a trustee and all.

Evan turned from the bedroom door, stepped out of his pajamas and into boxers and jeans, pulled a T-shirt and then a battered sweatshirt over his head. He didn’t like to waste time on his toilette. A quick stop in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with one hand, urinating with the other. As a small boy he had perfected the art of putting on trousers both legs at a time, jumping up in the air, spreading his legs, pulling his pants up all in one quick movement that had delighted his grandmother. He stepped into his runners, wiggling his heels, scrunching the backs of the shoes until his toes were in their proper place, at the same time throwing a quilt over his bed. He then grabbed his pack, which was set for school.

In the kitchen Terry held up a cooler. Still in a stage whisper, he said Breakfast. Coffee.

In the soft windy morning the air felt cool and milky. It felt as though anything could be possible. Evan looked back at the house and saw that indeed Anne Pratt was aware of their early exodus, was watching them from her bedroom window. Behind his grandfather’s back he made a quick military salute to his grandmother, and walked away from the house.

When they were fully gone, with no chance of a quick return for something overlooked, Anne went down to the kitchen and made coffee. While it was brewing she watered the house plants. She was certain, though with no foundation for this certainty, that it did them more good to be watered in the morning. Evan’s old grey cat, Plumette, wound figure eights around her ankles as she moved about the kitchen. Terry had brought the kitten home when the boy was seven. After holding the skinny fluffy body for a while, listening to its purr like some motor trapped in a kitten body, Evan announced that the cat wanted to be called Plumette.

Plumette, said his grandmother. "The cat wants this."

Yep. I can talk to animals.

I didn’t hear anything, said Anne.

Evan smiled. Nope. We talk in our heads.

This had gone on for several years, gradually dwindling into an occasional game, then a kind of self-mockery, until it had stopped when he was thirteen. She asked one day Do you still communicate with animals?

Evan considered the question, as he always considered, with quiet deliberation. Then he smiled. I was very young.

Anne still made coffee in an old-fashioned percolator. She found the glub-glub of the perking coffee deeply satisfying. The dark rich smell filled the kitchen. She took a cup onto the back porch. Like the church she loved, their home was on the East Bluff. Below her the lake spread and stretched. The mountains, still covered in snow, reared impossibly high above the lake. On the west shore their tops caught the sun in peach-coloured fire. On the east they were still in shadow, and their shadows rested still on the sides of the mountains on the far shore.

An afghan lay on the back of the porch rocker. Anne pulled it around her shoulders and sipped her coffee, moving into what Stephanie used to call the ‘no-fly zone’. Thoughts and memories, sorrow and gratitude. Remembering the little fat-legged Stephanie chasing a butterfly. Bee-oo-full moff. Bee-oo-full moff, she cajoled, holding out her hand. Joey sitting smoking on the steps watching their daughter, a beer in his hand, home from work, relaxed, showered, she could never get enough of his body.

Too many beers, too much relaxing, his life going nowhere. Stephanie at school, straight and springy, green as an alder branch, hair like forsythia. Joey gone. Anne and Stephanie playing the old seventies tune You and Me Against the World.

Stop it. Stop it now. Anne opened her eyes. Look around, you stupid woman. Wake up. There’s a sweet man out there on the water with the boy. Hold steady, girl. Be now. Jesus hold my hand and bring me home.

High and dry in Lesker. Her own family five hundred miles (Lord I’m one, Lord, I’m two, Lord I’m three, Lord I’m four) away, landlocked like the kokanee, Joey gone, his parents blaming her. Washing dishes at the Lakeview Cafe, dying a bit at a time, and Terry coming into the kitchen to find her. Mrs. Cullen? I’m Sheriff Pratt. We’ve met, I think. Your husband used to work for me. Blue eyes. Big relaxed strong loose body. Pratt’s Gas and Variety. Joey coming home from work talking about Terry. A decent guy, he said, until he got fired. Then Terry was just another jerkoff in a jerkoff world.

What’s wrong?

Your daughter fell in the playground.

Oh Jesus. Is she okay? Tears so close to the surface in those days.

Quick response, the blue eyes locking on to hers. She’s fine. She broke her arm. Ambulance took her down to Grohman. I can take you down there if you like.

The rocker speeded up, rocked by memory. Enough! Enough now!

Blue eyes on her again, standing in the kitchen Annie. Stop for a minute.

Married now for twenty-seven years. Moments sewn together with a needle of fire. His arms locked around her, suddenly, at ten o’clock in the morning on a golden October work day. Laughing. You horny old man! Go back to work for goodness sake!

No. Something has happened. Crying. Holding her too hard.

What? What’s the matter?

A bomb. Hundreds of people. A bomb.

What? What bomb? Why is he crying.

In Bali. Stephanie. They identified her . . . her body.

She never cried. Rigid in Terry’s grip as he held her and sobbed himself, dry as a stick. Now in the rocking chair she looked out over the lake. I should have cried. Maybe if I’d cried it would have gone away. Oh Stephanie. Oh my poor baby. She rocked, sipped her coffee. I can’t even pray. I don’t forgive You for blowing my baby apart. I don’t forgive You.

Randy couldn’t do it, couldn’t raise his own son, Stephanie’s son. Evan came for Christmas after the bomb. Then stayed till spring. Randy would call, would call, wouldn’t come. I’m getting it together, Ev. It’s good. I’m getting us a place, Ev. Just hang in with Nana and Grampa. I’ll be up in the summer Ev. We’ll camp and figure things out. I’ve found a good school in the city. Lots of green space, I’ll be up in the fall. And on the anniversary of the bomb, I can’t do it, Anne. I can’t. Crying. I can’t get back on my feet. I loved her so much.

So did we. So did we.

She couldn’t pray, couldn’t forgive God, but she could sing.

"One fine morning, when my work is over, going to fly away home.

One fine morning, when my work is over, going to fly away home.

Fly away home to Zion, fly away home

Fly away home to Zion, fly away home.

One fine morning, when my work is over, going to fly away home."

Her voice was strong and steady and it spread its wings and flew out over the lake. Two miles away, Terry and Evan were drifting, motor cut, off the mouth of Tevis Creek, in the chilly shadows of the east shore. Across the lake the snowcaps of the Burnett Range were radiant, their crevasses and cornices cold mathematical lavender. Terry raised his head sharply, looked up.

What? asked Evan.

I thought I heard something. But look up.

An osprey drifted over them.

We have competition, Terry smiled.

Evan watched Terry. The anxious clown was gone now. Relaxed, happy, hands busy. He opened the cooler on the floor of the boat and brought out a thermos and two cups, poured them both coffee. He set his cup on the seat of the boat, closed the cooler, and set his rucksack on top of it. Rummaging in it he brought out a thermometer. Here, he said, handing it to Evan, who knew the drill. He leaned forward, leaning in the boat, not out of it, until the hollow of his shoulder was on the boat’s edge, then plunged the thermometer down as deep as he could reach and held it. Sleek and warm on the surface, the deep green lake was quickly cold. He waited.

Should be pretty good, his grandfather said. Creek’ll chill the water and bring down lots of food. He took off his battered hat. A number of lures hung from it, their hooks tucked behind the hatband. What do you think? A Syclops?

As he raised the thermometer he smiled at Terry. One day maybe he’d say I don’t care much. I do this to be with you. I don’t care much about the fishing part. He didn’t think it would be such a painful thing to say, but he liked it inside the bubble. Looking at the thermometer he said , Sounds fine. Water’s good. Fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit.

He handed the thermometer back to Terry, who stowed itback in the rucksack, then pulled two lures from his hatband. The little red spoons flashed. Back into the rucksack, pulling out a stick of licorice, he broke it in half. They each chewed, then rubbed the moist chewed end on the lures before tying them on. This was an old Pratt secret, the secret, Terry said, held only by Pratts for centuries. Kokanee liked the smell of licorice. Evan wasn’t sure if kokanee could smell or would care about licorice, but they always caught fish.

Evan released his reel, stretched out his pole, and flicked his wrist. I’m good at this, he thought. Then he reeled gently, letting the lure and the line talk to him. He felt the water, felt the resistance changing with his reeling, with the pull of the current from the creek, with the moving thoughts of the water.

They fished for a while. The shadows slipped down the lower slopes of the Burnett Range. The rose, and gold and blue radiance left the peaks, replaced by burning white. Occasionally Terry took the oars, moved the boat around the little bay. Between casts they renewed the application of licorice and ate sandwiches from the cooler. Terry watched his grandson’s neat competent movements. His hair was like his mother’s, soft, light brown, almost curly, curling up at his nape, curling around his ears, the left lobe pierced by a gold ring. Nice-looking boy, Terry often said. And said it to himself often enough, but a deeper perception that he never exactly articulated. Beautiful. What a beautiful boy.

He pondered how to begin, as he had pondered all night, and had pondered for the two days that had passed since Anne, lying in bed beside him, had said Evan thinks he’s gay, Terry.

He said that?

Yes. I was talking to Marty McFarlane after church yesterday. He has Evan for gym this year. He said that some of the boys are calling him a fag. She paused. That’s a horrible word.

Is there a nice word for it?

Well, gay’s not so bad, I guess. But if there’s a bad feeling behind it, any word’s going to sound bad.

Yup.

I prayed on it, and I talked to Evan yesterday.

Terry often suspected that his wife’s praying was just a way of stepping aside from herself. He participated in whatever church community events she asked him to. He did not attend services, and she never pressed him.

He lay beside her, partly considering what she was saying, partly resting in her warm sweet-smelling presence, everything there was in his life of home, partly wondering with rueful awareness of his doggy absorption in her smell if he could sidestep a difficult conversation for now and bury himself in her body.

"He says