The Grave of God's Daughter (8 page)

The fact that Mr. Beresik would pay for this much meat just to feed it to a dog was beyond my comprehension, and despite the weight of the parcel, it certainly wouldn’t feed them all.

“I don’t know if there’s enough,” I said hesitantly.

“Oh, it’s not for all of ’em,” Mr. Beresik replied. “Only for the good ones.”

“How do you know which ones are the good ones?”

“Won’t know till tonight.”

“Tonight?”

These were bold questions for me. I was accustomed to listening and being talked to or talked at rather than speaking. My disguise had brought on a bout of courage.

“At the match,” Mr. Beresik said. “A good pit bull wins. They get fed. A bad one doesn’t.”

I still didn’t understand. “Why not?”

“A dead dog don’t need to eat.”

This time when I looked back at the pen, I noticed the scars on the dogs’ bodies. Every one of them had deep gashes in their coats and scratches where the fur hadn’t healed over. All of them also had thick, studded collars around their necks, which I hadn’t noticed before.

“Why do they call them pit bulls?”

Mr. Beresik drank in the question. “You ever heard of a bull fight?”

“I saw a picture once. A man was waving a red cape at a bull with big horns.”

“That’s right. That man is called a matador and his job is to try to make the bull mad and make the bull charge him. See, bulls are attracted to the color red, makes them want to attack. So the matador, he teases the bull with the red cape, drawing him in closer and closer. Then the matador stabs the bull with a sword.”

“The matador wants to kill the bull?”

“That’s how he shows his honor and his skill.”

“Is that what you do to the dogs?”

“No, not me,” he said, as though I’d given him a compliment. “The dogs, they’re meant to fight each other. But when they fight, they charge like bulls.’ At’s how they got their name. That and because of the way they’re built, big and strong. See ’em jaws? They can crush bone easy. And those teeth. Sharp as doctors’ knives. Make short work a you or any man, that’s for sure.”

“Oh,” I said, for lack of a better response. “Then what do you do?”

“Me?” Mr. Beresik asked, flattered by my interest. “I breed ’em. Find the best fighters and mate ’em so the pups’ll fight even better and stronger than their folks. Like ’at one there.” He pointed to the dog at the front of the pack. Its thick, black coat gleamed except on its front haunches, where long scratches and bite marks had yet to heal. “’At’s Sally. She’s the toughest bitch I ever seen. Nobody can beat her.”

The name
Sally
, so gentle and familiar, seemed wrong at first, but the longer I looked at the dog the more it suited her. She had alert, knowing eyes, and in spite of the scars that crisscrossed her coat, she appeared sturdy, reliable.

“Sally’s the best I’ve got,” Mr. Beresik affirmed with fatherly adulation. “A lot of the studs I’ve sold have been her boys. Those ’uns fetch the most money too. People know she’s a winner. You ask anybody and they’ll tell you I got the best dogs around. Best bitches too. I only sell winners. The secret is, you got to keep the cream of the crop for yourself. That’s why I’ll never sell Sally. I’ll fight her and breed her until the day she dies.”

Mr. Beresik gazed out over the pen, and he appeared to be resisting a smile. I had seen this look before, the immense, unshakable love. This was how people looked at the cross during Mass. And this was how my mother looked at the Black Madonna. If I could step into her line of sight and be held there for one second, even a fraction of an instant, I believed I would know what happiness was. Mr. Beresik had gone quiet and I was holding very still, trying not to disturb him, when a strange compulsion swam
through my body. Almost unconsciously, I raised my hand, higher and higher, until the tips of my fingers edged into Mr. Beresik’s peripheral vision. In that moment when my fingers crossed into his gaze, I was sure I felt a tiny surge, like a bolt of warmth. Then Mr. Beresik blinked as though waking and the feeling was gone.

“You can come by and watch a match if you like,” he offered. “It’s a good time. There’s betting and all, but I’m sure your father won’t mind you seeing that. You’re getting older and a boy your age needs to learn about things.”

“Okay,” I said, for lack of a better reply.

“Be seeing you then,” Mr. Beresik said, cueing me to leave.

“Okay,” I answered, echoing myself blankly. I stepped off the porch and headed down the path. The dogs watched me every inch of the way, never moving anything but their eyes. As I passed the pen, I could feel Sally looking at me, reading me, sizing me up. She blinked once, as if to say she knew me now and she would recognize me from then on. It was as though she could see beyond my boyish clothes and she’d figured out what no one else that day had—that I was, in fact, a girl. She knew.

As I walked down the hill, away from Mr. Beresik’s house, I heard him cluck his tongue at the dogs. They obediently trotted off, returning to the barn where they’d come from. I wondered if they were aware of what awaited them, if they sensed that they would be fighting that night and that they would have to win if they wanted to eat and if they wanted to live. I also couldn’t help but wonder what Mr. Beresik had meant when he said there were things a boy my age needed to learn. What things would a boy learn that I would never know? The question hung in my
mind, taking shape in the form of my own shadow, which stood before me as I returned to town with the sun setting behind my back.

I
T WAS ALMOST DUSK
when I made it back to the butcher’s shop. I clambered through the thicket of briars and into the field to retrieve the bicycle, which lay right where I had left it, then hoisted it onto its wheels and forced it toward the alley, thorny nettles scraping my skin and snaring my clothes as I went. I rolled the bicycle up to the rear door of Mr. Goceljak’s shop, leaned it against the railing, and knocked on the door.

Mr. Goceljak’s eyes went wide at the sight of me. “What happened?”

I thought I was in trouble. “Did I take too long?” I asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he said. “Your face. What happened? Did you fall?”

I ran my fingers across my cheeks and the flesh stung. The briars had scratched me, yet in my haste, I hadn’t felt the pain.

“No, I…I mean, yes, I tripped on Mr. Beresik’s steps. But I’m okay. It’s nothing.”

Another lie. Though it tumbled out smoothly, it burned like scalding water in my throat. Mr. Goceljak believed me, though he still looked concerned. “I should’ve warned you about his dogs. Scary bunch, eh?”

I nodded emphatically.

“Walter Beresik’s a good customer, though. Same order every day. He tell you what it’s for?”

“Yes, sir. For the winners.”

Mr. Goceljak was impressed. “Then I guess you must’ve fooled him. Walt never would’ve told a little girl what he does with those dogs. Means he believed you were a boy. You passed,” Mr. Goceljak declared. “Now we better get you cleaned up. Turn you into a girl again.”

The back room of the shop was cool and the air was stiff with the smell of bleach.

“The floors have to be done right or else they get to stinking,” Mr. Goceljak explained as he pushed a mop and pail aside.

Two pigs’ heads were resting on the block, eyes half closed as if they were dozing. Their downy cheeks and long eyelashes made them look almost angelic. Because meat was expensive, not an ounce of the animal was wasted. Ears were pickled. Any inedible fat was turned into tallow for candles. Even the skull bones were ground down to make a thickening agent for cheese. Not a scrap of flesh was squandered.

I took off the canvas cap and let my hair fall onto my shoulders. It felt light and silky on my neck, like a new sensation. Then I went to remove the trousers but stopped myself. Mr. Goceljak was standing right there and I was suddenly self-conscious.

“Oh, sorry,” he said and quickly turned his back.

I untied the twine belt and the trousers dropped to the ground. I stepped out of them, folded them neatly, and held them out to Mr. Goceljak, saying, “Here. Thanks.”

He turned to face me again and made a flourish with his
hands. “It’s like you’re Houdini, magically transforming from a boy to a girl in no time flat.”

I liked that—that someone would think of me as a magician, a person with special powers. It seemed so far from the truth that it might be possible.

“All right then, s’pose I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mr. Goceljak said.

“Yes, sir. Don’t forget to lock up the bicycle.”

“Right. Good. Good thinking,” he added.

“See you tomorrow,” I said, though I was hesitant to leave. So much had happened that I wasn’t sure I wanted it to end.

“Wait,” Mr. Goceljak said, startling me. “There’s blood all over your hands. It’s on your skirt too. How’d that happen?”

Up until that point I hadn’t looked at my hands. They were stained with dried blood, which had caked along the nail beds and seeped under my nails. The fabric of my skirt was matted with small bloodstains as well, tingeing the blue to brown.

“I wiped my hands on my skirt so I wouldn’t get the pants dirty,” I told Mr. Goceljak, hating the heat of the lie in my mouth.

“Don’t trouble yourself about the trousers and don’t worry about the blood. It’ll come off with water. I should know.”

Mr. Goceljak cranked on the sink’s tap and handed me a cake of soap, which was tinted the same dull brown as my hands. Brown bubbles rested, unpopped, on top of the soap cake. The water was icy, so cold it almost burned. I washed the blood from my hands and dragged my nails over the soap trying to dislodge the remains. After a few minutes, my hands were clean. Mr. Goceljak soaped a rag for me and gave it to me to use on my skirt. The soap and water blurred the stains until they vanished.

Mr. Goceljak handed me a clean towel. “See. Good as new.”

“All right then,” I intoned, only to realize that it was the same phrase Mr. Goceljak kept using, though he didn’t seem to notice how often he said it. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” I took a step toward the front of the shop and Mr. Goceljak stopped me.

“Probably should go out the back way.”

Instinctively, I dropped my eyes, hurt by his suggestion. Whenever my mother went to work at the church or at the rectory, she was not allowed to enter through the main doors. She was not a parishioner or a guest, but a servant. I’d come to believe that that was what back doors were for—servants.

“I’m only saying so because you told me you didn’t want anybody to know you were working here. That’s all.” Mr. Goceljak’s words were a relief, one we both felt. “I’ve got to lock the bike up. I’ll walk you out.”

T
HE SUN WAS HUNKERED LOW
on the hills and the wind was picking up. Mr. Goceljak pulled the padlock from his back pocket, slung it between the bicycle’s spokes and the railing, and snapped it shut. That was it. That was my first day as a delivery boy and it was over. I couldn’t help but look at the bicycle with a bit of pride, as if it were an animal that had obeyed me, respecting my wish for it to stay hidden in the field while I made my deliveries. I wanted to pat it the way Mr. Beresik might have patted one of his dogs. Instead, I put my clean hands in my pockets to keep them warm and said, “Good night, sir.”

“All right then,” Mr. Goceljak replied. “Good night.”

I began to stroll along the alley, thinking of all that had gone on, then I remembered something that made my heart seize—Martin.

I ran hard, harder than I had run that afternoon, tearing along the main streets until I could see the spire of Saint Ladislaus piercing the sky. I pumped my arms and my legs pounded against the ground. It was as if I didn’t even need to breathe.

Soon I could see the figure of a small boy slumped on the bottom step of the school. It was Martin. He’d bundled himself in his coat and pulled it over his legs to keep warm. His schoolbooks were stacked neatly in a pile next to him. He didn’t see me. He was staring at the ground and forlornly pushing up dirt with the tip of his boot. The street was empty and he was utterly alone. Then he heard my footfalls and turned.

My heart told me to sprint over to him, to grab him and hold him and tell him how sorry I was, but embarrassment kept me from him. I stopped and stood there in the road, panting. By the look on his face, I could tell Martin was fighting the same struggle. He wanted to come to me, to be happy I had finally arrived. But I had broken my promise and he was hurt. He had every right to be.

When I did approach him, Martin made no attempt to get up or even look me in the eye. He kept scrounging in the dirt with his boot, pretending to be busy. I was about to apologize, but the words were mired in my belly, stuck like pebbles in mud.

“You left me,” Martin said.

“I know. And I’m sorry. Very sorry. I didn’t mean to, but—”

“But you did.”

“I know and I promise it won’t happen again. Not ever.”

“You know I was stuck with Sister Teresa for two hours
straight. Two hours. She fell asleep and she started to snore. Loud. Real loud. It was terrible.”

A smile welled on my face, then Martin’s, and I knew everything would be all right. I leaned over and picked up his books, then held out my hand to him. He took it gladly. His fingers were cold to the touch, so I rubbed them between mine, then put his hand in my pocket. Martin had his own pockets, but I knew he liked it when I put his hand in mine instead. It meant we would have to walk in the same rhythm and stay close to each other. We ambled home, conjoined, keeping in perfect step with each other.

As we neared Third, the distinct sound of Mrs. Koshchushko’s voice rang in the air. She was shouting and moaning, slicing through the quiet of the evening. We were accustomed to the commotion because it occurred almost nightly. Mrs. Koshchushko would break into screaming fits during which she would beg one of her two children, a boy and a girl in their teens, Peter and Irene, to put her out of her misery. “Finish me. Finish me already,” she would plead in Polish, turning it into a woeful chant. Like the rest of us, she was a Catholic, so suicide was an unutterable word, but I believe even Martin knew what she was asking.