The Sound of Building Coffins

by Louis Maistros

  A rhythmic crunching mingled with birdsong, first faint then louder, coming nearer through the fog. Eight more crunches and she could make out the silhouette of a child. Not a child, but a man shaped like a child.

  “Where’s your bike?” she asked the silhouette.

  “Left it at Doctor Jack’s,” said Typhus. “Morning, Malaria.”

  Malaria failed to return the greeting. “Out all night again? That’s two nights in a row. Starting to think you gotcher self a girlfriend.”

  Typhus was close enough now that she could see he was grinning. “Well, what would be so surprising about that?”

  Malaria’s eyebrows raised in amusement. The idea of Typhus with a regular girlfriend seemed about as likely as the fog’s refusal to lift from the swamp. Maybe this really was a new kind of morning after all.

  Typhus stopped with hands on hips and chin to chest, his grin evolving into bashful chuckles. “Well, Malaria, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I surely doubt if you’d believe a word. Hell, I don’t believe much of it myself.”

  Malaria’s eyes remained sad, but her lips returned the smile. “Well, now, little brother. Sounds like some long overdue good fortune come your way. That’s good, real good. I’m happy for you.” And then, with a tone of parental sternness: “You be careful now. Those French Quarter women’ll give you flesh plague and a broken heart to boot, you ain’t careful.”

  Typhus shook his head and laughed some more as he walked past and inside. “Don’t believe much of it myself,” he echoed through the doorway, still laughing.

  Typhus’ high spirits were nearly enough to change Malaria’s mind about bringing up the trouble. Maybe it could wait—one more day of nothing much wrong, one more day of fog lifting on schedule—but in her heart she knew this wasn’t an option. The damage had been done and must be addressed—and the sound of Typhus’ alarmed shouts from inside only confirmed these things.

  “Malaria!”

  She stayed on the bench, hoping for ghostly comfort.

  “Malaria!”

  Typhus stood in the doorway directly behind her now. She needn’t turn to know there were tears in his eyes—they were plainly evident at the edge of his voice. There would be a particular something clenched in his hand.

  “Where is it?”

  Malaria turned to face him. “Sir?” she said.

  He waved the coffee bag at her violently. “Where is it? There was something in this bag and now it’s gone! You got no right going through my things!”

  “I washed it for you, Typhus. It was stinking up the house with that old catfish smell. Thought it was empty at first.” Malaria felt silly defending herself on this point, all things considered.

  “I want it back,” said Typhus evenly.

  “Can’t have it back,” said Malaria, turning her gaze back to the swamp mist now rapidly thinning. The sound of her brother’s shallow breath made her feel cruel.

  “It’s mine,” said Typhus, in a cracked voice. He sounded beaten and resigned, as a child might sound upon having a favorite toy taken away as punishment. As Malaria imagined West might sound if Diphtheria ever got mad enough to take those damn, precious buttons from him.

  Thoughts of West’s love for shiny buttons softened Malaria’s heart unexpectedly, and so she altered her course slightly. Perhaps confrontation regarding such sensitive and scandalous matters would not be the best thing. Could it hurt to simply keep his secret, to help him hide from this one devastating truth? Maybe that would be best.

  “I’m not even sure what it was. Didn’t see it till after I washed. Just blobs of brown paper bunched up and crumbling.” She paused, giving Typhus a window to speak if he chose. He remained silent, so she added, “Looked like it mighta been a photograph. Hard to say for sure.”

  Typhus’ voice fell to a whisper. “You didn’t see it?”

  “No, sir. Just went to wash the stink out yer bag, and found the crumbs after it was too late. I guess whatever it was, it must’ve meant something to you. Sorry I wasn’t more careful.”

  Typhus studied his shoes in the doorway, a little bit of that smile from earlier creeping back to his lips. Malaria felt a wave of temporary relief.

  “I see you gotcher nice shirt on,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Must be some kinda extra special girlfriend you got.”

  Typhus smiled bashfully. “Yes, indeed. I guess you could say that. Hell, I don’t need that old picture anyhow no more. Got me the real thing now. The real thing is what.” He turned to go back inside.

  Malaria stared at her left hand, closed in a fist. The smile lingered at her lips, but her brow furrowed. This trouble was not yet through, she sensed. “Typhus?” she called out, her voice slightly higher in pitch than she’d intended. “Typhus? What do you mean when you say you got the real thing?”

  Typhus returned to the door, gnawing on a hunk of dry bread he’d found in the kitchen. “Well, I’ll tell you, sis. You was right about that thing in the coffee bag. It was a photograph. Picture of a girl. I been keeping that picture a long time—but now I don’t need it no more. Know why?”

  “Why?” Malaria’s eyes were burning.

  “’Cause the girl in the picture—well, I found that very same girl in real life.”

  The words made Malaria light-headed.

  “And, turns out, we got ourselves a little thing going on. Might even get married, I guess.”

  Malaria stood up to face her brother. “What did you say?” Gone a shade paler, she suddenly looked very old. Both of her hands were balled into fists at her sides as she repeated, “What did you just say?”

  Typhus struggled to decipher what error he might have made. “Well, I mean…we might not get married at all. I mean we just met…I was just saying…”

  “The real thing? You said you got the real thing?”

  “Well, sure, I found the real thing. Is that so hard to believe?” Switching from defense to offense. “Is it so hard to believe that your little half-a-man, freak-of-a-brother might’ve found a real live woman? Someone who might love him back? Is that so very hard for you to comprehend, big sister?”

  It dawned on Malaria that Typhus truly didn’t know. Didn’t realize. Someone had played a trick on him. A cruel trick. Unable to completely shake her rage, she forced her voice to soften, “Typhus, there’s something you oughta know.”

  “Who you been talking to?” The anger in his own voice was mounting. This was a type of jealousy, Typhus decided—what else could it be? Malaria had been a spinster so long that she now wished to throw some rain on his own little bit of joy. “What are you doing, Malaria? Why you gotta ruin this for me?”

  “Typhus, I seen the picture.”

  “Why are you doing this? I don’t care if you seen the picture. Don’t matter, you can keep it. I got the real thing.”

  “Stop saying that!” she screamed.

  “Don’t you ruin this for me, Malaria. I swear to God I’ll never forgive you if you ruin this for me.”

  “Typhus, please,” Malaria was fighting back tears now. “Listen to me. Listen to me.” She waited for their eyes to meet before continuing: “Typhus, I know the lady in that picture. I recognized her. I know who she is.”

  Typhus, incredulous: “Lily? You know Lily?”

  “Lily?” Malaria’s eyes widened. “That ain’t no Lily, Typhus. No, no, no. Oh dear God in heaven, no…” Malaria crumpled into sobs. “Dear God, Typhus. Someone been playing a trick on you. Someone done played a trick on you. My poor, poor little Typhus.” She stroked his temple soothingly, but he recoiled at the word little.

  “I ain’t no little boy. I’m a man.” His teeth clenched, his lower lip jutting firmly.

  “You are a man,” she said.

  “And you ain’t my mother. You’re my sister.”

  “I ain’t. And I am.”

  Typhus regained a degree of composure. “What are you talking about, big sis? Listen, whatever it is, it don’t matter. I ain’t never been happier. I met t
he real Lily and she loves me back. It’s okay. I swear it’s okay.”

  “Her name ain’t Lily, Typhus. It’s Gloria. And you ain’t met her cause she dead. Been dead twenty-five years.”

  Typhus smiled uneasily. “Now, you just confused is all. One thing I know is she ain’t dead. I—” he almost said saw her, but corrected himself before the words came out, “was with her last night. I…I…I—”

  “Her name ain’t Lily, Typhus,” Malaria repeated, “it’s Gloria.” She opened her fist and let the torn pieces of Typhus’ photograph flutter to the ground.

  Things began to fall together in Typhus’ mind, and he understood what Malaria was trying to tell him, what she couldn’t say flat out. His face went slack as he studied the wetness of his sister’s cheeks and the pieces of Lily on the ground at his feet. Malaria put her hands on Typhus’ shoulders as if fearful he may fall.

  “Typhus, the lady in that picture,” she leaned down to whisper in his ear, “she’s your mother. My mother. Our mother.”

  Chapter forty-one

  Rising Fog

  “Typhus, my brother, I do love you so.”

  “This ain’t right.” Typhus spoke as he collected up pieces of Lily from the ground, dropping them back into the coffee bag one by one. “And what ain’t right gotta be made right.”

  “Typhus…” Malaria’s tone was guarded. She was well aware that anything she might say could make things worse as easily as better. “Typhus, who did this to you? Was it that man?”

  “What man?” Not in the mood for vague questions.

  “Was it Doctor Jack who fooled you? Gave you that picture and…the rest?”

  With the last piece of Lily in the bag, Typhus got to his feet. “I don’t know if what you’re saying is true, Malaria. But I can tell you that Lily is alive and well. If it’s Mama—then Mama alive and well. Somebody alive and well. I was with her last night, Malaria. Whoever that a picture of, I was with her simple and true.”

  “It’s a trick, Typhus. Might be someone looked like her. Even if she was alive, she’d be old now. Wouldn’t look nothing like that picture.”

  “I didn’t see her. I was with her.” Typhus’ eyes cast away from his sister, towards rising fog.

  “What do you mean you didn’t see her? What are you talking about?”

  “It was her. That’s all I know.”

  “The lady in that picture is Mama, Typhus. Don’t you understand?”

  “What if it is? If it is, then Mama ain’t dead—that’s all I’m sayin’.” Typhus was coming to terms with the possibility that the woman he’d been with only hours ago might have been his own mother. That, in a way, would at least explain her unwillingness to let him see her.

  “Now you’re just talking crazy, Typhus.”

  “How about you? Did you see her?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I seen her. She was my mama too, and didn’t die till I was seven years old. I remember her like it was yesterday. I remember her sitting right here on this bench. I remember her face all the time—I see it in dreams and even when I’m awake. She stays with me every day, Typhus—”

  “No, I mean did you see her dead? Do you know for a fact she died?”

  Malaria hadn’t considered this point. Truth was, Mother had died during childbirth, died bringing Typhus into the world. During the birth, Father had arranged for a friend from church to watch Malaria and her siblings. Doctor Jack had performed the delivery himself and pronounced Mother dead shortly after. The funeral had been closed casket because Father wanted his children’s final memory of their mother to be of a living and vibrant woman, not an empty shell in a wooden box. Or so he had told them.

  “No,” she responded. “I ain’t seen her dead.”

  “Well, how about that?” said Typhus. “You ain’t seen her and I ain’t seen her, but we both know what we know even though what we know ain’t the same thing.”

  “Typhus—”

  “Well, I’m about to find out which is right.” Typhus turned his back and began walking briskly in the direction of the district. “I already know which is right,” he added as he walked, “this is for your benefit, Malaria, not mine.”

  The fog had lifted completely now. It was looking to be a clear and brilliant day.

  “Typhus—”

  “What?”

  “Be careful.”

  Chapter forty-two

  Together All Three

  Doctor Jack was already brewing the morning’s second pot of coffee. While the kettle struggled to boil, he sat down with the morning’s Bee and glanced out the window. Jack smiled suspiciously at the beautiful, sunny morning—suspicious because in New Orleans beautiful mornings never guaranteed beautiful days. When the door eventually creaked open, Jack looked up from his half-read newspaper.

  “Typhus—everything okay?” Jack noted immediately that Typhus no longer exhibited the symptoms of a man in love.

  Typhus walked past him and emptied the contents of his burlap coffee bag on the examination table without a word. Jack’s heartbeat quickened as Typhus began the process of piecing together the puzzle of Lily. After a moment Jack stood, unsure of what to say.

  “Oh my. What happened to your little girlfriend, Typhus?” Typhus ignored the question, calmly continuing Lily’s reassembly. Jack’s tone became stern: “I trusted you with that photograph, boy. What do you have to say for yourself? You were sworn to protect her. You made a promise, and a promise is a serious thing.”

  A small fist slammed to the table causing the reassembled pieces to jumble away from each other. “Promise?” Typhus’ eyes widened. “Promise? I made a promise? What about you? Or maybe it’s all right to tell lies as long as you don’t attach no promise. That how it works, Doctor Jack?”

  “I won’t have it,” said Jack, trying not to sound shaken. “I won’t have this talk.”

  “Yes, you will. You will have this talk.”

  “Well, son, if you were to put a brake on this nonsense maybe I could get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s got yer goat.”

  “Ain’t my problem. Not no more. It’s yours.”

  “All right, son—”

  “And stop calling me ‘son.’ I ain’t yer son.”

  “Typhus—tell me. Tell me about my problem. Get it out already.”

  Another small fist met the table, sending pieces of Lily fluttering to the ground. “Who is this?” he said through clamped teeth. “Who is this?” pointing to the remaining pieces of Lily. “Who is this? Who is this? Who is this? Lakjufa doir estay?”

  Then Doctor Jack knew. He knew that Typhus knew—and that there could be no more lies. As Typhus’ anger melted to grief, Doctor Jack placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Listen, son—”

  Typhus jerked back and away: “I am not yer goddamn son!”

  Doctor Jack flinched—but still, his eyes stayed soft. He deserved Typhus’ anger, maybe even his hatred—and he knew it. This was to be his lot. Jack allowed himself some small comfort in knowing that years of deceit would soon dissolve into truth—for better or worse.

  “Don’t call me that,” warned Typhus. “Not now, not ever.”

  “All right, Typhus,” said Jack, then, after a moment’s pause: “But what if I was to tell you that’s just what you are?”

  Typhus stared, jaw trembling.

  “Would that make a difference?” Jack whispered this last.

  “What—?” Typhus steadied himself against the heavy table with both hands. “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe you should sit.” Jack pulled out a chair for Typhus, the same chair Typhus had occupied during his encounter with Lily. Filled with fresh rage at the sight of it, Typhus kicked it away—and spun around to yank open the drawer containing Jack’s surgical tools. The bulk of the implements spilled to the ground, and Typhus examined the gleaming pile of scattered silver briefly before bending down to scoop up the longest blade visible—a scalpel just two and a half inches long. He stood in a def
ensive posture with the knife in hand as if Jack’s words were deadly weapons from which he needed to protect himself.

  Jack raised both hands in a gesture of truce. “Typhus, you asked me a question and I mean to answer it. But I do want to warn you that what I have to say won’t set well.”

  “Just stop,” said Typhus. “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “You came for answers, Typhus. Am I wrong about that?”

  “I changed my mind. Just stop.”

  “Typhus, I think you already know the hardest part of this. The woman in that picture—Lily—her name ain’t really Lily. Do you know her real name, Typhus?”

  “Stop it!” Typhus slapped his hands forcefully over his ears, the scalpel making a small puncture wound to the right side of his neck .

  “Typhus, I loved her. And she loved me.”

  “Please…”

  “Your mother didn’t have green eyes like yours, Typhus. But I do.”

  “Oh God…”

  “When you were born, your father took one look at you, and he knew. He’d suspected her infidelity before that day, but it was in your green eyes that those ugly suspicions became reality. His rage was fleeting, but the result was regretful. He took your mother’s life that day. Bloody, but quick.”

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it…” the scalpel was digging deeper into Typhus’ neck—he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Doctor Jack continued:

  “Your father calmed quickly and was instantly remorseful—devastated by what he’d done. But her death was as much my fault as his—more so, in a way. So I helped him to cover it up—it was the least I could do. I wrote up the report as ‘death during delivery, natural causes.’ Your father never forgave me, but he was a good man in his heart and always meant to do right. He thought it wrong to keep you and me apart, Typhus—being blood kin as we were then, are now, and always will. So when you were old enough, he let you come work for me…”