“Jesus…”
Jack wanted to press on with the story, get it all out, purge himself of every detail—but it was evident to him that Typhus had already taken too much in. It was too much all at once—there’d be time for details later. Jack returned his hand to Typhus’ shoulder and, this time, Typhus didn’t shake it off.
“Son—” Jack started again.
“Don’t call me that,” Typhus whispered.
“Typhus, I know these are hard things to hear—”
“No. No more. It’s my turn to talk.”
“Typhus, please listen—”
“Who was here last night? Some hooker? Did you hire a prostitute? How much do I owe you for that?”
Jack had hoped Typhus wouldn’t ask this question straight away. Hoped he might be content to process things a little at a time. “Typhus, there’s plenty of time to talk about that later. Plenty of time for anger. Then a time for healing. Maybe even reconciliation.”
“Reconciliation? Who was she, you bastard? Did she get a good laugh out of the pathetic, lovesick midget? Did you have to pay extra? Do freaks cost extra?”
“Typhus, nobody laughed.”
“Who was she, damn you? Answer me goddammit or I’ll kill you, I swear it.” Typhus held the scalpel up in Jack’s direction.
“Typhus,” Jack wasn’t sure how to continue. All he knew for certain was that he would never again lie to the boy. His boy. His son. “Typhus, there was nobody here last night except for you and me.” There. It was out. All of the ugliness, out on the table.
The truth crystallized slowly but surely in the mind of Typhus Morningstar. Pieces of a puzzle assembling, urged on by formerly insignificant scraps of memory, now significant. He remembered how Jack looked differently to him that night—cleaner somehow he had thought. Remembered the smell of perfume and how it smelled strongest after Lily had emerged from the storage room, after the blindfold had been securely tied in place. He remembered the bloody knick on Jack’s forearm—and realized now that he had shaved his arms (cleaner somehow), probably his legs as well. He remembered the texture of Lily’s coarse, straight hair—he looked at Jack’s hair now, wanting to touch it, to confirm.
Typhus fell quiet, his knife hand lowering while the other rose to the back of Jack’s head. He touched the hair and looked into Jack’s green eyes. The hair felt wonderful, and filled him with the memory of his most wonderful night—and it had been that, there was no denying.
For a moment, nothing else mattered. Didn’t matter it was all a lie. Didn’t matter that the man he’d always known as “Father” had killed his mother on the night of his own birth. Didn’t matter that the man he knew as friend and mentor was really his father, and that this man had lied to him his whole life, had violated his heart and soul so unforgivably. At this moment, the lies and horrors didn’t matter at all—all that mattered was that he had loved. He looked deeply into Jack’s eyes, searching.
“My love?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Jack.
“My Lily?” Tears were clouding his eyes.
“Yes,” answered Jack.
Typhus’ hand closed around a clump of Jack’s hair, then pulled it downward till they were eye to eye. He touched his lips to Jack’s: gently, experimentally, warily. Jack’s tongue slid out to brush against Typhus’ upper lip, inviting reply. Typhus took the bait eagerly, pulling Jack’s hair forward now, returning the kiss deeply.
Backing away slightly: “I loved you,” said Typhus.
“I will always love you, son,” said Jack with a weak, exhausted smile.
This last word squeezed like a hand at Typhus’ heart, forcing blood upwards, filling his eyes.
Son.
A single word hissed through Typhus’ teeth: “Liar.”
Typhus felt real fingers press and pinch within his chest now; pure agony, slowing his heartbeat, clouding his soul, flooding his mind with blood and rage. He feared his heart may explode where he stood, and for a moment he went dizzy. His mind gone gray, headed for black.
There was a hand on his heart. There had always been a hand on his heart—ever since that night fifteen years ago.
Typhus yanked Jack’s head downward hard by the hair, bringing the knife upwards three times fast into his chest. With an expression more of surprise than of fear or pain, Jack collapsed against the side of the water basin and slid to the floor.
“The boy told you not to call him that,” said Typhus in a voice not his own.
shoe dove
Jack recognized the voice. Breath came hard—two of the puncture wounds had pierced the right lung—but he managed to say, “Typhus, I did these things for a reason.”
On instructions of the thing in his chest, Typhus kicked Jack squarely in the crotch before responding verbally. “Of course you did. We all got reasons, I reckon. Some reasons are more wholesome than others is all. Some self-serving, others not so.”
Jack tumbled to the floor. “Typhus, listen. Please.”
“Go on speaking at your own risk, Jack.”
“Can’t you see what I gave you? What I gave her? It wasn’t easy to do this thing that I did.”
“You gave me nothing, old man. Father.”
“Try to understand, son.” Jack no longer cared if the word carried repercussions. He knew he was dying—this was his last chance to unburden himself with the truth. “Last night—on that beautiful, beautiful night—we were together all three. Father, mother and son. For the first and last time, yes—but together. Just once, but enough.”
Typhus brought the scalpel in line with Jack’s throat.
Jack continued. “In your mind you were with her; with your Lily—the image of your mother. But in truth you were with me, your true father. And so, in your heart of hearts—and whether you knew it or not—we were all together for one perfect moment. A family at last.”
With his lungs rapidly filling with blood, Jack struggled to speak. “Together,” he repeated. “Together all three.”
Typhus suddenly found himself feeling pity for Jack, pity for the man who’d deceived him so heinously, had wrecked his life so thoroughly. As Jack’s eyes shined their last light, they watched Typhus’ lips move—mouthing a single word that his ears could no longer hear.
“Sorry,” said Typhus, immediately before cutting Doctor Jack’s throat from ear to ear in one smooth motion.
Chapter forty-three
Typhus’ Cure
Typhus’ best yellow shirt had been ruined, splashed with bright red that would never completely wash out. Rising to his feet, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his face moist with blood and tears.
Although the hand of Noonday Morningstar had loosened its painful grip on his heart, the inside of Typhus’ chest felt bruised and strangely warm. Maybe he was bleeding from inside—didn’t matter, he knew his time would now be short. Staring hard in the mirror, Typhus tore off the ruined shirt and examined the scar in the shape of a hand. Its color had deepened from pink to bright purple and was bleeding along the bottom edge.
Typhus lit the stove and put a teapot over the flame. He had mixed and delivered many a cure for others at Doctor Jack’s behest, but today would be the day of his own cure. His day of abortion and hope. He would mix the calisaya tea at double strength and deprive himself of honey.
The poison went down quick; hot and bitter, stinging his throat and blurring his vision immediately. He felt a sharp pain in his gut—this was good. But also it was a signal to move fast or not at all.
He collected the scattered pieces of Lily from the table and floor, put them in his trusty, all-purpose, burlap coffee bag. As he began this final errand, the lyrics of a song marched through his mind like a line of diligent ants.
A song whose melody he could no longer recall.
Chapter forty-four
The Twenty Tens
Buddy Bolden was sleeping the remorseless sleep of drunkards and angels.
Bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bap.
Bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bap.
“Goddamnit.” Buddy’s eyes stayed defiantly shut. More muttering: “Ain’t answerin’ that damn door.” Then louder, for the benefit of the knocker, “Ain’t answerin’ that damn door, ya hear? Come back in the mornin’ if it’s so doggone ’portant!”
“It is morning,” said a high-timbered voice that Buddy struggled to recognize. “Past mornin’, Buddy. Nearly one in the afternoon.”
Buddy wasn’t in the mood for arguing such minutiae. “I don’t hear ya and I won’t hear ya! Now git gone!” Then, diminishing from angry to desperate: “I work late and need to sleep in a little. Have a mercy now and leave me be. Please!”
“Up drinkin’ late is more like it,” said the voice. “Get up now, Buddy. The world is passing you by.”
“Let it pass, then!” Buddy shouted, his head settling back into the pillow, his mind drifting rapidly towards unfinished dreams. The would-be intruder’s persistent knock turned into a dream of knocking; mercifully pounding Buddy deeper into dreamland. It wasn’t till the rhythm changed that Buddy found himself coming back around.
Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
It was a knock he hadn’t heard in years—the secret knock from Charley the Barber’s old backroom gin joint. To hear that particular knock all the sudden and from out of nowhere was a curious thing; so curious that Buddy found himself fully awake and in a sitting position, staring at the door. Suddenly, he placed the voice.
Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
He got to his feet, undid the latch; the door swung wide.
“Where’d you learn that knock, boy?”
“Didn’t learn it. Just made it up,” said Jim Jam Jump hopefully. “You like it? Mebbe you can put it in a song.”
Buddy rubbed his eyes and let himself believe Jim doing Charley’s old knock was a product of his own rye-soaked imagination. “Dammit boy, what in hell is so allfired important you gotta stand out there beating my damn door when you know damn well I’m trine ta sleep? I’d do good to whip yer damn hide and there ain’t a judge ner jury who’d convict me fer—”
“Settle down, now, Buddy. I come to make you a richer man. Just let me speak my piece, wouldja?” Jim extracted a thick wad of ten-dollar bills from his back pocket.
Buddy eyed the wad suspiciously, figuring the top bill to be hiding a roll of ones or, more likely, just plain newsprint. Still, the sight of that top bill alone was enough to bring him near sober. “What’s this about, sonny?”
“Gotcher curiosity up, have I?” Jim unrolled and flipped the money between thumb and forefinger like a deck of cards. All tens. Buddy didn’t respond, just raised his eyebrows some.
Jim went on: “I expect you’ll be interested in selling that horn of yours now, Buddy. I mean considering all that’s transpired of late. In fact, in a gesture of sympathy towards yer loss, I’ve decided to double my final offer. What you see here is not one but two hunnert American legal tender U.S. dollars.” Jim flipped the roll again for punctuation.
“Goddammit, if I done told ya once I told you a thousand differ’nt times that horn ain’t fer sale. I’m handin’ her down to my boy when I’m through with her. Now if you would only get that through yer thick—”
“Oh dear,” Jim interrupted. “You haven’t heard. Well, gosh, of course you haven’t heard. You been asleep all afternoon. I guess I just thought maybe they’d-a sent a copper out to tell ya. Well, hell, I’m truly sorry, Buddy. Mebbe I should just be off and on my way. We can talk about this at a better—”
“Fer the love of Christ Almighty what in hell are you goin’ on about, kid?”
“Well, I hate to be the one to break it—”
“Fine, I’m going back to bed.” Buddy wasn’t in the mood for games.
But before the door closed, Jim managed to get out: “West is dead.”
The door held at six inches, and opened no further. In Buddy’s fragile, hung-over state of mind, to open it wider might make the words more real. “What?”
“Kilt dead this morning out by the river. Murdered. Seen it myself.”
“What are you saying? Murdered? My little boy was murdered? I don’t believe—”
“Seen it myself. Seen it happen. Sorry.”
“Yer lyin’ to me. Why would you make up something like that? Fer a damn horn?” There was a part of Buddy unable to believe West might really be gone—but another part filtered the truth from Jim’s eyes.
“Yer brother-in-law the dummy did it. Dropsy. Snapped his little neck with one quick twist. Real coldhearted-like.”
“Now I know yer lyin’,” said Buddy. “Dropsy ain’t much fer brains but he loves my little West.”
“Ya mean wasn’t much fer brains. Dropsy dead, too. Killed his own self right after. Walked in the river with a blank expression on his face, like one of them hoodoo zombies. Like to make my blood run cold the way—”
“Yer lyin’.”
“Coldest, weirdest thing I ever seen.”
“Oh my God…” Buddy could no longer pretend—breaking into sobs, backing away from the half-open door. Jim walked in as Buddy lowered himself to the edge of the bed, reaching for the cornet that lay to the left of the pillow, stroking it for comfort. The tender display of flesh against brass made Jim’s mouth water.
“Now about that horn, Buddy…”
Buddy’s eyes went blank as he got to his feet, waving the cornet at Jim. “You want this horn? This what you want? Will all the evil in yer black little heart’ll just lay down and die if you get yer hands on THIS. DAMN. HORN?”
“Buddy, now, take it easy. I’m just talking about a simple business transaction is all. Pretty lucrative one for you, I gotta say…”
“You want this horn?” Buddy was shaking at the knees. “Well, I’ll just go and let you have it then.”
Jim Jam Jump, who prided himself on quick reflexes and a keen ability to work out most any angle well in advance would kick himself later for not having seen this coming. He honestly never expected Buddy might do anything to put his beloved cornet in harm’s way. As it turned out, Buddy’s grief and anger were just strong enough to put him over that edge—and now here he was pounding Jim’s head with the cherished instrument. Got in three solid hits before Jim managed to collect himself, to twist away and out of range.
“Now, Buddy, that ain’t no way ta—”
“I’ll kill ya. I’ll kill ya, ya little shit.”
“I believe you would…”
Jim executed an artful dance around the shaky swings of Buddy Bolden, staying close but dodging further blows, trying to figure a way to throw a few of his own. A quick, right fisted jab to Buddy’s groin caused the horn to drop, another dropped Buddy to his knees, the musician sucking in air with bulging eyes. Jim snatched the cornet from the ground—immediately spinning it longways in a horizontal circle till the wide end connected with Buddy’s temple. The hit was direct and decisive; Buddy went down hard.
Jim hadn’t even broken a sweat. Examining the cornet with loving fingers and worried eyes, he checked it for damage.
“They sure do make these things durable,” said Jim aloud, marveling at how the instrument had survived the scuffle unscathed.
“Well, then,” Jim said to Buddy’s unmoving form, “to answer your question, I do indeed want this horn. Sounds like we done made ourselves a deal.”
Jim stooped down to stuff Buddy’s pockets with the twenty tens before leaving. Then he walked to the river, whistling a happy tune.
Once at the river, he washed Buddy’s blood from the cornet.
Chapter forty-five
This
is Blood
Just below the river’s surface: smooth, white, sacred hands rub and loosen spots of red from the golden skin of Buddy Bolden’s cornet. Upon liberation, the spots become wisps of red, mingling and joining together into a cloud of nearly invisible pink, lingering with residual longing near the hands that have freed them. When the hands have washed away every drop, the horn is pulled back quickly into the tacky warmth of living air. There is no song to comfort this thing, this cloud of faded, loose color. It must find its own, create its own.
Thus delivered and abandoned by the exquisitely cruel hands, the cloud of pink is left to fend for itself in the great body of water. Locating its scent, tiny life-forms are immediately drawn to the smell of it, investigating the possibility of nourishment with hungry, minute thrashes, giving the blood-cloud its first bit of information, telling it that it can no longer stay in one place and survive, that it must move on. Must avoid premature consumption. Must deliver its message.
This is blood. This
(…)
is jazz.
The pink is humbled by its own fragile existence, feeding only on the energy of its fear. It is fear that motivates it, fear urging it to complete some unknown transformation or transaction, to become something brand new, something bold, a pocket of strength from a thing recently weak, a garment extraordinary from unremarkable plain cloth. The pink dives downward, elongating and thinning in shape as it accelerates, occasionally pausing to dance, to hesitate and waver, investigating; cautiously, gracefully, to trip and glide, to swoop and soar, to make its own way, to devise its own type of existence; joy, pain, heartache, triumph.
Its initial sense of longing for familiar pain evaporates quickly as it grows accustomed to a freedom of movement it had never known in the veins of Buddy Bolden. Its form changes at whim of speed and current—there is no recklessness in this movement for there is nothing to lose. It is a wondrous thing, this elasticity of form.
The Sound of Building Coffins Page 23