The Sound of Building Coffins

by Louis Maistros

  The deeper it travels, the darker its surroundings become—and the more defined the lights. Lights. These are the lights of the dead; souls unknown to blood.

  Unknown to blood, this blood, this song en utero.

  The cloud of red is no longer what it was. It has reached the Spiritworld. It is home at last. Through water it will touch the world. Its time will come soon. It cannot die. But immortality carries a price.

  What is sacrificed is a thing newly absent from the soul of Buddy Bolden.

  Chapter forty-six

  Diphtheria’s Cure

  On the morning that Marcus Nobody Special buried the small body of West Bolden, the sky was slightly overcast and the air oddly unmoist for New Orleans, a comfort downright uncomfortable in a community so accustomed to discomfort. As if to make up for the oversight, the night brought a distinct chill.

  Diphtheria had locked herself in her room at Arlington House since hearing the bad news, shutting herself off from the world just as Hattie had done in the wake of her cure. To work the parlor would feel inappropriate at the least and pointless at best. Old customers and friends had come to call, to pay respects and sympathies, but sharing grief and chit-chat were things she didn’t feel much up to. The only person she’d allowed comfort from was Hattie—and mostly because Hattie had put up with her own forceful sympathies in recent weeks.

  The funeral itself had been a bleak affair that attracted few mourners. Not that she expected great numbers to attend the burial of the son of a whore, but the absence of Typhus and Buddy had left a bitter taste on her tongue. Buddy’s failure to show had surprised no one, of course—being that he was a no-account scoundrel and a drunkard on good days. Typhus, on the other hand, had always cared very much for Diphtheria and West. After Father Elois’ brief service, Malaria had whispered in Diphtheria’s ear, “Typhus got some troubles. Don’t feel bad he ain’t here.” But the whisper only served to underline her feelings of abandonment.

  Now all the men were gone. Her father, dead for years. Her son, dead two days. Her man, flown the coop years past. Dropsy, presumed dead—his body not yet turned up. And Typhus—just gone. All gone somehow or other. No men left. No men but her regular customers, and those were hardly men at all.

  Diphtheria stared at the ceiling contemplating this absence of men. Wondering if West had felt much pain when he died. Wondering what Typhus’ troubles might be, troubles so bad that he’d leave her alone at a time like this.

  She closed her eyes and hoped to dream, but sleep never got the chance.

  Three light raps. Hattie come to call, to see if she needed looking after, to put Diphtheria’s head in her lap, to brush her hair, to bill and coo, to dab away tears if they came. Hattie’s knock wasn’t such a bad sound, Diphtheria decided. It was a warm sound, a saving sound. The sound of someone giving a damn.

  “It’s unlocked, Hattie.”

  The door opened just enough for Hattie to stick her pretty head in, smiling. What in God’s name could that woman be smiling about? thought Diphtheria.

  “How you feeling, sweetie?” sang Hattie.

  Diphtheria would have explained the inappropriateness of the question, especially on the funeral day of a mother’s only child, but she didn’t have the energy for such long sentences. “I’m fine,” was her response.

  Hattie smiled obliviously. “Got someone special here to see you. You’ll be plenty surprised, I think.”

  “Don’t feel up to it, darlin’. Tell ’em to come on back tomorrow.” She paused. “Or the next day.”

  “Might be just the face to brighten you up, girl.” Inappropriately, still beaming.

  Diphtheria had to admit her curiosity was piqued—she couldn’t think of a single face that might brighten a day like this. Then the obvious occurred to her, and her eyes widened.

  “Is that Typhus? Where you been, little brother? I’s worried about you. Why you want to worry your big sister at such a terrible time? Show yourself, little brother…”

  A hand pushed the door open wide enough to fit a second head beside Hattie’s. Diphtheria could smell the rye on his breath from across the room, and, from the way Hattie giggled and squirmed, Diphtheria imagined Buddy’s hand was likely on her ass. That was just like Hattie; to bubble like a schoolgirl in the presence of a jazz musician—even a no-account bum like Buddy Bolden.

  “Ain’t ya glad to see me, sugar?” Buddy displayed big yellow teeth like he was proud of every last one.

  “You missed the funeral,” was all Diphtheria could muster. She was too tired to act mad.

  “Well, uh, that’s a funny story. Umm, ya see—”

  “I’ll just let you two have some privacy,” interrupted Hattie. Buddy turned and nodded with a grin, making no attempt to conceal one last grope at her behind. “You’re terrible, Buddy Bolden!” said Hattie with a blush and a flutter of lashes as she pattered down the hall, twittering like a sparrow.

  Buddy closed the door carefully, knowing the alcohol in his blood might generate an unintentional slam. Turning to face Diphtheria, Buddy let his smile fade to the more correct expression of shame, his eyes pointing towards his shoes.

  “Ya see, darlin’—”

  “Save it, Buddy. I ain’t mad. I just don’t care is what.” It suddenly struck her there was something different about Buddy today. It wasn’t the bandage on his right temple—Buddy got into fights and had his share of drunken falls all the time. It was something else that was different. Diphtheria felt a panicked chill at the realization.

  “Where’s that horn of yours, Buddy?” She’d never seen him without it before. Ever since they were kids together, he’d always carried it with him.

  Buddy brightened. “See, that’s just it! I was getting around to that. I sold it. Sold my horn, yesiree. Big lotta loot, too. It seems I done got famous enough that it’s somethin’ of a collector’s item. Figure I’ll just buy me a new one on the cheap. I was thinking maybe you and me could take the rest of the money and we could—”

  “You loved that horn, Buddy. Loved it more than me or West. Never thought you’d go and sell it.” Diphtheria was genuinely impressed. Still, something didn’t seem right about it. Buddy Bolden didn’t just play the cornet; he played that cornet.

  “Look, look, look,” said Buddy eagerly, fishing around his pocket. After a moment he pulled out the twenty tens and proclaimed, “Two hundred dollars! Twenty dixies all told.”

  “Lotta money,” Diphtheria conceded, losing interest quickly but feeling obligated to show some measure of enthusiasm.

  “Well, sure it is, sure it is,” said Buddy. “I was thinking maybe you and me could take this money and we could—”

  “You and me?”

  “Well…yeah, baby—you and me.” He smiled that charming smile that had once melted her heart, the smile that had tricked her so thoroughly, the smile that told her his love was the truest love on earth, the kind of love that took hold and stayed forever, tender and reliable as any love could be. It was also the kind of smile that implied the bearer would never do a thing like grope the ass of a hooker right in front of the woman he pretended to love, a woman mourning the death of their mutual and only child. But today that treacherous, calculated smile only made Diphtheria want to burst out laughing. It seemed any power he’d had over her was gone along with the cornet.

  “Mean to tell me someone paid you two hundred dollars for that beat up old thing? Surprised you got two cents.” Diphtheria’s tone didn’t sound half as mean as she’d hoped it would.

  “That’s what I said, that’s what I said!” Buddy held up the wad of bills like a trophy, the product of a miracle, a twist of fate designed by angels. “But it happened just the same, Lord as my witness.”

  “Collector’s item, eh?” Diphtheria said suspiciously.

  “Guess so. Must be. Two hunnert dollars worth, leastways.”

  Diphtheria gave a sigh. “What you come here for? To brag about your big sale?”

  “I keep trine to tell ya,
Diphtheria. I got this money and I want us to make a new start. I’ve been makin’ some good money at the Odd Fellows Hall and the Union Son’s Hall too, and with this money on top, well, I figured you and me—”

  “Ain’t no ‘you and me’, Buddy.”

  “—figured you and me could get us a little house maybe. Start afresh. Get us some new babies. You could stop whorin’. Stop it for good this time.”

  “Maybe I like whorin’. This is a classy joint.”

  “Well, sure it is, baby. Sure it is. But whorin’ is still whorin’. You know that.”

  “Long as I’m whorin’ I don’t need no man.”

  “Well, without men you couldn’t do much whorin’. A whore needs men for customers. You need us fellas one way or the other, I guess.”

  “Get out.”

  “Baby, I’m trine to make things right. I’m a changed man, I swear it.”

  “Get out.”

  “All right, all right. No need to sour that pretty face of your’n. I’m leavin’. But before I go, how about a little lovin’? For old time sake. Who knows, mebbe we’ll get lucky and make another one just like West.”

  Diphtheria suddenly found the energy required for long sentences: “You sicken me. You don’t even bother to come to the boy’s send-off, you show up here drunk as a skunk, you grope my friend’s fat backside right in front of me, wave around a fistful of ten dollar bills like the King of France, then act as if the last nine years never happened. Get out.”

  “Now, look here.” The charming smile, now gone. “I ain’t gonna stand for that kinda talk. I’m somebody now. I’m an important man around—”

  “Get out! Out, damn you, out!”

  “Don’t worry, un petit, I get it. Workin’ girl like you don’t cotton to the idea of givin’ it away. Maybe you’ll appreciate a little business. Well, I can pay. Don’t you worry ’bout that—”

  “You bastard! Leave me alone! Get out of here or I’ll—”

  “What? What you gonna do? Huh?”

  “I’ll, I’ll—”

  “Fancy whore like you probably gettin’ two hunnert dollars a fuck anyhow. No wonder you ain’t impressed.” Buddy threw the twenty tens on the bed and pulled the covers off Diphtheria. She struggled, but he was stronger than she.

  Yanking open his pants with one hand and pulling her nightgown up with the other, Buddy balanced his weight between straddling knees as his head pressed against the pillow blowing rye-heavy air into her eyes and nostrils. The smell of it made her queasy.

  Diphtheria hit and kicked and squirmed and tried to push him off, but he only seemed energized by the struggle, by the friction of mutual rage. As he clamped his mouth over her own, she thought for sure she would throw up—but not having eaten in two days, she had nothing but dry heaves to offer. Successfully loosening a wrist from his hard grip, she grabbed a wine glass from the bedside table as he penetrated her, shattering it against the side of his head. His eyes went dead with rage as blood trickled down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. His hands slammed to her throat, his lips pulled back over clenched teeth like a mad dog. Yellow teeth, mixed with red.

  The pressure against her throat intensified with each thrust of his hips; into her, into her. She felt her eyes bulge and her tongue swell as her lungs pulled for air, getting none. Her fists bounced off his shoulders and head as she twisted her body violently, thinking that in his drunken state he might lose his balance and topple to the floor—but he remained steady.

  A drop of blood fell from his lower lip into her open mouth. Her mind raced. And she thought of a sailor. Diphtheria’s left hand pulled at the inch and a half of hair on Buddy’s head. Her right hand reached beneath the mattress.

  At first she couldn’t feel it—but she stretched and wiggled her fingers till she found the handle’s edge. It was the same knife she’d used to deliver the sailor, back in her crib days. She’d never needed it since her arrival on Basin Street, but she’d always kept it at the ready, just in case.

  Touching its handle while staring into Buddy’s cold eyes made her remember—his eyes as black now as the sailor’s had been then. When the sailor had come to end her life, she’d been ready to die. In that moment she’d seen the sailor as an angel of mercy, an angel come to deliver her from a miserable existence—but something had kept her from letting go. A thought or a sound had told her to use the knife. She struggled to remember what her reason had been for living then—back when things weren’t nearly so bad as they were now.

  touching death with fingertips, caressing its cheek, kissing its nose, its music tickling her ears. The music was familiar and telling, its voice gentle and firm. It was the sound of Buddy’s horn…

  Remembering.

  Buddy had been her saving grace the night the sailor came to call. The sound of his horn, lingering in her mind, had whispered unprovable wisdoms and promises of love. Buddy had been her angel, not the sailor.

  Buddy was her angel today, too—but a different kind.

  The horn was gone now, its music too. Diphtheria could not recall a note of it, maintained no real recollection of it whatsoever. There was no miraculous melody left, no wisdoms or promises to give voice. Her only child was dead. Her love all spent. But her angel had returned to deliver a final mercy.

  She gave the knife handle a gentle stroke with her index finger, but left it where it lay beneath the mattress. No longer did she struggle or pull at Buddy’s hair. Instead she caressed him, wishing he didn’t look so angry, that he might understand everything was all right.

  That he might kiss her goodbye. Gently, one last time.

  Unaware of her heart’s acceptance, Diphtheria Morningstar’s stubborn lungs resolved to pull in one last breath.

  Chapter forty-seven

  Fathers and Sons

  As the calisaya tea wrought its havoc upon his body, Typhus’ bike became increasingly difficult to maneuver. By the time he’d rolled onto Chartres Street he found himself forced to abandon it altogether and complete his journey on foot. Typhus had always been very protective of his beloved bicycle, but today such protective inclinations felt the stuff of fools. Nothing mattered now but the matter at hand. He pulled the burlap sack from the basket of the fallen bicycle and got moving.

  The small hill of the levee seemed steeper today than Typhus remembered it, and from its toppermost point he noted just how far down the pier his little rebirthing island was. It’d seemed so much closer before, but before today he’d always made his approach on bicycle—and with a body not full of poison. Descending the river side of the levee, he silently thanked his father’s God for the added speed offered by gravity—but gratitude quickly tempered with regret as his feet tangled beneath him. The weird pain of calisaya amplified excruciatingly in the subsequent tumble.

  Even in the fall, the burlap bag never loosened from Typhus’ grip. When he finally found himself standing above the island’s edge, Typhus lay flat on his stomach with his chin resting at the boardwalk’s edge. Staring at sand and grass four and a half feet below, he worked out various scenarios of lowering himself to the island with minimal pain. The sad verdict came quickly—in his present condition there was no way down but to fall, and so fall he did. Mercifully, he landed on his back, but the deceptively soft-looking patch of saw grass met him with a stinging collection of thin, red lines that streaked his naked back and shoulders. Finding he could no longer support himself on his feet, Typhus shoved his way through the brush of the sandbank on all fours. Bleeding from the outside and dying from the inside, he was now more determined than ever to reach his sacred spot before letting go the second little life inside him.

  To his little beach by the river, to his rebirthing beach.

  A song in his head played along the way:

  Jesus I’m troubled about my soul…

  Vegetation soon thinned and sand prevailed. Typhus’ vision was failing, but the clear and soothing hum of river—along with the accompanying warmth of its breeze—told him he’d reached
his destination. He let himself fall to his side in a fetal position; breathing hard, the sweat of his body mixing with his blood, the mixture turning sticky-brown beneath the beating sun. A shallow tide swelled meekly from the river, sending a cool sheet of water across sand to kiss his grounded shoulder. Typhus felt peace for a moment, but the moment soon dissolved into a sharp, percussive shriek that shot up through his throat. The pain in his belly crescendoed then receded with the tide, and during those moments in-between where water and agony fell away, Typhus mustered the strength to reach into his bag. With careful but shaking hands, he placed torn bits of photographic paper face up on the smooth sand, just out of the tide’s reach. He assembled Lily quickly—more quickly than he imagined he could—then lay the bag over top to protect her from wind and river spray. The tide would take Lily tonight in its own sweet time. Typhus had done what he could.

  The pain of calisaya bloomed full-red; muscles and bones seemingly at war. Something inside was pushing, pressing inward, causing muscles to stiffen, bones to yield. What was unwelcome would soon be expelled—and that is the point of calisaya tea.

  An awful burning in his chest came—and with it a weird sensation of dislodging. Something had come loose, tearing away from his heart. The calisaya focused on the anomaly in his chest, centering its force within his ribcage in a single, blinding contraction. Finally, Typhus felt the thing inside give up, let go.

  Typhus listened in amazement to the rhythm of his own heartbeat, now pounding with a strength and clarity he’d never before known—it was a liberating thing, this rhythm. But with liberation comes baggage akin to tragedy, the kind of tragedy associated with final farewells and painful lessons learned.

  Before Typhus could adequately ponder the abstract qualities of freedom and tragedy, he realized he had stopped breathing—something had blocked his windpipe. His lungs attempted to pull inward—but Typhus knew this was wrong—and so willed every ounce of his strength to, instead, push out.