The Sound of Building Coffins

by Louis Maistros

  The obstruction pushed up then through his mouth with a gush of clear, brown fluid, landing on the sand, palm side up.

  A hand.

  Rigidly closed in a half-fist, the hand trembled slightly for a moment then lay still. Typhus lay on his side, gulping air, staring at the hand. This was a hand he remembered well—the gentle hand of a loving father. He stared at the nails and the tiny hairs of the knuckles, the creases, the calluses of it. Though the scar upon his chest had always been plain enough, he’d never fully believed the stories of how it had come to be. There was a part of him that knew, but another part unable to believe. With the truth now as plain as the scar, Typhus found himself wishing he’d not expelled a thing so inclined to attach itself to his heart.

  Without warning, the hand jumped into air—then flew into water. Craning his neck to follow its path, Typhus found himself looking at two naked feet near his head. The feet led upwards to an immense, sun-blocking silhouette—now stooping down to him. Typhus felt a cool hand against his forehead

  “Won’t be needing that anymore.” At the sound of the voice, Typhus knew the hand had not flown into water of its own accord.

  It had been kicked.

  “Daddy?” said Typhus.

  “It’s good to see you, son,” said Noonday Morningstar.

  “You ain’t real,” said Typhus regretfully, with no better greeting for a long dead parent. “How’s it so?”

  “Sure, sure. I’m real enough. Dead people just as real as live ones, I reckon.”

  “Gotta be the tea. I’m imagining this.”

  “Imaginary people real, too—in their way. If a person can remember or even dream up a face, then the face does exist in some kinda way. Things remembered are sometimes more real than what a person holds in his hand. All that being true and set aside for now; you ain’t imagining me.”

  “Have to be. You’re dead.”

  “Hell, maybe I’m imagining you. Being dead so long can play tricks on a fella’s mind.” The dead man gave a wry smile. “C’mon now, Typhus. I’d a thought better of you for an open mind. Little fella like you turning dead babies into live catfish oughta be able to believe just about any damn thing.”

  “I guess,” Typhus conceded.

  “We both seen plenty strange things in our lives, son. Lots stranger than this. Don’t matter anyhow. Soon enough you’ll know. Plenty of proof be along shortly.”

  Typhus winced at a fresh contraction. He held his breath till it passed, then let the air back out slowly.

  “It was too much,” said Noonday.

  “Too much?”

  “The tea, Typhus. Done gave yerself a double dose—and you being half-size already. Just like taking four times too much. Man, you musta really wanted that hand outta yer chest.”

  “Am I going to die?” asked Typhus.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No, you ain’t gonna die. Not exactly. Gonna rebirth. Just like them babies you rebirth alla time. Snatch ’em from death and let ’em go till they get their story straight, then come back around to do some good. That’d be yer lot, I reckon. Goin’ off then comin’ back. Only you won’t be no fish.”

  Typhus felt weird relief. “I was going to do that for you, Daddy,” he offered. “Was gonna rebirth ya. It’s why I came out here after taking the tea.”

  “You what?” Noonday said with a grin. “Gonna turn that old hand of mine into a catfish, was ya?” He laughed. “That there boy gonna turn my hand into a dern fish. Now I heard everything, yes indeed!” Shaking off the laughter but keeping the grin for luck, Noonday knelt beside Typhus to put something in his mouth. “Have a chaw,” he said. “Might take yer mind offa the pain.”

  Typhus pressed his teeth to the bit of tobacco—his father was right, the juice was strong and distracting. After a few moments, Typhus asked:

  “Why you ain’t told me? ’Bout you not being my real father’n all? Shoulda told me.”

  “I’d a told you soon enough, Typhus—just hadn’t counted on my dyin’ so soon. You was only nine, boy. Time wasn’t right.” Noonday spat some tobacco juice in the river. “Anyway, don’t go foolin’ yerself. I was your father then, still am now, and always will be. Blood don’t mean shit. Love is all that matters when it comes down to fathers and sons. You been lucky—you had two fathers that loved you. And I don’t mean that crazy witch doctor you just kilt, neither. He was no kind of father at all. Just an egotistical, lovesick fool and not one thing more.”

  “I didn’t kill Doctor Jack. You did.”

  “Well, how ’bout that. Listen to you go on, passin’ around blame. Who was holding the knife, if you please?”

  “Who had their big old hand wrapped ’round my heart, if you please?”

  Noonday smiled. “Ah, hell, boy. You just needed a nudge is all. It was the right thing under the circumstances—I mean, c’mon, think about what he done.”

  Typhus looked away from the dead man. “Yeah. Maybe so.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “Whadja mean about me havin’ two fathers, then? If Doctor Jack ain’t one of ’em.”

  “Do I gotta spell it out fer ya? Use yer noggin, boy. I raised you better’n that.”

  “The phantom?”

  “He has a name, Typhus. Show a little more respect for the man who took on such a thankless job, lookin’ after you, your brother and your sisters in my absence. Say his name, and do so with respect. And with proper love.”

  “Beauregard.”

  “Beauregard Church.” Noonday’s eyes brightened at the name. “He was as good a father as I ever was. Maybe better. And you mistreated that man. Broke his heart. Broke my heart watchin’ you do it to him.”

  “He killed you.”

  “He freed me.”

  “Daddy?” Typhus wasn’t sure how to ask the thing on his mind, so he said it straight out; “You been with me this whole time? Watchin’ me?”

  “Typhus, I been with you every step. My very hand on your heart. I’d be with you past today if you hadn’t a put me out like you just done.”

  “I’m sorry I did that,” Typhus started with a crack in his voice, “but I had to. Things was gettin’…so hard.”

  “Well, that’s all right. You just settle down. You done nothing wrong, boy. Musta been hard with never a moment’s true privacy. Seein’ that scar on yer chest every day and wonderin’ about it, wonderin’ if yer own thoughts were really your own—”

  “Were they?”

  “Were they what?”

  “My thoughts. Were they mine?”

  A beat. “Mostly.”

  Typhus hesitated. There was one more question, and the question came in the form of a single word:

  “Lily?”

  “Your mama’s name was Gloria, son.”

  “Gloria.” The word felt holy on his lips.

  “And I guess the answer to what you’re asking is yes.”

  “Gloria.” Fresh tears welled in Typhus’ eyes.

  “There was no shame in the love you felt for our Gloria; my wife, your mother. Shame not even in the passion. She was the love of my life, Typhus—and my hand was on your heart through no fault of your own—God Himself having put it there. You had no way of knowing why you felt the way you did. But that bastard Jack sure as hell did know. He knew every bit of it.”

  In spite of this truth, Typhus could no longer bring himself to feel hatred or anger towards Doctor Jack. Couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but regret—regret at knowing the most powerful thing he’d ever felt in his life, his love for Lily, was not even a thing he could call his own. It was a passion borrowed from a dead man, his father.

  “That ain’t so, Typhus.” After fifteen years residence in his son’s soul, Noonday had no problem plucking thoughts from his head. “Your love was your own. It was always your own. I just give you a little nudge is all.”

  “Sounds like you done a lot of nudgin’.”

  “Guess I did.” Noon
day smiled. “I hope I nudged you right once or twice along the way.”

  “Maybe you did. I guess you did. I don’t know.”

  “Well, let’s hope—at the end of the day, hoping is all anyone can do. Anyway, now that you done spat out my hand, I guess I’ll be off on my own shortly. Off to the Spiritworld, sure enough. And this time all in one piece.”

  “Heaven,” said Typhus, squinting his eyes at the sun. “Up in the clouds.”

  Noonday lowered his eyes. “I guess I gave you some wrong information about that back when I was a living man—but damn if I didn’t take the Holy Bible literal at every word. Truth is, there ain’t no heaven and hell, son. Just one Spiritworld. And it ain’t in the sky, neither.”

  “Where, if not up?”

  “Think.” Noonday winked at his son. Spat another stream of juice in the water; a hint.

  “The river.”

  “Water, son. Ain’t nothin’ more sacred than water. Even more sacred than air.”

  “I think I’m dying, Daddy.”

  “I know, son.”

  “But I’ve got so many questions—”

  “Shhh. Time for that later.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Noonday stroked his son’s forehead. “Ain’t you been listening to a word I just said? In the water. We’ll meet again in the water. Soon.”

  “I need something, Daddy.”

  “What might that be?” said Noonday, knowing full well what Typhus needed.

  “I need the truth.”

  “The truth is what it is, Typhus. Real truth is common knowledge in the world of living men. Men only get to asking about it when they have a hard time accepting what they already know. But you knew that, didn’t you, Typhus? Ever since you was small, you knew that. You just done forgot is all.”

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, too, boy.” Noonday touched Typhus’ cheek. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Chapter forty-eight

  A Contrast of Hands

  The mind of Malvina Latour had been in steady decline for better than two decades now, its process of deterioration having integrated itself into her daily routine. Recent events passed through her head like a sieve and lately she’d found herself mostly unable to form clear thoughts of any kind. Being aware of such weakness failed to distress her, though, for she found comfort in the night.

  In dreams, she was vibrant and young, her mind sharp and clear. In dreams, she was not a doddering old woman who babbled endlessly and bitterly about shoes left in the middle of the damn floor. While asleep, all was right and peaceful. All this had been so—until Coco Robicheaux had come to call.

  Since the coming of Coco Robicheaux her nights had brought only dread, the vivid calm of dreams stained by something dark and deathly. A ghostly thing had invaded her dreams, never far off but never too near—getting nearer with each night.

  Coco Robicheaux. His presence had become so strong that she now felt him even while awake—as a wisp of smoke encircling her heart, a noose slowly tightening. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she knew he was coming for her.

  Tonight as she drifted off to sleep a heavy sense of dread fell—something like a premonition of her own death. She might have snapped awake had the dread evolved to fear, but the sensation of it had left her remarkably unafraid. Though dread and fear are often mistaken for one another, they are hardly the same thing. She dissolved into sleep with a thin smile on her lips as she let the dream take her.

  *

  The thin smile remains as she walks. She is walking now as she always does in dreams, at the bottom of a river. The object of her dreams, she believes, is to find Manman Brigitte, her spiritual mother, her personal met tet. It’s a journey that has yielded not one clue, but a journey full of wonder and gorgeous mystery. To Malvina Latour it is the mystery of a poem constructed by angels.

  There is no perceptible current this far below the surface; Malvina moves easily, only remotely aware of the tons of water surrounding her, pushing down from above, reducing far away sunlight to luminescent brown, caressing her skin and causing her thick black hair to drift wildly about her eyes. She is strong in the dream; her joints do not ache, she is not short of breath, her back is straight and absent of pain, her head is held high and proud. She is beautiful in the dream; her skin is a glowing and fair tan, her breasts are firm, her stomach flat, and her eyes as bewitching as they’d been in her youth.

  Suddenly she falls, landing softly on palms and knees. Her head turns to investigate what she’s tripped over.

  Shoes.

  In my damn way…

  Dread and fear become one. This is not right, this cannot be. Mundane realities like this are not allowed in dreams. There are no misplaced shoes here, no regret, no betrayal, no guilt, no pain, no pain, no pain…

  Not allowed, not here.

  There is music now. She hears music; tinny and fine, joyous and troubling. Wisps of red and orange weave through the brown of deep river before her eyes: a subtle invasion. The wisps move easily but there’s anger in their movement, they are cool liquid fire. They petition her to remember things that have no business here, things not allowed in sweet dreams of night.

  She means to get to her feet, she means to run, she means to wake, she means to leave—but the river floor is soft, slippery, treacherous and she cannot rise up. There is pain in her joints, her legs and back become racked with creaking misery, she can’t catch her breath. She notes the thick, flowing black hair so recently dancing around her eyes is now wispy and white. She wishes to sink into the river floor; disappear, be gone. She is ready.

  She will not be waking up. This is Coco Robicheaux’s doing. He is, she presumes, the thing she’d called into the world on that black night so many years ago. And now, after a lifetime of anguish and regret, he has finally come to thank her with his cold touch. Manman Brigitte had been wrong; pain has healed no one, no one has done right by anyone, there is no saving grace. Promises were made but not honored, only bad things truly are.

  Her eyes close tight.

  There’s a hand on her forearm, lifting upward, its grip gentle.

  “Mother?” she asks in her mind, with eyes still closed, praying her search might be over, that questions might be answered, that an end might be near. She hears only a laugh in return. A deep, male laugh.

  “Nope. Ain’t nobody’s mama, and that’s fer sure.”

  The voice sounds kind, but Malvina learned long ago not to trust untested impressions. She’d been tricked many times by kind voices in her life, had even tricked a few people with similar deceits of her own.

  “Kill me then. I know who you are, Coco Robicheaux. Know why ya come. Get it over with and be done with me.” She pushes herself up on trembling legs, her free hand covering her eyes, not wanting to see the demon’s eyeless face so close. Not wanting to see him at all.

  Another gentle laugh. “Open your eyes, little mother. Probably not who you think, mayhap. I mean you no harm.”

  “I ain’t afraid of you, trickster.” Defiance.

  “Well, if yer so all-fired brave then look at me already. I ain’t as ugly as all that, now. Keep it up and you’ll wind up hurting a person’s feelings.”

  Malvina takes one quick step back before removing her hand from her eyes. The man only smiles at her, hands in pockets. Not a bad looking man, this Coco Robicheaux demon. Her eyes widen with recognition.

  “I know you,” she says.

  “Mebbe so, mebbe so,” says the man who is not Coco Robicheaux. “Who might I be, then?”

  Malvina crinkles her brow. “Can’t be who I think—bein’ that somebody’s long dead.”

  “Talk sense, old woman,” the man says impatiently. “You are of the understanding that this is a dream, ain’t that right?”

  “Well, yes. I mean it would have to be. We’re under water for Pete’s sake.”

  “Well, then. Why would it trouble you to know I am dead? Why not talk to a dead
man in a dream? Folks do it alla time—ain’t that right?”

  Malvina takes a cautious step forward. “Well, of course they do. But it’s just that…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you look so…so…solid.”

  “That be so, dear. In this place I’m plenty real. Realer than you, statement of fact. Looky here…” The man holds his hand out towards Malvina. The warmth of his voice tells her it’s all right, and she places her hand in his.

  “See that?” says the man.

  Malvina stares at their clasped hands. His hand is solid, firm and opaque—her own is…not quite there. Transparent by comparison. “Well, I’ll be…”

  “Interesting, wouldn’t you say, dear?” There’s warmth in his touch, and he gives her hand a squeeze. “You see, things ain’t exactly how you might think ’round here.”

  “How so?” Malvina is still eyeing the contrast of hands.

  “Rationally, you’d think since I’m the one dead, that I’d be the ghost here. Well, that would be true in your waking world, but this ain’t no air-breathing, hard-living world we’re in at the moment. This is the Spiritworld. And in the Spiritworld, it’s the spirits who are solid and real. When living folks show up, it’s they who are ghosts. That’s because they’re not really here. They visit this place only when they dream.”

  “I’m a ghost?” says Malvina, organizing her thoughts.

  “Down here, yes.” The man’s answer is firm.

  “So…you’re just a real live dead man talking to a living ghost?”

  “Ha! Ain’t quite thought of it that way,” he laughs.

  Malvina is smiling now. “I’m sorry I never got to know you better while we was both living, Noonday.”

  “That’s all right, Malvina. We traveled in diffn’t circles, you and me. Me bein’ a Christian and you bein’ a hoodoo mambo and all. Wasn’t till I passed on that I realized it’s all part of one big circle after all.”

  “Well, there are similarities,” Malvina doesn’t quite follow Noonday’s meaning.

  “No, not similarities. It’s the same.” He looks at her directly, but she is looking past him.