Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Troubled about my soul, Lord…

Typhus crumpled in his father’s arms. Hands lifeless, knuckles brushing against the floor. Father Morningstar’s eyes became wide, enraged, black.

Doctor Jack searched his soul for answers and found none.

Beauregard Church reached into his worn leather bag, removed an old and dull-bladed knife that once belonged to his grandfather. Pearl handle with bits of glass polished to look like jewels. Cheap family heirloom. Good for nothing except maybe for luck. He leapt towards Morningstar and plunged the knife into the preacher’s back up to the handle, the dull blade tearing straight into, then past, his heart.

Diphtheria screamed. Ran to her father as Buddy dropped his horn to intercept her, holding her fast. Whispered soft in her ear, feigning calm: “It’s over.” Held her tight, stroked her hair. “I think it’s over.”

Beauregard stood up, leaving his cheap family heirloom in the preacher’s back. Picked up his leather bag full of lucky stuff and walked out of the house without word or expression, walked into the warm air of night. Walked down the steps. Kept walking. Didn’t come back.

The dark red life of Noonday Morningstar spread across the floor of the Carolla house, bathing the soles of Anabella Carolla’s shoes and evenly soaking the uneven carpet. Anabella Carolla had seen none of it, nothing past the release of her son. Nothing else mattered. She simply held the baby to her breast and repeated over and over: “ grazie, grazie, grazie, grazie …”

Dominick Carolla was fast asleep in her arms. Breathing deeply and easily. Except for the grateful chant of his mother and the gentle sobs of Diphtheria Morningstar, the house was now silent, its temperature warming. Noonday Morningstar’s lifeless body lay atop his son’s. Father and son in a puddle of joined blood, swimming motionless.

Jack pulled Beauregard’s heirloom free from Morningstar’s back. Dropped it to the sticky floor. Put a hand on the preacher’s shoulder, rolled him over and off of the nine-year-old. This would not be Typhus’ day to die. His father had sacrificed too much to allow it.

Empty wrist: Noonday Morningstar’s right hand was nowhere to be seen.

Covering Typhus’ naked chest was a large, bright pink welt. A fresh scar in the shape of a hand.

Jack picked the boy up in his arms. Took him out of that place. Buddy and Diphtheria followed close behind. None of them spoke. Leaving as quietly as they had come.

Marshall Trumbo stayed behind.

He looked at the mother and child, so strangely reunited. Quiet and calm as if no demon had ever visited them.

The song resolved like all melodies, with a single note.

A.

But not A.

Things change with resolution; completely, irrevocably.

From resolve to clarity, clarity to understanding, understanding to questions. And with questions of this kind comes a sort of salvation. But not salvation.

E flat. Transition. A.

Questions.

The player stops.

He is more sober now than he’s ever been in his life. His mind isn’t ready for the questions, but he listens to them intently. He doesn’t want to hear them; he needs to hear them. He reaches for his bottle of train yard-grade gin, holds it firmly, reels back and tosses it through an open window. Listens to the tinkle of shattered glass outside. Lays his horn on the pillow, his head next to the horn; it is inches from his eyes. His eyes are red and he feels tears building, but he does not let them through. His eyes look up at the warped, rainwater-stained ceiling as he strokes the horn protectively. He cannot sleep. He wants a drink and recalls the recent sound of shattered glass. Out the window.

This time, he will remember the A.

He knows he has seen the face of God.

Questions. E flat. A. Clarity.

Something is created, stillborn, then reborn; a broken promise on the mend.

A rebirth in progress, it has all the time in the world. What once existed but left too soon has returned. An abortion swimming up from the river. New life. With time.

Differently. Irrevocably.

Buddy Bolden dreams with eyes wide open.

Well, little miss, I do appreciate wisdom in the young. And that’s just what you done showed me tonight.

Pretty little miss like you coming round to Doctor Jack asking about a cure, sure nuff. Not asking for a cure, but asking about a cure-the difference between the two being larger than you might expect. One question show caution-the other just quick and dumb. And I do appreciate you for it, little darlin’, indeedy I do.

Most gals come around to Doctor Jack just hoping for a quick fix to what they view as an imminent crisis or a state of impendin’ personal doom. Figgerin’ a cure is a cure and don’t reckon much that a cure might turn out bad. But sometimes a cure can make things best for short and worst for long. So it truly is wise to ask about before asking for .

I’ll answer your questions best as I can, little one, though, truthfully, my answers can’t possibly be right for no one but myself. No, my answers are for me, but maybe I can point you in the direction of your own. Then, once you decide, we can go on talking ’bout curin’ and such, if you still have a mind to.

The cure is a thing called calisaya. Bark off a shrub that come here on a boat from South America. Can grow pretty good in New Orleans, too, if you get it down in good so the roots take hold. Just grind up the right amount then put that powder in a tea. Once that calisaya get inside ya, little girl? The cure is on.

Sets your insides to contractin’. Might be some bleedin’ and might be some dyin’. Lungs’ll contract too, making it hard to breathe. Bladder too, making you wanna pee. Retina too, making it hard to see. Heart too, and that’s where the real danger be. But if you get past all that, then past is past, and that-for some-is the cure.

But you didn’t just ask on the how. You asked on God, too. What God might think of all of this curin’ talk. Hmm.

Well, hell, I don’t know what God thinks. But I do know this:

God has occasion to talk to each of us directly at one time or another-and all along he be telling us the same thing, to be sure. We just listen different is all.

Some folks turn away from God because he won’t answer a peep when they ask him questions through diligent and heartfelt praying and such. He quiet as a mouse, that ol’ God, when the prayers come out-almost like he ain’t there. Well, maybe, just maybe, that’s on accounta God waiting on us to answer a few of his own questions first. Bet you never even thought of that, eh? That’s all right, little sis, not many do.

I see you scratching your head and I can’t says I blame you. But let me go on for just a bit and maybe it’ll make more sense by the time I get through. If you got a few minutes, why dontcha take off your hat and have a little sitdown?

Typhus? Be a good little fella and make a cup of tea for our pretty little company.

I’d say coffee, sweetheart, but I don’t believe coffee to be good for a gal in the family way. In case you decide agen’ the cure, that is.

So, I was talkin’. That’s right. Thank you, Typhus. Thank you.

Try this one on for size, little sis:

Try and think about God before he made the world. Before he made the saints and the angels and the puppies and the gators and the babies and the mothers. When all he had to mess with was planets and stars and moons made out of cold dirt and hellfire. Try to think of God as just a regular fella in that situation.