Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“Need to get that washed up, Jim. That dog-disease could get in yer blood. Then you be snappin’ and foamin’ too.” Dropsy silently wondered if mad-dog-disease might actually constitute some improvement on his friend’s unpredictable temperament.

“Indeed, Dropsy. That I will. Will get it cleaned up at the first clip-joint we take a tumble to…fer tattin’ , that is.” Wink. “This little episode might even make for a good dramatic introduction to a nice juicy mark.” Always working a new angle was the way of Jim Jam Jump.

“Y’know, Jim, I never did take that bet. Didn’t even count to twenty.” Dropsy: still playing the game, throwing up a challenge to Jim’s angle-calculator.

“Only since you didn’t have time to, pal. But I took care o’ that dog just like I said, bare hands and all. Don’t go mooching now. Might make a fella mad is what.”

“All right then, Jim. I reckon you win. Any idea where to go?”

Jim just smiled. “’Deed I do, Dropsy. ’Deed I do.”

Dropsy marveled at the able mind of his young friend. Always a plan in mind, always an angle smoothed to fine. Dropsy figured Jim was destined for great things, as predicted. A mind so sharp and focused could hardly go wrong.

Hattie Covington lay on her side in the shape of a Z, her head in the lap of Diphtheria Morningstar-just as it had every night since the bitter evening of her cure.

Diphtheria and Hattie had risen from the Marais Street cribs to Arlington Hall together, and so had become like sisters. As Diphtheria stroked Hattie’s hair and looked into her half-closed eyes, she found herself mildly alarmed by what she saw there.

“I know, I know,” Diphtheria said in a whisper.

“You know more than me then, I guess,” said Hattie, with hardly a movement of her lips, idly watching Diphtheria’s boy play with a handful of buttons near the door. West had been methodically stacking irregular round and oval shapes for the last two hours. Stacking until they fell of their own accord, then starting over-and over and over-never quite able to stack them all in one freestanding button tower. “Might be I coulda made it like you. Raised me a nice little boy like West. Or a girl maybe. Might be. Could be. Won’t know now.”

“Shh. Things was diff’nt for me. I was just out of the crib-with nothin’ at all to lose. Had me a man to fall back on, too-least thought I did.” Diphtheria’s nose crinkled slightly at the memory of Buddy’s callous desertion so soon after West’s birth. Buddy had gotten his first whiff of notoriety in the district back then-a wife and baby just didn’t figure into the life of a rising star. When it became clear to her that Buddy would not be coming back, Diphtheria let go the notion of putting the whore’s life behind her, focusing instead on becoming a better paid whore. With a child to raise on her own she would need money; better money than she’d been accustomed to in the cribs.

With Doctor Jack’s help, Diphtheria had managed to lighten her skin a shade closer to high yella. Doing so had required daily, painfully stinging skin treatments (a mix of hot yellow wax, cocoa butter and a type of bleach Doctor Jack called “petrolatum”), and in two months time she’d paled up nicely. In the interim she’d worked the rice fields of Assumption Parish to make ends meet; the hard work making her body toned, muscular and ready for selling. Ten dollars saved from the rice fields bought her a fancy dress, the kind she believed was required in the fancy brothels of Basin Street.

Her first big break had come in the form of Lulu White’s Mahogany Hall, where she discovered no such fancy dress was required-at least not at first. At Lulu’s she was hired on as the house “goat”; and to be a goat meant to prance around the first floor parlor naked as a jaybird save for high-heeled shoes. Lulu’s goat was lagniappe for her high-class clientele. It was the job of the goat to award “five minutes of undivided attention” to any man who requested such-usually on her knees and free of charge. A nasty and thankless job it was, but a solid first step towards the good-paying career Diphtheria had dreamed of since Buddy’s departure. If nothing else, Mahogany Hall offered a safer working environment than could be found in any crib.

Diphtheria had been a trusty and popular goat for Lulu, and so it wasn’t too many months before her promotion to an upstairs room of her own. Eventually she moved down the street to the Arlington House, where she was given her own listing in the Blue Book under the name “Dorothia Morningstar.” It was Josie Arlington herself who had insisted on the name change, pointing out that even an exceptionally pretty girl named for a disease might tend to inspire costly hesitation in the heart of a wealthy upper-class patron. Whatever the name, a listing in the Blue Book was the big time. Diphtheria had made it, and so had Hattie.

The process of coming up in the district had been all about hard times, but Diphtheria and Hattie had gone through the worst of it together. Now Diphtheria doubted if Hattie (or herself, for that matter) could summon the strength required to start again from scratch. Hattie’s skin was naturally light, her lips thin and her nose narrow-fine Creole looks that made her own transition from the crib a smooth one. But that could all change fast if a baby ruined her shape.

“Your situation is diff’nt,” Diphtheria continued. “Gettin’ full-blown pregnant woulda lost you yer job in a high-class joint like Arlington Hall-and you know it. Woulda got kicked back down to the cribs in ten seconds flat. How you woulda raised a child in a crib with no man to look after ya? And no money? Cain’t raise a baby up proper on no crib-nickels.”

“I know, I know,” answered Hattie, a delayed echo to Diphtheria’s earlier whisper. “Still, I wanted that child. That was my child. Even if it was only from being selfish, I wanted that child. Maybe I coulda found a way. Might be, could be.”

Diphtheria stroked Hattie’s hair, ever gently. “Shush now, girl. You ain’t selfish like that. It was your love for that child made you get cured. Knowin’ his life would be so hard. Your own life be hard, too hard to care for him proper. It ain’t like you didn’t think things through. You tortured yourself over it. You gave it every consideration-which is more’n most girls do. You loved that baby in yer body and done what you thought best for him . Ain’t no sin in doing what you think is right. Being selfish woulda been more a sin. You ain’t selfish like that, girl. You know you ain’t.”

That much was true. Hattie had tortured herself over the thought of bringing a child into the world, and in the end decided the timing couldn’t be worse. So she had seen Doctor Jack about (and later for ) a cure, but she’d also committed herself to saving up a year’s worth of wages; enough money to survive her next pregnancy, get her figure back, then get back to work.

But she knew she would never have another chance at having this baby. This baby was gone and gone for good; except in her heart. Its little pink body taken away by Diphtheria’s brother, Typhus, to be buried or sunk God knows where. The next time it would be a whole other baby. A newer, luckier baby-allowed to live. But not the same baby at all. This baby was dead-and dead is forever.

“It ain’t fair,” said Hattie. “ I ain’t fair.”

Diphtheria had no words for response, and so stroked Hattie’s hair some more. Wiped away her tears.

“Shhhh,” Diphtheria cooed again. “You and me best be gettin’ to work now, girl. Try to put on a little smile for the customers.”