Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“You go, Diphtheria. Tell Josie I ain’t well.”

Diphtheria’s soft expression toughened slightly. “You keep that up and you’ll be back to cribbin’ after all. You know that. Josie’s got some tenderness in her heart for you, girl-but you keep it up and she’ll rent yer room out to someone new.” Diphtheria let out a sigh, remorseful of the harshness in her voice. “Get dressed. And put on that smile.” Diphtheria demonstrated a smile as if Hattie might have forgotten what one looked like. Then, after a pause, and with calculated tenderness, “So’s you can put some money away for that next little one.”

Hattie sat up slowly, her spine aligning gradually with the sofa back.

“Yeah. Guess you right, Diphtheria.”

“’Course I’m right. Now, you get yerself gussied to make yerself a little killin’-you and yer natural high-yella skin tone set to breakin’ hearts-Lord, Lord! -and I’ll be back in my room doin’ the same. Lotsa fancy men in town fer a fraternity meetin’, they say. Meet you at the parlor room, all right?”

“I guess,” said Hattie, unable to get excited at the thought of fancy men-she’d suspected (or at least hoped) it had been a fancy man from a fraternity who’d knocked her up in the first place.

Hattie felt her mood darkening. Thinking about taking a bath. Thinking about the straight razor in her washroom. Thinking about hot water turning pink. “Might take a little bath first,” she said quietly.

“That’s it, you take a bath.” Diphtheria spoke brightly, but something in Hattie’s eyes rang an alarm, so she added on for safety’s sake, “But make it a short one. Got to get to work. I’ll be back to check on you if you take too long.”

“Yeah, a short one,” Hattie monotoned. “All right then, Diphtheria.”

“Got that new piano player ya like downstairs, girl. Mr. J.C. Booker, the one that plays them rags. Get yer mind offa things I bet, them rags.” Hattie smiled some, almost forgetting about hot baths with pink water at the thought of J.C. Booker and his gay piano rags.

“Damn, that boy sure plays good,” Hattie agreed. “Least he don’t play them stuffy classics like the last boy.” A little laugh escaped her lips; a tiny miracle. “Them Beethoven suh-nattas just put me clean outta the mood.”

“That’s right, dear.” Diphtheria smiled. “Let that pretty piano boy lift yer spirits some. Skip the bath and come down quick. Playin’ already, I bet.”

“Yeah, maybe so.”

“All right, then. See you in a few minutes,” Diphtheria said, practicing her man-catching smile, grabbing West by his little hand, pulling open the door.

“All right then.” Hattie echoed. And then: “Diphtheria?”

“Yeah, baby?” Half-way through the door, West’s wrist wriggling in her grip.

“Thank you.” Another little smile.

Big smile in return: “Stop talkin’ crazy and getcher self dressed up, girl. Gotta go break some hearts and make some market.” Diphtheria left, beaming at her success in brightening Hattie’s eyes-a difficult accomplishment these last few days.

But the sound of the closing door felt hollow and echoless in Hattie’s ear, and the room’s sudden emptiness weighed heavy. A vision of J.C. Booker-his smile, his music, his passion for living-did manage to lighten a dark corner of her mind, but another corner stayed dark and dwelled on visions of pink bathwater. Hattie Covington stared hard at the pile of buttons West had been playing with. Neatly stacked by the door. One perfect tower. A child’s success.

Hattie got up and went to the washroom. Put the stopper in the drain of the tub. Let warm, clear water flow. But before the tub was full, there was a rapping at the door.

The knock was small but firm. The sound of a tiny fist.

“Now, git on to the ante-room to see Miss Bernice double-quick,” Diphtheria told West as soon as they stepped into the hallway outside Hattie’s room. “Mama’s gotta make us some groceries.” Bernice was a sweet-tempered midwife hired by Madame Josie to watch over the little ones while their mothers were otherwise disposed.

Sudden concern distorted West’s eyebrows: “Mama, oh no.”

“What’s a matter, child?”

“Forgot my buttons in Miss Hattie’s room.”

Diphtheria sighed. “Well, don’t you worry. Miss Bernice got plenty of toys fer you kids to play with. You can getcher buttons back later.”

“Can’t I just knock on Miss Hattie’s door and get ’em now?” West found his mother’s knack for doing everything the long way both annoying and perplexing.

“Don’t you even think about it, little man,” Diphtheria held firm. “Miss Hattie’s getting dressed now-might be taking a bath, too. You go barging in for your buttons and you might be walking in on a naked lady is what. That what you want?”

“No,” West conceded timidly-the idea of walking in on a “naked lady” being a universally terrifying concept in the world of pre-adolescent boys. West much preferred his grown-ups fully clothed whenever possible.

“Now, off to see Miss Bernice. We’ll worry ’bout them buttons later. You just let me worry about them buttons, hear?”

West’s eyebrows raised, bunched, then spread-he knew full well his mother lacked the ability to worry properly over such things. But smart kids can be relentless when the fate of shiny buttons hangs in the balance-and West was certainly a smart kid. Grown-ups just didn’t understand such things, and children don’t have the patience to explain every little thing.

Diphtheria, knowing it was not in West’s nature to give up so quickly, didn’t have time to ponder any potentially devious intentions he may have. With a sigh she rolled her eyes, hoped for the best, and darted down the hall so she could get down to the serious business of making herself irresistible to strangers.

Having no desire to walk in on a naked lady, West’s plan was to wait for Miss Hattie to finish dressing and come out under her own steam. As soon as she opened the door he’d simply ask for his buttons and be on his way; off to the ante-room like a good boy. In West’s mind, being a “good boy” didn’t necessarily mean doing every silly thing your mother told you to do in the correct order. He parked himself outside Hattie’s door with his arms wrapped around his knees.

After about five minutes of waiting, West noted the sound of running water inside. Miss Hattie was drawing a bath after all-this might take a while. No matter, thought West, it wasn’t like he had anything pressing to attend. Resolved to a longer wait, West let the water sound coax his mind into a daydream.

The daydream began with the topic at hand: Buttons. Red buttons, blue buttons, purple and pink, shiny and flat, square and round. Little buttons, big buttons big as a house, flying buttons, talking buttons, and buttons that could swim. But dream-thoughts of buttons can get old pretty quick even for a small boy who obsesses on such things, so the daydream soon turned to other fun things, the funnest non-button thing he could think of being his Uncle Dropsy. Uncle Dropsy had a rare comprehension of things important to little kids. He understood about wrestling and sneaking and playing tricks and hide and seek and doing slightly dangerous things without tattling and laughing over the serious things that mostly made mommies just cry.

Uncle Dropsy was different from other big people in another special way, too; when he played with West it wasn’t just for West’s benefit, wasn’t any kind of babysitting chore at all. Uncle Dropsy actually liked playing with West. When the two of them were horsing around together, Uncle Dropsy’s smiles were real. Uncle Dropsy honestly enjoyed West as much as West enjoyed Uncle Dropsy.