Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“No, of course not. You’re my good friend, Mr. Marcus. Always have been, since I was small. You know that.” Fact was she thought him a nutty old kook, if endearingly so.

“I’m much appreciative of kindness even when it ain’t necessarily true, so I thank you, my dear.” He smiled.

Malaria considered arguing but didn’t want to appear rude or disrespectful, and so she only returned the smile in kind. Larry refilled Marcus’ suddenly-empty shot glass without being told.

“Let me ask you something, Malaria.” Marcus meant to go somewhere with this talk of his own sanity or lack thereof. “When you look in that kid’s eyes, what color are they to you?”

“You mean Jim?”

“That’s right.”

A pause. “Well, I guess I’d say fishy blue.”

“Fishy blue. That’s good. It means he ain’t got his sights on you. Not yet, leastways. Do you know what color I see in those eyes?”

“Upstairs you said ’red like summer cherries.’”

“That’s right. Red. Red as can be.”

“Glowing red? Like lamplight?” She was mildly fascinated by the notion of seeing whatever it was Marcus saw, even if it was a thing imagined.

“No. Like painted red. Dull in color, like dried blood against old smoothed wood. But red just the same.” He reached for her hand again. “Malaria, I’m usually just fine with folks thinking me a fool, an old feller with a wild imagination and strange ideas about the world, but I need to come clean with you about certain things-and for good and particular reason. Now try to keep an open mind ’cause some of this gonna sound damn strange.”

“All right.”

“That Jim Jam Jump kid ain’t quite human, darlin’, and he done latched onto yer brother Dropsy. This is a very serious thing.” His eyes told her he meant it. “Dropsy’s a good kid, but this association gonna get him hurt. Or worse. So you need to know certain things.”

Now he had her full attention. She had never liked Jim, though she couldn’t exactly say why-she just felt a hollow, sinking feeling whenever in his presence. It made her very nervous the way Dropsy followed the kid around, even seemed to idolize him.

“What kind of certain things?” She failed to conceal the worry in her voice and so Marcus softened his tone.

“Well, dear, neither you nor I were in that house on that night, but we both have an idea what happened there. And I happen to know there’s a lot more to it than what’s been said around town in the barbershops and sewing circles and such.”

Malaria understood which night he referred to. The night her father died-and almost took Typhus along with him. The night a demon was supposedly cast out of one-year-old Dominick Carolla, the boy currently known as Jim Jam Jump.

“Some folks say that boy was suffering from an illness, others say from demons. But I know it warn’t exactly neither.” An avalanche of irrelevant laughter erupted overhead-Marcus waited for it to pass before wheezing in a deep breath, then out, then continuing on. “The thing inside that child was invited by hoodoo most foul, brought on by that crazy old fool Malvina Latour. She set that thing into motion, brought it into this world many years back, before you was even born-and it was meant for me, that thing. Meant to right a perceived wrong I done against her kin.”

“What kin?” She’d heard many stories about Malvina the Vodou mambo over the years, but this one was new to her.

“I can’t get on that right now, and it don’t rightly matter by this late date anyhow.”

Malaria watched a bead of sweat roll down his cheek that could have passed for a tear.

“What matters is this: that old Malvina didn’t know then what it was she brought on, don’t know now neither, and likely won’t know never. It was a djab , that thing. Now, djab is a Haitian word that translates as ‘demon,’ but really just means any kind of unruly spirit with a need to be kept in check by Papa Legba and Mama Ayizan -if allowed into this world at all. Whatever it might be or might not be, it don’t see itself as no demon. It sees itself as some kinda savior of the human race. And, hell, maybe it is.” He glanced over by the piano to avoid the burn of her eyes. “But its methods are suspect.”

Unnoticed by any in the saloon, Outlaw told a silent tale of caution and dread beneath the piano bench with wildly expressive ears.

“But my daddy cast that demon out.” She never really believed those old stories, but when the nights got black enough she sometimes wondered. “That’s what they say at least.”

“It was Typhus cast it out,” he corrected. “And took it into himself. Yer daddy just hung up in the crossfire. But those two boys each got a part of it that linger on. Jim got the part what means harm. That kid was too young to fight it off or even know what was happening. He been living with that thing so long now he can’t see no other way, he’s become what it made him. I ’spect it’s too late for that boy now. But Typhus was older, smarter, more skilled in spiritual matters. I suspect he’s having a tough time with it in his own way, though.” His eyes returned to meet hers. “Malaria, this gonna be hard to hear but important, so try and take stock. I believe this thing to be more dangerous than some old demon. I’m afraid we’re talking about a danger so strong as to bring about a change in the weather. This thing means to clean the world of sin if it can, and the tryin’ won’t be kind nor pretty.”

“Clean the world of sin,” she echoed under breath. Malaria found herself fighting a powerful urge to laugh out loud. The urge passed quickly. “I thought you said this thing was after you in particular, Mr. Marcus.”

“No, that was the plan of the mambo alone. The thing in Jim couldn’t give a hang about that crazy witch’s vendetta against a beaten old gravedigger like me. But it knows that I know , and so it’s got its sights on me. I know this to be true when I look into those red eyes. And I plan to keep my sights on it, too-I mean to watch its every move. Now, don’t be scared ner overly worried, but you need to you keep an eye on it yerself-because this thing has positioned itself as a direct threat to your kin.” He let his voice deepen nearly an octave before finishing: “Malaria, promise me that if those eyes ever go red on you that you’ll be careful.”

“I promise,” she lied.

The strange confessions of Marcus Nobody Special had gotten Malaria to thinking about the dual forces that had set her life so firmly and cruelly on its current course; the forces of father and of God. Of what she’d hoped to learn from both or neither her whole life long-and how those lessons had remained so maddeningly unlearned yet so dearly paid for. Tonight she suffered new clarity as she came to realize such answers might come if only she dare indulge a secret wish to fail them both.

Being the oldest in a family of orphans had carried with it certain responsibilities. Her father’s death had effectively preordained the rest of her days-or so she’d believed-handing down a life sentence with no hope of recourse or appeal, a sentence allowing her only to give of herself and never truly to receive.

Now here she was, standing at a crossroads of regret and thankless servitude, with no sign of relief or rescue for as far as the eye could see. This had been her lot in life. Never having had time nor inclination to find a man-let alone a child-for herself, never having closely considered the possibility of a career or a higher purpose, never having confided to a soul on earth that all she’d ever wanted was to sing.

The bitterest pill was that her commitment to self-neglect went wholly unnoticed-certainly unchallenged-by the ones she’d loved most, the very beneficiaries of her sacrifice. They seemed content to accept her love as a matter of course and get on with their own lives. She assumed her eventual death would be deemed a similar matter of course; briefly to be mourned, soon to be forgotten. She would outlive none of them.