Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“Now, now, little fella. Don’t be so upset. I done made you a fair proposition, ain’t I?” The mock-tenderness in Jim’s voice gave West a sick feeling in his stomach. “Just got a little question for ya is all.”

West collected himself a little. “What if I don’t know the answer, Jim?”

“Well, let’s just say you have to know the answer.”

“I-I-I’ll try…”

“Fair enough! Can’t ask for no more than that, West.” Jim took another step forward, bringing his eyes less than three inches from West’s. Jim’s lips pulled back over tightly clenched teeth:

“ Lakjufa doir estay?”

West just stared. “What’s it mean, Jim?”

Jim threw his head back in a howl. After a moment, he reached into his pocket to retrieve an assortment of shiny, colored buttons, holding them in open palm so West could see. Bending slightly at the knees, he crept towards West again;

“ Lakjufa doir estay? Lakjufa doir estay? Lakjufa doir estay?”

“The answer to that question would be yes , pardna.” A deep voice came forward from the morass. “Yes, yes, yes . But you knew that, Jim. Dintcha know? ’Course you knew. Reckon you did know all along. Yes, indeed.”

West watched as Jim’s eyes widened, his lids raising high enough over eyeballs to make his lashes disappear entirely.

“Yer late, Dropsy,” said Jim. “Told you to meet me here at ten. Can’t ya fallah the simplest instructions, now? I declare.”

“Watcha doin’ with my nephew, pardna?”

“It’s like I said, Dropsy. Moving up to the next level.”

“Not with him. You want to move up, move up with me. I’m bigger than he is.”

“Gotta be him, pardna. I got me a multi-purpose angle running here. You oughta know that. I always got angles runnin’ all over the damn place. That’s who I am.”

“He’s just a kid, Jim. Ain’t sportsman-like.”

“I thought about that, friend-and I appreciate your concern. But he’s bigger than a dog, just like a dog’s bigger than a rat. And then there’s the other angle on top.”

“What angle?”

“I need his daddy’s horn, Dropsy. You know that. How’m I supposed to get that horn when old Buddy won’t sell it for ten times its worth onna counta him? Plus, I need you to be here when it happens. Need to know we’re truly friends. Need to know I kin trust ya. Trust ya good and deep, pardna.”

“What’s to keep me from snapping yer scrawny white neck right here and now, then toss yer fool-ass in the river, Jim?” West had never seen such coldness in Uncle Dropsy’s eyes. If he hadn’t seen it for himself, he’d never believed such a thing possible.

“This thing ain’t gonna happen, Jim. So git it out yer head.”

“Pardna, you just done hurt my feelings. And I thought I could rely on you through thick and thin. No matter, no matter. This don’t change much.”

“Git movin’ Jim. I mean it.”

“I don’t think so, Dropsy. You may be bigger’n me, but I’m quicker. Kin swim good, too-just like a fish. Take another step in my direction, I’ll jump inna water and swim to the closest ship er shore, tell em how you killed that old nigger then how ya come after me, chased me right into the river. Now, who’ll take the word of a simple-minded nigger and a nine-year-old nigger baby-brat- punk over a poor, skinny, beloved and regionally famous white boy like myself? You’ll be in jail awaiting execution ’fore supper time-then I’ll have all the time in the world to come back for little West.”

Dropsy didn’t answer. He put a hand on West’s head, stroked his hair, tried to calm his sobs.

“Now, pardna,” Jim started again, the cockiness in his voice grating in Dropsy’s ears. “You know I’m right. That boy’s a goner no matter how you slice it. But your part is easy. You just stand there and watch me cut his throat. You ain’t gotta do nothing a’tall. Just keep our secret-like you always done. But this secret is special-secrets like this can keep people partners for life.” Dropsy’s expression failed to soften, so Jim continued with less spit in his timber. “I need you, Dropsy. Don’t you know that? You may not realize it, but you need me, too. Keep this secret and we’ll always be friends. So whaddaya say? Partners?” Jim held out a hand for Dropsy to shake.

Dropsy Morningstar knew that Jim Jam Jump had won, that this was checkmate. Dropsy had never won a game of chess in his life, never could get the hang of thinking that far ahead. The only thing he was sure of right now was that there was nothing he could do to save his little nephew. He wasn’t strong enough, smart enough, or fast enough.

Dropsy turned to face West, placed strong but gentle hands to the boy’s trembling cheeks. There is a certain peace in knowing when you’re beat, and Dropsy looked into his beloved nephew’s eyes now, wanting to share that peace.

“West?” said Dropsy.

“Yes?” said West.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Uncle Dropsy.”

“I’m so sorry. See you soon.”

The boy’s neck snapped with one quick motion, his death immediate and painless. Dropsy kissed him once on the forehead before releasing the head, letting it flop to an unnatural angle at the shoulder. Dropsy turned to Jim, looked him dead in the eye, said:

“ Tat.”

Dropsy wasn’t any good at chess, but he always was expert at the switch.

Jim Jam Jump’s jaw fell open in horror:

“ Ya kilt him! Ya weren’t s’posed ta kill him!”

“Now ya kin git that horn, I reckon, Jim.”

“ Hey! You weren’t supposed to do that! I ain’t got no angle worked out fer that !”

“Guess we got no secrets, you and me, Jim. Nothin’ to keep us friends now.” Dropsy was walking towards Jim with deadly eyes. “Checkmate, Jim.”

“You keep away from me, you big ape! I’ll holler and someone’ll come!”

“No secrets to tell, no secrets to keep.”

To Jim’s surprise, Dropsy wasn’t coming for him after all, walking right past and into the river.

“Whatcha doin’, you big fool? You cain’t swim!”

“You tell this anyway you want to, Jim. Tell ’em the truth. Tell ’em I kilt my own nephew. Probably make you into some big hero once ya figger the right angle.”

Dropsy Morningstar didn’t lay a hand on Jim Jam Jump. Just kept walking. Walking in the direction of Algiers, which lay across the river.

There are four children-two boys and two girls-all tied to chairs and sitting at the edge of a wide pit ten feet in diameter. Flames and smoke lick upward from the pit’s mouth. The children are sweating, their shins blackening and blistering in the heat. They are all about the age of eight or nine and bear a family resemblance to one another.

Typhus stands across the pit. He is untied, he is his father. The prison guard’s knife twitches in his back as if alive. His right hand is freshly severed-but where there should be blood there leaks only water.

An old woman is standing behind the children, her head and face wrapped tightly in chicken wire. The woman stares at Typhus-her eyes fill him with cold fear. He should run to the aid of the children but is paralyzed by the woman’s eyes. He knows she is capable of much worse than the mere harming of children.

“Hast thou come to kiss this child?” the woman asks him, pointing to the girl who sits between the two boys.

Typhus cannot form thoughts but hears himself say, “What child?” The sound of his own voice startles him; it is not his own voice, it is his father’s voice. Typhus looks down and sees his father’s old family bible in his left hand. It trembles in his grasp and is cold to the touch.