Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

“So when’s she coming? Tonight maybe?” Typhus hoped she might be waiting right outside the door. He didn’t think he could stand to wait another minute.

“She’s here already, boy.” Doctor Jack pulled a length of dark blue cloth from his hip pocket. Typhus watched his hands as he did so, noticing a small bloody cut on Jack’s forearm about five inches up from the wrist. Before tying the blindfold on, Jack gave Typhus one last opportunity to back out. “You sure this is what you want, now?”

To turn back now was unthinkable. This would be his moment of truth, his coming of age. No matter what this thing was to be, it was a thing he needed desperately. He couldn’t fully be himself, or even know who he was, without it.

“Yes,” replied Typhus.

Jack tied the blindfold tightly. After two minutes of quiet darkness, Typhus heard the door to Doctor Jack’s storage room swing open, followed by the sound of bare feet padding lightly against the hardwood floor. Typhus’ nostrils filled with perfume, the smell of it wonderfully overpowering. A bright image of Lily sprang to life in Typhus’ darkened mind. In full color, living and breathing, and wanting him-wanting to see him, to be with him. Typhus believed it was all true now. She was here, standing before him. Here. She was really here. His Lily. His love.

Here.

“Well, boy, ain’t you gonna say nothing to the love of your life?” Jack asked.

Typhus imagined he could feel a smile radiating outward from Lily’s soul. But along with the smile he sensed her fear, her shyness, her caution at the idea of this meeting. He could feel her tremble through air.

“Hello, Miss Lily,” started Typhus calmly, wanting to say so many things but not knowing where to start. “Don’t be afraid. I only want to do right by you. I’ve made many vows to you that you don’t know nothin’ about. Vows about keepin’ and protectin’. Vows about giving to you everything I can give. You might not know it, but you’ve given me so much already. So very, very much. I only want to give back to you. To know you, to be with you, to be good to you. I want for things to be right with us. In any way you want, in any way that makes you happy-”

A finger touched his lips; shushing. He was not sure at first whether the finger belonged to Lily or Jack-it was soft, but rough in texture. Then Typhus heard what sounded like a gentle sob-and he knew it was Lily who’d touched him. The finger withdrew, and Typhus spoke again, “No, don’t be sad. Don’t be sad. There’s nothing sad about this. I have no expectations of you. Nothing, nothing- ”

Again Typhus was shushed, but this time by the touch of soft lips. He dared not kiss them back, allowed himself only to revel in their warmth. Like the finger, they lacked the smoothness he’d imagined and hoped for-but then, he knew this could not be the young woman of his picture; a picture taken long, long ago. Still, her lips were soft and her breath was sweet, almost too sweet-like the excessive sweetness of a peach too long in the sun; a hint of baked-in decay lurking beneath perfect skin. For all its imperfections it was still the most wonderful breath he’d ever smelled, and Typhus gently inhaled the air of it into his lungs. Her air was his air now, and if he never received another thing from her, at this moment he’d acquired a touch, a kiss, and a breath. These were things he’d never dared hope for before this morning-and if he gained nothing more, it would still be enough.

“I love you, Typhus.” And now he’d heard her voice. A whisper.

“I love you, Lily,” he said in return, too emotionally exhausted to really feel the meaning. He lifted up a hand to touch her hair; it was coarse, soft, and straight.

Once again, Typhus heard the sound of feet padding softly across the floor, back towards the storage room. As he reached up to remove the blindfold, Doctor Jack’s voice stopped him: “ No . Not yet. Wait.” A few moments later, Typhus heard the storage door reopen, followed by the sound of quickly stepping feet, this time shod. The front door opened, then slammed shut.

She had gone.

She’d left without saying goodbye, but that was all right. In Typhus’ mind she owed him nothing, not even that.

He found himself dimly wishing he could keep the blindfold on forever.

From the moment of Lily’s departure, a change in Typhus’ demeanor and overall personality became evident to Doctor Jack. Typhus was clearly in love. Not the confused, obsessive love a boy might feel for a photograph of a pretty girl; this was the kind of love a grown man feels for a woman who’s unlocked his main door, who has shown him that real happiness is a real possibility. The scary kind of love. True love. The kind that can cripple or kill or heal or make whole. This was big, maybe too big.

Jack wondered what Typhus would dream of tonight, how things were unfolding in his soul with so many of the old questions still unanswered and so many new questions freshly born. Maybe Lily’s touch had really been enough, the cure for a troubled heart. A cure for the son of a shoe dove.

Though the encounter seemed a success, Jack still wondered if he’d done right by the boy-bringing Lily into his life at all, whether flesh or photograph. Could Lily’s presence in his life offer any real spiritual nutrition? Perhaps such comforts were actually detrimental, a type of poison for the soul. If this new peace in Typhus’ heart was a fleeting thing, was it only bound to lead him towards greater misery? Mostly, though, Jack wondered what it would do to Typhus if he ever discovered the truth about Lily.

Typhus must never, ever learn the truth.

Typhus let himself out without saying goodbye. Jack could hear him singing outside, sad words sung in a happy way.

Jesus I’m troubled about my soul

Ride on Jesus, come this way.

Troubled about my soul.

The lyrics of the song bore no meaning or purpose to Typhus on this morning other than to provide a hook on which to hang melody.

Malaria Morningstar sat shivering dead center on a five foot cypress bench located just outside and left of her front door. The bench held certain memories for Malaria that brought comfort during troubled times.

Father had made the bench for Mother with his own two hands when Malaria was still small. She recalled the painstaking construction of it, remembered the cursing, the measuring, the hammering, the sawing, the sanding, and the silly look of joy that adorned his face upon its completion. Most of all, she recalled the tender memory of her Mother’s eyes as she nursed baby Dropsy on the exact spot where Malaria now sat.

Sitting here always gave Malaria a sense of calm when things went bad in her life. Mother and Father still existed in the wood of it, or so it seemed-still reached out to stroke her hair from its pores, still reassured her that all would be taken care of, that everything would be all right. Recognizing such comforts as fleeting and false by their nature didn’t keep her from placing great value in them just the same.

But this morning she’d been unable to squeeze a drop of comfort from its stubborn pores and cracks. At the moment, things were not right in a very big way-big enough to defy even the sanctuary of the bench. Malaria had recently learned of a trouble which could be resolved neither gracefully nor painlessly, and the nature of this trouble was betrayal. She knew that betrayal of this kind couldn’t be ignored-and called for immediate and decisive action on her part. Although such a confrontation could only serve to tear her world apart, she knew that to do nothing would be much worse.