Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

The sun had begun its slow ascent less than an hour earlier, mist of morning still hanging heavy at the lip of the bog. Malaria let her eyes focus on the blur of it, imagining that to stare into it just right might cause the mist to scatter at her will. The mist failed to recognize the authority of her gaze, but that was fine. She had every confidence it would lift in time, of its own accord. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t. What proof was there that this particular fog on this particular morning would lift from the cipriere just because it had chosen to lift in such a way on every other morning of her life? It wasn’t inconceivable that a morning may eventually happen along to mark the beginning of a new era, the beginning of things never the same, ever again.

In a way, such a morning had already come. Amazingly, the realization consoled rather than frightened Malaria, though a part of her still wished the mist might play along. She wanted badly to get on with a new series of impossibly different mornings. Who’s to say such a thing is impossible? she thought. She ran a hand across the bench, the texture of it smooth from years of use and moist from dew. It was perfect wood, a perfect object-but only that. Mother and Father had gone from it upon their deaths, and she’d suddenly grown too old to believe otherwise.

A rhythmic crunching mingled with birdsong, first faint then louder, coming nearer through the fog. Eight more crunches and she could make out the silhouette of a child. Not a child, but a man shaped like a child.

“Where’s your bike?” she asked the silhouette.

“Left it at Doctor Jack’s,” said Typhus. “Morning, Malaria.”

Malaria failed to return the greeting. “Out all night again? That’s two nights in a row. Starting to think you gotcher self a girlfriend.”

Typhus was close enough now that she could see he was grinning. “Well, what would be so surprising about that?”

Malaria’s eyebrows raised in amusement. The idea of Typhus with a regular girlfriend seemed about as likely as the fog’s refusal to lift from the swamp. Maybe this really was a new kind of morning after all.

Typhus stopped with hands on hips and chin to chest, his grin evolving into bashful chuckles. “Well, Malaria, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I surely doubt if you’d believe a word. Hell, I don’t believe much of it myself.”

Malaria’s eyes remained sad, but her lips returned the smile. “Well, now, little brother. Sounds like some long overdue good fortune come your way. That’s good, real good. I’m happy for you.” And then, with a tone of parental sternness: “You be careful now. Those French Quarter women’ll give you flesh plague and a broken heart to boot, you ain’t careful.”

Typhus shook his head and laughed some more as he walked past and inside. “Don’t believe much of it myself,” he echoed through the doorway, still laughing.

Typhus’ high spirits were nearly enough to change Malaria’s mind about bringing up the trouble. Maybe it could wait-one more day of nothing much wrong, one more day of fog lifting on schedule-but in her heart she knew this wasn’t an option. The damage had been done and must be addressed-and the sound of Typhus’ alarmed shouts from inside only confirmed these things.

“ Malaria!”

She stayed on the bench, hoping for ghostly comfort.

“ Malaria!”

Typhus stood in the doorway directly behind her now. She needn’t turn to know there were tears in his eyes-they were plainly evident at the edge of his voice. There would be a particular something clenched in his hand.

“Where is it?”

Malaria turned to face him. “Sir?” she said.

He waved the coffee bag at her violently. “ Where is it ? There was something in this bag and now it’s gone! You got no right going through my things!”

“I washed it for you, Typhus. It was stinking up the house with that old catfish smell. Thought it was empty at first.” Malaria felt silly defending herself on this point, all things considered.

“I want it back,” said Typhus evenly.

“Can’t have it back,” said Malaria, turning her gaze back to the swamp mist now rapidly thinning. The sound of her brother’s shallow breath made her feel cruel.

“It’s mine,” said Typhus, in a cracked voice. He sounded beaten and resigned, as a child might sound upon having a favorite toy taken away as punishment. As Malaria imagined West might sound if Diphtheria ever got mad enough to take those damn, precious buttons from him.

Thoughts of West’s love for shiny buttons softened Malaria’s heart unexpectedly, and so she altered her course slightly. Perhaps confrontation regarding such sensitive and scandalous matters would not be the best thing. Could it hurt to simply keep his secret, to help him hide from this one devastating truth? Maybe that would be best.

“I’m not even sure what it was. Didn’t see it till after I washed. Just blobs of brown paper bunched up and crumbling.” She paused, giving Typhus a window to speak if he chose. He remained silent, so she added, “Looked like it mighta been a photograph. Hard to say for sure.”

Typhus’ voice fell to a whisper. “You didn’t see it?”

“No, sir. Just went to wash the stink out yer bag, and found the crumbs after it was too late. I guess whatever it was, it must’ve meant something to you. Sorry I wasn’t more careful.”

Typhus studied his shoes in the doorway, a little bit of that smile from earlier creeping back to his lips. Malaria felt a wave of temporary relief.

“I see you gotcher nice shirt on,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Must be some kinda extra special girlfriend you got.”

Typhus smiled bashfully. “Yes, indeed. I guess you could say that. Hell, I don’t need that old picture anyhow no more. Got me the real thing now. The real thing is what.” He turned to go back inside.

Malaria stared at her left hand, closed in a fist. The smile lingered at her lips, but her brow furrowed. This trouble was not yet through, she sensed. “Typhus?” she called out, her voice slightly higher in pitch than she’d intended. “Typhus? What do you mean when you say you got the real thing?”

Typhus returned to the door, gnawing on a hunk of dry bread he’d found in the kitchen. “Well, I’ll tell you, sis. You was right about that thing in the coffee bag. It was a photograph. Picture of a girl. I been keeping that picture a long time-but now I don’t need it no more. Know why?”

“Why?” Malaria’s eyes were burning.

“’Cause the girl in the picture-well, I found that very same girl in real life.”

The words made Malaria light-headed.

“And, turns out, we got ourselves a little thing going on. Might even get married, I guess.”

Malaria stood up to face her brother. “What did you say?” Gone a shade paler, she suddenly looked very old. Both of her hands were balled into fists at her sides as she repeated, “What did you just say ?”

Typhus struggled to decipher what error he might have made. “Well, I mean…we might not get married at all. I mean we just met…I was just saying…”

“The real thing? You said you got the real thing?”

“Well, sure, I found the real thing. Is that so hard to believe?” Switching from defense to offense. “Is it so hard to believe that your little half-a-man, freak-of-a-brother might’ve found a real live woman? Someone who might love him back? Is that so very hard for you to comprehend, big sister?”

It dawned on Malaria that Typhus truly didn’t know. Didn’t realize. Someone had played a trick on him. A cruel trick. Unable to completely shake her rage, she forced her voice to soften, “Typhus, there’s something you oughta know.”