Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Typhus felt real fingers press and pinch within his chest now; pure agony, slowing his heartbeat, clouding his soul, flooding his mind with blood and rage. He feared his heart may explode where he stood, and for a moment he went dizzy. His mind gone gray, headed for black.

There was a hand on his heart. There had always been a hand on his heart-ever since that night fifteen years ago.

Typhus yanked Jack’s head downward hard by the hair, bringing the knife upwards three times fast into his chest. With an expression more of surprise than of fear or pain, Jack collapsed against the side of the water basin and slid to the floor.

“The boy told you not to call him that,” said Typhus in a voice not his own.

shoe dove

Jack recognized the voice. Breath came hard-two of the puncture wounds had pierced the right lung-but he managed to say, “Typhus, I did these things for a reason.”

On instructions of the thing in his chest, Typhus kicked Jack squarely in the crotch before responding verbally. “Of course you did. We all got reasons, I reckon. Some reasons are more wholesome than others is all. Some self-serving, others not so.”

Jack tumbled to the floor. “Typhus, listen. Please.”

“Go on speaking at your own risk, Jack.”

“Can’t you see what I gave you? What I gave her? It wasn’t easy to do this thing that I did.”

“You gave me nothing, old man. Father. ”

“Try to understand, son.” Jack no longer cared if the word carried repercussions. He knew he was dying-this was his last chance to unburden himself with the truth. “Last night-on that beautiful, beautiful night-we were together all three. Father, mother and son. For the first and last time, yes-but together . Just once, but enough.”

Typhus brought the scalpel in line with Jack’s throat.

Jack continued. “In your mind you were with her ; with your Lily-the image of your mother. But in truth you were with me, your true father. And so, in your heart of hearts-and whether you knew it or not-we were all together for one perfect moment. A family at last.”

With his lungs rapidly filling with blood, Jack struggled to speak. “Together,” he repeated. “Together all three.”

Typhus suddenly found himself feeling pity for Jack, pity for the man who’d deceived him so heinously, had wrecked his life so thoroughly. As Jack’s eyes shined their last light, they watched Typhus’ lips move-mouthing a single word that his ears could no longer hear.

“Sorry,” said Typhus, immediately before cutting Doctor Jack’s throat from ear to ear in one smooth motion.

Typhus’ best yellow shirt had been ruined, splashed with bright red that would never completely wash out. Rising to his feet, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his face moist with blood and tears.

Although the hand of Noonday Morningstar had loosened its painful grip on his heart, the inside of Typhus’ chest felt bruised and strangely warm. Maybe he was bleeding from inside-didn’t matter, he knew his time would now be short. Staring hard in the mirror, Typhus tore off the ruined shirt and examined the scar in the shape of a hand. Its color had deepened from pink to bright purple and was bleeding along the bottom edge.

Typhus lit the stove and put a teapot over the flame. He had mixed and delivered many a cure for others at Doctor Jack’s behest, but today would be the day of his own cure. His day of abortion and hope. He would mix the calisaya tea at double strength and deprive himself of honey.

The poison went down quick; hot and bitter, stinging his throat and blurring his vision immediately. He felt a sharp pain in his gut-this was good. But also it was a signal to move fast or not at all.

He collected the scattered pieces of Lily from the table and floor, put them in his trusty, all-purpose, burlap coffee bag. As he began this final errand, the lyrics of a song marched through his mind like a line of diligent ants.

A song whose melody he could no longer recall.

The Twenty Tens

Buddy Bolden was sleeping the remorseless sleep of drunkards and angels.

Bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bap.

“Damn,” he whispered. Then, not loud but neither a whisper: “ Whoever that is, get lost! Man trine to get a little shut-eye in here.” Buddy pressed his eyes closed once more, muttering, “Working man, too. Hard working man just needin’ a little sleep is all. People knocking in the middle of the damn night ain’t got no manners ’round here. True, true. Sad but true.”

Bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bap.

“God damn it.” Buddy’s eyes stayed defiantly shut. More muttering: “Ain’t answerin’ that damn door.” Then louder, for the benefit of the knocker, “ Ain’t answerin’ that damn door, ya hear? Come back in the mornin’ if it’s so doggone ’portant!”

“It is morning,” said a high-timbered voice that Buddy struggled to recognize. “ Past mornin’, Buddy. Nearly one in the afternoon.”

Buddy wasn’t in the mood for arguing such minutiae. “I don’t hear ya and I won’t hear ya! Now git gone!” Then, diminishing from angry to desperate: “I work late and need to sleep in a little. Have a mercy now and leave me be. Please! ”

“Up drinkin’ late is more like it,” said the voice. “Get up now, Buddy. The world is passing you by.”

“Let it pass, then!” Buddy shouted, his head settling back into the pillow, his mind drifting rapidly towards unfinished dreams. The would-be intruder’s persistent knock turned into a dream of knocking; mercifully pounding Buddy deeper into dreamland. It wasn’t till the rhythm changed that Buddy found himself coming back around.

Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.

It was a knock he hadn’t heard in years-the secret knock from Charley the Barber’s old backroom gin joint. To hear that particular knock all the sudden and from out of nowhere was a curious thing; so curious that Buddy found himself fully awake and in a sitting position, staring at the door. Suddenly, he placed the voice.

Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.

He got to his feet, undid the latch; the door swung wide.

“Where’d you learn that knock, boy?”

“Didn’t learn it. Just made it up,” said Jim Jam Jump hopefully. “You like it? Mebbe you can put it in a song.”

Buddy rubbed his eyes and let himself believe Jim doing Charley’s old knock was a product of his own rye-soaked imagination. “Dammit boy, what in hell is so allfired important you gotta stand out there beating my damn door when you know damn well I’m trine ta sleep? I’d do good to whip yer damn hide and there ain’t a judge ner jury who’d convict me fer-”

“Settle down, now, Buddy. I come to make you a richer man. Just let me speak my piece, wouldja?” Jim extracted a thick wad of ten-dollar bills from his back pocket.

Buddy eyed the wad suspiciously, figuring the top bill to be hiding a roll of ones or, more likely, just plain newsprint. Still, the sight of that top bill alone was enough to bring him near sober. “What’s this about, sonny?”

“Gotcher curiosity up, have I?” Jim unrolled and flipped the money between thumb and forefinger like a deck of cards. All tens. Buddy didn’t respond, just raised his eyebrows some.

Jim went on: “I expect you’ll be interested in selling that horn of yours now, Buddy. I mean considering all that’s transpired of late. In fact, in a gesture of sympathy towards yer loss, I’ve decided to double my final offer. What you see here is not one but two hunnert American legal tender U.S. dollars.” Jim flipped the roll again for punctuation.