Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Malvina’s first thought upon waking was that she’d forgotten to wind her clock. If the time it told was true, then she had slept in several hours past daybreak-a nearly unheard of luxury she’d not experienced in half a century.

Frances never allowed her such luxuries; always rising early with loud complaints, slamming doors and kitchen cabinets for maximum effect, doing everything she could to disturb Malvina’s rest. Out of spite-or so it seemed, or so apparent, or so was.

But this morning the curtains remained drawn, allowing only a single crack of light to pierce the warm dark of Malvina’s small bedroom. Pulling her old bones into a sitting position, Malvina flopped her feet to the floor with twin thumps. Instinctively, she kicked both feet forward before attempting to stand, then hissed as she’d hissed every morning for the last fifty-three years:

“Damn shoes.”

But her feet only kicked warm air, no shoes in her way on this morning. She squinted at the shadows, then squinted hard into the useless crack of light. Got to her feet, then yanked open the curtain to let the sun pour in.

No shoes. None. The floor was clear. This was very odd.

Fifty-three years of tripping over her sister’s shoes, placed maliciously, or so it seemed (or so apparent, or so was), underfoot in such a haphazard way-but suddenly today: Nothing.

Well, good Lord , thought Malvina, what on earth has gotten into that old woman to make her come around pickin’ up those damn shoes now, right out of the blue and without warning?

There was something downright eerie about it. She almost called out her sister’s name-but that would be giving in. After fifty-three years of noisy silence she would be damned before calling uncle over a little thing like this. It was likely just a sign of Frances’ own mental deterioration; forgetting to remember to forget. In any case, Malvina was sure the problem would begin afresh on the morrow, shoes every-damn-where as usual. This unexpected bout of neatness was probably just a tease to punctuate what she’d be missing for the rest of her days. Days of tripping and cursing over those damn shoes. A dangerous thing at her age. Attempted murder, almost.

Malvina looked at the door to her sister’s room. Closed. There was a large basket near the door, a basket that had stood empty so long she’d forgotten its original assigned purpose. But the basket was informative today, different today, serving its assigned purpose today. The basket was full.

Shoes. Damn shoes.

Curiously, the sight of it made Malvina want to cry. Sometimes the simplest changes can bring about strange emotional reactions in dotty old women with deteriorating brains, she assured herself. Changes. Little changes. No such thing as little changes at this age.

Malvina cursed herself upon realization of her trembling knees, then got up to make her way carefully to the rocker by the window. Was looking to be a right sunny day, she guessed; a hot one, too. She bent down to pick up the needles and yarn kept atop the knitting bag near the rocker and resumed work on a blue patch she’d started last night; a square that was to be one of many, ninety-nine all told by the time she was finished. Squares that would join together to form a blanket in a week’s time, a blanket she didn’t need and had no one to give as present. Doing the work calmed her nerves. That was its purpose. Took her mind off the shoes. And now: The odd lack of shoes.

Malvina didn’t hear her sister’s door creak open, but shoes did appear in the corner of her eye. Shoes with feet in them. Malvina looked up.

The eyes of the two sisters met then-the first time they’d done so in a very long time. Frances’ face was smoother than it ought to be for a woman so old, but more weathered than Malvina ever remembered it being. Her eyes looked tired to Malvina-not just tired, but troubled. Maybe angry. Or maybe neither, but something else with a smidgen of multiple others whirling about.

Malvina wanted to speak but didn’t. Neither did she look away.

“Put down that knittin’, old woman,” said Frances Latour. Malvina was so taken aback by the simple directness of the statement that she complied without thinking. It was Frances who’d cried uncle by speaking first, and Malvina felt sudden remorse that she had not done so herself.

Frances lifted a hand, then the other. There was something different about the hands, different but familiar. Something Malvina had seen or heard in a dream, now forgotten-but not forgotten…

a contrast of hands

The hands reached up to Malvina’s throat.

If her sister meant to kill her, Malvina would not stop her-she was ready. There had been a dream, one of Coco Robicheaux-but not like the ones before. Fragments of dream-memory struggled at the edge of her mind, fragments meant to remind her of something good awaiting her in death. She wasn’t sure what, couldn’t recall what had been seen or shown in the dream, but she knew her sense of it was true. More importantly, she believed it was true. It was her first experience with real, unquestioning faith. Not such a leap, she thought, to have faith when you’re so old as to have nothing left to lose.

She doubted Frances even had the strength to strangle her or break her neck or do whatever it was she intended to do with those hands. Find out soon enough , she thought to herself. Soon enough, soon enough.

But the hands of Frances Latour slipped past Malvina’s throat. Past and around, fingers interlacing behind Malvina’s neck. Frances lifted a leg onto her sister’s lap, then pulled herself the rest of the way up, resting her head against Malvina’s bony shoulder with a sigh. Malvina placed her own arms around her sister’s thin waist, holding her tightly as her own eyes filled with water.

Malvina rocked Frances gently, effortlessly. Frances’ weight was insubstantial and caused Malvina no discomfort.

This was peace.

And with peace comes answers; and such answers are of sweet dreams, but not of dreams. The answers are only lost memories, recalled at last.

In this moment she sees clearly the sum of her life and of things that come after, the good and the bad of it all. A light shines on consequence both past and yet suffered, some near at hand and some farther along. Manman Brigitte has seen her through this journey in her roundabout and mysterious way, though the cost has been dear and the penance hard. There are trials still to come above ground, larger ones in which waters of green and brown must rear up to reclaim and cleanse through destruction for sake of new birth, to set things right by hammering down wrong, to reinvigorate the living through cruelty of death. She knows that a greater peace will come to those who survive the coming of deathly tide and for those who follow after, but first, but first…

Remembering: A message to deliver.

“ Un petit ,” Malvina says to her sister, her daughter by default and by proxy. “It’s time for you to go home now. Someone been waitin’ on you. Someone you been waitin’ on, too.” She considers before adding: “And someone waitin’ on me, too.” There is joy in the realization.

“Time for us to get on now.” She feels Frances tremble in her arms, just as she’d trembled in her arms as a small child so many years ago. Frightened of the dark, of things unknown. “Shhhh,” coos Malvina. “None of that, now. I’ll be with you shortly. That’s a promise, and one I intend to keep.”

A whisper in return:

“ Chanson tanpri, Mer? ”

Malvina holds Frances ever tighter, stroking her sister’s hair as she sings:

Mo pap li couri la riviere,