Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

Marcus stared at the nonsense words on Trumbo’s original sheet.

U UERI NAD PTEL FUYQ LORD

EAF VULCFOL IYLRLCO AFN

EFEHDS SNUB STGSY ORTET

HSONU ETKDS BCSHE EOAOK

EREH ESRE PEYR EVWE

4X5X4/4X4X1

“Yes, indeedy,” he began. “See, you gotta put the letters in a square. The key-these numbers down ta here at the bottom-tell you how to make that square. Easy as puddin’ and pie. Like so.”

He drew what looked like a too-tall tic-tac-toe board within a rectangular border:

“See that? Says four by five by four. Means four times five-which comes to twenty-but four times. You kin tell yer on the right track cause the first four lines have twenty letters a piece in ’em if ya count ’em up right. Go ahead and count ’em. Tell me if I’m wrong, sonny.”

Trumbo did the simple math in his head. Sure enough, the old man was onto something.

“And the second line of the key-four by four-but one time. Thass right, too,” Marcus went on. “See? One row of sixteen letters right there at the bottom.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Beauregard. “You crazy, sly old devil…”

Trumbo stared at the nonsense words in wonder, counting letters: “Yes, I can see-but how do you decipher…?”

“I’m getting’ to that, sonny.” Marcus, slightly irritated, shot Beauregard a stern glance. “Watch and learn.” Trumbo shut up. Beauregard tried in vain to conceal his amusement. Doctor Jack’s expression lacked any trace of amusement at all.

Marcus methodically filled the boxes with letters in the same order as they appeared on the original sheet. “Trick is, you write ’em top to bottom, but read ’em left to right. See? And each individual line gets its own four-by-five box. Folla?”

The first line of letters filled its grid like so:

Marcus’s eyes swung up to meet Trumbo’s:

“Sir, I gotta ask again to be sure. A little baby wrote these letters?”

Trumbo said nothing. Only stared at the sheet in wonder. Nodded.

Marcus: “Lord, Lord.”

The old gravedigger wrote the letters out in their new order beneath the rectangle:

UNEQUALLEDFORPURITYD

“Says, ‘Unequalled for purity’. The ‘D’ at the end prob’ly first letter of the first word in the next box.” Marcus drew three more boxes for the remaining lines containing twenty letters apiece, a smaller one-four by four-for the line containing sixteen letters. Then he began filling them with letters from the original sheet; from top to bottom.

By the time he’d finished, there was a dead silence in the room-soon broken by a small voice:

“It’s an advertisement for coffee. Like this.” Typhus Morningstar held up his multipurpose companion, a burlap bag originally made to hold coffee beans, manufactured and printed by the New Orleans Coffee Company.

Doctor Jack smiled at the boy. “How long you been standing there, Typhus?”

“Just a little while-but long enough, I guess. Front door wide open.”

Charley the Barber: “Shee-it!” Fishing through his pocket for keys, Charley scrambled towards the front door of the shop, cursing himself along the way for letting Trumbo’s disruption distract him from relocking.

Typhus turned towards the little gal whose arm was still slung around Buddy Bolden’s shoulder. “Daddy find out you in this place, he be mad,” he told her.

The girl flicked the short remnant of her still lit cigar at Typhus with impressive accuracy, her arm arcing wide for greater impact, yanking hard against Buddy’s neck in the process. “You tell Daddy and I’ll whoop you good, you little runt. You shouldn’t be out neither!”

Buddy winced, pulling away from the girl just enough to rub the afflicted side of his neck.

“I’m out lookin’ fer Daddy. He gone,” said Typhus, dodging the smoking butt with casual expertise and sounding not the least bit intimidated by his older sister.

Diphtheria Morningstar’s anger instantly melted to worry. “Gone where, Typhus?”

“It’s why I’m lookin’. Not sure.”

Marshall Trumbo eyed Typhus’ bag and held out a hand, “May I have a look at that, son?”

Typhus hesitated, but obliged: “I need it back so don’t rip it er nothin’, mister.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Trumbo examined Typhus’ bag. It was cropped at the top and the printing was faded, but the last two lines were clear-and matched the last two lines of Marcus’ deciphering handiwork:

Used by the best cooks

And housekeepers everywhere

The bag smelled of river and fish, and Trumbo’s arms were covered with goosebumps.

Diphtheria spoke, looking at Typhus but pointing at Trumbo. “That man said Daddy went to the place with the sick Sicilian boy today, Typhus.”

Trumbo looked up from the bag and directly into Diphtheria’s pointing finger: “Your father?”

“You said, ‘the priest called Morningstar.’ That’s our Daddy.” Her eyes were tearing with worry. “But you said he left?”

“Yes, he left. I’m sure he’s all right, dear.” Trumbo’s eyes dismissed the girl’s concerns and returned to Typhus’ bag, as if mysterious answers might reside in its thick, rough threads.

Typhus gently pulled the bag from Trumbo’s hands, said: “When he left the house tonight he said he had to take care of something unfinished. Said it was a house call.”

“We best be going,” said Doctor Jack abruptly, no trace of a smile left on his smooth face. “You know the way, Mr. Reporter. You lead. Typhus-you come, too.”

“We’re coming, too!” said Diphtheria in a clearly nonnegotiable female tone, holding tight to Buddy’s arm. The young horn player resolved to his fate.

“All right then,” said Doctor Jack-and then, to no one in particular, “come if yer comin’ and stay if yer not. But let’s git gone.”

Marcus: “Well, I got me a date with a fish…”

“That’s fine, Marcus. Go get that fish. We’ll see you next payday.”

“Sir, if I may ask,” Trumbo began uncertainly. “If someone or something is trying to communicate through this child, why employ such peculiar method?”

“The method is the message,” replied Doctor Jack. “Whoever or whatever wrote those words wanted the attention of certain people, and those people happen to be here tonight. The civil war code was for the benefit of our friend Marcus. The coffee advertisement was for Typhus. Could be someone else in this room connected, too-just ain’t spoke up yet.” He glanced quickly at Beauregard, then away. “No matter about that. Time to go.”

Charley the Barber lifted the heavy wooden bar that secured the back door. “Y’all be careful, now. I don’t like the sound of all this. Not one bit.” The five made their way to the door.

“Wait.” Beauregard Church talking.

Doctor Jack turned, raised an eyebrow.

“I got something belonged to the father. Might be what this is all about. It’s in here.” Bo-Bo reached into his leather pouch containing odd items meant for luck. Pulled out an old tin.

The square tin was graced with the image of a little white girl collecting pink flowers from a field where no flowers grew, just an endless landscape of yellow wheat stalks. Above her head were the words:

Every drop’s a drop of comfort

Is the verdict of all who drink out

And she was surrounded by more words: