Noonday Morningstar’s hand began to fuse with his son’s chest through the honey mixture. Typhus stopped breathing altogether, red welts rising rapidly behind his ears.
Buddy stood in shock, rubbed at his lips, stared at the grounded cornet. Motionless, useless.
Jack picked up the bruised horn from the ground and blew into it himself. The sound was low and deep; a soulless moan. Buddy didn’t intervene: only stood, momentarily lost, trembling, rubbing at his mouth, eyes full of tears, exhausted, beat.
Down. Out.
Morningstar blew hard into the cold air of the room, profoundly exhaling, emptying his lungs with a determined wheeze. Kissed his son on the mouth. Then:
Sucking in.
Pulling foul air from the boy’s chest. Typhus’ small fists beat at the skull of the man he knew as Father and sometimes Daddy.
As bad air transferred from son to father, the hand of the father sank deeper into the chest of the son.
Two brown eyes focused on the scene; drying, crystallizing. A mind became clear.
Buddy Bolden snatched his horn from Doctor Jack. Drew in cold air once more, blew out hot with eyes shut tight. Blew hard. Loud.
Typhus crumpled in his father’s arms. Hands lifeless, knuckles brushing against the floor. Father Morningstar’s eyes became wide, enraged, black.
Doctor Jack searched his soul for answers and found none.
Beauregard Church reached into his worn leather bag, removed an old and dull-bladed knife that once belonged to his grandfather. Pearl handle with bits of glass polished to look like jewels. Cheap family heirloom. Good for nothing except maybe for luck. He leapt towards Morningstar and plunged the knife into the preacher’s back up to the handle, the dull blade tearing straight into, then past, his heart.
Diphtheria screamed. Ran to her father as Buddy dropped his horn to intercept her, holding her fast. Whispered soft in her ear, feigning calm: “It’s over.” Held her tight, stroked her hair. “I think it’s over.”
Beauregard stood up, leaving his cheap family heirloom in the preacher’s back. Picked up his leather bag full of lucky stuff and walked out of the house without word or expression, walked into the warm air of night. Walked down the steps. Kept walking. Didn’t come back.
The dark red life of Noonday Morningstar spread across the floor of the Carolla house, bathing the soles of Anabella Carolla’s shoes and evenly soaking the uneven carpet. Anabella Carolla had seen none of it, nothing past the release of her son. Nothing else mattered. She simply held the baby to her breast and repeated over and over: “
Dominick Carolla was fast asleep in her arms. Breathing deeply and easily. Except for the grateful chant of his mother and the gentle sobs of Diphtheria Morningstar, the house was now silent, its temperature warming. Noonday Morningstar’s lifeless body lay atop his son’s. Father and son in a puddle of joined blood, swimming motionless.
Jack pulled Beauregard’s heirloom free from Morningstar’s back. Dropped it to the sticky floor. Put a hand on the preacher’s shoulder, rolled him over and off of the nine-year-old. This would not be Typhus’ day to die. His father had sacrificed too much to allow it.
Empty wrist: Noonday Morningstar’s right hand was nowhere to be seen.
Covering Typhus’ naked chest was a large, bright pink welt. A fresh scar in the shape of a hand.
Jack picked the boy up in his arms. Took him out of that place. Buddy and Diphtheria followed close behind. None of them spoke. Leaving as quietly as they had come.
Marshall Trumbo stayed behind.
He looked at the mother and child, so strangely reunited. Quiet and calm as if no demon had ever visited them.
Chapter thirteen. The Note Revisited
The song resolved like all melodies, with a single note.
A.
But not A.
Things change with resolution; completely, irrevocably.
From resolve to clarity, clarity to understanding, understanding to questions. And with questions of this kind comes a sort of salvation. But not salvation.
E flat. Transition. A.
Questions.
The player stops.
He is more sober now than he’s ever been in his life. His mind isn’t ready for the questions, but he listens to them intently. He doesn’t want to hear them; he
This time, he will remember the A.
He knows he has seen the face of God.
Questions. E flat. A. Clarity.
Something is created, stillborn, then reborn; a broken promise on the mend.
A rebirth in progress, it has all the time in the world. What once existed but left too soon has returned. An abortion swimming up from the river. New life. With time.
Differently. Irrevocably.
Buddy Bolden dreams with eyes wide open.
Book Two
Chapter fourteen. Calisaya Blues
