Dropsy grinned and raised an eyebrow. Bears were pretty much unheard of around St. John’s.
“Or maybe Coco Robicheaux,” added Typhus with playful menace, referring to the Cajun bogeyman their father used to tell tales of when they were small. According to the stories, Coco Robicheaux was a beast of a man who bathed in foul swamp water, dressed in dismal rags, and kept a long, braided and filthy beard. Into this horrible beard had been woven many pockets, and in the pockets were little knives and mysterious tools. Their father had grimly informed them that Coco Robicheaux made it his life’s work to pay terrible retribution upon children who stole cookies, talked back, and forgot chores. Although it was never entirely clear what Coco Robicheaux would specifically do with the little knives and tools kept in his beard, one thing was certain; if you ever lied to your mother, Coco Robicheaux would eat you.
Dropsy’s expression went sour with minor worry as he lowered his head and trudged slowly back towards the bedroom.
“’Night, Typhus.”
“’Night, Dropsy.”
“Typhus?” Dropsy turned in the doorway.
“Yeah?”
“I hope it’s meat this time. I been hungry for meat. Ain’t had any in a while.”
Typhus smiled. “Well, I’ll just bet it is. Now get on to bed and we’ll have us a look-see soon as the sun come up.”
Dropsy yawned once more before disappearing into the dark of the sleeping quarters. Typhus heard the crunch of straw as his older brother settled in.
Chapter twenty-two. Shoes
The consensus among the Morningstar family was that their mysterious benefactor and dead patriarch were one and the same. Typhus secretly knew otherwise, while sympathizing with his family’s need to believe what could not be so. The phantom’s mystifying persistence had certainly offered more questions than answers-and the idea of a fatherly ghost offered at least some token sense of comfort. Typhus supposed such an explanation was as likely as any other if a person didn’t care to think things through.
Nine days after their father’s death, the phantom had made its debut. In that terrible time of grieving, temperatures had plummeted in South Louisiana, stove coal becoming a scarce commodity. Then one chilly Tuesday morning, Malaria opened the front door and let out a yell, “Lord God, thankee Jesus! Amen, amen and a-
A bundle of purple and white boskoyo blooms tied with a note, and beside the blooms sat a huge crateful of beautiful black coal. The note was a small square of paper (folded four times smaller) and, upon the unfolding, a single word had been written in pencil:
The phantom’s gift of coal was enough to see the Morningstars through every cold night for the rest of that year, and several of the next.
Time soon revealed the coal as mere introduction. In subsequent weeks the Morningstar family found itself in need of basic articles for living, and as need arose, answers appeared on their doorstep. If the quantity was any less than bountiful, the gift usually came with a note of apology,
Blankets, coffee beans, grain, fruit, tools, clothes, animals for eating, and fresh water for drinking-nothing seemed beyond the generosity of the Morningstar family’s phantom benefactor. If a conversation had taken place in the house regarding a particular need, that need would soon be satisfied. It was as if someone was spying on them; listening in, watching, taking notes and making sure. And the giving never stopped. Fifteen years later and the Morningstar family’s benefactor had kept on benefacting.
Believing the phantom to be a ghostly representation of their own father had felt natural and good to the Morningstars-and the theory seemed approximately proven the first time the phantom passed over muddy ground, leaving clear, unshod footprints. Always first to rise, Malaria discovered the tracks at dawn, and she immediately retrieved a pair of her father’s shoes from the house. Her face beamed as she compared the track’s size to the length and girth of a corresponding shoe:
“See? A perfect fit!” Malaria announced authoritatively, at a volume intended for all to hear.
The siblings were suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of guilt for burying their father without shoes on his feet. From that night on, Malaria made sure a pair of her father’s shoes stood prominently by the doorstep with a note tied on, reading, in Malaria’s perfect handwriting:
The shoes sat unmolested with Malaria’s note for better than a month. Then, when a particular bad growing season presented itself and the market price of corn went beyond the Morningstars’ means, two bushels of near-ripe corn appeared, and the shoes were gone. A note had been left:
Father Morningstar had owned and kept three pair of shoes in his adult life, so the remaining two pairs were left as offerings on subsequent nights. It was not long before all three pairs were retrieved-replaced with badly spelled “thank you” notes and fresh parcels of needed things.
From that point on, when the ground was damp and items appeared, tracks left behind were clearly made by the shoes of Noonday Morningstar. This only helped solidify the notion of ghostly intervention-despite the obvious truth of how the phantom had acquired means of such evidence. But the fantasy was made easier to believe-and the Morningstars desperately needed a thing to believe.
The truth had dawned on Typhus the morning Malaria left that first pair of shoes on the stoop. It struck him how Malaria’s own “thank you” note had been so neat and perfect. This wasn’t only true of Malaria; the whole family possessed first-rate writing skills, and their writing excelled because their father had taught them well. To the contrary, this phantom was clearly no good at spelling, and his handwriting was equally substandard. On the basis of this evidence alone, Typhus deducted the phantom could not be Noonday Morningstar. Typhus kept this observation to himself. The rest seemed so reassured by the idea of having their father back, even in this distant way, Typhus would not rob them of such small and harmless hope.
Before tonight, Typhus’ sleeping troubles had provided him a single benefit-the right to bear exclusive ear-witness to the footfalls of the phantom. He had never considered sharing these nocturnal dramas with his siblings-to do so might encourage them to investigate or confront, which may be construed as ungrateful in the eyes of their benefactor-whoever it might be. After all, the phantom had given endlessly to the family, and all he seemed to want in return was his continued anonymity.
Tonight would mark the first and last time Typhus would violate that unspoken condition.
By the time the footfalls had returned, Dropsy was back in bed, snoring gently. Typhus found himself afflicted with a sudden and uncharacteristic curiosity. Why not put an end to a mystery so easily
