The Sound of Building Coffins

“Evenin’, Miss Covington.”

“Diphtheria done left, Typhus. She’s in her room-”

“Didn’t come for Diphtheria, Miss Covington.” Typhus searched the questions in her eyes. “Brought you a little something might put a smile on yer face. I hope this ain’t a bad time.”

Hattie’s face softened some. Seeing the man who’d taken her baby from her as she lay miserable and bleeding on Doctor Jack’s examining room table was exactly what she didn’t need right now. But she couldn’t blame Typhus for a decision she’d made of her own free will, and he certainly was a pathetic creature; a grown man in such a small body. It was hard to be anything but kind to a man who so resembled a child.

“Well, Typhus, it’s mighty nice of you to call on me, but I be doin’ just fine. I have to get dressed now.” Typhus just stared as if she’d spoken in Chinese, and so she added, “if you don’t mind, please.”

Typhus’ stare wasn’t from lack of understanding, though. Hattie had been the only real woman he’d ever had occasion to lie down with in his life, most likely the only real woman he’d ever lie down with now that he had Lily to tend to. As empty as his experience with Hattie had been, he now found the sight of her slender, perfect body dressed only in a robe an unexpected catalyst that connected certain previously unconnected things of heart and mind. The robe she wore was pure white, nearly as pure as Lily’s gown, and the contrast of Hattie’s smooth, light skin against the robe sent a shiver all the way to Typhus’ knees-caused his heart to skip a beat, his ears to boom. Hattie stood patiently while Typhus took a deep breath to compose himself.

“Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure sorry, Miss Covington. I did catch you at a bad time.”

West tugged at Typhus’ shirt; a gentle reminder to mention his buttons before the door closed.

“That’s all right,Typhus,” said Hattie. “Nuther time maybe.” She made a move to shut the door but Typhus had wedged a foot in its path.

“Trouble is, ma’am-I mean, I hate to be a bother…”

“Well, what then?” Hattie’s eyes had lost their softness. The idea of pinkening your own bathwater took some courage and getting used to and Typhus’ interruption had begun to weaken her resolve.

“Ya see, I got something here for you that won’t keep proper.” He pointed to the bulge in his burlap sack. “Perishable item.”

Hattie’s curiosity stirred. Something about the sight of the bag gave her pause. “Well, what is it, then?”

“May I come in?” Motioning again to his burden: “Awful heavy, this.”

Hattie eased out a defeated sigh as she swung the door open wide. Typhus stepped in quick, fearful she’d change her mind and slam it before he could get all the way through. West followed close behind.

“All right, now. Yer in.” Her tone no longer made attempt to hide her annoyance. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off Typhus’ bag; trying to recall where she’d seen it before. Then she remembered.

This was the same bag he’d put her baby in that night. She stared at its bulge and wondered if there was a baby in there right now. Perishable item. But the lump was too big to be a thing so small. Crazy thought, she reprimanded herself, holding back angry tears.

“Thanks indeed,” Typhus said, lugging the sack over to the thick, wooden table near the stove. “I have me a hunch you ain’t been eatin’ right lately.”

This was true, she hadn’t eaten in days.

He laid the bag on the table ever-gently.

“Been eatin’ just fine, Mr. Busybody. As if it’s any of yer damn to-do what, when, or how I eat.” This talk of eating made Hattie uneasy. She’d decided she didn’t care to know what was in the bag. And she was quite certain it wouldn’t be anything she’d want to put in her mouth.

Typhus just grinned. “Well, you’ll be eating good tonight, that’s for sure.” He held the bottom corners of the bag between thumb and forefinger, then lifted upward-dumping its contents onto the cutting board before Hattie could protest further. “Ain’t it pretty?” said Typhus.

On the cutting board lay the strangest looking catfish Hattie had ever seen. Pink skin instead of brown. Green eyes instead of black. Rubbery, thick whiskers. She took one cautious step towards it.

“What kind of fish is that?” she asked, surprised at the crack of emotion in her own voice.

“Catfish, Hattie.” It was the first time Typhus had called her by her first name. “Your catfish.”

“Well, I s’pose it is.” Hattie couldn’t fathom the meaning of her own acceptance. Her catfish? What was that supposed to mean? And why did the idea give her such a strange, warm feeling? What kind of feeling was that?

“Now, I know you was getting ready for workin’, but maybe you could save yerself some time by skipping that bath.” Typhus seemed to know about her bathwater-pinkening intentions. Not only knew, but understood. This couldn’t be possible, but was so just the same. “Skip that bath and have yourself a little mealtime. You just sit back and let Typhus do the cooking. Just relax now. All right?”

West had already resumed his button stacking ritual by the door. As he worked, West grimly resolved to never, ever leave his buttons behind again. They were his buttons and he had a responsibility to take good care of them. He would not be so careless again.

so careless

“Sure, Typhus,” said Hattie. “Cook it up. That’d be nice.”

Without another word, Typhus lit the stove and placed the fish in the center of a large pan. He didn’t gut or dissect the fish, but left it whole. Neither did he grease the pan or bother to search the kitchen for herbs or spices. In a few moments the fish was gently hissing on the pan, filling the room with its smell.

It was not a fishy smell. The smell was the sweet perfume of sunny days and freshly cut grass, of dreams lost but renewed. The smell of long lost children splashing in a fresh water pool on a hot, clear day.

When the cooking was done Typhus retrieved a white plate from the cupboard over the sink. He pulled the meat from the bones without a knife; the flesh of it fell away easily. After carefully placing the bones back into his burlap coffee bag, Typhus proceeded to cut the meat up into small, bite-sized cubes on the plate.

The squares melted in Hattie’s mouth so smoothly that she barely needed to chew. She ate silently as Typhus made mono-directional small talk, West stacking buttons by the door, oblivious. The flavor of it was sweet and light, tasting vaguely of fine chocolate and cotton candy. It didn’t weigh heavily in her stomach and she was able to eat it all, save for the last bite which she left on the plate. To make it disappear entirely would have felt rude to her somehow. She put the fork down and leaned back in her chair, watching the gentle rhythm of Typhus’ lips as he babbled on. Her hand ran over her belly and she imagined movement there. A kick?

yes, a kick

Vague feelings of guilt washed over her heart at the sensation. She had no right to feel whole. No right to feel safe. No right to believe everything would be all right and always had been. She was perfectly aware that no catfish on earth tasted like cotton candy or chocolate or any of the things that gave comfort and joy to small children.

But all of these things were true. At this moment, they were all true.

She went on watching Typhus’ talking head, not hearing a word, watching the quality of his smile. Watched as he got up and made for the door. Didn’t hear him mumble strange words as he left:

“They gave it to me, but I gave it back the best I could.”

West scooped up his buttons and carefully placed them in his pocket. He was a little hungry and the fish smelled so good that he stealthfully snatched the last square of meat from Hattie’s plate, popping it into his mouth before leaving. What had been sweet on Hattie’s tongue was bitter to his own, but he swallowed it just the same.

Typhus and West were gone. Hattie lay down on the couch, belly full, alone.