The Sound of Building Coffins

the storage room. As he reached up to remove the blindfold, Doctor Jack’s voice stopped him: “No. Not yet. Wait.” A few moments later, Typhus heard the storage door reopen, followed by the sound of quickly stepping feet, this time shod. The front door opened, then slammed shut.

She had gone.

She’d left without saying goodbye, but that was all right. In Typhus’ mind she owed him nothing, not even that.

He found himself dimly wishing he could keep the blindfold on forever.

Chapter thirty-nine. Main Door

From the moment of Lily’s departure, a change in Typhus’ demeanor and overall personality became evident to Doctor Jack. Typhus was clearly in love. Not the confused, obsessive love a boy might feel for a photograph of a pretty girl; this was the kind of love a grown man feels for a woman who’s unlocked his main door, who has shown him that real happiness is a real possibility. The scary kind of love. True love. The kind that can cripple or kill or heal or make whole. This was big, maybe too big.

Jack wondered what Typhus would dream of tonight, how things were unfolding in his soul with so many of the old questions still unanswered and so many new questions freshly born. Maybe Lily’s touch had really been enough, the cure for a troubled heart. A cure for the son of a shoe dove.

Though the encounter seemed a success, Jack still wondered if he’d done right by the boy-bringing Lily into his life at all, whether flesh or photograph. Could Lily’s presence in his life offer any real spiritual nutrition? Perhaps such comforts were actually detrimental, a type of poison for the soul. If this new peace in Typhus’ heart was a fleeting thing, was it only bound to lead him towards greater misery? Mostly, though, Jack wondered what it would do to Typhus if he ever discovered the truth about Lily.

Typhus must never, ever learn the truth.

Typhus let himself out without saying goodbye. Jack could hear him singing outside, sad words sung in a happy way.

Jesus I’m troubled about my soul

Ride on Jesus, come this way.

Troubled about my soul.

The lyrics of the song bore no meaning or purpose to Typhus on this morning other than to provide a hook on which to hang melody.

Chapter forty. Malaria and Typhus

Malaria Morningstar sat shivering dead center on a five foot cypress bench located just outside and left of her front door. The bench held certain memories for Malaria that brought comfort during troubled times.

Father had made the bench for Mother with his own two hands when Malaria was still small. She recalled the painstaking construction of it, remembered the cursing, the measuring, the hammering, the sawing, the sanding, and the silly look of joy that adorned his face upon its completion. Most of all, she recalled the tender memory of her Mother’s eyes as she nursed baby Dropsy on the exact spot where Malaria now sat.

Sitting here always gave Malaria a sense of calm when things went bad in her life. Mother and Father still existed in the wood of it, or so it seemed-still reached out to stroke her hair from its pores, still reassured her that all would be taken care of, that everything would be all right. Recognizing such comforts as fleeting and false by their nature didn’t keep her from placing great value in them just the same.

But this morning she’d been unable to squeeze a drop of comfort from its stubborn pores and cracks. At the moment, things were not right in a very big way-big enough to defy even the sanctuary of the bench. Malaria had recently learned of a trouble which could be resolved neither gracefully nor painlessly, and the nature of this trouble was betrayal. She knew that betrayal of this kind couldn’t be ignored-and called for immediate and decisive action on her part. Although such a confrontation could only serve to tear her world apart, she knew that to do nothing would be much worse.

The sun had begun its slow ascent less than an hour earlier, mist of morning still hanging heavy at the lip of the bog. Malaria let her eyes focus on the blur of it, imagining that to stare into it just right might cause the mist to scatter at her will. The mist failed to recognize the authority of her gaze, but that was fine. She had every confidence it would lift in time, of its own accord. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t. What proof was there that this particular fog on this particular morning would lift from the cipriere just because it had chosen to lift in such a way on every other morning of her life? It wasn’t inconceivable that a morning may eventually happen along to mark the beginning of a new era, the beginning of things never the same, ever again.

In a way, such a morning had already come. Amazingly, the realization consoled rather than frightened Malaria, though a part of her still wished the mist might play along. She wanted badly to get on with a new series of impossibly different mornings. Who’s to say such a thing is impossible? she thought. She ran a hand across the bench, the texture of it smooth from years of use and moist from dew. It was perfect wood, a perfect object-but only that. Mother and Father had gone from it upon their deaths, and she’d suddenly grown too old to believe otherwise.

A rhythmic crunching mingled with birdsong, first faint then louder, coming nearer through the fog. Eight more crunches and she could make out the silhouette of a child. Not a child, but a man shaped like a child.

“Where’s your bike?” she asked the silhouette.

“Left it at Doctor Jack’s,” said Typhus. “Morning, Malaria.”

Malaria failed to return the greeting. “Out all night again? That’s two nights in a row. Starting to think you gotcher self a girlfriend.”

Typhus was close enough now that she could see he was grinning. “Well, what would be so surprising about that?”

Malaria’s eyebrows raised in amusement. The idea of Typhus with a regular girlfriend seemed about as likely as the fog’s refusal to lift from the swamp. Maybe this really was a new kind of morning after all.

Typhus stopped with hands on hips and chin to chest, his grin evolving into bashful chuckles. “Well, Malaria, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I surely doubt if you’d believe a word. Hell, I don’t believe much of it myself.”

Malaria’s eyes remained sad, but her lips returned the smile. “Well, now, little brother. Sounds like some long overdue good fortune come your way. That’s good, real good. I’m happy for you.” And then, with a tone of parental sternness: “You be careful now. Those French Quarter women’ll give you flesh plague and a broken heart to boot, you ain’t careful.”

Typhus shook his head and laughed some more as he walked past and inside. “Don’t believe much of it myself,” he echoed through the doorway, still laughing.

Typhus’ high spirits were nearly enough to change Malaria’s mind about bringing up the trouble. Maybe it could wait-one more day of nothing much wrong, one more day of fog lifting on schedule-but in her heart she knew this wasn’t an option. The damage had been done and must be addressed-and the sound of Typhus’ alarmed shouts from inside only confirmed these things.

“Malaria!”

She stayed on the bench, hoping for ghostly comfort.

“Malaria!”