The Sound of Building Coffins

gravedigger. Roll them around in your mind as the dirt of the dead is sprinkling on yer sorry face.” Then she say to the hounsi: “Bring him to the street. So his cronies can pick him up fer burying. Lay the little baby on mister gravedigger’s face; eye to eye. Make sure gravedigger’s eyes stay open. Wide open.”

***

I reckon I lay on that heap o’ dead outside Auntie Jin’s for a good three hours ’fore that funeral cart finally come around-my dead son staring me in the eye the whole time. And guess who’s driving that cart but ol’ Frenchie Girton. Lawd, lawd. I can understand Black Jake picking one of the convicts to go out with the cart since I never made it back, but fer the life of me can’t figger why he’d pick that rat-bastard Girton. Mayhap ol’ Frenchie volunteered. Mayhap-also-too Frenchie in cahoots with that evil Malvina. Mebbe Jake in on it, too.

I’m thinking:

Poor me. Poor, poor me. Trouble comin’.

Girton pick that dead child up off my face, toss ’im in the cart like a rag. Then he look down at Marcus-me with a smile. “Whadda we have here?” he say, grinnin’ like a devil. “My Mulatto friend, Mr. Marcus. You hear me, boy?” Then I know he in cahoots with Malvina ’cause he know I ain’t dead. It a sad day for Marcus, no lie. That evil Girton keep talking, low and steady:

“Yeah, you hear me, boy. I see it in your eyes, yes? That a little tear in your eye, Mulatto? I believe so.” Grin stretch wider. “You can feel, too, eh? Feel this, Mulatto.” He look around to see if anyone watchin’. Then he bend down like to kiss, lips parted. I feel his dry teeth slicin’ in slow. His breath smell bad; smell like death, rotten onions and old swamp.

That stinkin’ French garbage bit my nose clean off.

Yes indeed, sonny-clean off. Lawdy, yes-a terrible pain, that. Spit my own nose back in my face. Laughin’. “Feel that, Mulatto?” Girton laughin’ hard. My heart beating so slow I don’t even bleed. Not bleeding scares me even more-not sure why. Then a miracle happen.

Outta nowhere I find the strength to scream. Scream loud and hard, me. Scream way up high like a little girl. Girton snarl and bring a boot down on my face. “Stay dead, you! Stay dead!” My strength gone, my mind blank now. I don’t remember another thing till we back at the potter’s field.

***

When my senses come back around I’m layin’ face up on a lotta lumps. Figgered the lumps was bodies, and figgered right. Ol’ Jake looking down at me with big, wet eyes.

“Poor ol’ Mista Marcus. Itta sad day. Sho, sho.” Sniffin’. “I din’t wanna do it, ol’ fren’. But dat hoodoo lady, she sho scare ol’ Jake. Yessuh! Sedja kilt a lil baby and hadda pay. Say if I don’t help, I pay too.” Sniffin’ some more. “You bin good ta me a long time, Mista Marcus. An’ ol’ Jake sho is sorry. Lawd, yes.”

I tried screaming like I done before, but that hoodoo poison sunk in too hard. All I could do is look dead and stare as he pick me up in his big arms.

“I make you a promise, Marcus. I won’t let yer body float up. If she do, I’ll put you down first. ’Afore tha others. Thatta solemn oath, too.”

So, now I am screaming. But not so no one can hear. Screamin’ inside. In my head. Good and loud.

Jake lay me down in that big hole. Lay me in first-face up, flat on my back on the muddy ground. I guess this a courtesy of sorts; him figgerin’ the further down the hole, the lesser chance of floating back up with the rain.

So I’m just lying there waiting awhile, feeling the wet mud at my back as Jake say a few words to Jesus on my behalf. Waiting and a-thinking, me. Then Jake walk away from that hole-and I know what’s coming next.

Bodies.

One by one. Smacking me hard. In the face, the neck, the chest, the gut and the leg. Bodies. Covering ol’ Marcus up. One by one. I know my little son is one, but I can’t see where. I’m trying to see, looking fer my boy. Don’t know why exactly, but I’m looking. The light breaks into narrow gaps and cracks between the corpses. Those cracks of light fill up with dark, one by one. The weight on my chest and head is something terrible. Then the last crack of light done swallowed up. The weight get heavier and heavier still. A little while pass before the first bit of dusty soil crinkle down though the bodies. I feel it on my hand first. Just a tickle. Then one eye, then the other. Feel it on my tongue. Didn’t know my mouth was open till that.

Quiet.

Awful quiet.

Long, long, awful quiet. Don’t know how long.

Malvina was right, sure nuff. I be thinkin’ about my Maria.

Wondering if the fever got her. Feeling sorry about that little dead baby of mine, and that other’n from the country shack. Feeling bad. Real bad. Thinkin’ mebbe I really am dead. Mebbe this my own special hell. What I had coming. What I had coming and what I got. Justice from God on high. I can’t feel my own heart beat. Can’t tell if my chest trine to rise fer air. Can’t tell if my eyes is still open. Dark. Heavy, heavy dark. All I feel is the weight of the dead piled on my chest and legs. Packed down tight with bodies and dirt. Feeling the pressure on every inch of me. A cannonball of fear jumping ’round my skull.

But after a while that cannonball sit still. After a while there’s comfort here. It’s so quiet. Mebbe this ain’t hell a’tall. Mebbe a sort of heaven. Mebbe both. So quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

quiet

HEAVY

***

A day or two pass before I hear a spiritual my mama used to sing:

Tell me Sister Mary, tell me now

Where you been gone so long?

I been jumpin’ them ditches

And a-cuttin’ them switches

Swimmin’ in the river

Eatin’ catfish liver

Now my soul want to go home to glory

Singing in my head. Mama’s close now, I know. But after a while the singing stop. And I’m still here in the quiet, heavy dark. Mama left me again. Jesus, too. Quiet. Heavy. Dark.

Hard to say fer sure, but I reckon three more days pass before I feel the rattlin’ at my bones.

I’m guessing this the death rattle-that little bit of shakin’ folks do when they’re getting ready to pass. I feel a smile in my heart. Going to God, now, I think. Going to see Jesus. But after a few seconds the death rattle stop and I’m still here in the ground. Mud pressed to my back, weight of the dead at my chest. Still here. A minny or two pass. Rattle again. This time harder-but shorter. Half a minny pass. Then a jolt. Dusty dirt falling in my mouth again, tickling my eyes. And with that last jolt come a sound. Far off and muffled-but a sound.