The Sound of Building Coffins (19 page)

“
I know, I know,” Diphtheria said in a whisper.

“
You know more than me then, I guess,” said Hattie, with hardly a movement of her lips, idly watching Diphtheria’s boy play with a handful of buttons near the door. West had been methodically stacking irregular round and oval shapes for the last two hours. Stacking until they fell of their own accord, then starting over—and over and over—never quite able to stack them all in one freestanding button tower. “Might be I coulda made it like you. Raised me a nice little boy like West. Or a girl maybe. Might be. Could be. Won’t know now.”

“
Shh. Things was diff’nt for me. I was just out of the crib—with nothin’ at all to lose. Had me a man to fall back on, too—least thought I did.” Diphtheria’s nose crinkled slightly at the memory of Buddy’s callous desertion so soon after West’s birth. Buddy had gotten his first whiff of notoriety in the district back then—a wife and baby just didn’t figure into the life of a rising star. When it became clear to her that Buddy would not be coming back, Diphtheria let go the notion of putting the whore’s life behind her, focusing instead on becoming a
better paid
whore. With a child to raise on her own she would need money; better money than she’d been accustomed to in the cribs.

With Doctor Jack’s help, Diphtheria had managed to lighten her skin a shade closer to high yella. Doing so had required daily, painfully stinging skin treatments (a mix of hot yellow wax, cocoa butter and a type of bleach Doctor Jack called “petrolatum”), and in two months time she’d paled up nicely. In the interim she’d worked the rice fields of Assumption Parish to make ends meet; the hard work making her body toned, muscular and ready for selling. Ten dollars saved from the rice fields bought her a fancy dress, the kind she believed was required in the fancy brothels of Basin Street.

Her first big break had come in the form of Lulu White’s Mahogany Hall, where she discovered no such fancy dress was required—at least not at first. At Lulu’s she was hired on as the house “goat”; and to be a goat meant to prance around the first floor parlor naked as a jaybird save for high-heeled shoes. Lulu’s goat was
lagniappe
for her high-class clientele. It was the job of the goat to award “five minutes of undivided attention” to any man who requested such—usually on her knees and free of charge. A nasty and thankless job it was, but a solid first step towards the good-paying career Diphtheria had dreamed of since Buddy’s departure. If nothing else, Mahogany Hall offered a safer working environment than could be found in any crib.

Diphtheria had been a trusty and popular goat for Lulu, and so it wasn’t too many months before her promotion to an upstairs room of her own. Eventually she moved down the street to the Arlington House, where she was given her own listing in the Blue Book under the name “Dorothia Morningstar.” It was Josie Arlington herself who had insisted on the name change, pointing out that even an exceptionally pretty girl named for a disease might tend to inspire costly hesitation in the heart of a wealthy upper-class patron. Whatever the name, a listing in the Blue Book was the big time. Diphtheria had made it, and so had Hattie.

The process of coming up in the district had been all about hard times, but Diphtheria and Hattie had gone through the worst of it together. Now Diphtheria doubted if Hattie (or herself, for that matter) could summon the strength required to start again from scratch. Hattie’s skin was naturally light, her lips thin and her nose narrow—fine Creole looks that made her own transition from the crib a smooth one. But that could all change fast if a baby ruined her shape.

“
Your situation is diff’nt,” Diphtheria continued. “Gettin’ full-blown pregnant woulda lost you yer job in a high-class joint like Arlington Hall—and you know it. Woulda got kicked back down to the cribs in ten seconds flat. How you woulda raised a child in a crib with no man to look after ya? And no money? Cain’t raise a baby up proper on no crib-nickels.”

“
I know, I know,” answered Hattie, a delayed echo to Diphtheria’s earlier whisper. “Still, I wanted that child. That was
my
child. Even if it was only from being selfish, I wanted that child. Maybe I coulda found a way. Might be, could be.”

Diphtheria stroked Hattie’s hair, ever gently. “Shush now, girl. You ain’t selfish like that. It was your love for that child made you get cured. Knowin’ his life would be so hard. Your own life be hard, too hard to care for him proper. It ain’t like you didn’t think things through. You tortured yourself over it. You gave it every consideration—which is more’n most girls do. You loved that baby in yer body and done what you thought best for
him
. Ain’t no sin in doing what you think is right. Being selfish woulda been more a sin. You ain’t selfish like that, girl. You know you ain’t.”

That much was true. Hattie
had
tortured herself over the thought of bringing a child into the world, and in the end decided the timing couldn’t be worse. So she had seen Doctor Jack
about
(and later
for
) a cure, but she’d also committed herself to saving up a year’s worth of wages; enough money to survive her next
pregnancy, get her figure back, then get back to work.

But she knew she would never have another chance at having
this
baby. This baby was gone and gone for good; except in her heart. Its little pink body taken away by Diphtheria’s brother, Typhus, to be buried or sunk God knows where. The next time it would be a whole other baby. A newer, luckier baby—allowed to live. But not the same baby at all.
This
baby was dead—and dead is forever.

“
It ain’t fair,” said Hattie. “
I
ain’t fair.”

Diphtheria had no words for response, and so stroked Hattie’s hair some more. Wiped away her tears.

“
Shhhh,” Diphtheria cooed again. “You and me best be gettin’ to work now, girl. Try to put on a little smile for the customers.”

“
You go, Diphtheria. Tell Josie I ain’t well.”

Diphtheria’s soft expression toughened slightly. “You keep that up and you’ll be back to cribbin’ after all. You
know
that. Josie’s got some tenderness in her heart for you, girl—but you keep it up and she’ll rent yer room out to someone new.” Diphtheria let out a sigh, remorseful of the harshness in her voice. “Get dressed. And put on that smile.” Diphtheria demonstrated a smile as if Hattie might have forgotten what one looked like. Then, after a pause, and with calculated tenderness, “So’s you can put some money away for that
next
little one.”

Hattie sat up slowly, her spine aligning gradually with the sofa back.

“
Yeah. Guess you right, Diphtheria.”

“’
Course I’m right. Now, you get yerself gussied to make yerself a little killin’—you and yer natural high-yella skin tone set to breakin’ hearts—Lord,
Lord!
—and I’ll be back in my room doin’ the same. Lotsa fancy men in town fer a fraternity meetin’, they say. Meet you at the parlor room, all right?”

“
I guess,” said Hattie, unable to get excited at the thought of fancy men—she’d suspected (or at least hoped) it had been a fancy man from a fraternity who’d knocked her up in the first place.

Hattie felt her mood darkening. Thinking about taking a bath. Thinking about the straight razor in her washroom. Thinking about hot water turning pink. “Might take a little bath first,” she said quietly.

“
That’s it, you take a bath.” Diphtheria spoke brightly, but something in Hattie’s eyes rang an alarm, so she added on for safety’s sake, “But make it a short one. Got to get to work. I’ll be back to check on you if you take too long.”

“
Yeah, a short one,” Hattie monotoned. “All right then, Diphtheria.”

“
Got that new piano player ya like downstairs, girl. Mr. J.C. Booker, the one that plays them rags. Get yer mind offa things I bet, them rags.” Hattie smiled some, almost forgetting about hot baths with pink water at the thought of J.C. Booker and his gay piano rags.

“
Damn, that boy sure plays good,” Hattie agreed. “Least he don’t play them stuffy classics like the last boy.” A little laugh escaped her lips; a tiny miracle. “Them Beethoven suh-nattas just put me clean outta the mood.”

“
That’s right, dear.” Diphtheria smiled. “Let that pretty piano boy lift yer spirits some. Skip the bath and come down quick. Playin’ already, I bet.”

“
Yeah, maybe so.”

“
All right, then. See you in a few minutes,” Diphtheria said, practicing her man-catching smile, grabbing West by his little hand, pulling open the door.

“
All right then.” Hattie echoed. And then: “Diphtheria?”

“
Yeah, baby?” Half-way through the door, West’s wrist wriggling in her grip.

“
Thank you.” Another little smile.

Big smile in return: “Stop talkin’ crazy and getcher self dressed up, girl. Gotta go break some hearts and make some market.” Diphtheria left, beaming at her success in brightening Hattie’s eyes—a difficult accomplishment these last few days.

But the sound of the closing door felt hollow and echoless in Hattie’s ear, and the room’s sudden emptiness weighed heavy. A vision of J.C. Booker—his smile, his music, his passion for living—did manage to lighten a dark corner of her mind, but another corner stayed dark and dwelled on visions of pink bathwater. Hattie Covington stared hard at the pile of buttons West had been playing with. Neatly stacked by the door. One perfect tower. A child’s success.

Hattie got up and went to the washroom. Put the stopper in the drain of the tub. Let warm, clear water flow. But before the tub was full, there was a rapping at the door.

The knock was small but firm. The sound of a tiny fist.

Chapter twenty-six

Fish and Buttons

“
Now, git on to the ante-room to see Miss Bernice double-quick,” Diphtheria told West as soon as they stepped into the hallway outside Hattie’s room. “Mama’s gotta make us some groceries.” Bernice was a sweet-tempered midwife hired by Madame Josie to watch over the little ones while their mothers were otherwise disposed.

Sudden concern distorted West’s eyebrows: “Mama, oh no.”

“
What’s a matter, child?”

“
Forgot my buttons in Miss Hattie’s room.”

Diphtheria sighed. “Well, don’t you worry. Miss Bernice got plenty of toys fer you kids to play with. You can getcher buttons back later.”

“
Can’t I just knock on Miss Hattie’s door and get ’em now?” West found his mother’s knack for doing everything the long way both annoying and perplexing.

“
Don’t you even think about it, little man,” Diphtheria held firm. “Miss Hattie’s getting dressed now—might be taking a bath, too. You go barging in for your buttons and you might be walking in on a naked lady is what. That what you want?”

“
No,” West conceded timidly—the idea of walking in on a “naked lady” being a universally terrifying concept in the world of pre-adolescent boys. West much preferred his grown-ups fully clothed whenever possible.

“
Now, off to see Miss Bernice. We’ll worry ’bout them buttons later. You just let
me
worry about them buttons, hear?”

West’s eyebrows raised, bunched, then spread—he knew full well his mother lacked the ability to worry properly over such things. But smart kids can be relentless when the fate of shiny buttons hangs in the balance—and West was certainly a smart kid. Grown-ups just didn’t understand such things, and children don’t have the patience to explain every little thing.

Diphtheria, knowing it was not in West’s nature to give up so quickly, didn’t have time to ponder any potentially devious intentions he may have. With a sigh she rolled her eyes, hoped for the best, and darted down the hall so she could get down to the serious business of making herself irresistible to strangers.

Having no desire to walk in on a naked lady, West’s plan was to wait for Miss Hattie to finish dressing and come out under her own steam. As soon as she opened the door he’d simply ask for his buttons and be on his way; off to the ante-room like a good boy. In West’s mind, being a “good boy” didn’t necessarily mean doing every silly thing your mother told you to do in the correct order. He parked himself outside Hattie’s door with his arms wrapped around his knees.

After about five minutes of waiting, West noted the sound of running water inside. Miss Hattie was drawing a bath after all—this might take a while. No matter, thought West, it wasn’t like he had anything pressing to attend. Resolved to a longer wait, West let the water sound coax his mind into a daydream.

The daydream began with the topic at hand: Buttons. Red buttons, blue buttons, purple and pink, shiny and flat, square and round. Little buttons, big buttons big as a house, flying buttons, talking buttons, and buttons that could swim. But dream-thoughts of buttons can get old pretty quick even for a small boy who obsesses on such things, so the daydream soon turned to other fun things, the funnest non-button thing he could think of being his Uncle Dropsy. Uncle Dropsy had a rare comprehension of things important to little kids. He understood about wrestling and sneaking and playing tricks and hide and seek and doing slightly dangerous things without tattling and laughing over the serious things that mostly made mommies just cry.