The Sound of Building Coffins (29 page)

Should’ves.

Funny how the mind works.

He lightened at the irony and so relaxed, the fantastic dance of shoe doves evaporating as quickly as they’d materialized. Sleep was now a possibility, but before his mind could escape into dreams, one last tenacious shoe-dove whispered then clawed its way back into his mind. This shoe-dove’s name was Noonday Morningstar.

Morningstar’s face had often visited Jack in dreams, sometimes in waking hours. The preacher’s face was a reminder of his own inability (or, perhaps unwillingness) to act in moments requiring courage—just as he’d failed to act on the night of Morningstar’s death. The prison guard Beauregard had acted that night. Young Buddy Bolden had acted. Even little Typhus had acted. But he—a medicine man, doctor, and spiritual leader—had merely looked on. Helpless and afraid, he had done nothing.

But what could he have done? What should he have done? He didn’t know the answers, but he knew there
were
answers. Maybe it was something
yet
to do and not merely
would’ve, could’ve, should’ve—

Shoe dove

Doctor Jack had always liked and admired Morningstar even though the two men had agreed on very little. There was never any bad blood between them—except for the one thing.

Shoe dove

Jack closed his eyes tight, rubbed at the lids, then opened them wide. Watched the dancing pinpricks explode from within, willed the pinpricks into shoe doves. Soaring, weaving, dancing. A tiny smile formed in his soul.

This night is over for me
, he quietly conceded in the dark.
Time to bring on the morning
.

Doctor Jack sat bolt upright with thoughts of hot chicory simmering in his head, felt for the lamp, found a box of matches. The smell of burning saltpetre was pleasantly wakeful to him. He breathed in deep with eyes closed.

Three quick raps at the door gave him a start. Nocturnal intrusions were not unusual in his line of work, but Jack’s recent sleepless premonition of bad-things-coming-soon had put him on edge. He hurriedly touched match to wick before seeing to the door.

Typhus Morningstar nodded to Jack and walked in casually, as if this were a thing he did often at four in the morning. “Sorry if I woke you,” Typhus said, clearly troubled.

“
That’s all right, Typhus,” said Jack. “I was having trouble sleeping anyway.”

“
Me too.”

Jack pulled up a chair for Typhus who only stared at it and remained standing. “Trouble sleeping, eh? Well, that’s a shame. But what brings you here at this unusual hour?”

“
I’m sorry. Didn’t want to wake Malaria and Dropsy, and didn’t want to sit up in the dark no more all alone. Bad dream. I’m really sorry to bother you, Doctor Jack.”

“
That’s all right, little pardna. Gonna take care of you just fine. Dreams can be worse than most sicknesses. There’s no shame in dreaming.”

Typhus dragged his feet to the corner farthest from the door, eased himself into a sitting position with his head leaning leftways against the wall. His eyes were sleepy but unblinking.

Jack nudged him gently: “You feel like talking about it? This dream of your’n?’

“
Not sure how.”

“
Well, just start at the beginning. If you remember, that is. Sometimes dreams can rush out of your head on the waking.”

“
I remember.” Typhus’ eyes told Jack that not only did he remember, but that he may spend the rest of his life trying to forget. “Don’t know if I can talk about it, though. Hurts to even think about it.”

“
I see,” said Jack.

“
No, you don’t see, Doctor Jack. No one can see.”

“
True enough, little pardna. Be plenty of time to make me see tomorrow morning. After you done got some rest. And only if you want.”

“
Guess why I come is on account of how the dream made me feel. Like I’m all alone in this world.” Doctor Jack laid some sheepskins behind Typhus, who reclined against them.

“
Dreams can’t make you alone, Typhus.” Jack walked over to the medicine counter to mix one of his secret sleep remedies in a small steel cup. The taste gave the so-called secret away—its alcohol content being in the neighborhood of ninety proof. He handed the concoction to Typhus.

“
More alone than I ever felt since you gave me Lily.” Typhus sat up enough to take a sip and then a full-blown swallow. He lay his head back down without wincing.

“
Well, I guess even Lily has her limitations, son.”

Typhus liked it when Jack called him
son
. “It doesn’t seem fair,” said Typhus. “I give her every bit of me, but she leave me alone at such a time. I guess that sound selfish, but I can’t help thinking it. It’s hard to talk about.”

“
Try.” Jack didn’t want to press, but had a strong feeling Typhus needed to get something off his chest.

Typhus paused to arrange his thoughts, trying to decide between outright lying and half-truthing. He decided to talk straight. Lying wouldn’t make the sin any less, and he knew he could trust Jack to keep his secrets.

“
Had this dream.” Typhus paused long.

“
Gathered that much already. Listen, if you’d really rather not talk about it, we can just leave it for another—”

“
Woke up hard—down there.” Typhus swallowed heavily, too far gone to turn back now. “In my privates.”

Jack raised an eyebrow and looked on expectantly.

“
It wasn’t the kind of dream supposed to get a reaction like that. There was no pretty lady in the dream. No Lily. There was only bad stuff in the dream.”

Jack’s eyes softened, moistening imperceptibly. “What kind of bad stuff?”

“
Evil bad. People dying. Burned alive. People I know. People I love.” Typhus discovered he was physically unable to recount any more detail than that—he hoped Jack wouldn’t push it. “I couldn’t make it go down. I tried and tried. Finally I got a knife…thought about cutting it…got scared…then I got on my bike and came over…”

“
Well, now, boy. Ain’t no crime to have a bad dream. And sometimes a person’s lower body region can act in mysterious ways. Don’t mean you was sexually interested in the bad things you saw in the dream.”

“
But I was.”

“
Was what?”

“
In-trested.” A pause, a glance down, a whisper: “Seck-shully.”

“
I think there’s a good chance you’re confused about that, son.”

“
I was,” Typhus insisted in a whisper, closing his eyes in shame.

“
Well, let’s say you were,” Doctor Jack said firmly. “Still ain’t no crime. And the fact you’re so bothered about it shows you got a good conscience.”

“
But there’s a part of me that ain’t ashamed. A part of me enjoyed it. A part that wanted it to happen.”

“
Nonsense, boy.”

Typhus got to his feet, wondering whether he should go on talking or just let the conversation end there. More words left his lips before he was aware of his decision to speak:

“
I felt this way one other time, Doctor Jack.”

“
I see.” And he did see. He knew exactly what Typhus was talking about, there was no need for Typhus to go on explaining.

But the talking was a release for Typhus, so he continued:

“
When I was nine. When that thing was in me. Before Daddy took it out. That bad thing I took out of the Sicilian baby—”

“
Shhhh…” Jack got up to put an arm around Typhus’ shoulder. “You ain’t gotta say another word about that.”

“
I gotta say one thing…”

“
No you don’t.”

“
It’s just that…”

“
Shhhh…”

“…
it ain’t all gone.”

“
Of course it is.”

“
No. It ain’t.”

“
Don’t talk like that.”

“
It’s still in me, that thing. I know it.”

“
What’s in you is a
memory
of a bad thing. Not the bad thing itself.”

Typhus broke into sobs, wanting to believe Doctor Jack. Unable.

“
Typhus, now listen,” said Jack as he rubbed Typhus’ shoulder. “That thing you went through way back when, that’ll always stick with you. But it’s a memory now, nothing more. This thing that happened tonight—well, I reckon that’d be the result of a combination of things. Bad memories mixed with natural feelings of longing. I ’spect if there’s a cure for yer troubles, it’d probably be by fixing the latter. Having all them longings done opened a big ol’ window for those bad memories to come rushing out at you.”

“
Ain’t got no longings like that, Doctor Jack. Not no more. Not since you give me Lily.”

“
What I gave you was a pretty piece of paper, Typhus. I thought it might be enough, but looks like it ain’t.”

“
Don’t want no one but my Lily, Doctor Jack. Thanks anyhow.”

“
Didn’t say nothing ’bout no one else.”

Typhus looked up, startled by the implication.

“
That’s right, boy. I believe it might be time for you and Miss Lily to meet in person.”

Typhus’ expression changed quickly from joy to hope to suspicion to something like anger. “You playin’ games with me, Doctor Jack? Could be I ain’t as gullible as you think.”

Jack’s own expression performed a similar succession; shock to anger to barely concealed amusement.

“
I know yer in a bad way, so I’ll let that pass. Can’t says I blame you for not believing—but it’s true enough. Lily’s alive and well and not at all far off. Now, I ain’t saying she looks just like in the picture. That picture was took long ago. If you want her to be young and pretty, then I guess I oughtn’t bother. But if you really love her, then what she looks like shouldn’t oughta matter much.”

Typhus considered this new possibility. Could he trust his own heart if Doctor Jack was telling the truth, if he was really able to meet the real Lily, the flesh and blood version? If she wasn’t beautiful like in the picture, would it matter to him? Would he recoil from her? The questions didn’t seem fair at first—but then he considered her eyes. How he’d always longed to see them in person, how he’d wondered about their color. He’d always imagined them green. He
knew
they were green. Green like his mother’s eyes; eyes he’d never seen, that he’d only heard described by his father. In any case, Typhus figured Lily’s eyes wouldn’t have changed much, however old she might be now.

“
It doesn’t matter,” Typhus said at last.

“
Well, then. It’s settled. You get yourself some sleep here tonight, then go on home in the morning and get cleaned up. Come back when the sun down. ’Tween now and then I’ll have had a chance to talk to her, maybe make some sort of arrangement.”

Typhus stood silent with a cautious grin on his face. Dr. Jack’s sleep remedy was swimming madly in his blood, doing battle with a rush of adrenaline. His swirling thoughts focused loosely around an image of his best shirt, the one he’d wear to meet Lily the Real Live Girl tomorrow evening.

“
Typhus?” Jack was smiling.

“
Yes, sir?”

“
There’s a possibility, you know, that she won’t come. I don’t want you to be too disappointed if she don’t.”

Typhus was disappointed at the mere thought. Still, he was high on this bit of hope. Sometimes hoping feels the same as winning. Sometimes hoping is good enough.

“
No, sir. I understand.”

“
Good. Now, go on and git some sleep,” said Doctor Jack.

“
All right, then,” said Typhus simply.

“
All right, then” agreed Jack.

“
Dr. Jack?”

“
Yes, Typhus?”

“
Thanks.”

“
Don’t thank me yet.”

“
All right, then.”

“
All right, then.”

“
Good night.”

“
Good night.”

Chapter thirty-eight

Blindfold

The sun was down but the air still hot when Typhus began his walk back to Doctor Jack’s office the next day, and along the way he began considering the possibility that he’d put on his best shirt for nothing. Right now, these were things he nearly believed: the hope he’d felt last night was born of sleep medication, Doctor Jack had played a trick. But anger and suspicion calmed into acceptance and melancholy by the time he reached his destination. Typhus’ knock was followed by a
click
then a
clack
as Doctor Jack removed the padlock from inside.

“
Well, aren’t you looking fancy for your big date.” Something about Doctor Jack looked out of the ordinary, but Typhus couldn’t quite place what. He looked
cleaner
somehow.

“
Thank you,” Typhus answered, taking in a deep breath before adding, “Did you talk to Lily?”