The Sound of Building Coffins (35 page)

To his little beach by the river, to his
rebirthing
beach.

A song in his head played along the way:

Jesus I’m troubled about my soul…

Vegetation soon thinned and sand prevailed. Typhus’ vision was failing, but the clear and soothing hum of river—along with the accompanying warmth of its breeze—told him he’d reached his destination. He let himself fall to his side in a fetal position; breathing hard, the sweat of his body mixing with his blood, the mixture turning sticky-brown beneath the beating sun. A shallow tide swelled meekly from the river, sending a cool sheet of water across sand to kiss his grounded shoulder. Typhus felt peace for a moment, but the moment soon dissolved into a sharp, percussive shriek that shot up through his throat. The pain in his belly crescendoed then receded with the tide, and during those moments in-between where water and agony fell away, Typhus mustered the strength to reach into his bag. With careful but shaking hands, he placed torn bits of photographic paper face up on the smooth sand, just out of the tide’s reach. He assembled Lily quickly—more quickly than he imagined he could—then lay the bag over top to protect her from wind and river spray. The tide would take Lily tonight in its own sweet time. Typhus had done what he could.

The pain of calisaya bloomed full-red; muscles and bones seemingly at war. Something inside was pushing, pressing inward, causing muscles to stiffen, bones to yield. What was unwelcome would soon be expelled—and
that
is the point of calisaya tea.

An awful burning in his chest came—and with it a weird sensation of dislodging. Something had come loose, tearing away from his heart. The calisaya focused on the anomaly in his chest, centering its force within his ribcage in a single, blinding contraction. Finally, Typhus felt the thing inside give up, let go.

Typhus listened in amazement to the rhythm of his own heartbeat, now pounding with a strength and clarity he’d never before known—it was a liberating thing, this rhythm. But with liberation comes baggage akin to tragedy, the kind of tragedy associated with final farewells and painful lessons learned.

Before Typhus could adequately ponder the abstract qualities of freedom and tragedy, he realized he had stopped breathing—something had blocked his windpipe. His lungs attempted to pull inward—but Typhus knew this was wrong—and so willed every ounce of his strength to, instead, push
out
.

The obstruction pushed up then through his mouth with a gush of clear, brown fluid, landing on the sand, palm side up.

A hand.

Rigidly closed in a half-fist, the hand trembled slightly for a moment then lay still. Typhus lay on his side, gulping air, staring at the hand. This was a hand he remembered well—the gentle hand of a loving father. He stared at the nails and the tiny hairs of the knuckles, the creases, the calluses of it. Though the scar upon his chest had always been plain enough, he’d never fully believed the stories of how it had come to be. There was a part of him that
knew
, but another part unable to
believe
. With the truth now as plain as the scar, Typhus found himself wishing he’d not expelled a thing so inclined to attach itself to his heart.

Without warning, the hand jumped into air—then flew into water. Craning his neck to follow its path, Typhus found himself looking at two naked feet near his head. The feet led upwards to an immense, sun-blocking silhouette—now stooping down to him. Typhus felt a cool hand against his forehead

“
Won’t be needing that anymore.” At the sound of the voice, Typhus knew the hand had not flown into water of its own accord.

It had been kicked.

“
Daddy?” said Typhus.

“
It’s good to see you, son,” said Noonday Morningstar.

“
You ain’t real,” said Typhus regretfully, with no better greeting for a long dead parent. “How’s it so?”

“
Sure, sure. I’m real enough. Dead people just as real as live ones, I reckon.”

“
Gotta be the tea. I’m imagining this.”

“
Imaginary people real, too—in their way. If a person can remember or even dream up a face, then the face does exist in some kinda way. Things remembered are sometimes more real than what a person holds in his hand. All that being true and set aside for now; you ain’t imagining me.”

“
Have to be. You’re dead.”

“
Hell, maybe I’m imagining you. Being dead so long can play tricks on a fella’s mind.” The dead man gave a wry smile. “C’mon now, Typhus. I’d a thought better of you for an open mind. Little fella like you turning dead babies into live catfish oughta be able to believe just about any damn thing.”

“
I guess,” Typhus conceded.

“
We both seen plenty strange things in our lives, son. Lots stranger than this. Don’t matter anyhow. Soon enough you’ll know. Plenty of proof be along shortly.”

Typhus winced at a fresh contraction. He held his breath till it passed, then let the air back out slowly.

“
It was too much,” said Noonday.

“
Too much?”

“
The tea, Typhus. Done gave yerself a double dose—and you being half-size already. Just like taking
four
times too much. Man, you musta really wanted that hand outta yer chest.”

“
Am I going to die?” asked Typhus.

“
Is that what you want?”

“
I don’t know.”

“
No, you ain’t gonna die. Not exactly. Gonna rebirth. Just like them babies you rebirth alla time. Snatch ’em from death and let ’em go till they get their story straight, then come back around to do some good. That’d be yer lot, I reckon. Goin’ off then comin’ back. Only you won’t be no fish.”

Typhus felt weird relief. “I was going to do that for you, Daddy,” he offered. “Was gonna rebirth ya. It’s why I came out here after taking the tea.”

“
You
what
?” Noonday said with a grin. “Gonna turn that old hand of mine into a catfish, was ya?” He laughed. “That there boy gonna turn my hand into a dern fish. Now I heard everything, yes indeed!” Shaking off the laughter but keeping the grin for luck, Noonday knelt beside Typhus to put something in his mouth. “Have a chaw,” he said. “Might take yer mind offa the pain.”

Typhus pressed his teeth to the bit of tobacco—his father was right, the juice was strong and distracting. After a few moments, Typhus asked:

“
Why you ain’t told me? ’Bout you not being my real father’n all? Shoulda told me.”

“
I’d a told you soon enough, Typhus—just hadn’t counted on my dyin’ so soon. You was only nine, boy. Time wasn’t right.” Noonday spat some tobacco juice in the river. “Anyway, don’t go foolin’ yerself. I was your father then, still am now, and always will be. Blood don’t mean shit. Love is all that matters when it comes down to fathers and sons. You been lucky—you had two fathers that loved you. And I don’t mean that crazy witch doctor you just kilt, neither. He was no kind of father at all. Just an egotistical, lovesick fool and not one thing more.”

“
I didn’t kill Doctor Jack. You did.”

“
Well, how ’bout that. Listen to you go on, passin’ around blame. Who was holding the knife, if you please?”

“
Who had their big old hand wrapped ’round my heart, if
you
please?”

Noonday smiled. “Ah, hell, boy. You just needed a nudge is all. It was the right thing under the circumstances—I mean, c’mon, think about what he done.”

Typhus looked away from the dead man. “Yeah. Maybe so.”

“
Sure, sure.”

“
Whadja mean about me havin’ two fathers, then? If Doctor Jack ain’t one of ’em.”

“
Do I gotta spell it out fer ya? Use yer noggin, boy. I raised you better’n that.”

“
The phantom?”

“
He has a name, Typhus. Show a little more respect for the man who took on such a thankless job, lookin’ after you, your brother and your sisters in my absence. Say his name, and do so with respect. And with proper love.”

“
Beauregard.”

“
Beauregard Church.” Noonday’s eyes brightened at the name. “He was as good a father as I ever was. Maybe better. And you mistreated that man. Broke his heart. Broke my heart watchin’ you do it to him.”

“
He killed you.”

“
He freed me.”

“
Daddy?” Typhus wasn’t sure how to ask the thing on his mind, so he said it straight out; “You been with me this whole time? Watchin’ me?”

“
Typhus, I been with you every step. My very hand on your heart. I’d be with you past today if you hadn’t a put me out like you just done.”

“
I’m sorry I did that,” Typhus started with a crack in his voice, “but I had to. Things was gettin’…so hard.”

“
Well, that’s all right. You just settle down. You done nothing wrong, boy. Musta been hard with never a moment’s true privacy. Seein’ that scar on yer chest every day and wonderin’ about it, wonderin’ if yer own thoughts were really your own—”

“
Were they?”

“
Were they what?”

“
My thoughts. Were they mine?”

A beat. “Mostly.”

Typhus hesitated. There was one more question, and the question came in the form of a single word:

“
Lily?”

“
Your mama’s name was Gloria, son.”

“
Gloria.” The word felt holy on his lips.

“
And I guess the answer to what you’re asking is
yes
.”

“
Gloria.” Fresh tears welled in Typhus’ eyes.

“
There was no shame in the love you felt for our Gloria; my wife, your mother. Shame not even in the passion. She was the love of my life, Typhus—and my hand was on your heart through no fault of your own—God Himself having put it there. You had no way of knowing why you felt the way you did. But that bastard Jack sure as hell did know. He knew every bit of it.”

In spite of this truth, Typhus could no longer bring himself to feel hatred or anger towards Doctor Jack. Couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but regret—regret at knowing the most powerful thing he’d ever felt in his life, his love for Lily, was not even a thing he could call his own. It was a passion borrowed from a dead man, his father.

“
That ain’t so, Typhus.” After fifteen years residence in his son’s soul, Noonday had no problem plucking thoughts from his head. “Your love was your own. It was always your own. I just give you a little nudge is all.”

“
Sounds like you done a lot of nudgin’.”

“
Guess I did.” Noonday smiled. “I hope I nudged you right once or twice along the way.”

“
Maybe you did. I guess you did. I don’t know.”

“
Well, let’s hope—at the end of the day, hoping is all anyone can do. Anyway, now that you done spat out my hand, I guess I’ll be off on my own shortly. Off to the Spiritworld, sure enough. And this time all in one piece.”

“
Heaven,” said Typhus, squinting his eyes at the sun. “Up in the clouds.”

Noonday lowered his eyes. “I guess I gave you some wrong information about that back when I was a living man—but damn if I didn’t take the Holy Bible literal at every word. Truth is, there ain’t no heaven and hell, son. Just one Spiritworld. And it ain’t in the sky, neither.”

“
Where, if not up?”

“
Think.” Noonday winked at his son. Spat another stream of juice in the water; a hint.

“
The river.”

“
Water, son. Ain’t nothin’ more sacred than water. Even more sacred than air.”

“
I think I’m dying, Daddy.”

“
I know, son.”

“
But I’ve got so many questions—”

“
Shhh. Time for that later.”

“
I don’t understand.”

Noonday stroked his son’s forehead. “Ain’t you been listening to a word I just said? In the water. We’ll meet again in the water. Soon.”

“
I need something, Daddy.”

“
What might that be?” said Noonday, knowing full well what Typhus needed.

“
I need the truth.”

“
The truth is what it is, Typhus. Real truth is common knowledge in the world of living men. Men only get to asking about it when they have a hard time accepting what they already know. But you knew that, didn’t you, Typhus? Ever since you was small, you knew that. You just done forgot is all.”

“
I love you, Daddy.”

“
I love you, too, boy.” Noonday touched Typhus’ cheek. “Ready?”

“
Ready.”

Chapter forty-eight

A Contrast of Hands

The mind of Malvina Latour had been in steady decline for better than two decades now, its process of deterioration having integrated itself into her daily routine. Recent events passed through her head like a sieve and lately she’d found herself mostly unable to form clear thoughts of any kind. Being aware of such weakness failed to distress her, though, for she found comfort in the night.