The Sound of Building Coffins (8 page)

In a coffee tin.

Uncomfortable thoughts zigged, then zagged. In silence.

The Carolla house sat not ten feet from the street, a small square of earth before it bearing only thin, wispy grass and a lonely date-palm. Sandwiched tightly between neighboring homes, the house was striking for the care with which Antonio had tended it during his short life. The interstices separating its joists were smoothed over flawlessly with mortar, the structure’s flat, sturdy walls meticulously white-washed with lime. The roof shingles had been perfectly cut to the appearance of slate, the reflection of the approaching party’s lamplights dressing their edges finely in dull iridescence. Firelight showed through the single window by the front door, its glow framing a figure on the stoop in hazy silhouette. A bible sat by the man’s feet while the low moan of a thousand tree frogs warbled from afar.

Not one of the six could conceive of the turmoil in Noonday Morningstar’s soul as he sat on that stoop, none could know what he had seen and heard in that place that night. Nor could they know that upon his re-arrival he had once again heard the clear and unmistakable voice of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior, and that those words had been: “I told you not to come back, stupid nigger. Now yer gonna reap it fer sure. You little shit. Himminy-haw-haw-hoo.”

Noonday Morningstar sat with head in hands, his heart trying to reach beyond the cold words of his God, when a small hand laid down against his left shoulder alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone.

“
Jesus was wrong, Father,” Typhus said. “You only come back because what’s good in your heart told you to. Jesus is wrong. Jesus don’t know. Even the Son of God can’t know everything.” Typhus Morningstar had the gift of understanding.

Morningstar did not look up, but his own hand reached up to his son’s, gently covering it, pressing down firmly.

“
Forgive me,” he said; not to his God but to his son. On this night, Noonday Morningstar possessed a rare understanding that even Typhus was incapable of. He understood that not all in attendance would survive tonight, and he knew that the “who” and the “how many” of it would depend upon his own actions. He chased the useless thought from his mind, focusing on the matter at hand.

Morningstar stood up to scan the dull sparkle of eyes around him. Twelve searching eyes. Scared, confused.

He didn’t chastise Typhus and Diphtheria for not being home in bed with their siblings, but rather, addressed all six: “What the hell took y’all so damn long? We got ourselves a little job to do here.” Then, after a pause: “It ain’t too late. Not yet it ain’t, no sir. Jesus be damned, this evil can still be fixed.” Then to Beauregard: “What you got we’ll be needing. So be ready with it.” The fact that the preacher seemed to know Beauregard’s secret brought a mixed chill of premonition and hope to the prison guard’s heart. He nodded to Morningstar and took a step forward. Morningstar’s gaze turned to the rest. Spoke softly:

“
Each of you is here for a reason. This cast of characters ain’t by chance. You all need to look in your hearts and do right by this mother and child tonight. When it’s your turn to act, do so without thought. Act on instinct. And if God Almighty should speak to you directly, make like you don’t hear. Follow your heart instead.”

Buddy fingered his cornet nervously. He had believed his own reason for being here was to comfort a pretty gal worried about her daddy. But Morningstar’s words struck a chord of truth for him—a simple truth that he didn’t fully understand. But wasn’t that the definition of faith? Simple truth beyond conventional understanding? Dumb truth believed for the sake of the belief itself? The question failed to fill his mind with sensible dread, but, instead, with odd purpose. Yes, Morningstar was referring to faith—but he was also asking them to turn their hearts from God. So what exactly was he asking them to place their faith in? Buddy’s arm slipped around Diphtheria’s shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Pressed a bit of yellow fabric between forefinger and thumb, confirming to himself the existence of everyday stuff like yellow dresses.

Morningstar opened the front door and motioned the rest to follow. He left his bible on the stoop outside, the others carefully stepping over it as they made their way to the threshold of the house.

The tiny one room house was strangely cold inside, even with a fire in the potbelly stove that transformed black coal to raging white. Being a thin girl, Diphtheria instinctively wrapped her arms around herself. Buddy’s arms took the hint and wrapped around her as well. Father Morningstar did not protest Buddy’s familiarity with his daughter.

A few lamps hung from decorative chains, adding minimal light to the various grays that colored the walls. Expertly hung wallpaper displayed alien purple flowers, the paper hugging tightly to plaster except where a ravaged and peeling section turned up and away near the ceiling; evidence of ancient water damage. The floor was bare concrete except for an irregularly cut but beautifully stitched European rug that sat straight but off-center near the middle of the room, a defective scrap bought cheap at the French Market from a Sicilian colleague.

A bed for the parents stood two feet from the crib, separated only by a small table altar on which various religious icons were propped up in odd-shaped frames. Attached to the walls were brown-toned daguerreotype photographs depicting stony-faced men with thick black mustaches standing closely behind beautiful women with lost-looking eyes. The women in the pictures sat with hands folded carefully across their laps. Save for the bed and crib, there was precious little furniture in the home.

Anabella Carolla sat silent on the floor by the crib, her arms around her knees, her face down and buried between them. The only sound was a rhythmic tapping. The rhythm was familiar to Beauregard and Buddy—but out of its normal context neither could quite place it.

Doctor Jack recognized it immediately.

Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.

Over and over again. A secret knock. A desire for fun amongst friends. A plea for entry. Gentle but persuasive.

Jack walked to the crib and looked over the edge of its smoothly polished, dark-stained rail. The child was lying on his back, eyes closed. There was rapid movement beneath the lids, flitting back and forth, telling of an urgent dream in progress. Thick red welts had risen behind the baby’s ears. His little fist was rapping gently and absently, continuing the familiar rhythm against hard wooden bars. His breathing was labored, a film of sweat covering the tiny naked body that lay in a watery mixture of “chamber lye and tattlin’”—baby piss and shit. The smell of it was powerful and cut through the cold air like the blade of a dull, dirty knife.

Morningstar stepped alongside Jack. Motioned the root doctor to back away from the crib.

Rapid eye movement stopped abruptly. The child’s lips contorted as his eyes shot open, connecting with those of the preacher. A harsh, adult voice came out of the tiny mouth:

“
Stupid fucking nigger. How many times do I have to tell you? This ain’t yer scene, pops. Not for you. Not your place. I shall shit down your neck, Father. And I shall shit down the necks of your children as well. Mip kit wiggity fip fah
—”

Morningstar responded full-throated—his sermon-delivering voice—effectively cutting short the demon’s rant:

“
Go hence, thou who comest in darkness, whose nose is turned backwards, whose face is upside-down and who knowest not why thou has come.”

“
But I do know why, Father
!” cackled the demon with a sleepy smile.
“Higgle biggle boo! Hot cha cha cha!”

Morningstar continued undeterred, calm:

“
Hast thou come to kiss this child? I will not let thee kiss him. Hast thou come to send him to sleep? I will not let thee do him harm. Hast thou come to take him away? I will not let thee carry him away.” The preacher produced a small glass container two inches in diameter from his coat pocket, removed the lid and scooped out the majority of its contents with the middle and forefinger of his right hand. “I have secured his protection against thee with bloodroot, onions and honey, sweet to men but evil to the dead.” He spread the sticky-sweet concoction over the child’s sallow chest. Then, placing his fingers to his own mouth, Morningstar licked himself clean of it.

Doctor Jack, impressed with Morningstar’s apparent knowledge of herbal magic, smiled weakly and looked at Typhus with lightly questioning eyes. Typhus only shrugged, suddenly wondering about the bible his father had left out on the stoop.

Morningstar turned to Beauregard: “The thing that you brought. Give it to me now.”

Dazed by the scene before him, Beauregard snapped alert to remove the tin from his leather pouch and stepped towards the preacher quickly; nerves jangling, heart pounding. Dropped the bag with its remaining items intended for luck to the floor, freeing both hands so he could focus on the tenant of the tin.

Pulled the lid off. Dropped the lid to the floor along with the bag. Clangedy-clang on the floor. Reached into the tin. Looked around at the others. Looked at the two-dimensional, daguerreotype Sicilian faces that stared from the walls. Said:

“
Don’t ask me to explain this.” No one did.

Zig.

Beauregard did not remove the severed hand of Antonio Carolla gingerly between thumb and forefinger, but instead grasped it firmly, as one might clasp the hand of a seldom seen friend. Spoke to the hand’s former owner. “Well, old man, I sincerely hope this is what you had in mind.” He gave the hand of Antonio Carolla to Father Morningstar.

Zag.

A wave of doubt washed over Morningstar’s mind—but he shook it off quickly. “The father will save the son…” he intoned with weary eyes. “The father will save the son. The father will save the son. This is not right. This must be made right.”

Morningstar placed the severed hand of Antonio Carolla over the child’s chest, covering the honey-mixed herbs. The demon let out a short, pained shriek, and then changed.

The face of the child focused on Beauregard with soft eyes, speaking directly to him in odd rhythm and gentle tone, nearly a whisper:

“
My brother, this, the second day of my birth, was not unlike your first—but of water—restrictive of motion till now, till this cutting of hand, this slicing of wrist, to deliver this now unto me with love in your heart as you have, this father’s hand, this way out and above water in order to cleanse of the earth, in the form of this boy, the son of a friend, of father to son and to brother of brother and now for father once more, though first intent was desecration for luck and for hope of fortune not earned, the intent is now changed, a deed sharing sameness with sin born of love, committed in hate, by she who has birthed, of anguish and rage, respectively we, and now it is he who was born Thomas that must complete the circle today and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…”

The cadence of the demon’s nonsensical rant diminished eventually to a mumble and then to nothing, the child falling once more into rigid catatonia, eyelids fallen shut again; rapid eye movement returning with fresh vigor.

Lips, a straight thin line, betraying neither emotion nor reason.

Beauregard Church stood motionless, silent.

Morningstar offered a hand to the mother. “Stand up, Mother. So that you may watch your child be saved.”

On wobbly knees, Anabella Carolla took the preacher’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. She at once recognized the small heart-shaped birthmark below the middle finger of her husband’s disembodied hand. “
My ’Tonio.
”
She reached out to touch his pale index finger. Morningstar held her trembling hand back, his voice kind but firm:

“
Shhhh. No. It will be all right. This is your husband’s gift to your son.” Then, after a brief pause: “He knew. Your husband knew. It will be all right now.”

The child’s breathing had become increasingly labored. Jack ran a finger across the smooth rail of the crib, looked down and in, whispered matter-of-factly and without expression,“
Babaku
.” A word for nameless African demons.

“
No, Jack,” responded Morningstar. “This is no pagan demon. A Christian one. And it has a name.” As little Dominick’s chest struggled to expand for air, the severed hand appeared to tremble of its own accord.

“
The Christian demon has a name,” repeated Morningstar. This time for his own benefit, a reaffirmation of things witnessed in dreams.

Dominick’s chest stopped rising for air.

It was now clear that the autonomous movement of the hand was not illusion. A gentle massage of the child’s chest. A caress from a dead father. Anabella Carolla wiped her eyes, allowing them to widen in terror or hope. Marshall Trumbo stepped directly behind her, sensing she may faint, ready for her fall.

Trumbo spoke up. “The name of the demon, Father?”

Morningstar looked at him blank-faced. “Knowing the name would do you no good, son. No good at all.”

The preacher focused his attention back to the child—who had suddenly begun thrashing violently against the barred walls of the crib. Head and feet taking turns whipping up then down, a blind see-saw. Rhythmically. Beating against the loose fabric of the thin mattress: