The Sound of Building Coffins (30 page)

Jack just smiled. With the door closed behind him, Typhus found his question answered by the heavy scent of perfume. Sweet, fancy, lady fragrance. She was here, or recently had been.

“
Of course I talked to her, Typhus. Told you I would, didn’t I?”

“
She coming?” Typhus asked with wide eyes.

Jack’s face turned serious. “Have yerself a seat and I’ll explain.” He motioned for Typhus to take a chair. “I told Lily all about you, Typhus, and I was completely honest with her. Told her about that picture of yours, the one I gave you. Told her about your devotion to her. About your longing. Everything. I left none of it out.” Jack’s voice stayed low and even as Typhus’ eyebrows raised in horror.

“
Ah, Doctor Jack,” Typhus said with shaking voice. “You shouldn’t oughta done that. Might think I’m some kinda love-crazed fool.”

“
Like I said,” Jack said, “I was dead honest with her. She a friend of mine just like you a friend of mine. How would you feel if I went on lyin’ to you about important things?”

Typhus faced the ground. “Not so good, I guess.”

Jack’s tone softened at the concession. “’Course not, son. ’Course not. Always be honest with your friends if you can hep it.” The truth did little to console Typhus. His head hung ever-lower, his eyes fastened to his shoes. He couldn’t imagine Lily would think much of him if she knew the truth about his relationship with her picture.

“
Ah, now, buck up, Typhus,” Doctor Jack continued. “That ain’t the end of it now, not by a longshot it ain’t. Lily was touched by it all, just like I knew she would be. She told me in her whole life she never meant so much to anyone as her picture means to you. Your love for her without even knowing her is a thing that touched her very deeply. And she does indeed wish to make your acquaintance.” Typhus’ eyes regained light, but before they could light all the way Jack managed to splash some cold water on: “Of course, she has a few conditions before she will.”

“
Conditions?” Typhus didn’t like the sound of that.

“
Well, yes, Typhus. Conditions. You have to understand that this is a strange set of circumstances to be thrusting upon poor Miss Lily out of the blue and all. She being a bit older now than she was in that picture of your’n. And her being so much older than you anyway, old enough to be your mama. She doesn’t expect the two of you will be able to carry on a proper relationship, so she wants to take things slow.”

“
How slow? What do you mean?”

“
Well…” Doctor Jack paused, smoothing the lines of his forehead with the rough palm of his left hand. “Typhus, it’s like this. She wants to meet you. She wants to meet you very much. But she doesn’t want you to see her.”

Mortified, Typhus whispered, “I don’t understand.”

Jack stepped behind Typhus and placed a hand on his shoulder. “She doesn’t want to betray your image of her, the way you know her. She wants you to keep that. So she asked me to bring you here—but she’ll only come in the room if you’re sitting in that chair. With a blindfold on.”

“
A blindfold?” This couldn’t be happening. “Doctor Jack, are you playing some kind of trick on me?”

“
I thought you might say that—told Lily you might, too. But this ain’t no trick. You can leave right now if you don’t like the idea. Lily said she’d understand if you did, and I’d certainly understand, too.”

Typhus lowered himself to the chair. Put elbows to knees and head in hands; thinking. After a few seconds he spoke without looking up, “I still want to meet her. Even if I can’t see her.”

The lines of Jack’s forehead disappeared without the help of his palm. “She didn’t think you’d feel that way, but I knew you would. I said, ‘Lily, you don’t understand how much you mean to that young man.’”

“
So when’s she coming? Tonight maybe?” Typhus hoped she might be waiting right outside the door. He didn’t think he could stand to wait another minute.

“
She’s here already, boy.” Doctor Jack pulled a length of dark blue cloth from his hip pocket. Typhus watched his hands as he did so, noticing a small bloody cut on Jack’s forearm about five inches up from the wrist. Before tying the blindfold on, Jack gave Typhus one last opportunity to back out. “You sure this is what you want, now?”

To turn back now was unthinkable. This would be his moment of truth, his coming of age. No matter what this thing was to be, it was a thing he needed desperately. He couldn’t fully be himself, or even know who he was, without it.

“
Yes,” replied Typhus.

Jack tied the blindfold tightly. After two minutes of quiet darkness, Typhus heard the door to Doctor Jack’s storage room swing open, followed by the sound of bare feet padding lightly against the hardwood floor. Typhus’ nostrils filled with perfume, the smell of it wonderfully overpowering. A bright image of Lily sprang to life in Typhus’ darkened mind. In full color, living and breathing, and wanting him—wanting to see him, to be with him. Typhus believed it was all true now. She was here, standing before him. Here. She was really here. His Lily. His love.

Here.

“
Well, boy, ain’t you gonna say nothing to the love of your life?” Jack asked.

Typhus imagined he could feel a smile radiating outward from Lily’s soul. But along with the smile he sensed her fear, her shyness, her caution at the idea of this meeting. He could feel her tremble through air.

“
Hello, Miss Lily,” started Typhus calmly, wanting to say so many things but not knowing where to start. “Don’t be afraid. I only want to do right by you. I’ve made many vows to you that you don’t know nothin’ about. Vows about keepin’ and protectin’. Vows about giving to you everything I can give. You might not know it, but you’ve given me so much already. So very, very much. I only want to give back to you. To know you, to be with you, to be good to you. I want for things to be right with us. In any way you want, in any way that makes you happy—”

A finger touched his lips; shushing. He was not sure at first whether the finger belonged to Lily or Jack—it was soft, but rough in texture. Then Typhus heard what sounded like a gentle sob—and he knew it was Lily who’d touched him. The finger withdrew, and Typhus spoke again, “No, don’t be sad. Don’t be sad. There’s nothing sad about this. I have no expectations of you. Nothing,
nothing—
”

Again Typhus was shushed, but this time by the touch of soft lips. He dared not kiss them back, allowed himself only to revel in their warmth. Like the finger, they lacked the smoothness he’d imagined and hoped for—but then, he knew this could not be the young woman of his picture; a picture taken long, long ago. Still, her lips were soft and her breath was sweet, almost too sweet—like the excessive sweetness of a peach too long in the sun; a hint of baked-in decay lurking beneath perfect skin. For all its imperfections it was still the most wonderful breath he’d ever smelled, and Typhus gently inhaled the air of it into his lungs. Her air was his air now, and if he never received another thing from her, at this moment he’d acquired a touch, a kiss, and a breath. These were things he’d never dared hope for before this morning—and if he gained nothing more, it would still be enough.

“
I love you, Typhus.” And now he’d heard her voice. A whisper.

“
I love you, Lily,” he said in return, too emotionally exhausted to really feel the meaning. He lifted up a hand to touch her hair; it was coarse, soft, and straight.

Once again, Typhus heard the sound of feet padding softly across the floor, back towards the storage room. As he reached up to remove the blindfold, Doctor Jack’s voice stopped him: “
No
. Not yet. Wait.” A few moments later, Typhus heard the storage door reopen, followed by the sound of quickly stepping feet, this time shod. The front door opened, then slammed shut.

She had gone.

She’d left without saying goodbye, but that was all right. In Typhus’ mind she owed him nothing, not even that.

He found himself dimly wishing he could keep the blindfold on forever.

Chapter thirty-nine

Main Door

From the moment of Lily’s departure, a change in Typhus’ demeanor and overall personality became evident to Doctor Jack. Typhus was clearly in love. Not the confused, obsessive love a boy might feel for a photograph of a pretty girl; this was the kind of love a grown man feels for a woman who’s unlocked his main door, who has shown him that real happiness is a real possibility. The scary kind of love. True love. The kind that can cripple or kill or heal or make whole. This was big, maybe too big.

Jack wondered what Typhus would dream of tonight, how things were unfolding in his soul with so many of the old questions still unanswered and so many new questions freshly born. Maybe Lily’s touch had really been enough, the cure for a troubled heart. A cure for the son of a shoe dove.

Though the encounter seemed a success, Jack still wondered if he’d done right by the boy—bringing Lily into his life at all, whether flesh or photograph. Could Lily’s presence in his life offer any real spiritual nutrition? Perhaps such comforts were actually detrimental, a type of poison for the soul. If this new peace in Typhus’ heart was a fleeting thing, was it only bound to lead him towards greater misery? Mostly, though, Jack wondered what it would do to Typhus if he ever discovered the truth about Lily.

Typhus must never, ever learn the truth.

Typhus let himself out without saying goodbye. Jack could hear him singing outside, sad words sung in a happy way.

Jesus I’m troubled about my soul

Ride on Jesus, come this way.

Troubled about my soul.

The lyrics of the song bore no meaning or purpose to Typhus on this morning other than to provide a hook on which to hang melody.

Chapter forty

Malaria and Typhus

Malaria Morningstar sat shivering dead center on a five foot cypress bench located just outside and left of her front door. The bench held certain memories for Malaria that brought comfort during troubled times.

Father had made the bench for Mother with his own two hands when Malaria was still small. She recalled the painstaking construction of it, remembered the cursing, the measuring, the hammering, the sawing, the sanding, and the silly look of joy that adorned his face upon its completion. Most of all, she recalled the tender memory of her Mother’s eyes as she nursed baby Dropsy on the exact spot where Malaria now sat.

Sitting here always gave Malaria a sense of calm when things went bad in her life. Mother and Father still existed in the wood of it, or so it seemed—still reached out to stroke her hair from its pores, still reassured her that all would be taken care of, that everything would be all right. Recognizing such comforts as fleeting and false by their nature didn’t keep her from placing great value in them just the same.

But this morning she’d been unable to squeeze a drop of comfort from its stubborn pores and cracks. At the moment, things were not right in a very big way—big enough to defy even the sanctuary of the bench. Malaria had recently learned of a trouble which could be resolved neither gracefully nor painlessly, and the nature of this trouble was betrayal. She knew that betrayal of this kind couldn’t be ignored—and called for immediate and decisive action on her part. Although such a confrontation could only serve to tear her world apart, she knew that to do nothing would be much worse.

The sun had begun its slow ascent less than an hour earlier, mist of morning still hanging heavy at the lip of the bog. Malaria let her eyes focus on the blur of it, imagining that to stare into it just right might cause the mist to scatter at her will. The mist failed to recognize the authority of her gaze, but that was fine. She had every confidence it would lift in time, of its own accord. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t. What proof was there that this particular fog on this particular morning would lift from the
cipriere
just because it had chosen to lift in such a way on every other morning of her life? It wasn’t inconceivable that a morning may eventually happen along to mark the beginning of a new era, the beginning of things never the same, ever again.

In a way, such a morning had already come. Amazingly, the realization consoled rather than frightened Malaria, though a part of her still wished the mist might play along. She wanted badly to get on with a new series of impossibly different mornings.
Who’s to say such a thing is impossible?
she thought. She ran a hand across the bench, the texture of it smooth from years of use and moist from dew. It was perfect wood, a perfect object—but only that. Mother and Father had gone from it upon their deaths, and she’d suddenly grown too old to believe otherwise.

A rhythmic crunching mingled with birdsong, first faint then louder, coming nearer through the fog. Eight more crunches and she could make out the silhouette of a child. Not a child, but a man shaped like a child.

“
Where’s your bike?” she asked the silhouette.

“
Left it at Doctor Jack’s,” said Typhus. “Morning, Malaria.”

Malaria failed to return the greeting. “Out all night again? That’s two nights in a row. Starting to think you gotcher self a girlfriend.”