The Sound of Building Coffins (32 page)

“
Typhus—everything okay?” Jack noted immediately that Typhus no longer exhibited the symptoms of a man in love.

Typhus walked past him and emptied the contents of his burlap coffee bag on the examination table without a word. Jack’s heartbeat quickened as Typhus began the process of piecing together the puzzle of Lily. After a moment Jack stood, unsure of what to say.

“
Oh my. What happened to your little girlfriend, Typhus?” Typhus ignored the question, calmly continuing Lily’s reassembly. Jack’s tone became stern: “I trusted you with that photograph, boy. What do you have to say for yourself? You were sworn to protect her. You made a promise, and a promise is a serious thing.”

A small fist slammed to the table causing the reassembled pieces to jumble away from each other. “Promise?” Typhus’ eyes widened. “
Promise
?
I
made a promise? What about you? Or maybe it’s all right to tell lies as long as you don’t attach no promise. That how it works, Doctor Jack?”

“
I won’t have it,” said Jack, trying not to sound shaken. “I won’t have this talk.”

“
Yes, you will. You will have this talk.”

“
Well, son, if you were to put a brake on this nonsense maybe I could get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s got yer goat.”

“
Ain’t my problem. Not no more. It’s yours.”

“
All right, son—”

“
And stop calling me ‘son.’ I ain’t yer son.”

“
Typhus—tell me. Tell me about
my
problem. Get it out already.”

Another small fist met the table, sending pieces of Lily fluttering to the ground. “Who is this?” he said through clamped teeth. “Who
is
this?” pointing to the remaining pieces of Lily. “
Who is this? Who is this? Who is this
?
Lakjufa doir estay?
”

Then Doctor Jack knew. He knew that Typhus knew—and that there could be no more lies. As Typhus’ anger melted to grief, Doctor Jack placed a hand on his shoulder.

“
Listen, son—”

Typhus jerked back and away: “I
am not
yer goddamn son!”

Doctor Jack flinched—but still, his eyes stayed soft. He deserved Typhus’ anger, maybe even his hatred—and he knew it. This was to be his lot. Jack allowed himself some small comfort in knowing that years of deceit would soon dissolve into truth—for better or worse.

“
Don’t call me that,” warned Typhus. “Not now, not ever.”

“
All right, Typhus,” said Jack, then, after a moment’s pause: “But what if I was to tell you that’s just what you are?”

Typhus stared, jaw trembling.

“
Would that make a difference?” Jack whispered this last.

“
What—?”
Typhus steadied himself against the heavy table with both hands. “What are you talking about?”

“
Maybe you should sit.” Jack pulled out a chair for Typhus, the same chair Typhus had occupied during his encounter with Lily. Filled with fresh rage at the sight of it, Typhus kicked it away—and spun around to yank open the drawer containing Jack’s surgical tools. The bulk of the implements spilled to the ground, and Typhus examined the gleaming pile of scattered silver briefly before bending down to scoop up the longest blade visible—a scalpel just two and a half inches long. He stood in a defensive posture with the knife in hand as if Jack’s words were deadly weapons from which he needed to protect himself.

Jack raised both hands in a gesture of truce. “Typhus, you asked me a question and I mean to answer it. But I do want to warn you that what I have to say won’t set well.”

“
Just stop,” said Typhus. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“
You came for answers, Typhus. Am I wrong about that?”

“
I changed my mind. Just stop.”

“
Typhus, I think you already know the hardest part of this. The woman in that picture—Lily—her name ain’t really Lily. Do you know her real name, Typhus?”

“
Stop it!
” Typhus slapped his hands forcefully over his ears, the scalpel making a small puncture wound to the right side of his neck .

“
Typhus, I loved her. And she loved me.”

“
Please…”

“
Your mother didn’t have green eyes like yours, Typhus. But I do.”

“
Oh God…”

“
When you were born, your father took one look at you, and he knew. He’d suspected her infidelity before that day, but it was in your green eyes that those ugly suspicions became reality. His rage was fleeting, but the result was regretful. He took your mother’s life that day. Bloody, but quick.”

“
Stop it, stop it, stop it…
” the scalpel was digging deeper into Typhus’ neck—he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Doctor Jack continued:

“
Your father calmed quickly and was instantly remorseful—devastated by what he’d done. But her death was as much my fault as his—more so, in a way. So I helped him to cover it up—it was the least I could do. I wrote up the report as ‘death during delivery, natural causes.’ Your father never forgave me, but he was a good man in his heart and always meant to do right. He thought it wrong to keep you and me apart, Typhus—being blood kin as we were then, are now, and always will. So when you were old enough, he let you come work for me…”

“
Jesus
…”

Jack wanted to press on with the story, get it all out, purge himself of every detail—but it was evident to him that Typhus had already taken too much in. It was too much all at once—there’d be time for details later. Jack returned his hand to Typhus’ shoulder and, this time, Typhus didn’t shake it off.

“
Son—” Jack started again.

“
Don’t call me that,” Typhus whispered.

“
Typhus, I know these are hard things to hear—”

“
No. No more. It’s my turn to talk.”

“
Typhus, please listen—”

“
Who was here last night? Some hooker? Did you hire a prostitute? How much do I owe you for that?”

Jack had hoped Typhus wouldn’t ask this question straight away. Hoped he might be content to process things a little at a time. “Typhus, there’s plenty of time to talk about that later. Plenty of time for anger. Then a time for healing. Maybe even reconciliation.”

“
Reconciliation?
Who was she, you bastard? Did she get a good laugh out of the pathetic, lovesick midget? Did you have to pay extra? Do
freaks
cost extra?”

“
Typhus, nobody laughed.”

“
Who was she, damn you? Answer me goddammit or I’ll kill you, I swear it.” Typhus held the scalpel up in Jack’s direction.

“
Typhus,” Jack wasn’t sure how to continue. All he knew for certain was that he would never again lie to the boy. His boy. His son. “Typhus, there was nobody here last night except for you and me.” There. It was out. All of the ugliness, out on the table.

The truth crystallized slowly but surely in the mind of Typhus Morningstar. Pieces of a puzzle assembling, urged on by formerly insignificant scraps of memory, now significant. He remembered how Jack looked differently to him that night—
cleaner somehow
he had thought. Remembered the smell of perfume and how it smelled strongest after Lily had emerged from the storage room, after the blindfold had been securely tied in place. He remembered the bloody knick on Jack’s forearm—and realized now that he had shaved his arms
(cleaner somehow),
probably his legs as well. He remembered the texture of Lily’s coarse, straight hair—he looked at Jack’s hair now, wanting to touch it, to confirm.

Typhus fell quiet, his knife hand lowering while the other rose to the back of Jack’s head. He touched the hair and looked into Jack’s green eyes. The hair felt wonderful, and filled him with the memory of his most wonderful night—and it
had
been that, there was no denying.

For a moment, nothing else mattered. Didn’t matter it was all a lie. Didn’t matter that the man he’d always known as “Father” had killed his mother on the night of his own birth. Didn’t matter that the man he knew as friend and mentor was really his father, and that this man had lied to him his whole life, had violated his heart and soul so unforgivably. At this moment, the lies and horrors didn’t matter at all—all that mattered was that he had loved. He looked deeply into Jack’s eyes, searching.

“
My love?” he asked.

“
Yes,” answered Jack.

“
My Lily?” Tears were clouding his eyes.

“
Yes,” answered Jack.

Typhus’ hand closed around a clump of Jack’s hair, then pulled it downward till they were eye to eye. He touched his lips to Jack’s: gently, experimentally, warily. Jack’s tongue slid out to brush against Typhus’ upper lip, inviting reply. Typhus took the bait eagerly, pulling Jack’s hair forward now, returning the kiss deeply.

Backing away slightly: “I loved you,” said Typhus.

“
I will always love you, son,” said Jack with a weak, exhausted smile.

This last word squeezed like a hand at Typhus’ heart, forcing blood upwards, filling his eyes.

Son.

A single word hissed through Typhus’ teeth:
“Liar.”

Typhus felt real fingers press and pinch within his chest now; pure agony, slowing his heartbeat, clouding his soul, flooding his mind with blood and rage. He feared his heart may explode where he stood, and for a moment he went dizzy. His mind gone gray, headed for black.

There
was
a hand on his heart. There had always been a hand on his heart—ever since that night fifteen years ago.

Typhus yanked Jack’s head downward hard by the hair, bringing the knife upwards three times fast into his chest. With an expression more of surprise than of fear or pain, Jack collapsed against the side of the water basin and slid to the floor.

“
The boy told you not to call him that,” said Typhus in a voice not his own.

shoe dove

Jack recognized the voice. Breath came hard—two of the puncture wounds had pierced the right lung—but he managed to say, “Typhus, I did these things for a reason.”

On instructions of the thing in his chest, Typhus kicked Jack squarely in the crotch before responding verbally. “Of course you did. We all got reasons, I reckon. Some reasons are more wholesome than others is all. Some self-serving, others not so.”

Jack tumbled to the floor. “Typhus, listen. Please.”

“
Go on speaking at your own risk, Jack.”

“
Can’t you see what I gave you? What I gave her? It wasn’t easy to do this thing that I did.”

“
You gave me nothing, old man.
Father.
”

“
Try to understand, son.” Jack no longer cared if the word carried repercussions. He knew he was dying—this was his last chance to unburden himself with the truth. “Last night—on that beautiful, beautiful night—we were together all three. Father, mother and son. For the first and last time, yes—but
together
. Just once, but enough.”

Typhus brought the scalpel in line with Jack’s throat.

Jack continued. “In your mind you were with
her
; with your Lily—the image of your mother. But in truth you were with me, your true father. And so, in your heart of hearts—and whether you knew it or not—we were all together for one perfect moment. A family at last.”

With his lungs rapidly filling with blood, Jack struggled to speak. “Together,” he repeated. “Together all three.”

Typhus suddenly found himself feeling pity for Jack, pity for the man who’d deceived him so heinously, had wrecked his life so thoroughly. As Jack’s eyes shined their last light, they watched Typhus’ lips move—mouthing a single word that his ears could no longer hear.

“
Sorry,” said Typhus, immediately before cutting Doctor Jack’s throat from ear to ear in one smooth motion.

Chapter forty-three

Typhus’ Cure

Typhus’ best yellow shirt had been ruined, splashed with bright red that would never completely wash out. Rising to his feet, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his face moist with blood and tears.

Although the hand of Noonday Morningstar had loosened its painful grip on his heart, the inside of Typhus’ chest felt bruised and strangely warm. Maybe he was bleeding from inside—didn’t matter, he knew his time would now be short. Staring hard in the mirror, Typhus tore off the ruined shirt and examined the scar in the shape of a hand. Its color had deepened from pink to bright purple and was bleeding along the bottom edge.

Typhus lit the stove and put a teapot over the flame. He had mixed and delivered many a cure for others at Doctor Jack’s behest, but today would be the day of his own cure. His day of abortion and hope. He would mix the calisaya tea at double strength and deprive himself of honey.