Read The Sound of Building Coffins Online

Authors: Louis Maistros

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The Sound of Building Coffins (42 page)

BOOK: The Sound of Building Coffins
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Jake lay me down in that big hole. Lay me in first—face up, flat on my back on the muddy ground. I guess this a courtesy of sorts; him figgerin’ the further down the hole, the lesser chance of floating back up with the rain.

So I’m just lying there waiting awhile, feeling the wet mud at my back as Jake say a few words to Jesus on my behalf. Waiting and a-thinking, me. Then Jake walk away from that hole—and I know what’s coming next.

Bodies.

One by one. Smacking me hard. In the face, the neck, the chest, the gut and the leg. Bodies. Covering ol’ Marcus up. One by one. I know my little son is one, but I can’t see where. I’m trying to see, looking fer my boy. Don’t know why exactly, but I’m looking. The light breaks into narrow gaps and cracks between the corpses. Those cracks of light fill up with dark, one by one. The weight on my chest and head is something terrible. Then the last crack of light done swallowed up. The weight get heavier and heavier still. A little while pass before the first bit of dusty soil crinkle down though the bodies. I feel it on my hand first. Just a tickle. Then one eye, then the other. Feel it on my tongue. Didn’t know my mouth was open till that.

Quiet.

Awful quiet.

Long, long, awful quiet. Don’t know how long.

Malvina was right, sure nuff. I be thinkin’ about my Maria.

Wondering if the fever got her. Feeling sorry about that little dead baby of mine, and that other’n from the country shack. Feeling bad. Real bad. Thinkin’ mebbe I really
am
dead. Mebbe this my own special hell. What I had coming. What I had coming and what I got. Justice from God on high. I can’t feel my own heart beat. Can’t tell if my chest trine to rise fer air. Can’t tell if my eyes is still open. Dark. Heavy, heavy dark. All I feel is the weight of the dead piled on my chest and legs. Packed down tight with bodies and dirt. Feeling the pressure on every inch of me. A cannonball of fear jumping ’round my skull.

But after a while that cannonball sit still. After a while there’s comfort here. It’s so quiet. Mebbe this ain’t hell a’tall. Mebbe a sort of heaven. Mebbe both. So quiet.

 

Quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

quiet

HEAVY

 

*

A day or two pass before I hear a spiritual my mama used to sing:

 

Tell me Sister Mary, tell me now

Where you been gone so long?

I been jumpin’ them ditches

And a-cuttin’ them switches

Swimmin’ in the river

Eatin’ catfish liver

Now my soul want to go home to glory

 

Singing in my head. Mama’s close now, I know. But after a while the singing stop. And I’m still here in the quiet, heavy dark. Mama left me again. Jesus, too. Quiet. Heavy. Dark.

Hard to say fer sure, but I reckon three more days pass before I feel the rattlin’ at my bones.

I’m guessing this the death rattle—that little bit of shakin’ folks do when they’re getting ready to pass. I feel a smile in my heart. Going to God, now, I think. Going to see Jesus. But after a few seconds the death rattle stop and I’m still here in the ground. Mud pressed to my back, weight of the dead at my chest. Still here. A minny or two pass. Rattle again. This time harder—but shorter. Half a minny pass. Then a jolt. Dusty dirt falling in my mouth again, tickling my eyes. And with that last jolt come a sound. Far off and muffled—but a sound. First sound I heard in days. And my mind still clear enough that I recognize that sound.

Chango
talkin’. Thunder.

Then more thunder, more shakin’ and joltin’. After a spell, the weight of the dead is shifting around on me, pressing my bones. More sema-tree dirt sprinkling on my tongue, dusting my throat. The weight is getting heavier. Heavier still. Then I feel a dripping at my cheek. A drop in my eye. Mouth filling up with water. Throat filling. Wanting to cough. Can’t cough. Muscles in my throat still too frozen with hoodoo poison to oblige a cough.

I start to feel a cold panic as the grave begin filling with water. The water creeping up to my shoulders, filling my ears. Water in my ears. Coming up, up, up. Into my mouth and the bitten hole of my nose. Filling my mouth. Turning the dirt in my eyes and mouth into mud. Sticky mud. Wanting to push the mud out with my tongue. Tongue won’t move. My body still but my mind is racing:

In New Orleans, bodies come up in the rain.

I’m praying to Jesus that my breathing stay slow enough to keep me from drowning. I’m praying the extra weight of mud and the water on the bodies don’t crush my ribs. And, for the first time in history—
I’m prayin’ that bodies come up and come up quick in the City of New Orleans.

Now I’m under water. Soft, warm water. Before too long, the mud and the dead start to moving; sliding and pressing against my cheek and my hands and my stomach and my legs. Bodies shifting. Pressure on my ribs getting lighter. Then lighter still.

In New Orleans, bodies come up in the rain.

Thunder louder now. Crashing and shakin’. Booming like dynamite. Hurting my ears. The pain is good, there’s a comfort in it. Bodies shifting fast over toppa me. Something like a spider slipping in my mouth. But ain’t a spider. Touching my tongue. Pushing mud in my throat, keeping the water from seeping in my lungs. My mind works to decipher the thing in my mouth. Fingers. Tiny fingers. A baby’s hand. Tickling my tongue through the mud and water.

I am found.

I know the hand is my son’s hand. My little baby. I’m wondering now if he was ever really dead. Maybe that evil Malvina gave him the same poison I got. Put him in a sleep like the dead, but not dead. Maybe he looking for me in the dirt like I’s looking for him. The hand slides out.

I am lost.

Bodies shifting. Hard n’ fast. Moving ’round. Pressure getting lighter alla time. A shoe kick me in the jaw. A body passing by. Pressure gone. A murky light, hurting my eyes. The pain is good. The ground does not touch my back. I’m underwater, but I’m coming up.
Praise Jesus
.

My face touches air. Cool air,
lawd-a-mighty
. Water washing over my eyes. I can see the moon and the stars. Mud packed tight in my throat from that little hand; soft and cool, and holding firm.

Little waves pushing me along the ground. Sometimes I’m on my back, sometimes on my side, sometimes face down. Sometimes head first—sometimes feet or side. The rain is beating hard all around, like the sound of horses running. The ground beneath me sometimes soft with mud, sometimes hard with brick and stone. I am movin’ with the little waves and the current of the storm. My clothes are being torn from me. I am surrounded by horses it seems.

 

*

I am gliding in the streets. Gliding with the dead. I am looking for my son. Looking for my Coffee Maria. I am gliding.

I hear water rushing. Loud and glorious. Roaring like an angry bear. Thunder crash. It a magic sound, the sound of Jesus laughing,
Legba
the savior, setting me free from the grave. I hear the menfolk shouting. I hear the ladies screaming. I see their boots as they wade past. Their voices are tired but filled with terror; it is a wonderful sound. It is the sound of the living. My dead brethren push and bump against me. They are gliding with me. They have become like family to me. We have been through a lot together, me and the dead. There is a joy in their touch. We have no clothes. We are not wading. We do not scream.

I am gliding.

Now there is nothing but water. No mud, no brick and stone. Just water.

I am in the river.

Face down, drifting. Moving with the current. My eyes are used to the dark so I can see good. Catfish swimming. Different shades of brown and black. Sniffing at the bodies that float at the surface. Curious. Moving on. The water and catfish are dreamlike and soothing. I fall asleep. I am dreaming. The catfish are moving slower. A pretty little catfish come right up to me—sniffing at my eye. Funny lookin’ fish. Tan with pale eyes.
Des yeaux goueres.
Wrapped in a perfect white blanket. Caress my cheek, a tickle of whiskers. Bringing comfort to my tired mind. Then there are more fish like the funny one. Wrapped in white blankets. Protected by miracles. Swimming beneath the drifting dead. Looking up. Curious. Moving on. They smile at me. The babies leave me. I am content. My sleep is dreamless and peaceful now.

Gliding. Silken water. Caress and tickle. Deep. Warm. Cool. Perfect. Tears. Motion. Life. Sacred.

Blackness.

 

*

When I awake I am not lying down. I am walking.

I wake to the sound of singing. The voice is unfamiliar. It is my voice. It don’t sound right because I have no nose. It takes me a while to figure this out. So, as my brain coming around, I listen to the words of the song:

 

Jesus, I’m troubled about my soul

Ride on, Jesus, come this way

I troubled ’bout my soul

Old Satan is mad and I am glad

He missed one soul that he thought he had.

Troubled ’bout my soul

 

Then I pay attention to what my eyes is seeing. There is water and a shore. Flatboats with men shouting off yonder. Bodies floating on the water. Bodies on the sand. Bodies ’neath my feet. I look down at my feet. They are bloody. I been walking long.

My mind is clearing now. Clearing fast. I remember.

 

Troubled ’bout my soul

 

I look to the living men in the distance, the ones on the flatboats shouting. On the land side there’s a thick, black smoke pouring into the sky. Burning bodies. Ashes in the air, floating up to heaven where they belong.
Praise God
.

I ’spect I am not too pretty, me. I am nekkid. I am bloody. I have no nose. I come up from amongst the dead. I should be dead, too. I walk on two legs, wave at the living. I am a sight. Sho, sho.

I walk on. I am careful not to step on my dead brethren. I look at the faces of the dead as I pass. They don’t look glad to see me. I don’t see my boy. Maria neither. I cross over sand and climb the levee. Comin’ down the dock just as I am, nekkid and bleeding. Some folks point. Some ladies scream. Some run. Some drop down cold. No one laugh. They know me. They know I should be dead. They leave me be. Be crazy not to, I guess. This is where the lies start up. Crazy talk about a dead man walking the streets of New Orleans. Folks like to have their fun. Folks like a good story. But I ain’t dead now and never was. Sharpen up that pencil and get it right, young fella.

Walkin’.

My skin is tender from touching water and mud fer so long. My feet hurt on the ground, getting punched n’cut by little rocks and crumbs of broken glass. Leaving bloody footprints in the street. Clouds of black smoke in the sky. Sweet smell of burning dead all around. It smell real good to me, that smoke. Finally I’m there.

601 Dauphine. Auntie Jin’s.

I stand at the door where my Maria used to lay down with other fellas. I know who’s inside. I will kill her. I will kill that Malvina Latour. Don’t care if I hang for it. I push open the door slow. I am boiling with rage. I am thinking of Frenchie Girton. I am thinking of killing binness. I am filled with hate. But not fer long.

First thing I see is a sleeping angel.
Une binette.
She is not yellow or orange. There is a healthy color on her cheek, c
afé au lait,
but her body is thin and wasted. My Coffee Maria. She is covered in a white blanket. The blanket is long and soft; not for babies or the feet of dead men. For Coffee Maria. My love.

But I done guessed it right—Malvina there, too. Rocking in that creaky chair. Stroking Maria’s forehead with a wet rag. Her look is soft and sad. Her eyes meet mine. She isn’t afraid of the hate in my eye. She wave a hand. With no snake in her voice, she say: “Come in, boy. This little girl been waiting on you.” I have no rage in me now. I kneel beside my Maria. Hold her hand. Cry, me.

My baby’s eyes open. Softly, she: “Oh, look at you…” Looking at the hole where my nose used to be. Seeing me nekkid, bloody and thin. Feeling like a dern fool, me.


I’m fine, little one. I’m fine as long as I’m with you. I’ll never leave you, again. My sweet Coffee Maria.” My voice sound funny without a nose, she make a little smile. Sweet, sweet, she.


I had the fever, Marcus,” she say. “I was dying from fever but I needed to see you. I needed to say that I love you. I needed you to know that I love you. I won’t lay down with them other fellas no more. I promise. I’ve always loved you, Marcus…”


Shhhh, little one…save your strength…”


No. I need to say this.” Her face gone serious and stern. I could not say no to her.

BOOK: The Sound of Building Coffins
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