“All right, then. See you in a few minutes,” Diphtheria said, practicing her man-catching smile, grabbing West by his little hand, pulling open the door.
“All right then.” Hattie echoed. And then: “Diphtheria?”
“Yeah, baby?” Half-way through the door, West’s wrist wriggling in her grip.
“Thank you.” Another little smile.
Big smile in return: “Stop talkin’ crazy and getcher self dressed up, girl. Gotta go break some hearts and make some market.” Diphtheria left, beaming at her success in brightening Hattie’s eyes—a difficult accomplishment these last few days.
But the sound of the closing door felt hollow and echoless in Hattie’s ear, and the room’s sudden emptiness weighed heavy. A vision of J.C. Booker—his smile, his music, his passion for living—did manage to lighten a dark corner of her mind, but another corner stayed dark and dwelled on visions of pink bathwater. Hattie Covington stared hard at the pile of buttons West had been playing with. Neatly stacked by the door. One perfect tower. A child’s success.
Hattie got up and went to the washroom. Put the stopper in the drain of the tub. Let warm, clear water flow. But before the tub was full, there was a rapping at the door.
The knock was small but firm. The sound of a tiny fist.
Chapter twenty-six
Fish and Buttons
“Now, git on to the ante-room to see Miss Bernice double-quick,” Diphtheria told West as soon as they stepped into the hallway outside Hattie’s room. “Mama’s gotta make us some groceries.” Bernice was a sweet-tempered midwife hired by Madame Josie to watch over the little ones while their mothers were otherwise disposed.
Sudden concern distorted West’s eyebrows: “Mama, oh no.”
“What’s a matter, child?”
“Forgot my buttons in Miss Hattie’s room.”
Diphtheria sighed. “Well, don’t you worry. Miss Bernice got plenty of toys fer you kids to play with. You can getcher buttons back later.”
“Can’t I just knock on Miss Hattie’s door and get ’em now?” West found his mother’s knack for doing everything the long way both annoying and perplexing.
“Don’t you even think about it, little man,” Diphtheria held firm. “Miss Hattie’s getting dressed now—might be taking a bath, too. You go barging in for your buttons and you might be walking in on a naked lady is what. That what you want?”
“No,” West conceded timidly—the idea of walking in on a “naked lady” being a universally terrifying concept in the world of pre-adolescent boys. West much preferred his grown-ups fully clothed whenever possible.
“Now, off to see Miss Bernice. We’ll worry ’bout them buttons later. You just let me worry about them buttons, hear?”
West’s eyebrows raised, bunched, then spread—he knew full well his mother lacked the ability to worry properly over such things. But smart kids can be relentless when the fate of shiny buttons hangs in the balance—and West was certainly a smart kid. Grown-ups just didn’t understand such things, and children don’t have the patience to explain every little thing.
Diphtheria, knowing it was not in West’s nature to give up so quickly, didn’t have time to ponder any potentially devious intentions he may have. With a sigh she rolled her eyes, hoped for the best, and darted down the hall so she could get down to the serious business of making herself irresistible to strangers.
Having no desire to walk in on a naked lady, West’s plan was to wait for Miss Hattie to finish dressing and come out under her own steam. As soon as she opened the door he’d simply ask for his buttons and be on his way; off to the ante-room like a good boy. In West’s mind, being a “good boy” didn’t necessarily mean doing every silly thing your mother told you to do in the correct order. He parked himself outside Hattie’s door with his arms wrapped around his knees.
After about five minutes of waiting, West noted the sound of running water inside. Miss Hattie was drawing a bath after all—this might take a while. No matter, thought West, it wasn’t like he had anything pressing to attend. Resolved to a longer wait, West let the water sound coax his mind into a daydream.
The daydream began with the topic at hand: Buttons. Red buttons, blue buttons, purple and pink, shiny and flat, square and round. Little buttons, big buttons big as a house, flying buttons, talking buttons, and buttons that could swim. But dream-thoughts of buttons can get old pretty quick even for a small boy who obsesses on such things, so the daydream soon turned to other fun things, the funnest non-button thing he could think of being his Uncle Dropsy. Uncle Dropsy had a rare comprehension of things important to little kids. He understood about wrestling and sneaking and playing tricks and hide and seek and doing slightly dangerous things without tattling and laughing over the serious things that mostly made mommies just cry.
Uncle Dropsy was different from other big people in another special way, too; when he played with West it wasn’t just for West’s benefit, wasn’t any kind of babysitting chore at all. Uncle Dropsy actually liked playing with West. When the two of them were horsing around together, Uncle Dropsy’s smiles were real. Uncle Dropsy honestly enjoyed West as much as West enjoyed Uncle Dropsy.
West knew in his heart that his uncle would have understood perfectly the importance of buttons left behind. Would have understood without explanation or debate. West spent the remainder of his waiting time imagining a big, button-filled house where he could live with Uncle Dropsy, just the two of them. Wrestling around and kidding all day long, building immense button towers that could never fall down. Boy, that sure would be a time, thought West.
Lost in his imaginings, West had no idea how long he’d waited before the sound of footsteps began clicking up the hardwood of the stairwell. West frowned at the noise; most likely some fool grown-up loaded with questions about what a kid might be doing sitting all by himself in the upstairs hallway of a whorehouse. West held his breath with one eye closed as the steps got louder. Finally, the owner of the footfalls came into view.
“Hiya, West.”
West brightened, and his chest blew out nervous air in relief. “Hey! Uncle Typhus!”
Typhus was no Dropsy by any means, but he was easy enough to get along with and had never been the bossy kind of grown-up. At four and a half feet tall, Uncle Typhus wasn’t even much taller than West.
“Here to see my mama? You done passed her door. She in there.” West pointed helpfully.
“Nope, ain’t here to see yer mama tonight,” said Typhus. He walked right up to West before stopping.
“What ya got there?” West noticed a heavy looking bulge in Uncle Typhus’ burlap coffee bag.
“You sure got a lot of questions, mister.” Typhus smiled. “Got something for Miss Hattie.” He raised his hand to knock.
“I think she takin’ a baff.”
Typhus rapped hard three times anyway. “That’s all right. If she don’t want to answer, I imagine she won’t. Can always come back later on.”
“Well, if she comes to the door,” West said hopefully, “tell her I left my buttons in there. I be needin’ ’em so I kin get on back to the ante-room like Mama said.”
“All right then, Mr. Buttons. I’ll see what I can do for ya.” West’s deadly concern over a bunch of old buttons gave Typhus a chuckle—but as Hattie cracked the door he lost the smile out of respect. He knew Hattie was having a hard time since the night of her cure. In fact, Hattie’s pain was the reason Typhus had come by tonight.
“Evenin’, Miss Covington.”
“Diphtheria done left, Typhus. She’s in her room—”
“Didn’t come for Diphtheria, Miss Covington.” Typhus searched the questions in her eyes. “Brought you a little something might put a smile on yer face. I hope this ain’t a bad time.”
Hattie’s face softened some. Seeing the man who’d taken her baby from her as she lay miserable and bleeding on Doctor Jack’s examining room table was exactly what she didn’t need right now. But she couldn’t blame Typhus for a de
cision she’d made of her own free will, and he certainly was a pathetic creature; a grown man in such a small body. It was hard to be anything but kind to a man who so resembled a child.
“Well, Typhus, it’s mighty nice of you to call on me, but I be doin’ just fine. I have to get dressed now.” Typhus just stared as if she’d spoken in Chinese, and so she added, “if you don’t mind, please.”
Typhus’ stare wasn’t from lack of understanding, though. Hattie had been the only real woman he’d ever had occasion to lie down with in his life, most likely the only real woman he’d ever lie down with now that he had Lily to tend to. As empty as his experience with Hattie had been, he now found the sight of her slender, perfect body dressed only in a robe an unexpected catalyst that connected certain previously unconnected things of heart and mind. The robe she wore was pure white, nearly as pure as Lily’s gown, and the contrast of Hattie’s smooth, light skin against the robe sent a shiver all the way to Typhus’ knees—caused his heart to skip a beat, his ears to boom. Hattie stood patiently while Typhus took a deep breath to compose himself.
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure sorry, Miss Covington. I did catch you at a bad time.”
West tugged at Typhus’ shirt; a gentle reminder to mention his buttons before the door closed.
“That’s all right ,Typhus,” said Hattie. “Nuther time maybe.” She made a move to shut the door but Typhus had wedged a foot in its path.
“Trouble is, ma’am—I mean, I hate to be a bother….”
“Well, what then?” Hattie’s eyes had lost their softness. The idea of pinkening your own bathwater took some courage and getting used to and Typhus’ interruption had begun to weaken her resolve.
“Ya see, I got something here for you that won’t keep proper.” He pointed to the bulge in his burlap sack. “Perishable item.”
Hattie’s curiosity stirred. Something about the sight of the bag gave her pause. “Well, what is it, then?”
“May I come in?” Motioning again to his burden: “Awful heavy, this.”
Hattie eased out a defeated sigh as she swung the door open wide. Typhus stepped in quick, fearful she’d change her mind and slam it before he could get all the way through. West followed close behind.
“All right, now. Yer in.” Her tone no longer made attempt to hide her annoyance. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off Typhus’ bag; trying to recall where she’d seen it before. Then she remembered.
This was the same bag he’d put her baby in that night. She stared at its bulge and wondered if there was a baby in there right now. Perishable item. But the lump was too big to be a thing so small. Crazy thought, she reprimanded herself, holding back angry tears.
“Thanks indeed,” Typhus said, lugging the sack over to the thick, wooden table near the stove. “I have me a hunch you ain’t been eatin’ right lately.”
This was true, she hadn’t eaten in days.
He laid the bag on the table ever-gently.
“Been eatin’ just fine, Mr. Busybody. As if it’s any of yer damn to-do what, when, or how I eat.” This talk of eating made Hattie uneasy. She’d decided she didn’t care to know what was in the bag. And she was quite certain it wouldn’t be anything she’d want to put in her mouth.
Typhus just grinned. “Well, you’ll be eating good tonight, that’s for sure.” He held the bottom corners of the bag between thumb and forefinger, then lifted upward—dumping its contents onto the cutting board before Hattie could protest further. “Ain’t it pretty?” said Typhus.
On the cutting board lay the strangest looking catfish Hattie had ever seen. Pink skin instead of brown. Green eyes instead of black. Rubbery, thick whiskers. She took one cautious step towards it.
“What kind of fish is that?” she asked, surprised at the crack of emotion in her own voice.
“Catfish, Hattie.” It was the first time Typhus had called her by her first name. “Your catfish.”
“Well, I s’pose it is.” Hattie couldn’t fathom the meaning of her own acceptance. Her catfish? What was that supposed to mean? And why did the idea give her such a strange, warm feeling? What kind of feeling was that?
“Now, I know you was getting ready for workin’, but maybe you could save yerself some time by skipping that bath.” Typhus seemed to know about her bathwater-pinkening intentions. Not only knew, but understood. This couldn’t be possible, but was so just the same. “Skip that bath and have yourself a little mealtime. You just sit back and let Typhus do the cooking. Just relax now. All right?”
West had already resumed his button stacking ritual by the door. As he worked, West grimly resolved to never, ever leave his buttons behind again. They were his buttons and he had a responsibility to take good care of them. He would not be so careless again.
so careless
“Sure, Typhus,” said Hattie. “Cook it up. That’d be nice.”
Without another word, Typhus lit the stove and placed the fish in the center of a large pan. He didn’t gut or dissect the fish, but left it whole. Neither did he grease the pan or bother to search the kitchen for herbs or spices. In a few moments the fish was gently hissing on the pan, filling the room with its smell.
It was not a fishy smell. The smell was the sweet perfume of sunny days and freshly cut grass, of dreams lost but renewed. The smell of long lost children splashing in a fresh water pool on a hot, clear day.
When the cooking was done Typhus retrieved a white plate from the cupboard over the sink. He pulled the meat from the bones without a knife; the flesh of it fell away easily. After carefully placing the bones back into his burlap coffee bag, Typhus proceeded to cut the meat up into small, bite-sized cubes on the plate.
The squares melted in Hattie’s mouth so smoothly that she barely needed to chew. She ate silently as Typhus made mono-directional small talk, West stacking buttons by the door, oblivious. The flavor of it was sweet and light, tasting vaguely of fine chocolate and cotton candy. It didn’t weigh heavily in her stomach and she was able to eat it all, save for the last bite which she left on the plate. To make it disappear entirely would have felt rude to her somehow. She put the fork down and leaned back in her chair, watching the gentle rhythm of Typhus’ lips as he babbled on. Her hand ran over her belly and she imagined movement there. A kick?
yes, a kick
Vague feelings of guilt washed over her heart at the sensation. She had no right to feel whole. No right to feel safe. No right to believe everything would be all right and always had been. She was perfectly aware that no catfish on earth tasted like cotton candy or chocolate or any of the things that gave comfort and joy to small children.
But all of these things were true. At this moment, they were all true.
She went on watching Typhus’ talking head, not hearing a word, watching the quality of his smile. Watched as he got up and made for the door. Didn’t hear him mumble strange words as he left:
“They gave it to me, but I gave it back the best I could.”
West scooped up his buttons and carefully placed them in his pocket. He was a little hungry and the fish smelled so good that he stealthfully snatched the last square of meat from Hattie’s plate, popping it into his mouth before leaving. What had been sweet on Hattie’s tongue was bitter to his own, but he swallowed it just the same.
Typhus and West were gone. Hattie lay down on the couch, belly full, alone.
Feeling fine. Not understanding why, not caring why.
Fine
Chapter twenty-seven
In the Court of King Bolden
By “fresh-face clip-joint” Jim meant a concert-saloon or barrelhouse where the outsiders were clean. By “clean” he meant they were foreign enough to have little or no previous knowledge of Jim and Dropsy’s special bag of tricks.
Of course, the short-con routines of Jim and Dropsy were commonplace enough within the local criminal community of Orleans Parish, and the boys knew they could count on the support of their criminal brethren in a pinch. A general truth o
f the South was this: Your neighbor may be your enemy in the now, but when a Yankee came to town, The People of the South Stood United For Better Or For Worse.
“Where we headed to, Jim?” Dropsy was pooped enough to jump into the first dive with lights on, but Jim being a young man with a distinct sense of purpose in nearly everything he did would no doubt have something more particular in mind.
“How’d you feel about paying a visit to your dear brother-in-law, pal o’mine?”
“Guess so,” Dropsy sighed, too tired to throw up a challenge. Dropsy knew Jim’s dream was to graduate from the rat killing business up to the music business, so Buddy had become something of a hero to him. It seemed Jim was always looking for an excuse to see that mean-spirited drunken scoundrel play that damn cornet.
Buddy’s band was indeed playing a fresh-face clip-joint tonight—having recently retained weekly work at the Odd Fellows Hall, located at the corner of South Rampart and Perdido. Situated two floors above the Eagle Saloon (and sandwiching the Eagle Pawnshop & Loan Company directly below), Odd Fellows was a concert-saloon masquerading as a private society club peopled mainly with local musicians, gamblers and thieves. “Exclusive invitations,” however, were often issued to potential marks spotted by lookouts in the saloon below. These hand-picked suckers might as well have worn signs begging “SHAKE MY TREE”—their reliable presence constituting substantial cash flow to the local criminal economy. With plenty of suckers to go around for everyone, the resident smooth operators didn’t mind if Jim and Dropsy stopped by to pick a few berries of their own—as long as the boys minded their manners and didn’t horn in on someone else’s game. Many of the old hands even found it charming to watch the youngsters in action. As an added bonus, Dropsy’s oldest sister, Malaria, worked at Odd Fellows as a waitress on most nights. A fellow couldn’t have too many allies nearby and on hand in this business.
As the alley behind Marais Street opened out onto Perdido, Buddy’s bleating horn could be easily detected from four blocks away. Jim filled Dropsy in on the details of the night’s scheme as the two walked in the general direction of Buddy’s noise, Dropsy listening and nodding along the way.
The Sound of Building Coffins Page 14
