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, café 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.
Pretty little voice, soft and weak:
“There was a baby in my body, Marcus—your baby. I named him Michael—for the saint. He knew. Little Michael knew. From the womb, he knew. He saw us through all that death, and brought us back together. Even if just for a little while, he brought us together. It was what he wanted. For us to be together again. When he was born…” her voice broke into little sobs.
Malvina continued in her stead, the mambo’s voice gentle and even:
“When that little baby came out of Maria, he took the disease with him. Her fever broke the minute of his delivery. He lived a little while, then died. Died from fever. He died for his mama. And you. So she could be with you. But his work was not done. He sent you on your way, Marcus. Into the grave. So you could know. He was never far from you. Always nearby. And when you were ready, he found you. And he brought you back. Back to her.”
Tiny fingers on my tongue…
And it was true.
(…)
I am found.
“He never left you. Never gave up on you. You must not give up on him, Marcus.” The mambo’s eyes filled with clear water. “She’s dying now, our Maria. Her body was too weak from sickness. Michael’s sacrifice only bought her time. Took the sickness out, but her body too spent. She’s dying, Marcus…” Tears silvered the mambo’s cheek.
Maria smiled at her aunt, a finger to her lips. “He found you, Marcus. He really did. Our baby. Now you must bring him back, my love. Find his little body. Bury him with me. So we can all be together in the potter’s field. All three. Together. We are a family now, Marcus. Find our boy. Promise.”
“I promise.”
She hold my hand tight. Smile. Her eyes fading but glowing still. She believe my promise, but I don’t know if I believe it myself. I am shivering. She pull that perfect blanket off her body, hold it up to me. I push it back to her.
Malvina say: “No. It’s time.” Gently, Malvina take that sacred blanket from Maria’s hands, step behind me. Wrap it around my shoulders. My Maria is skin and bones in a loose, yella dress, lying on the bed. Her feet are bare, my little Coffee Maria. She lift a hand to my face, stroke my muddy head. Pull me down to her sweet lips, whisper soft in my ear:
“Mo couer tacher dans to chaine comme boskoyo dans cypiere.”
Her dying breath was sweet as cypress. I could feel it on my tongue. Like tiny fingers. I pulled the blanket tight around me. And it felt just like a miracle.
*
Now.
As for me, well.
Still doing that hard potter field work, old as I am. Lotta work to do round here, the storm has made it so. But that’s just fine—when I work that field, my Maria is close. When I ain’t with her, I’m here on this piece of levee lookin’ for that fish.
I made my gal a promise many years past, and promises are for keeps.
I’ll find our baby Michael before I die. Maybe after. Til I find him, I won’t stay down. You can bury me, but I’ll come back up. When the water is right, I’ll be back. Little Michael will see to it, and I’ll see to him. Don’t you worry none. I’m looking for that catfish. The tan one with pale eyes—des yeaux goueres. The one that touched my cheek and gave me comfort among the drifting dead.
Regarding this more recent storm, I will always remember those things, too. For like the storm of my youth, its unfolding will likely go on for a good bit.
Like so many others, Buddy Bolden rose to the challenge brought on by high water only to find himself diminished with the tide. Straight off, he sought only to recover the body of his little son—just as I continue to seek my own in the now. But Buddy gave up too quick, lacked the tenacity to continue against all odds, just as others can’t help but go on. Some folks is unable to keep toiling after so much bad fortune, and I don’t blame them for it—not one lick I don’t. These troubles can be more than hard. Beyond sad they sometimes are. After a spell of fruitless trying, Buddy just fell into that bottle of his. Fell so hard he wound up in the big asylum over by Jackson, very likely to die there some day. In the end, I reckon he done what he could to right his own wrongs, done the best he could. But there’s only so much a man can do in that regard, only so many bad deeds can be made good on.
But Buddy’s time here was not in vain, for he brought music into this sad world—and he did one extraordinary good deed in saving that Morningstar gal. The one called Malaria.
Not long after the risen waters had gone back down, she come across an old friend from the Eagle Saloon, Gary the Gent. She’d assumed Gary to be dead and swept away like so many she had known, and had tried hard not to dwell upon such. But later come to find he’d made it up and out of the black waters just like she.
This meeting of Gary and Malaria was at once tender and cordial, she holding back tears and promising to make good on that old bar tab. He just smiled and took her in his arms—and there she stayed; their mutual tears ripening on a vine of the heart till heavy enough that they might fall of their own accord. Tears did fall in time—and that ain’t all that fell neither. Other things come of that chance reunion. Good things they were, too.
Malaria and Gary the Gent, whose last name is Byrd, were married six months ago today. The two of them knew each other only as friends before the storm, but in their rediscovery of each other after so much misery apart, well, it was as if the tragedy of their lives had created a passion for living that they’d otherwise never have known.
Starting over is a funny thing. You only get one tru
e start, on the day you are born. But as we get older and know better about the lives we’ve lived, every once in awhile we try to make ourselves a new beginning. Problem is that you can’t erase where you come from, the accumulation of your experience being undeniably who you are. Ain’t no one can be rebirthed out of a past that has come to define them, no matter if these things come by chance or design. You can only pretend to start again; never to forget, try as you might.
I guess that’s what Buddy learned. Some fare better than others in this life—with its various turns and stops and starts. This may not be right, but it is true.
Last I heard Gary done built that old Morningstar house back up better than it was. Last I heard Malaria was heavy with child. Last I heard they was doing quite well together, those two. Last I heard they was happy. Simple things. Small victories. One heartbeat at a time.
Starting over, or something like it, the best they can.
Very last thing I heard was an old song in my head, singing somethin’ bout troubled souls and a savior called Jesus pulling folks up from the clutches of hell. An old song is all it is and ever will be, but if played true—it is enough. Starting over and over again from the pit of my heart. A circle in time. Just as the spring trickles into the lake that flows into the river that empties into the sea so that it may rise up to the sky to make rain that must fall—sometimes to fall very hard—and back down again to fill that first little spring once more.
Acknowledgments
The Sound of Building Coffins Page 30
