Read Online The Sound of Building Coffins by Louis Maistros - Free Book Online

hear. Follow your heart instead.”
    Buddy fingered his cornet nervously. He had believed his own reason for being here was to comfort a pretty gal worried about her daddy. But Morningstar’s words struck a chord of truth for him—a simple truth that he didn’t fully understand. But wasn’t that the definition of faith? Simple truth beyond conventional understanding? Dumb truth believed for the sake of the belief itself? The question failed to fill his mind with sensible dread, but, instead, with odd purpose. Yes, Morningstar was referring to faith—but he was also asking them to turn their hearts from God. So what exactly was he asking them to place their faith in? Buddy’s arm slipped around Diphtheria’s shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Pressed a bit of yellow fabric between forefinger and thumb, confirming to himself the existence of everyday stuff like yellow dresses.
    Morningstar opened the front door and motioned the rest to follow. He left his bible on the stoop outside, the others carefully stepping over it as they made their way to the threshold of the house.
    The tiny one room house was strangely cold inside, even with a fire in the potbelly stove that transformed black coal to raging white. Being a thin girl, Diphtheria instinctively wrapped her arms around herself. Buddy’s arms took the hint and wrapped around her as well. Father Morningstar did not protest Buddy’s familiarity with his daughter.
    A few lamps hung from decorative chains, adding minimal light to the various grays that colored the walls. Expertly hung wallpaper displayed alien purple flowers, the paper hugging tightly to plaster except where a ravaged and peeling section turned up and away near the ceiling; evidence of ancient water damage. The floor was bare concrete except for an irregularly cut but beautifully stitched European rug that sat straight but off-center near the middle of the room, a defective scrap bought cheap at the French Market from a Sicilian colleague.
    A bed for the parents stood two feet from the crib, separated only by a small table altar on which various religious icons were propped up in odd-shaped frames. Attached to the walls were brown-toned daguerreotype photographs depicting stony-faced men with thick black mustaches standing closely behind beautiful women with lost-looking eyes. The women in the pictures sat with hands folded carefully across their laps. Save for the bed and crib, there was precious little furniture in the home.
    Anabella Carolla sat silent on the floor by the crib, her arms around her knees, her face down and buried between them. The only sound was a rhythmic tapping. The rhythm was familiar to Beauregard and Buddy—but out of its normal context neither could quite place it.
    Doctor Jack recognized it immediately.
    Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
    Over and over again. A secret knock. A desire for fun amongst friends. A plea for entry. Gentle but persuasive.
    Jack walked to the crib and looked over the edge of its smoothly polished, dark-stained rail. The child was lying on his back, eyes closed. There was rapid movement beneath the lids, flitting back and forth, telling of an urgent dream in progress. Thick red welts had risen behind the baby’s ears. His little fist was rapping gently and absently, continuing the familiar rhythm against hard wooden bars. His breathing was labored, a film of sweat covering the tiny naked body that lay in a watery mixture of “chamber lye and tattlin’”—baby piss and shit. The smell of it was powerful and cut through the cold air like the blade of a dull, dirty knife.
    Morningstar stepped alongside Jack. Motioned the root doctor to back away from the crib.
    Rapid eye movement stopped abruptly. The child’s lips contorted as his eyes shot open, connecting with those of the preacher. A harsh, adult voice came out of the tiny mouth:
    “ Stupid fucking nigger. How many times do I have to tell you? This ain’t yer scene, pops. Not for you.