The Sound of Building Coffins Read Free Page A

own thoughts; this was God’s business—and Noonday Morningstar had dedicated his life to such business. It was not his place to turn tail and run, even at the insistence of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior Himself.
    What is a man of God to do when the clear instructions of The Savior conflict with the plain feelings of right and wrong that God himself has placed in his chest? If there was an answer to this question, he dare not seek it in the eyes of his children. This was a burden he must carry alone.
    “ Father?” Typhus was standing in the doorway. Noonday couldn’t guess for how long; Typhus was such a quiet thing.
    “ Yes, son?”
    “ You’re crying.”
    Noonday had been unaware of his own tears until that moment. “I suppose I am,” he offered his son with an embarrassed smile.
    “ Can I help?”
    These three words carried unintended poignancy, and, as always, Typhus’ simple kindness offered simple answers. The boy truly amazed him.
    “ You already have, Typhus. I love you so much.” He picked up his son in a hug. “I have to go out for a little while. House call. Unfinished business.”
    Typhus looked alarmed. It was unusual for his father to leave on “house calls” after dark.
    “ Bring me with you.” Typhus’ tone implied instruction rather than request.
    “ Not tonight, little man. I won’t be long. I promise.”
    “ Daddy?” Typhus rarely called his father “Daddy”. It was his way of pleading.
    “ Son, I said no.”
    “ But Jesus doesn’t want you to go.”
    The words brought a chill to Morningstar’s heart, but he was not surprised by them. Typhus had the gift of understanding.
    “ I know, Typhus. But He’ll thank me later.”
    “ I think I should go with you.”
    “ Listen to me, son. I need you to stay here and take care of your brother and sisters. Will you do that for me?”
    A pause. “Yes, father.”
    “ That’s my little man. I’ll be home before sun up. Now, get back to bed.”
    Noonday Morningstar kissed his son on the forehead, then went into the larger room where Malaria and Dropsy still slept. He noted with a frown that Diphtheria had snuck out again. He kissed the two before grabbing the family bible and lighting up a small lamp that was rusted red but perfectly functional. Walked out the door and into night.
    Typhus threw some sticks on the fire, watched them turn white beneath the weight of orange flame.
    He crawled onto the large, straw-stuffed mattress between his brother and sister. Found his homemade pillow; his own multi-purpose invention. The little burlap sack was originally constructed to hold coffee beans, but could also be stuffed with straw for sleeping—or filled with unborn babies for transporting and water-birthing. He held it tight to his face and smelled the river in it. He reached over and stroked the hair of Dropsy. It helped a little.
    Typhus Morningstar did not sleep, but he did dream.
    Although he knew disobeying his father would yield consequences, he emptied the contents of the pillow at the foot of the bed and stood up. Went outside without benefit of light, carrying the empty all-purpose sack with him. He sensed he might need it.
    Found his bike in the dark.

Chapter four
    Dominick’s Affliction
     
    Caught in the dank grip of an unusually warm October, the City of New Orleans had already been on edge and looking for a fight when the murder of Police Chief David Hennessey brought things from a simmer to a boil in the fall of 1890.
    Eighteen Sicilian immigrants were arrested that October, but not until March of 1891 did eleven of them stand trial. The trial itself had been a fiasco; peppered with threats and assaults on witnesses, jury tampering and more, leading to two dismissals for lack of evidence, six found not guilty, and three released through benefit of a hung jury. The acquitted men were scheduled for release on the following afternoon, but such reasonable resolution was pre-empted by an open letter that appeared in the