Jazz Funeral (22 page)

He was out of the car now, his back toward her. He made an impatient gesture at shoulder level. Quick, dirty, and eloquent:

“Leave me alone
.”

That was George. Mr. Leave-Me-Alone. But right now she felt oddly bonded with him; they were in this together, rescuing their daughter. She drove.

He was on the sidewalk the second time around, alone. He pushed her out of the driver’s seat, obviously having a need to control something, to assert himself with a piece of heavy machinery. He accelerated way too fast for the neighborhood.

“God, what a dump!” he said.

“She wasn’t there?”

“Not now, and God help her if she ever was.”

“Why’d the guy call us?”

He shrugged. “He’s an addict. Maybe he was trying to get money. Did he ask you for any?”

“No. George, maybe she was never there. Maybe Fike’s like one of those people who confess to crimes to make themselves feel important.”

“Shut up!” His face was a study in dark fury, and suddenly Patty understood how much he had wanted Melody to be there, realized how out of character it had been for her gray-haired, dignified husband to storm a French Quarter apartment with a gun. He was hurting. Beguiled by the action, she’d forgotten that. Overcome with a need to help, to make him feel better, she rubbed his leg. That was all she dared do.

Finally she said, “Are you hungry?”

He didn’t answer at first. After twenty blocks or so, more it seemed like, he said, “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” She’d forgotten what she asked.

“I’m starved.”

“Me too.” Neither of them had eaten during the day.

When they reached home, they went in and fixed themselves sandwiches, ham for him, roast beef for her, with potato salad on the side. There was plenty of everything today. It was a house of mourning.

Sitting with her husband, munching in the middle of the night, Patty forgot Ham, forgot even Melody. For a while she felt euphoric, knowing they were together, that in some way he was enjoying her company.

“Patty, I’m going to find her.” He looked so impossibly sad. “If Fike didn’t lie, she’s here. We’re her parents, we can find her.”

He had said “we” again. Patty tried not to show emotion, to let him know how much that meant to her. She nodded solemnly. “Yes. If we can’t, nobody can.”

He seemed to perk up at that, to want so much to believe her that he actually did. He gave her another half smile, and she would have given her trademark blond hair to see a real smile, would have turned backflips while baking an apple pie, if he’d been into that sort of thing. But he wasn’t, and, despite this afternoon’s encounter, sex didn’t tempt him either. Silence was what he seemed to want from her. Tonight she gave it willingly, thinking of it as “silent support.”

Tomorrow, together, they would find their child.

“Ti-Belle, honey, you’re gettin’ yourself in a tizzy.”

She wasn’t in a tizzy, she was in a fury. And with Nick, of all people.
Nick, who I’d have killed to be with
—
oops, don’t say that, Ti-Belle.

Well, it’s true. I’d have killed to be with him before I was. This is the fucking man of my dreams. How can he be such a shit
?

“Tizzy? Tizzy! That’s all you can say?”

“Baby, calm down. Try to tell me slowly what you’re so upset about.”

“I can’t, goddammit! I can’t speak without sputtering!”

“Honey, can I get you a drink or anything?”

He was so damn solicitous she could puke. This was the way he was—she was learning that about him. He wouldn’t confront, he just got nicer and nicer—and farther away from the subject.

“Did it ever occur to you I might be a suspect in my lover’s murder?”

“Well, honey, I don’t suspect you? How could I?”

“That is the point, Nick Anglime—don’t you see that?” Her voice had taken on a quality that was belligerent and whiny at the same time. It was probably the very definition of shrewish, she thought, but she could no more stop herself than turn black. The pressure had built and something had to blow. “Wait a minute, dammit.”

She went in the bathroom and splashed her face and counted to ten. She still felt just as nutty and furious as she had before, so she did it again. And then she did it a third time.

When she came out, she said, “Yes. You can get me a drink.”

He was on the floor of the library, in the lotus position. He unwound his long, muscular legs. “Gin and tonic?”

She nodded, went to the open window and breathed in jasmine. She was still furious, but she thought if she sipped the drink she might be able to speak without sputtering.

“Okay,” she said when he handed it to her. She composed herself, remaining near the window. She thought the tableau probably looked romantic, and didn’t want to move. She was wearing a retro-style dress, white with old-fashioned “princess lines” and a halter top, short flared skirt. Marilyn Monroe style. She hadn’t exactly dressed for pleading for her life, but as long as she was reduced to that, the dress was probably a plus.

“Okay, look. We were together when Ham was getting killed. Therefore, I couldn’t have done it. So a cop asks where you were when Ham was killed, and you don’t even alibi me.”

“Sweet cakes, I didn’t get the feelin’ she was interested in you—I kind of got the idea she thought I might have been the guilty party.”

“‘Oh, Ti-Belle, you selfish bitch. Ti-Belle, you must think the world revolves around you.’ Do you have to be so goddamn judgmental, Nick Anglime?”

“Honey, could we start over? I don’t remember calling you a bitch.”

“You said all I ever do is think about myself. Well, I’ll tell you something—I protected you. I said I was with someone else.”

“Baby, I don’t mean to nitpick, but doesn’t that leave me without an alibi?”

“You! You live here with an entourage of ten people. You don’t need me.” She’d flown off the handle when she heard Langdon had seen Nick. She’d given her Johnny Murphy’s name to hide the affair, but now it was obvious the cops knew anyway. So if they knew she’d lied about Johnny, and Nick didn’t alibi her, where did that leave her?

“Sweetheart, I’m real sorry I made you mad. What can I do for you right now?”

“Placate, placate, placate. All you know how to do is placate.”

“You haven’t known me long enough to know what I know how to do.” For the first time his voice held anger, a sulky anger, the kind that simmered and bubbled. Ti-Belle’s heart speeded up; she realized she was frightened. The last thing she wanted was to turn him against her.

But she had to get her point across. “Look, Nick. I just don’t see why you didn’t tell her I was with you. What could be simpler?”

“Well, I didn’t know what you’d told her, for one thing.”

“You could have at least set it up, just in case. ‘I was with a friend,’ something like that. Now, if you have to say it was me, it’ll sound like you made it up.”

“I didn’t think of that, okay? The woman made me nervous.”

“Made you nervous? You, Nick Anglime? Are you crazy? That cop was slobbering like a teenager—you could have told her you were with her and she’d have believed you.”

“Look, how am I supposed to alibi you when I can’t? Am I supposed to perjure myself for you? Is that the next step?” Now he was the furious one.
But why?
Ti-Belle couldn’t figure it out. She was the one with the beef.

“Nick, what are you getting so upset about? One minute you’re a perfect little lamb and the next you’re acting like a crazy man.”

“You want me to lie for you—is that it? Is that what you’re mad about—that I didn’t lie?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you left for an hour and a half in the middle of what was supposed to be a daring weekday rendezvous—which was your idea in the first place. Frankly, I’m starting to wonder if I was set up.”

“Set up! How dare you!”

“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to think?”

He was deserting her. She felt her chest start to heave. “You don’t trust me.”

“Why don’t you just tell me, then—where the hell did you go Wednesday?”

“I went to get a dress to wear to Ham’s damn party—isn’t that what I told you I did?”

“Yes, ma’am, you did tell me that. But then when you didn’t come back with any packages, I got to thinkin’ maybe you had another lover on the side.”

“Shit!” Ti-Belle pulled a book out of the nearest bookshelf and threw it at him, the first book that came to hand—she didn’t care if it was a first edition Moby Dick.

It caught him in the chest and he clutched it to his body like a baby. “Don’t ever throw my things! Don’t do that ever again!”

“I’m sorry.”

Like hell I am.

“This was the dress I bought, okay? I didn’t think you’d be interested in my damn dress. I didn’t want you to think I’m one of those women who just shops, shops, shops all the time. So I left it in the car, is that okay?”

“It just seems pretty weird that you’d leave in the middle of things like that.”

“Damn you! I take three days off, turn my life upside down to be with you, and I just have this one thing to do from my real life?”

“Okay. Okay, Ti-Belle.” He was backing away.

She wondered if she was coming on too strong. But probably not, she thought. The men she attracted weren’t afraid of a strong woman. She liked that about them—about Nick. Her anger was losing steam. “Okay what?” she said.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I did the wrong thing and I’m sorry.”

She felt the muscles in her chest start to loosen. Her anger was ebbing as swiftly as it had gathered. She smiled at him, happy they were making up. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I’m sorry I got mad.”

“You’ve been under pressure.”

She nodded, felt a flash of misery at the mention of Ham, and quickly turned her mind off. That’s what she’d been doing when the subject of Ham came up; the way she’d taught herself to get through.

Nick came over and put his hands on her waist, set off so well by the white dress. But it was a tentative gesture. She felt the indecision, perhaps the fear, in his fingertips. He said, “What can I do for you, baby?”

Come out of your damn shell.

She wasn’t about to say it aloud. She loved this man; loved him much more than she’d loved Ham, miles more than she’d loved anyone she’d met in her young life, and she desperately wanted to be with him. But he was so different from her. Ti-Belle wanted to be out every night in every joint in New Orleans with every musician for miles around; and all Nick wanted to do was stay home and read and meditate.
Was it age?
she wondered. Nick really was getting on—maybe he just didn’t have the energy she had. But a person didn’t have to surrender to that. She’d seen other people in their forties who were young and fun; surely that was the healthy way to be.

He’d probably picked her because she made him feel young. Because she was young, and youth was contagious. She could make it contagious anyway. She could be good for him. She was determined to. She was going to keep him just as young as he wanted her to, even if he only wanted it subconsciously. She knew that was why he wanted her—what else could it be?—and the way to keep him was to accept that and be who she was and help him be all he could be.

“Sing with me,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Do wha’?” she mimicked, and laughed delightedly. He was so cute when he was like this. “You sound like some funny old cartoon character.”

“You want to sing? Now?” He sounded baffled.

“Sure? Don’t you ever sing for pleasure? It helps me get out of the dumps.”

“You’re not mad at me anymore?” He was smiling. He looked ten years younger. Ti-Belle made a silent vow to remember the effect it had when she got mad.

“Well, I won’t be mad if you’ll tell that big ol’ cop the truth.”

An odd expression flicked over his face—confusion, perhaps? Ti-Belle couldn’t be sure. He replaced it with a smile, a weak one, but recognizable. “Come on. Let’s sing.”

They went into the music room and Ti-Belle sat at the Bosendorfer. While he tuned his guitar, she played a couple of his old songs to get him in the mood. Even before he was finished, before the instrument was ready, he couldn’t help it, he started singing along.

They did his songs and one or two of hers, some old stuff— Beatles and Rolling Stones—and a little Neville Brothers. Ti-Belle had actually had an agenda when she suggested the little sing-along, but she had so much fun, she forgot she’d been plotting and planning. The whole thing just seemed natural.

“We’re great together!” She was beside herself.

He gave her another of his almost-smiles. “Not bad, hon.”

“Oh, come on, Nick, tell me you aren’t having the time of your life.”

“It’s fun. I’m not sayin’ it’s not exactly fun.”

Ti-Belle felt disappointed, rejected. “But what?”

“I’m just so glad I don’t have to do it for a livin’, I could spit.”

“You don’t miss it? Not even a little bit?”

“Honey, I don’t miss performin’ and I don’t miss havin’ my teeth drilled without novocaine.”

“Why don’t I believe that?” Because she didn’t want to, she knew that perfectly well. Ti-Belle had a really great idea to boost her prestige in the music business—she wanted to sing with Nick professionally. And now that they’d sung together just for fun, she wanted it for more reasons than simple greed—she’d never felt more in love in her life, more exhilarated than when they were doing it. And if she’d felt that way, how could he have felt any different? He couldn’t have—nothing else made sense. The whole thing was to get him in touch with his feelings, guide him along, pull him out of this depression he was in—she saw his quietness that way, as depression—and lead him back to living rather than just observing, to having fun again.

Nick said, “Sweetheart? You with me?” She realized she must have phased out. She had been thinking about her first performance experiences, on the streets, and later in coffeehouses, and of how much her music had meant to her, how it had saved her life when she thought about it, where she’d be now (in jail, probably) if it hadn’t been there for her.

Then she had thought of Melody, of how very much Melody reminded her of herself, except probably not as talented. But still she wished the same for Melody—to get by, get through, with the music to help her.