Jazz Funeral (35 page)

Melody heard someone stomp across the room. “Phone’s unplugged,” a fourth voice said. How many of them were out there?

“Well, I didn’t unplug it!” the sleeper hollered. “Why don’t you assholes get out of my face. What the fuck’s going on here?”

“Tyrone, you’re messin’ up everything. You’re the only one that ever fucks up, you ever notice that?”

“Hey, I been up all night trying to trying to save y’all’s sorry asses. We’re gonna look like a bunch of jerks up there tomorrow if y’all don’t get it together.”

“Sucker!” The word had a lifetime of venom behind it. Melody heard a crack, and a noise like someone stumbling, crashing into the piano. The speaker had hit Tyrone.

Someone else said, “Mark, goddammit, what you want to hit him for? You always been that way—hit, hit, hit! You think that’s the way to solve everything.”

She hated the way they were attacking each other, accusing each other, humiliating each other, more than she hated the hitting. Her father did that to her mother. The Brocatos did it to her father. Her mother even did it to her sometimes, mildly: “Melody, you never clean your room. You always leave your clothes on the floor.”

Did her father do it to her? It was so familiar. Oh, yes: “You’re making your mother sick. Why can’t you do what she says and quit giving her trouble?”

Without even asking her version. He didn’t know anything; he was never around.

She lay under the bed, holding her contaminated crotch, feeling sorry for herself. Feeling hope drain away. Just when something good happened, three bad things happened next.

It’s the physical thing. I’m sick, that’s what it is. Shit, I wonder what I’ve got? AIDS doesn’t start this way, does it? It could be herpes. Maybe it’s herpes. Syphilis! That starts with a bump. Or the clap. Can you still get that?

She had read accounts of people having gonorrhea, and it seemed to her burning had been one of the symptoms. When they urinated, was that it? She broke out in a fresh sweat. Was it going to hurt to go to the bathroom? She had to go now.

“Joel, my man, what you doing here?” There was a break in the din outside. Melody had let her mind wander for a while, partly out of depression, partly fear. She could be dying. Almost certainly she had a sexually transmitted disease—nothing could have been clearer to her. And yet—there was something funny; Chris had used a condom. Wasn’t that supposed to protect you? She felt betrayed by one more thing.

“Hey, how y’all?” said Joel. “Hey, Daddy. Mama’s waitin’ on you.”

“Mornin’, Joel,” said the one named Tyrone. “Your uncles act like it’s the end of the world I fell asleep over here.”

“Well, Mama’s a little bent out of shape.”

“Ah, hell, how’s that different from usual?”

Melody couldn’t believe the sleeper was Joel’s father. Joel Boucree had a father as imperfect as hers. She just couldn’t believe it.

“I better get back to the old lady,” he said. “Joel, you coming?”

“Naah. I think I might practice awhile.”

“All by yourself?” said Mark.

“Where y’all goin’?”

“Back home awhile. We were over by Mama’s, heard about Tyrone, came over to see was he here.”

“Hell, you knew I would be,” Tyrone grumbled, and then Melody heard a lot of exit sounds. She came out from under the bed and sat on top, wishing she could fix her hair, but she was afraid to move around any more than necessary.

Joel knocked. “Hey, Mel?”

“Come in.”

“You okay?”

Great, except for the clap.
She nodded, unable to speak.

“You don’t look so good.”

“I was kind of upset about hearing that fight.”

He laughed. “Hell, don’t let that bother you. They’re always like that.”

“I thought they’d be nice.”

“They’re just a family, that’s all. You think they’d give Daddy such a hard time if they didn’t care about him?”

She didn’t answer. It seemed to her a weird way to express affection.

“See, he likes to get out of the house when Mama’s drinking and yelling. So he goes, and then she falls asleep and wakes up sober enough so she doesn’t slur her words and forgets where he’s gone and starts calling people. They don’t catch on she’s drunk and Daddy won’t tell ‘em. They just think he’s out screwin’ around or something.”

“Why don’t you tell them?”

“Oh, man, I stay out of that shit. Here.” He thrust a greasy paper package at her—napkins wrapped around a couple of pieces of toast. “Sorry—this was all I could get away with. I’ll get something better later. Listen, will you be okay for a while?”

She nodded, feeling somewhat deserted, but also relieved— she needed to be alone, to figure out what to do.

When he was gone, she went to the bathroom, and was hugely relieved to find it didn’t hurt at all. She ate the toast and felt her energy coming back. She sat and sifted things in her mind. Was there a way to avoid seeing a doctor? She closed her eyes and squeezed, trying to figure a way. But her crotch itched and burned like poison ivy.

Two things she had to do: she had to get to a doctor, and she had to do it now, before the Boucrees came back and trapped her. There was a tiny triumphant thought at the back of her brain—possibly, just possibly, there was a doctor she could trust. It wasn’t likely, but it was worth a try. And face it, there was no other choice.

Madeleine Richard, her therapist, was a psychiatrist, which meant she could treat medical problems. Richard might very well turn her in. But it was take the chance or die of crotch rot. Would that be better?

In a way she thought it would, but voices hammered away in her skull:
You have no choice. This is the end of the line. You have no choice. You have no choice. You have no choice.

Her brain wouldn’t get off it. She hoped it wasn’t a death wish finally getting the upper hand.

Getting out of Joel’s neighborhood was much easier than he’d indicated it would be. No one cursed at her, or even stared very much. She said “Mornin’” to everyone she saw, so maybe they’d think she was comfortable there, and they answered courteously.

She was careful to note the address, to watch which streets she walked down. She asked someone for directions and eventually got a bus.

She didn’t know what reaction she’d expected, but it wasn’t the one she got. Richard took one look at her, did a double-take when she figured out the disguise, flashed a smile of utter delight, and folded the girl to her chest. Melody had never been held like that, had no idea what a bosom felt like; how warm and soft; how comforting. “Come in. Come in, baby. You look terrible.”

She couldn’t believe Dr. Richard had called her “baby.” She thought only black people did that. Had little nicknames, little pet names for people. When Richard did it, Melody felt a funny warmth in her solar plexus, a new sensation, as if… she didn’t quite know. If you were loved, was it something like this? Did your mom hug you … hold you? She didn’t dare dwell on the subject.

“You hungry?”

“I’m sick.”

Richard let her in, stroking her hair, patting her, something she’d never done before. They hadn’t touched at all—why would they? Richard was just somebody her mother had hired because she thought she ought to. It wasn’t like she was a relative or anything.

“What’s wrong?”

All of a sudden Melody was shy. “I’ve got this itching. And red spots.”

“Where?”

“Uh—well, I guess I better tell you. I slept with someone.”

“You slept with someone?” Richard looked utterly astounded. “Someone other than Flip?”

“Flip and I broke up. It was—” She hesitated, ashamed to admit it was a stranger. “It was someone I never told you about.”

“How long ago was this?”

“It was Thursday.”

“Mmm. Today’s Saturday. Does it hurt to urinate?”

Melody shook her head.

“Any discharge?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really look. But anyway, it doesn’t feel like it’s inside. I mean, it’s all around.”

“How closely have you examined the area?”

Melody was surprised. “Well, I haven’t, I guess. I mean I saw the spots and that was so gross—”

“Okay, go in the bathroom and take a look. See if there’s any discharge. And use a mirror. I want to know what it looks like down there.”

Melody was grateful Richard didn’t ask to look. She went in the bathroom and followed orders. And was so horrified at what she saw that she screamed.

“What is it?” yelled Richard. “Are you all right?”

“Oh my God! Things! Little black things! All over the place.”

“That’s pubic lice, honey. Come on out and we’ll see what we can do about it.”

“Lice! Omigod. I’ve never even heard of anyone having lice.”

“Melody, just one thing—get one on your finger and let me have a look at it.”

Gross! “I can’t do that!”

“Okay, I’ll come in and look.”

“No!” Melody got one and looked at it. It was so repulsive, she slung it off and reached for the soap. “Oh, God! It looks like a crab.”

“Well, that’s pretty conclusive. Never mind. You don’t have to bring it out.”

When she’d pulled up her pants and returned to Richard’s living room, where she’d never sat before, her shrink explained to her about crab lice. She could hardly bear to sit, so strong was the feeling of being unclean, unworthy; filthy. “They thrive in pubic hair. So you can get them even if you use a condom. Or you can get them from the bedding.”

“Oh, no!”

“What?”

The Boucrees. Now she’d contaminated their bed. She felt like a roach—a big nasty thing that carried disease. Ignoring the question, she said, “What’s the prognosis?”

Richard smiled. “You’ll live. There’s a drugstore remedy for it. All you have to do is wash your clothes and all your bedding, apply the shampoo, and the little suckers drop dead.”

“How much is the cure?”

“How much have you got?”

“About five dollars.” Five dollars, no home, no plan. Now her shelter was problematic. If she didn’t wash her bedding, the crabs would take up permanent residence. How could she wash it?

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Melody, we have to talk. Come on, I’ll fix you something to eat.” She looked at her watch. “I have a client in half an hour.”

“On Saturday?”

Richard shrugged. “Not everybody’s on nine-to-five.”

“What happens when she comes?” Melody tried to keep the fear out of her voice. If Richard went into her office, to a place where Melody couldn’t go, she could phone the police, Melody’s parents, the FBI if she felt like it.

“Look, I’ve got the money. I can get the stuff if you tell me what it’s called, but I don’t have access to a shower right now.”

“Melody, are you living on the street? Or what?”

“I’m not ready to talk about it.” This was a phrase she’d learned in therapy, that Richard herself had taught her.

“You can stay with me, you know. I won’t turn you in.”

Melody didn’t believe her. She didn’t trust Richard—her parents had hired her—and besides, there might be laws. Therapists had to report child abuse; maybe they weren’t allowed to harbor runaways. She knew perfectly well adults were capable of lying if they thought it was for your own good—they even lied to each other. How many television dramas had she seen in which a police negotiator talks down a potential roof-leaper with promises that that can’t be kept?

She followed Dr. Richard into her crammed and messy kitchen. “Bagel and cream cheese?”

Melody nodded. “Sure.”

Richard kept talking as she cleared a place on the kitchen table, found a bagel, cut it, and popped it in the microwave. “You must have been through a lot the last few days.”

A funny wall had come up that made it okay to talk to Richard right now. It was a numbness; Melody wasn’t feeling things at the moment. “It’s been an education,” she said, and even as the words came out, realized they sounded bratty, far too la-di-da to be sincere.

Richard turned and caught her eyes. “Look, I’m really sorry about Ham.”

Melody nodded, turned away.

“Something truly awful must have happened to keep you away from home at a time like this.”

“Lots of things.”

“It’s funny—I haven’t heard from your parents.”

Melody’s heart leaped; that was good. “You haven’t?”

“I guess they don’t realize how close we are.”

Close! We aren’t dose. You’re my parents’ hired gun.

“But of course they’re right not to ask if I’ve heard from you. I wouldn’t tell them if you didn’t want me to.”

Sure you wouldn’t.

Richard put the bagel on the table. Melody fell upon it. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

Richard kept talking. “You can take a shower while I’m seeing my client. We can put your clothes through the washer. I’ll go get your medicine while you wait.”

“And then I can go?”

“I hope you won’t. Your parents are beside themselves.”

“I thought you hadn’t talked to them.”

“Melody, they’ve been on TV and in the paper, begging you to come home—haven’t you noticed?”

For some reason, that gave her a lump in her throat. Maybe she should just go home. Maybe none of this was worth it. And then she remembered that her life had been irrevocably changed—she had lost more than one kind of innocence. She couldn’t go home.

“Flip dumped me for Blair,” she blurted.

“Why, the little creep.”

Melody laughed. She liked that about Richard, that way she had of being on her side. But it would extend only so far, and she had to remember that.

“Well, I fixed him. I went out and caught the crabs from the first boy I met.”

“So was he cute?”

“He was a doll. And you know what? I sang with the band—he has this band—I sang and people stood around and listened, just like it was a real performance. I’m a pro now, Dr. Richard.”

“Congratulations.”

“And I had this love affair, but it’s over now, and I think I’m falling in love again.”

“With someone else?”

“Uh-huh.” Richard had poured her orange juice, which she now picked up and drained.

“You’ve only been gone since Tuesday.”

“Well, I’ve been busy.”

Richard let her smile fade. “But you were so close to Ham. You can’t make his death go away, Melody. No matter how much you cram into your life, how late you stay up, how much pot and alcohol you do, how many guys you sleep with—Ham’s still going to be dead.”