Jazz Funeral (7 page)

The guitar player had good shoulders, slender build, and a cute butt. His skin was tan, not peaches and cream, but it was as clear and delicate as a girl’s. If he shaved more than once a week, she’d be surprised. And something else she liked a lot. He had beautiful hands. Long fingers, very clean. Nice square-cut nails. She watched his hands as he fingered the guitar, and found herself wanting to touch them, wanting them to touch her. She watched so intently it was almost like falling into a trance. It felt as if there was nothing else in the world but herself and those fingers, so why shouldn’t she simply go get them? The need to do it was almost overpowering. Dr. Richard talked sometimes about impulse control—her mom and dad both had poor impulse control, and so, sometimes, did Melody. If she managed not to embarrass herself by grabbing this strange boy on a street corner, that would be a step in the right direction. She knew this thing that was happening to her, she’d felt it before—she just didn’t know how to handle it. She knew perfectly well it was caused by the runaway truck called hormones, but that didn’t make it any easier. Or any less delicious.

It occurred to her suddenly that she could do it with this boy. This strange boy with the perfect skin, the pretty planes in his face—if he wasn’t involved with the female bass player, she could do it with him. She felt her face go hot. Her palms started sweating again.

I could do it tonight.

Tonight! This afternoon, half an hour ago, there had been nothing, and now there was this. The only reason she’d never done it with Flip was fear. She’d hardly ever let him touch her below the waist because it got her too hot. If they did that too much, she’d do it, she knew she would, and then someone would find out and her father would kill her. She might get pregnant, that was always a possibility, but it wasn’t as bad as her father’s wrath. Actually, she didn’t know if he’d kill her. But he’d yell, and she couldn’t stand the yelling.

God, what a baby! I don’t believe what I’ve done. I’ve sacrificed my womanhood because I’m afraid of my daddy yelling.

She hadn’t put it to herself quite that way before. She was ripe, she was ready, she felt as sexual as anybody else, she was pretty damn sure of that, and yet she was a virgin. All because she was intimidated by a geriatric parent. It shamed her to think of it.

Tonight could be the night. It would be a rite of passage. She’d become a woman in more ways than one.

The band stopped playing. What were they doing? Gathering up their money, it looked like. Going.

Suddenly, reality intruded in a big way. Now was the time to talk to them, before they got away. But what was the use? They were going to hate her. He was, especially. What had she been thinking of? Did she imagine she could get anybody she wanted, any strange boy on the street? Was she crazy—what on earth would he want with her? She was just a kid with a biggish nose and fuzzy-looking hair. Anyway, he was probably involved with the bass player, the redhead.

Okay, she had to do it. Had to or go home, and she had no home. She spoke to the woman because she felt shy and it was easier that way. “I really liked your music.”

The woman had on a white tank top that made her look washed-out. Her hair was a peachy color, like Sissy Spacek’s, and she wore no makeup. She looked friendly, though, and she had a nice smile. “Thanks.”

“Are you leaving?”

The drummer, who was overweight and whom she’d hardly noticed, gave her a look that made her cringe. He’d noticed her. He had little pig eyes that looked hostile. “We think we’ve got enough to go eat. What’s it look like, Chris?”

The blond had been counting the money. He said, “Eight bucks, give or take.”

“Shit!”

“Okay. Let’s crank up again.”

The drummer player said, “What do you want to hear, Jailbait?”

Realizing he meant her, Melody felt embarrassed. “My name’s Mel—” She stopped just in time, head spinning at what she’d almost done. “Janis!” she said, shouting to cover her mistake.

“This one goes out to Janis,” he said, and smiled, his eyes crinkling. He looked almost appealing. “What’ll it be?”

“How about ‘Breakaway’?”

“Not without Irma Thomas,” he sneered.

“I can sing it,” Melody said. She was surprised they even knew it.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, great. An audition.”

The woman said, “Oh, hell. Let’s just do ‘Jambalaya.’”

Melody thought the blond—Chris, his name was—winked at her. She looked him full in the eyes, tilted her head slightly. “I can sing that too.”

He shrugged, lifted an eyebrow. He was interested, Melody thought with amazement. Not in the song, but in her. Her palms started up again. “Go to it,” said Chris.

She turned around to face the audience. No one was there, really. Just a couple of strollers in the square, and a few more down Chartres Street. That made it easy. Melody took a deep breath and started belting: “Jambalaya, crawfish pie, file gumbo …”

The familiar words bounced off the concrete louder than she’d expected, raised the energy in the street like a parade coming through. Melody felt the shock of it, saw the strollers in the square point and start to walk toward her. She’d only sung in controlled situations before, had no idea how she’d sound out here.

Someone behind her said, “Holy shit.” One of the guys, she couldn’t tell which one. And that was all she needed.

After that, it was fun. Her feet started to move and magic happened. The music flowed through her like a gift from another dimension. She was a musician, she was an artist, this was who she was. She knew now, just as she’d known it the first day she’d sung the same song, and danced in front of her mother’s full-length mirror, just fooling around but feeling the magic. She’d been about eight.

Part of what was happening, the sudden party feel of it all, was the song. She realized it even as a crowd started to gather. People responded to songs they already knew. But, hell, it wasn’t just that, she was singing well. Really well. They were loving her. They were tossing money.

Melody finished the song, and before the applause had stopped, before she had time to catch her breath, Chris started “Breakaway.” The others joined in, but Melody got there first:

“I made my reservations

I’m leavin’ town tomorrow

I’ll find somebody new and

There’ll be no more sorrow …”

They did that and then they did “La Ti Da,” and some others; Chris just started a song, never asking if Melody knew it. And she always knew it. The crowd never got huge, but people came and went and dollars piled up in the kitty.

After about an hour and a half, they took a break. The ugly guy, the piggy one, was all over her, hugging her, kissing her, sweating on her. “You are something, kid!”

Melody shrugged graciously. “You guys just needed a singer.”

“Let’s go eat,” said the redhead. “I’m Sue Ann, by the way. And this is Chris.” She leaned on him for a moment, sending a message, Melody thought. But Sue Ann grabbed the fat one too, around the upper arm. “This is Randy.”

They went over to Decatur Street, walked down to get a pizza, Sue Ann asking questions a lot faster than Melody could think of answers.

“Where are you from?”

Where the hell was she from? “Abbeville,” she said.

“Funny, you don’t look like a Cajun.” This from Chris.

“Um, only on my mom’s side.” She wished she’d thought to get a story together.

“How long have you been here?”

“In New Orleans? Gosh. Seems like forever. How ‘bout y’all?”

“Oh. Awhile.” They didn’t like answering questions either.

Chris kept looking at her sideways, keeping his distance, seeming amused, as if she were a hamster someone had brought him to play with. It made her nervous, but on the other hand, it was attention from the person she wanted it from. She wanted to get closer, to close the distance between them, but she didn’t know how. She felt tongue-tied every time he spoke to her, wouldn’t have known what to say even if she’d met him as Melody Brocato.

Oh, God. What if they ask for a last name?

Robicheaux. That was safe. Everyone was named Robicheaux.

But they didn’t ask. They asked how old she was, or the piggy one did. “Eighteen,” she said, not missing a beat.

The guys slapped each other high fives. Melody flushed, thinking they were congratulating each other because she wasn’t jailbait after all, nearly dying of embarrassment. But Randy explained, “They all say that. We got a standing bet.”

Angry, she said, “Who is ‘they,’ please?”

“Every cute runaway comes to the Quarter.”

Sue Ann said, “Don’t let ‘em bother you. They’re just a couple of small-town guys in the big city.”

“Well, listen to Miss Sophistication,” said Randy. “Like you’re not from Meridian, Mississippi.”

“Shut up, big guy, or you’re going to bed without.” If that meant what Melody thought it meant, it was good news.

As if on cue, Chris said, “Hey, Janis, where you crashin’?”

“Uh … well, I…” She couldn’t come up with a single idea.

Sue Ann said, “You don’t have a place?

Melody shook her head.

“Want to stay with us?”

She shrugged—coolly, she hoped. “Sure.” As if she did this every day.

They finished off their pizza and had a quick conference about which songs they were going to do tomorrow, Melody being careful not to suggest any of Janis’s songs, lest they make the connection. Everything they knew, Melody knew. Not for nothing had she worked her butt off the last two years, with Joel and Doug.

Chris was the best musician of the three, almost as good as Doug, though he couldn’t touch Joel, and he looked at Melody with respect. Chris respected her, she could feel it. Considered her a colleague. The worst day of her life had turned into the best.

Melody wanted to go back and make more money, but they said you weren’t really allowed to play past eight, and they’d stopped at eight-fifteen. They’d only made twenty-two dollars, and most of it had gone for the pizza. But to Melody it was manna. She’d started out with seven bucks in her jeans and now she was a professional singer.

She looked at her watch. It wasn’t even nine-thirty. What was next?

“Beatty’s?” asked Randy.

“What’s that?”

“The runaway bar,” Chris said. “It’s where you’d go tonight if you hadn’t met us. You’d have hung around, watching it get later and later, and then this one bar on Decatur would have started hopping, and you’d have noticed everybody in there was about your age. And you’d have gone in and a lot of guys would have hit on you and finally someone would have offered you a place to crash tonight.”

“A guy?”

He shrugged. “Anybody. People take care of each other in the Quarter.”

She was fascinated. “Are we going there?”

“Hell, no. I can’t take that scene.”

“Just for a while,” said Randy.

So they went.

The bar, which opened out to the street, was essentially a three-sided room. The furnishings were basic, if you were being kind, and Chris was right—no one there was over thirty, probably not over twenty-five. This early, it was pretty sparsely populated, which Chris said was good, he hated it when it was crowded. Randy and Chris played the video games across from the bar while Melody and Sue Ann got acquainted. Mostly, Melody asked questions and looked around. Some punk rockers were starting to arrive, pretty tough-looking customers, and she bet there’d be more as the night wore on. She wondered how she’d look all punked-out.

Chris came back, Randy tagging behind. “I can’t take this scene.” He gestured with his head. The place was starting to hop. A lot of people looked pretty unsteady already. They got a six-pack and some go-cups and went out to the Moonwalk, all four of them. Melody wasn’t too happy about it, but didn’t feel she had a choice, since she was depending on them for shelter. She had a pretty good idea about what was going to happen—Randy was going to make a play for her while Chris looked on in that amused way he had.

Sure enough, the fat one fell into step beside her, sat down next to her when they reached the Moonwalk. That part was right. But Chris wasn’t paying even the slightest attention. He was talking to Sue Ann, not intimately, just joking around, but Melody might as well not have existed.

Randy was going on and on about something that had happened to him in high school, something to do with football, punctuating his story by touching her leg, her arm, anything he could get away with. She wanted to tell him to stop, but then he’d sulk, and she didn’t want to piss him off right at the outset. And she was still trying to avoid contributing to Chris’s amusement-at-her-expense. Randy had sucked down his first beer on the short walk and was now into his second. He smelled beery and sweaty; revolting. He had his hand on her shoulder now, leaning close, not merely touching, but really latched on, like a barnacle or something. The hand was dirty. There were black lines under each fingernail, on the knuckles. She was going to have to say something or throw up. Involuntarily, though, she looked around at Chris, wanting his help but not daring to admit it to herself. She caught his eye and saw his expression change from bland to alert. Not amused.

He said, “Hey, Janis, want to go down to the river?”

She said, “Sure,” swiveling slowly, as if she’d expected it, known it was due. Later, she realized she must have looked utterly desperate.

There were benches like bleachers, which you could climb down and sit on, dabble your feet in the Mississippi itself. “Come on,” said Chris, and clambered ahead of her. At the bottom they stood clutching their beers, peering into the stillness of the water. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he said.

But it was more than pretty. It was vast and calming, soothing in an unexpected way that was new to her. “It’s like … a mom,” she blurted, and thought what a dork she sounded, what a baby.

But Chris nodded. “Yes. It’s like being rocked. Just listening to it, just being this close. It’s an entity. It feels like a thing with a personality.”

She stared at him. She didn’t know who he was, where he came from, but she hadn’t expected this. She had thought he was handsome, talented, transient, and no one she could take seriously—in other words, someone perfectly suited to be her first fuck, to be used and discarded. She wanted it that way because it wouldn’t get messy. Now she thought she could fall in love with him.