Jazz Funeral (8 page)

“I grew up near the ocean. In South Carolina, where it’s like velvet. People who come there, Yankees, hate to go in—they say it’s like being in a dirty bathtub. Because it’s so warm.”

“And what’s it like, really?”

“Like heaven.” He smiled at her, a shy smile, she realized, and she liked that. “Just like heaven.”

She smiled back, but didn’t know what to say, just held his gaze. He didn’t speak either, and she felt uncomfortable. She slid her eyes back toward the river, took another sip of beer. She twisted her ring the way she did when she was nervous, the cameo ring that Nonna, her father’s mother, had given her. It had been Nonna’s, which made it an heirloom, her mother said, and so she wore it, but it was too small for her. She had to wear it on her pinky, where it looked much too big, but she kind of liked that, thinking that at Country Day it passed for eccentric.

Chris took her hand, made her stop twisting, calling attention to her nervousness, which embarrassed her. “I wanted to tell you,” he said, “your singing was …”

She waited, knowing he was searching for a word that would flatter her but still not compromise him, a low-key word.

“Extraordinary,” he said finally.

The guy was cute, but the phoniness of it pissed her off. She snorted. “Extraordinarily what?”

She was pleased with the sound of her voice—brittle, edgy, just this side of hostile. The woman who spoke in that voice would brook no nonsense.

But Chris only laughed. “Tough cookie,” he said, and let the suspense build for a moment. Extraordinarily amateurish, he might have said, and a piece of her was sure he was going to. She was braced, ready for it, sure she could take it, anything would be better than stupid, lukewarm pleasantries.

“What are you, a prima donna? You were great. And you know it too, don’t you?”

She stared at him, shocked. “You really thought so?”

He touched her cheek. “Yeah.” He said it so softly she almost missed it.

Her stomach felt fluttery, a sensation she associated with stage fright. Again she looked ahead and took a sip from the can. She thought of reclaiming her hand, the one he was holding, but she found, on consideration, that she didn’t want to at all. Involuntarily, she squeezed his hand instead, and immediately regretted it, knowing it sent a signal she hadn’t meant to send.

Not looking at her, staring at the West Bank like she was, he spoke again. “What’s your real name?”

“I told you. You don’t believe me?”

“You just don’t look like a Janis.”

“I don’t? What do I look like?”

Boldly, she turned to face him again, and he stared at her for a long moment. “Olivia,” he said. “No—something Shakespearean. Viola. Juliet. Better yet, Julianna. Something Mediterranean and complex—and soft as the night.”

“Desdemona?”

“Too sophisticated. Something with depth, but innocence.”

Her cheeks burned. She didn’t like being seen as innocent. “Are you really named Chris? It’s perfect for you.”

“I know. That’s why I picked it.”

“Are Sue Ann and Randy their names?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t know who they are. But I know you. Your family has money, but they don’t really appreciate you. They treat you like a kid and don’t recognize your talent, maybe they’re violent; maybe not always, but finally—today; yesterday. Maybe it was one violent incident that did it. You couldn’t handle it anymore. So you ran away.”

Tears welled as he spoke and poured down her cheeks by the time he finished. She wasn’t even embarrassed, just caught up in the incredible, wonderful, unprecedented sensation of being understood. “Did it happen to you?” Of course it had; how else could he know?

“It happened to you,” he said.

A sob came out of her, unbidden, unexpected, like vomit. She turned her back to him, covered her mouth with her hands, desperately trying to stem this humiliating uprising of emotion, aware that her back must look as if she had St. Vitus’s Dance. He left her alone for a moment, and then she felt him move closer, turn so that he could hold her whole body tight to his chest, his arms wrapped around her from behind, his face against her cheek. It was so gentle, so thoughtful a gesture, it felt so warm and intimate that the sobs begin to die almost immediately.

She put her hands on his, which were now crossed on her chest. “I’m afraid they’ll find me,” she said, whispering, though she didn’t know why.

“What?”

She spoke more loudly, turned her face to his, or as far toward his as she could, so that she was in profile, their cheeks touching again. “I’m afraid of them,” she said.

His mouth was at her ear. “I know,” he whispered.

It didn’t occur to her to question how he knew, only to marvel that he did. She struggled out of the soft embrace, hating to do it, but needing to look at him some more, and turned around to face him. She took both his hands, surprised at her boldness but needing to touch him. “I just ran away today.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She considered, finally shook her head. “No. A lot of things happened. I feel like I lost everything at once. I mean, my family and friends and…” She paused, suddenly shy. She had been about to say “my boyfriend,” but thought better of it. “I can’t go back. I can never go back.”

“Your folks live in New Orleans?”

She nodded.

He looked at her for a long while, assessing. “Wonder how you’d look as a blonde?”

She laughed, the sound coming out of her as unexpectedly as the sobs had. She saw suddenly how easy it was going to be. “That’s it! All I have to do is look different.”

“That’s what they all do—the runaways.” He stared at her. “But I like the way you look now.” He was kissing her before she saw it coming, his lips on hers, his tongue probing, his hands reaching for her face, tenderly, gently. It wasn’t like kissing Flip, or anyone at Country Day, or anyone in the world, maybe. It was like fire and honey at the same time. So sweet, so impossibly sweet, but so incendiary, sweeping, like a brushfire. Flip kissed like a baby; this was a whole new category. Or maybe one kiss was much like another; maybe she was different. She put a hand on Chris’s neck, to pull him closer to her. His skin was impossibly hot.

In a while, she said, “I need a break,” and pulled herself away, reached awkwardly for her beer, but only succeeded in knocking it off the bench.

Chris pulled her back. “Let’s go to bed.”

There they were, the magic words. Everything was working out so perfectly according to plan that Melody couldn’t quite keep up. She felt dazed, out of focus. Chris put his arms around her, simply held her, not pushing anything, which gave her time to think. And she realized it had all been a fantasy, that she’d never expected to end up like this, with Chris—to get the thing she wanted. She was so used to being thwarted—to being a child instead of an adult, always at someone else’s mercy—that she wasn’t prepared to get her wish. Or maybe she just wasn’t ready to do it. It was something you thought and thought about and it was a big, big deal.

Oh, hell, be a grown-up.

I don’t know if I can. What if it scares me? His penis. What if it’s … I don’t know, not what I expect. And what if he gets weird? What if he’s rough or something?

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m kind of mixed up.”

“You’ve had a hard day.” He whispered it, massaging her shoulders. “Are you tired?”

“Umm-hmm.”

“Come on. Nothing will happen. I’ll just hold you.”

“What?” Did things work like that?

“Really. It’ll be okay.”

The scruffy apartment apparently had two rooms and a kitchen, but Melody saw only the first, the living room. A door off the hall was closed. Chris glanced at it only briefly. “Guess Randy and Sue Ann got the bedroom.”

“Are they a couple?” Randy certainly hadn’t behaved like it.

Chris shrugged. “Sometimes. Give me a hand, will you?” Melody helped him unroll a foam mattress with a grayish sheet on it. He threw down a couple of dusty sofa pillows and found a sleeping bag to use for a blanket. “You want to take off your jeans or anything?”

She shook her head and untied her shoes, trying to look nonchalant. To her relief, he removed only his shoes as well.

When he got into bed, she pressed herself against him, fitting her contours to his, wanting to get as close as possible—to be embraced like a child. And he held her as tight as a teddy bear. She was inconceivably grateful.

Sue Ann cut Melody’s hair the next day, not too precisely, but who cared? It was a modified punk look, spiked up with gel; irregular was what the whole thing was about. They played a gig on Royal Street, which was closed to traffic in the afternoon, to get money for the rest. Everybody chipped in, and they all went shopping together. They got her sunglasses, clothes from the flea market, different makeup and hair color. They didn’t stop at blond, they got purple too, for the bangs. Chris did her himself. Then Sue Ann did her makeup—a very light base to cover Melody’s tawny skin, red lipstick, and plenty of black stuff on her eyes. She put on a pair of striped pedal pushers and an off-the-shoulder blouse. Sue Ann added some zany earrings, dangling fruit baskets.

Chris said, “You could knock on your own mother’s door and say you’re the Avon lady.”

It was true, but Melody wanted to cry. She had a new name and didn’t even look like herself. She couldn’t help it, it was weird. And not only that, she was ugly. Chris probably hated her now.

But after they all had muffalettas, he took her hand and led her up the river, to Woldenberg Park, and talked to her about his music. He played songs for her, only for her, and asked her about herself. She told him about Joel and Doug, first names only, hoping that was okay, and nervously twisted her ring.

Chris said, “You look sad.”

“I was supposed to go to a party tonight. At my brother’s house.”

He put an arm around her, drew her to him.

She said, “Do you hate the way I look?”

He said, “Babe, it’s not the packaging. It’s you.”

They necked in the grass till it was time to find the others and start raking in the money.

And that night, when it was all over, when they had made nearly forty dollars apiece, and drunk a couple of beers, and once again sat by the river, Melody made love with him. She didn’t even think of it anymore as doing it. What she felt for Chris was like nothing so much as cotton candy—so light, so magical you could barely see it, so sweet it would melt in your mouth. He touched her everywhere, for a long time, and he let her see him slowly, so she wasn’t too shocked. She hadn’t said she was a virgin, but he seemed to know, and he was so gentle, so careful, she might have been a small animal with delicate bones.

She loved the way his body felt, she loved him, but she didn’t love It. Sex. Her pussy hurt and that was almost all she felt there. Everywhere else felt wonderful.

“It’ll be better,” he told her, and she knew it would.

It was in the morning, when they did it again. She almost liked it for itself, not just for the feel of his skin, the twin bumps of his butt under her fingers, the smell of him.

She showered and was surprised to see blood, but there wasn’t much, it was no big deal. She looked in the mirror and almost recognized herself without the makeup. She was sure the eyes were changed, were more knowing—Desdemona instead of Juliet eyes. But they were still blue, still Melody Brocato’s eyes, so she put on the funny shades she had bought with the others—red with little three-dimensional hearts at the top. She wore the pedal pushers again, with a lavender T-shirt to match her hair.

When she stepped back in the living room, Chris grabbed her, as if he couldn’t stop himself, and licked a drop of water from her neck that she’d missed. She’d never been happier in her life.

And then, as they stepped out into the sunlight, she and Chris, she was happier still. She’d had no idea life could be so sweet. They linked hands, heading for Cafe du Monde for coffee and beignets. Could anything in the world be more romantic?

Chris said, “Want a paper?”

“Sure.”

He popped into a store, but she stayed outside, feeling the sun on her freshly-fucked body. Feeling fine.

“Here.” He handed her the paper. It was like having a knight to do her bidding, she thought, and absently unfolded it. The headline said,
JAZZFEST PRODUCER STABBED TO DEATH.

She realized she must have screamed. She saw her brother’s name below the main headline:
HAMSON BROCATO MURDERED
. She was suddenly, unaccountably, hot, burning up, and sick in the pit of her stomach, and she felt herself falling.

A voice yelled, “Janis!” and before she went out, she wondered briefly who Janis was.

Joe Tarantino shook his head. He was a blunt-featured, pear-shaped, working-class kind of guy, dark and dandruffy. Today he needed a shave and, shaking his head like that, as if it were the end of the world, he looked inconsolable.

“Where in the hell is Carlson?” Joe looked easygoing, but he hated tardiness, hated wasting time, and hated waiting. Skip thought it was fair to assume he was also feeling fairly pressured by so public a murder as Ham’s.

Carlson was an officer from missing persons. Joe had asked him to join them this morning—himself, Skip, and Sergeant Sylvia Cappello—to confer about Melody. Impatiently, he picked up his phone, and magically, Carlson appeared at the door. He was a youngish detective, with brown hair, a beginning paunch, and acne scars. Skip knew nothing about him, hoped he had half a brain. Because she thought Melody was the key to the case.

After handshakes and introductions, Joe said, “Let’s get started.” Skip knew he wanted every detail. He was the kind of lieutenant who liked to know how things were going, liked to participate, plan strategy. It might have driven her crazy if she hadn’t truly enjoyed working with him. Cappello, her sergeant, was great, she was just fine, but she was a little on the brisk, close-mouthed side. Joe had a sweet, avuncular quality that made Skip love him and ascribe to him Buddhalike wisdom he probably didn’t have. Steve had once accused her of hero worship where Joe was concerned, and she knew it was true. He was her mentor, the lieutenant who’d had her transferred to Homicide, who’d believed in her at a time when she hardly believed in herself. Thanks largely to a certain sergeant named Frank O’Rourke.