Jazz Funeral (44 page)

All that remained was to pick the song. This was important, the most important part of all, even though no one would ever know.

Something elegiac? At jazz funerals they did gospel songs at the wake service the night before, and dirges on the way to the cemetery. On the way back they did celebratory songs: “The Saints” and “Didn’t He Ramble.” She’d heard two versions of the tradition. One held that at the wake, to the tune of “Down by the Riverside” and the like, the idea was to reminisce about the “good life” of the dead person, and the joyous songs celebrated his “bad life.” But she hated that. That was what she despised most about religion as she’d been taught it: joy must be bad.

Forget it. I’m not a Christian.

Another version said the dirges were for the mourners, to say good-bye, to express their sadness, and the send-off songs celebrated the release of the dead person’s soul. That worked better for her. Release: that was the idea.

“Breakaway.”

The words were perfect. Perfectly metaphorical. And the thing had symmetry—it was almost the first song she’d ever sung professionally.

Did she dare do it twice? No. Once was dicey enough. Someone might hear and come to investigate.

She’d do it once and pull the vase on the last line.

Maybe before if I feel like it.

She refilled the vase, plugged in the piano and took off her shoes. She was careful not to let the wire drag in the puddle, not to wet her feet quite yet. She felt an odd tingling in her lower torso, whether belly or lower still she wasn’t sure, but it was vaguely sexual. Some kind of prickly excitement.

And why not? This was the greatest adventure of all.

She started to sing:

“I’ve made my reservations,

I’m leaving town tomorrow,

I’ll find somebody new and there’ll be no more sorrow.”

God, this is fun.

“That’s what I say each time,

But I can’t follow through

I can’t break away from … you

make me cry

I can’t break away,

I can’t say good-bye

No! No! No no no no! No! No! No! No! No no no no! No! No!

I’ll never ever break away from you!”

I wish I could do it twice!

“I made a vow to myself

You and I are through

Nothing can change my mind

‘Sorry’ just won’t do.”

For the first time since she’d had the great idea, she was sad.

If I die, I can’t ever do this again.

“That’s what I say each time,

But I can’t follow through

I can’t break away from … you

make me cry

I can’t break away,

I can’t say good-bye

No! No! No no no no! No! No! No! No! No no no no! No! No!

I’ll never ever break away from you!”

I have to do it. There’s no choice.

“Even though you treat me bad

Little words are so fine

You have got a spell on me

That just can’t be broken.”

But I don’t want to.

“I’ll snatch your picture down. And throw it away. There’ll be no waiting ‘round for you to call each day.”

Yes, I do. I really, really do.

The end was near, and it was so perfect, the part where it said, “I’ll never ever break away from you.” That was the problem, she couldn’t break away, she just couldn’t; she’d tried and it didn’t work. So now she was pulling a different kind of breakaway, guaranteed to work and keep working.

She would sing like she never had before. She’d put the full force of her young body into the last two lines, go out with a bang as well as a splash.

“That’s what I say each time, but I can’t follow through …”

I can. I’m going to.

Her fingers were starting to itch. Irma did the last line repeatedly, dragging it out and out and out before the final “you,” and Melody would too. She’d pull the string on the “you.” She could feel her muscles gathering. The music would carry her—she could feel the momentum—

“I’ll never ever break away from— Never ever break away from—”

Irma did it five times, to be exact, but who was counting? “Never ever—”

“Melody!”

She came back from the tunnel she’d been in, the odd gray space between death and life. Or perhaps she merely awoke from the deep trance of the music. She never knew, knew only that her mother’s voice brought her back to consciousness. She screamed.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Surely her mother didn’t know, couldn’t tell from such a cursory glance, but nonetheless Patty strode instantly to the other side of the garage and unplugged the piano.

“Young lady, what have you done to your hair?”

It wasn’t the tearful reunion a daughter might have hoped for, but Melody reminded herself that Patty knew she hadn’t been kidnapped and murdered; knew she’d run away and knew why. Patty had reason to kill her, not save her. Yet she had saved her, had disabled her weapon, seemingly without even thinking about it. Still, this hint. Somewhere deep in Melody’s gut was a yearning that gnawed and burned; the way a bullet wound would feel, she thought—deep, hot pain.

“Hello, Mother. Did you hear me sing?”

Patty nodded. “I didn’t know it was you at first.”

“I saw you at the Oriole.”

“I’ve been frantic, Melody. I’ve been trying to find you for days, just to talk to you. Look, the cops may have had the same thought I did. For all I know, they’ve been watching the garage. I have, when I could manage. So let’s be fast.” She opened her purse. “This is for you.”

She held out a packet of money, went back for another, held it out as well. “It’s fifty thousand dollars. That’s the best we can do. Your father and I understand why you did what you did; we agree you have to leave, it’s the only real answer right now.” She looked at her watch. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“I suppose you already have a ticket for me?”

“I’ll buy you one. To wherever you want to go.”

“My father doesn’t know about this.”

“What?”

“You’re lying. You killed my brother, didn’t you? And now you think you can get rid of me just as easily. You never wanted me in the first place. I was just a convenience for you.”

“I didn’t kill Ham and you know it.”

“The hell I know it! Nobody else could have.” Melody didn’t shout the words, didn’t hurl them as she wanted to. She could speak only in a hoarse whisper. Her throat was nearly closed against the rage inside, boding rage, a force all its own, gathering itself into a maelstrom, a heavy thing sucking desperately downward, roiling and circling endlessly upon itself, gathering black, ugly energy as it circled.

Her mother spoke calmly. “You’re a child. You don’t know anything about the world.”

“I’m a child! I’m a child and I don’t know anything about the world! And you’re fucking kicking me out.” She was trying to grasp it, that her mother could do this. She was conscious of an odd ringing in her ears, as if she were falling through space so fast the pressure kept changing.

“Watch your mouth, Melody.” Her mother’s own mouth curled in annoyance, and that was the only emotion Melody could see on her face. There was something else there, but it was not a feeling, not anger or self-pity or love for her child, nothing so human as any of these. It was a terrifying determination, a steeliness, an adamacy so unyielding it made Melody think of pictures she had seen of New York, of the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building. This thing, this obduracy, this force, seemed as solid, as impossible to move, as one of those.

It frightened Melody, but it fueled the rage.

It’s not right. This isn’t a mother!

She knew that. She might be a child with a child’s knowledge of the world, but she knew she had been cheated, she deserved better.

“Watch my mouth? Watch my fucking mouth! You kill my brother and try to buy me off and all you can say is don’t say fuck? Well, fuck, Mother!” She was screaming now, the whirlpool had worked its way past the block of fear and grief in her throat. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Fuck you, Mother!”

“I swear to God I don’t know why I don’t just leave you here to kill yourself. That’s what you were trying to do, wasn’t it? Why don’t you do it. Melody?” She plugged the piano in again. “We’d all be better off.”

“You want me dead.” She said the words slowly. It took a moment to sink in. And then she flew off the piano stool, knocking off the carefully placed vase of water as she did it, but she had moved too fast, she wasn’t touching the piano now. She was pummeling her mother, tearing her hair out, kicking her. Yelling,

“Die, you bitch! Die!” Even when Patty fell over and hit her head on the concrete floor of the garage, Melody didn’t stop. Simply jumped on top and beat her all the more. Even when she heard a command that brooked no argument: “Stop! Melody, stop!”

She didn’t. But then she felt strong arms grab hers, pud her off, and by then it was too late to face the intruder, to turn around. It was all over anyway. Her energy was spent, the maelstrom dissolved. She felt hot and ashamed, couldn’t believe what she’d done. The sight of her mother crumpled on the floor made her want to cry. But it didn’t stop her from fighting.

The girl writhed and twisted in Skip’s arms like some species of giant worm. Skip heard herself saying over and over: “It’s okay. It’s okay, Melody,” as if the girl were listening, or cared. She might as well have been in a coma for all she probably heard. And meanwhile she was dragging Skip around the garage like a teddy bear.

Finally she changed her tactic and shouted, “Melody, be still!” and the girl came out of it. Quit fighting, twisted, and looked up at her. “Who the hell are you?”

“Detective Skip Langdon, NOPD.”

Melody went limp. “Oh. It’s over.”

“No, it isn’t.” It was Patty. Skip had nearly forgotten about her. She whirled, still holding Melody.

Patty was holding a gun in both hands. Skip’s heart leapt to her throat. How had Patty gotten her gun?

But it wasn’t hers. It was probably one she’d pulled from her purse, one of the little gifts from a doting husband. Uptown ladies wouldn’t be caught dead without. In New Orleans, people didn’t just complain about crime, they all thought they were Dirty Harry.

“Patty, it’s okay. Put the gun down.”

“Let her go.”

“Drop the gun first and we’ll talk.”

“Let her go or I’ll shoot.” Her voice had risen.

Gingerly, Skip let Melody loose, but the girl didn’t move.

Patty said, “Melody, step to Skip’s right.”

She obeyed, rubbing her elbows as if she were cold.

“Patty, everything’s under control now. Give me the gun.”

“Shut up!”

“She’s going to kill us,” said Melody. “There’s nothing else she can do now. She tried to buy me off, but I didn’t go for it. So she has to loll me.”

“Shut up!”

Skip said, “Patty. Think about what you’re doing.”

“Ham was my father! My own mother slept with her stepson and lied to everybody for the next seventeen years. Did you ready think I’d go away quietly, Mother? I’d just take your money and go? Just because I had no father and no mother either?” She spat out the last sentence as if it were poison she’d somehow ingested.

Skip was terrified. This was guaranteed to push Patty over the edge. She spoke in the calmest voice she could muster. “Melody, we can talk about all that later. For right now, let’s just—”

But Patty interrupted as if mother and daughter were alone. “I had to, goddammit! You think I wanted to? I had a sick mother and a family to support, and a husband who was too drunk to get it up. What the hell was I supposed to do?” Skip made a quick calculation: Ham had been thirty-four when he died, and Melody was now sixteen. Allowing for pregnancy, that meant Ham must have been about seventeen at the time—and rather a geeky kid, according to Alison. Patty had been twenty-three and must have looked like a Christmas package to a boy like that. If she’d wanted him, she could certainly have had him. But the question was, why would she want him? By all accounts she was devoted to George and always had been.

“I loved your father very very much. Melody.”

“Which father, Mother?”

“You selfish little bitch—you wouldn’t know what it’s like to love anybody but your own bony little self. I had a whole family to take care of. And you know what? Your father hated me. We know now it was the booze, but he swore at me, he called me names—I’m going to tell you something you should know, young lady—he even raised his hand to me.”

“My father wouldn’t hit anybody.”

“He threatened me! He threatened to divorce me!”

“Oh.” The look on Melody’s face said she finally understood why her whole world had been destroyed. It was so wise and so sad, tears sprung to Skip’s eyes, the last thing she needed now.

“But he wouldn’t,” said the girl, “if you had a baby. George just wouldn’t do that. You were going to lose your meal ticket.”

If she had a baby, legally George would have to support the child. But there was probably more to it than that. Patty had probably calculated—quite correctly—that he would want the baby even if he didn’t want her; and so he’d stay married to her.

“You don’t understand a lot of things, little girl, and this is one of them. I loved your dad more than anything. I sometimes think I use my mother and family as an excuse because I wanted to keep him so bad.”

A wised-up woman a moment ago, Melody was now the jeering teenager. “Oh, sure you did! Oh, sure! And my dad saw right through your game. He wasn’t nasty to you ‘cause he was a drunk, Mother. He was trying to get rid of you because he saw through you! He saw what a money-grubbing, gold-digging bitch you were!”

Skip said, “Melody, why don’t we—”

But it was too late. Patty had fired and Melody was lying on the floor; Skip couldn’t tell if she’d been hit or dropped down for protection. Patty took a step back.

Skip held out her hand. “Patty, it’s okay. We’ll get some help right away. Just give me the gun and it’ll all be okay.”

She fired again. Knocked off her pins, either by the impact or the shock, Skip hit the floor as well, aware of searing, burning pain. And blood. Lots of it, pouring out of her, pouring onto the floor.