Jazz Funeral

hated, it was being thought naive.
    “You hungry?”
    She checked in with her stomach. “Um. Getting there.”
    “I’ll be right back. Stay put, okay. This is a black neighborhood. That’s B-L-A-C-K, got it? You’d look weird here.”
    She grumped at him. “O-kay.” But she’d have gone exploring if he hadn’t said it.
    He was gone about an hour, during which there was nothing to do but lie on the narrow bed and think, not her favorite activity of the moment. So she worked on the song awhile, the song about Ham. She was excited about it, knew it was going to be the best thing she’d ever done. She was ravenous when Joel returned.
    He came back with corn bread (which he apologized for—it was left over from breakfast) and some of the best gumbo Melody had ever had. Curiously, the food made her sad, made her remember what she didn’t have.
    What must it be like, she wondered, to have a mother who cooked for you? Who actually got up and made corn bread for breakfast? It wasn’t the most feminist idea in the world, she knew that—knew she didn’t want to do it for some kid herself. But a mother who did that must surely be a mother who cared.
    “They’re going to practice here tonight,” said Joel. “We have to go out.”
    She stopped in mid-munch. “Oh. Okay.” Going out with Joel was her idea of heaven. The sadness left her. She might have no family, but maybe things worked out somehow. Ham used to quote Mick Jagger, so Melody knew that a pedagogic universe was more likely to bludgeon you into what you needed than treat you to what you wanted. But this seemed the opposite of the song— she needed her brother, a regular family like other kids had, a home—and instead her dreams were coming true. She’d already had a singing career, now she was spending time with Joel. She didn’t know what to make of it. But she knew enough to enjoy it while she could.
    I might not live that much longer.
    The thought didn’t exactly shock her, didn’t float in out of nowhere. She’d always thought she would die young—that was why she believed you had to get it while you can. She just hadn’t thought about how young.
    “Where shall we go?” she said.
    “Now that’s a question. Nobody knows you in this neighborhood, but by tomorrow everybody would if we stayed here.”
    “Not the Quarter. I’ve had it with the Quarter.”
    They went to the Burger King on Morrison Road, and Melody was thrilled that Joel took her to a place in his neighborhood. He smiled at her. “I’ll buy you some dessert.”
    They sat there for two hours and then, restless, drove out by the lake and walked there. Finally they ended up in their own practice garage, not daring to play music, barely whispering; instead of lights, using a candle Melody had brought one day after a power failure.
    Melody had nearly finished the song for Ham, “Blues for a Brother,” and she sang it for Joel. He went crazy. He said it was the best thing she’d written, but she knew that and he knew she did. What she wondered was where it stood in the general scheme of things. Joel, seeming to know that, said it was as good a song as any the Spin-Offs played, a song that would move people, that people would remember.
    She was embarrassed. “Oh, Joel, don’t.”
    “Why don’t?”
    “You’re such a much better musician than me.”
    “No, I’m not—Melody, I’m barely adequate. I couldn’t get into NOCCA—didn’t you know that?”
    He meant New Orleans Center for the Creative Arts. “You couldn’t get in?”
    He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well, I didn’t want to go anyway. I want to be a doctor—did I ever happen to mention that?” He sounded defensive.
    “But Joel—your music!”
    “Yeah, that’s what the Boucrees say, some of ‘em. ‘Specially my granddaddy’s generation.” He shrugged. “Music isn’t my life, that’s all. It’s great and and I love it and everything, but I’ve got other things I want to do with my life.”
    “But how could you—I don’t understand. If I were as good as you-”
    “You’re better than me, Melody—don’t you get it? You’ve got the soul; you’ve got the passion—I just don’t.”
    She was struggling with that, trying to figure out if he was making fun of her, when he said, “I’m too damn well-adjusted.”
    She had known there had to be a catch. “Only screwballs are musicians, is that it?”
    “Art comes out of pain, babe—don’t you believe that? Why do you think