Jazz Funeral

he was supposed to be a dad to his own.
    But maybe he could do both.
    Then there was the matter of Ti-Belle and the new career she had planned for him. In a strange way, that appealed to him too. But weren’t things getting too crowded here? How to sort them all out? He decided to quit trying so hard. Instead he closed his eyes and began to follow his breathing.
    But after a while he heard hurried footsteps coming toward him, followed by a knock.
    “Nick! I’ve got to talk to you.”
    Proctor stomped in without waiting for an answer, holding a just-opened Federal Express box and the heavy book that must have come in it. “I know who she is. I had this really weird reaction to her—I mean like I remembered something really unpleasant and couldn’t place it. It’s been bugging me like crazy. And yesterday I figured it out. Lacey Longtree from my hometown—she was kind of a Doradale celebrity. My mom taught her tenth-grade English, so I called her and got her to send me this.”
    The volume he was holding was a yearbook from a high school in Doradale, Alabama. Proctor opened it to the page he’d marked and pointed excitedly to a picture of a girl. She had dark hair, not blond, and she was chubby, not thin, but she did look like Ti-Belle in some kind of way. Something about the eyes, the expression. Still, it was anything but conclusive.
    “What’s this about, Proctor? You’re saying Ti-Belle isn’t who she says she is?”
    “You bet your sweet ass she’s not. Just ask her.”
    “What’s the big deal? Look, a lot of people change their names. Why do you care so much? I don’t get this one-man war you’re waging.”
    “Look, she knows what I’m on to. She saw me get the package and she tried to see what it was. She’s terrified I’m going to blow her out of the water.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “She’s ripe, man. She’ll break. Just show her the picture, okay? That’s all I ask.”
    “Okay,” said Nick, and put on his shoes. It had to be done. The Proctor-Ti-Belle thing was blowing apart without any interference from him.
    He was actually excited. He wanted to get the thing settled and out of the way. He thought later, blaming himself, that perhaps he should have curbed that feeling, that some of it must have showed when he thrust the open yearbook under Ti-Belle’s nose. It had to have been his energy she picked up on, because there wasn’t anything else. He didn’t say a word, hadn’t even thought about what to say.
    He expected it to go much slower.
    The minute she saw what the book was—surely she didn’t have time to spot the picture—she sprang at Proctor, an infuriated feline.
    “You fucker!”
    She got him by the shirtfront, but he ripped himself away, and she started throwing things—a half full bowl of granola, a glass of half-drunk orange juice, a fork, a napkin, a glass of milk one of the kids was drinking. That was as far as she got before Nick caught her. But she was a moving target, slippery and fast. As Proctor dodged, Ti-Belle rushed him, grabbing things as she went around the table, all the while shouting anything that came to mind: “Sonofabitch bastard asshole pussy prick motherfucker.” And finally: “Stupido!”
    A hoot of laughter escaped one of the kids before she turned her white-hot eyes on him and he turned red and ducked. Nick understood the impulse. The whole pathetic scene would have been funny if it hadn’t been terrifying in its suddenness, its intensity. Its irrationality. And worst of all, Ti-Belle’s killer eyes. Nick had never seen murder in someone’s eyes before, but now he understood the phrase.
    He caught her from behind, both arms around her waist, pinning her arms, but she kicked him in the shin with her heel, and the sound she made was like a hiss. He held but she twisted wildly, and they both went down. The kids and guests started to run for cover. Proctor seemed frozen in place. Ti-Belle wriggled away from Nick and rolled under the table, all the way to the other side, where Proctor had rim for refuge. It happened fast—Proctor obviously didn’t see it coming.
    She grabbed his ankle, pulled him off balance, got him down and straddled him, going for his throat. “Ham knew about this, goddammit! Ham knew, damn you! What the fuck did you think you were doing?”
    She was choking him, Proctor’s hands struggling to loosen hers, his face turning red, his body twisting. Nick hesitated, trying to decide whether to go over,